The Doubleay was written and edited in the sanctum in Academy Hall and printed in a small job printing shop over Garfield’s grocery on State street. As school weeklies go, The Doubleay was a very presentable sheet. Typographical errors were only frequent enough to encourage the reader of a humorous turn of mind to a diligent perusal of the four pages; the advertising matter was attractively displayed and the editorial policy was commendably simple, being to present the news accurately and briefly. The paper was published on Thursday and distributed to subscribers and advertisers by a more or less efficient corps of six young gentlemen, usually freshmen, who received the munificent reward of half a cent per copy. The first issue of the paper this fall came out on the second Thursday of the term, and, according to custom, contained six pages instead of the usual four, the added matter consisting of the student list arranged by classes and printed on two sides of a half-sheet under the impressive legend: The Doubleay—Supplement.
Now, if your transom was open when the carrier reached your door you found the paper on the floor when you returned to your room, or, if it happened to flutter under a bed or into the waste-basket, you discovered it the next day or a week later or not at all, as the case might be. To-day, however, Stanley Hassell pushed it aside with the opening door when he and Jimmy returned from the gymnasium and, picking it up, tossed it to the table.
“All the news that’s fit to print,” he commented. “The old Flubdub’s out again, Jimmy.” Stanley intended no disrespect to the journal: he merely used the customary name for it. Jimmy sighed as he sank into a chair and reached for the paper.
“Why, I’m glad to see its cheerful face again,” he murmured. “And doesn’t it look familiar! I wonder if any of the old friends of my youth are missing.” He was silent a minute as he turned the pages and as Stanley stretched himself on a window-seat that was four inches too short for him. “No,” Jimmy went on, “they’re all here: Sampson’s Livery, Girtle, the Academy Tailor, Go to Smith’s for Stationery, The Best Soda in the City, College Last Shoes—all the dear, familiar old friends of me youth, Stan. And here’s Gookin, the Painless Dentist, still holding out a welcoming hand, and the Broadway Theater and the New York Haberdashery and—yes, here are a couple of new ones! I tell you, Stan, the old Flubdub’s a live un! ‘After the Game—Drink Merlin Ginger Ale.’ Now, why should I, Stan? Seems to me it’s not enough to just tell me to drink the stuff: they ought to give me a reason why—hello! Well, I’ll be swiggled! Listen to this, will you? ‘The Sign of the Football. R. W. Emerson and G. Patterson announce the opening of their shop at 112 West street with a full line of Athletic and Sporting Supplies and cordially solicit the patronage of their fellow students. Quality goods at New York Prices. Academy Discount. “PandF spells Best!”’”
“That’s the Emerson we found waiting on table at the hotel,” exclaimed Stanley interestedly. “At least, I suppose it is. I don’t believe there’s another Emerson in school.”
“I’ll soon tell you,” said Jimmy, rescuing the Supplement from beside his chair. “Emerson, E., Dribble—that’s a swell cognomen, if you ask me!—Dutton, Eager—none in the senior class. And none in the junior—yes, there is, ‘Emerson, Russell Wilcox, Lawrence, N. Y., U. 27.’”
“That’s this fellow,” said Stanley. “R. W., Russell Wilcox. Any others?”
“N-no, not in the— Hold on, though. Here’s another in the freshman bunch: ‘Emerson, Ernest Prentice—’”
“Not him. He wouldn’t be a freshie. Besides, the initials aren’t right. But who’s G. Patterson?”
“Seems to me I remember a Patterson,” mused Jimmy. “Of course! You know him; at least by sight. Tall, thin gink; curly hair; Canadian, I think. Rooms in Upton. Wasn’t he trying for baseball last spring?”