“Yes, sir, I will.”
The officer watched him cross the road, enter the common and strike off toward the other side of the Square. He smiled and then he shook his head.
“Wonder how he came here,” he muttered. “I guess he’s in for a lot of guying when the rest of ’em catch sight of him. Well, he’ll live through it.”
The boy reached the farther side of the common and started across the street in front of the hardware store. At that moment a three-seated surrey containing the driver, four boys and numerous suit-cases came along and the boy on foot had to retreat hurriedly to keep from being run down.
“Look out there, farmer! Most got you that time!”
“Look where you’re going, kid!”
He had a brief glimpse of laughing, mocking faces and then the surrey, drawn by a pair of sleek bays, dashed around the corner out of sight. He started again across the street, this time looking cautiously to left and right. But the course was clear now. Across from the hardware store was a druggist’s and huge placards told enticingly of “Ice Cold Soda” and “College Ices.” One hand went tentatively into his trousers pocket as the hiss of the soda fountain came to him. But it came out again empty and he turned down the street toward the school. “Elm Street” said the sign on the corner, but the elms were not in sight. Beyond an occasional maple, too small to throw shade, the street was treeless and the hot sunlight beat remorselessly down on either sidewalk.
There had been a fountain in the common and he wished now that he had stopped and had a drink. For a block or two small stores lined the way and he considered entering one of them and asking for water. But they were all shabby and untidy and by the time he had made up his mind to ask he had left them behind, and houses, no more attractive than the stores, had taken their place. He took the policeman’s advice and walked slowly, for in spite of the fact that it wanted but a week to the first of October the day was as hot as an August one and the stiff shirt and the vest, both articles of attire with which he was somewhat unfamiliar, increased his discomfort. He hoped that the policeman hadn’t underestimated the distance to the school. The bag, while it wasn’t very heavy, didn’t make progress any easier. And that awful collar was squeezing his neck like a vise!
He had started from home after an early dinner feeling decidedly excited and elated, but the elation was dwindling fast with every step, and the excitement had changed to something that savored both of dismay and homesickness. When, away last Spring, it had been decided in family council that he was to go to boarding school and prepare for college the prospect had filled him with delight. Now he wished himself back in West Bayport. He already missed the sight and smell of the ocean and the wharves and the shipping. It seemed unpleasantly shut in here, and the air was dead and held no tang, and the street was deep in yellowish-gray dust and even the hills in the distance looked hot and wilted under their purple haze. On the whole, he was sorely tempted to retrace his steps and take the next train homeward, abandoning Oak Park and college and all they stood for.
But of course he didn’t. If he had his name wouldn’t have been John William Boland. Moreover, there wouldn’t have been any story! No, he kept right along the hot road which presently bore to the left and became gradually shady with spreading elms. The shabby dwellings died away from either side and open lots and then broad fields succeeded them. Once he rested for a good five minutes perched on a stone wall in the grateful shade of a big elm, and while he sat there, hat off, rumpled hair exposed to a little listless breeze, shiny bag at his feet, two carriages filled to the brim with boys, arrivals on a later train, rattled merrily and noisily by him, and he was uncomfortably conscious of the curious looks and the muttered comments proceeding from them.