Up in Number 30 Tommy removed his outer garments, swathed his rotund form in a garish blanket dressing-gown and subsided on the window-seat, piling the several silken pillows behind his head. The view was not cheerful just now. Through the mist-covered panes Tommy looked across the Yard, damply green of turf, to Academy street and the white residences beyond. There were few persons in sight. Up the middle path came a figure in a shining yellow oil-skin coat, snuggling a package under an arm; one of the fellows returning from a shopping expedition, apparently. Tommy wondered whether the contents of the package were edible. A few forms moved along Academy street, citizens with umbrellas these. To the right, near the Meadow street side of the Yard, a light appeared in Doctor McPherson’s house. (“Mac” was the principal.) Occupying a corresponding position across the wide expanse of maple dotted turf, Memorial Hall emitted two fellows carrying books from the school library. Tommy watched them idly as they followed the walk which led them to the front of Academy Hall. As they passed Upton he recognized the taller of the two and had half a mind to raise the window and exchange insults. But the effort was too great and he contented himself with tapping a pane with the seal ring he wore. Evidently the sound didn’t carry, for the youths disappeared from his range of vision without looking up.
At Alton Academy the dormitories form a line across the top of the campus: Haylow first, near Meadow street, then Lykes, then—with Academy Hall intervening—Upton and Borden. Back of Academy is Lawrence, which is the dining hall, and well over toward River street, hiding behind Borden, is the Carey Gymnasium. The land descended gently each way from the dormitory row, in the front toward Academy street and the town, in the rear toward the open country. On the latter slope, a slope too gradual to really deserve the name, was the athletic field, with the quarter-mile track, diamonds, tennis courts and sufficient territory besides for the accommodation of such mildly important bodies as the soccer and lacrosse teams. Like many New England preparatory schools, Alton possessed an appearance of age out of proportion with fact, an appearance largely due to the maples that shaded the walks and the ivy that grew almost to the eaves of the older buildings. Not that Alton was a new school, for it was not, but it was younger than many; younger, even, than its principal rival, Kenly Hall, over at Lakeville.
Tommy was getting quite drowsy now and would probably have fallen comfortably asleep if Billy Pillsbury hadn’t selected the moment for his homecoming. Billy, generally called “Pill” was sixteen, a sophomore—although, unlike Tommy, he was new at it—and held the proud and important position of Second Assistant Football Manager. Pill was a slight, pink-cheeked, trim-looking youth, with dark hair swept back from a classic brow and held swept by some fragrant concoction that Tommy found particularly nauseating—or pretended to. Pill entered with the aspect of one wearied by the weight of authority imposed on him and sank into a chair. Tommy viewed him without enthusiasm.
“Gee, what a day!” sighed Pill.
“Yes, rotten,” responded the other, carefully misunderstanding. “Doesn’t look much like clearing, either.”
“Oh, the weather!” Pill put that aside with a wave of a slender hand. “I meant the—the work. And that game! Say, wasn’t that criminal, Tommy?”
“Sure was. Every fellow on the team deserves hanging.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” protested Pill. “They’re all right. Trouble is, they haven’t had enough practice, Tommy.”
“Why not? Ten days ought to give them some idea of the game!”
“They weren’t any worse than Southport.”