Even Claire Parker was better fitted for these surroundings than he was. Claire had been abroad four times, had lived in the city and knew a hundred little things which, not vastly important in themselves, combined to give him an ease of manner and a conversational ability that Cal was certain he sadly lacked. No one, he reflected, ever cared to talk to him. And when he was with the others all he could do was to sit silent and listen to their chatter, and wonder more than half the time what it was about! Gee, he wished he had never come! He wished he were back in West Bayport this minute.
The house was silent and deserted when he reached it and slowly climbed the stairs to the Den. The bay windows were open and the afternoon sunlight slanted in warmly under the half-drawn shades. He tossed Ned’s cap aside, dumped his new books on the table and seated himself on the window-seat and gazed across the afternoon landscape. He felt pretty dejected. He cal’lated he was the only fellow in school who wasn’t having a jolly good time at that moment. Ned Brent knew about everybody and didn’t need him a bit. Even Claire had made friends with one or two of the younger chaps; Cal had seen him with them before afternoon school. No one wanted to know him, though; no one cared whether he was lonely and homesick! He had half a mind to pack some things in his bag and walk back to the town and take the first train toward home!
But at that moment a door opened downstairs and an eloquent odor of cooking came up to him, an odor that brought to him a sudden picture of the little kitchen at home and his mother peering anxiously into the oven. Steps sounded on the stairs and he heard Mrs. Linn puffing her way up.
“Boys,” she called. But there was no answer. Cal heard her knock on the doors at the back of the house and then come along the corridor. His own door was almost closed and he hoped that she would be satisfied to leave him in peace with his sorrow if he made no reply to her knock. But she wasn’t. She pushed the door wide open and saw him at the window. And she guessed instantly what the trouble was.
“Why, John, you all alone?” she asked in simulated surprise. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Yes’m, thank you.”
“I suppose you’re sort of tired after your first day here. Well, here’s something that will make you feel lots better.” She came in and set a great plate of smoking-hot gingerbread on the table. “I don’t believe you ought to eat quite all that yourself, but perhaps it won’t hurt you.” She rolled her arms under her apron and looked across at him kindly. “I suppose your mother makes gingerbread, don’t she?”
“Yes’m,” replied Cal, looking interestedly at the pile of red-brown cake.
“Then of course you like it. What is it the boys call you? Cal, is it? Well, I shall call you Cal too after this. Somehow I never could seem to resist the nicknames; they’re so much easier to remember, aren’t they? Why, I just have to stop and think when I want to remember Spud’s real name, or Dutch’s. Now, don’t let it get cold. It’s a great deal better when it’s hot. Maybe you’d like a glass of milk with it. Would you?”
“No’m, thanks. I—I ain’t hungry.”