Presently they selected beds, closets, chiffoniers, window seats and chairs at the study table, choosing alternately after Clif, at Walter’s insistence, had spoken first. Then Clif started unpacking, and Walter, whose trunk had not yet arrived, took himself off to report at the Office. Twenty minutes sufficed to transfer the contents of trunk and bag to drawers and closet, and then, since Walter had not returned, Clif slipped his coat on again and went downstairs. The scene below had changed since he had last viewed it. Boys congregated thickly about the Office, wandered in and out of the recreation room, and liberally sprinkled themselves over the steps outside. Clif went out and perched himself near the bottom of the flight. It was not so warm now. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to four. His father would be somewhere about Hartford, he guessed; that is, barring trouble with that soft tire. He hoped there had been no trouble, for his father usually left tire changing to him. Clif smiled. He guessed his father would make pretty hard work of putting on a new tire! Then the smile faded. He was going to miss his father a good deal, he told himself. They had been together so much, that it seemed strange to think that he wasn’t to see him again for a fortnight. He guessed his father would miss him, too. Maybe it was going to be harder for dad than for him!
He wondered why he had decided on Wyndham, when there were so many schools near home which he could have attended as a day student. Well, that was just the reason, wasn’t it? They had both thought it would be better if he went far enough away so that he would get the benefit of school life. “You pick the place yourself, son,” Mr. Bingham had said. “I don’t care what the price is, only see that you get your money’s worth.” And so, after months of indecision during which he had perused a veritable library of prospectuses and catalogues, Clif had chosen the John Wyatt Wyndham Preparatory School for Boys for no better reason than that while looking through the program of last year’s Brown and Dartmouth game he had paused at a half-tone picture of a clean, earnest looking youth in football togs and idly read the lines beneath it:
“E. W. Langley, Jr., End. Class of 1923, age 21, weight 169, height 5 ft. 11 in. Cooperstown, N. Y. Prepared at Wyndham School.”
Clif had watched “Wuzzy” Langley play football, and “Wuzzy” had become very close to hero size in Clif’s estimation, and it seemed to him that a school that could turn out fellows like “Wuzzy,” fellows who played wonderful football and whose names were synonymous with all that was clean and healthy and manly, was exactly the school he was looking for. That evening he told his father that he had decided on a school, and Mr. Bingham, after learning his reason for choosing Wyndham, gravely agreed that he had undoubtedly made a wise selection. If Mr. Bingham was secretly amused he didn’t show it. So Clif wrote for literature and studied it interestedly. Even if the description and pictures sent to him had been disappointing he would still have gone to Wyndham, but they weren’t. On the contrary, what he read increased his enthusiasm, and after that, until he received assurance from “J. Coles, Secretary,” that he had been admitted, he was on tenterhooks.
It wasn’t until close to the time for departure that the thought of being separated from his father began to dampen his pleasure of anticipation. There were days, toward the last, when he would have backed down had Mr. Bingham given him the slightest encouragement. Keeping on at high school seemed plenty good enough then. But Mr. Bingham kept on smiling cheerfully and the fatal day grew nearer and nearer and—then one September morning they were speeding off in the car, Clif’s trunk in the tonneau, and the die was cast.
Clif’s somewhat doleful reminiscences were broken into by the tooting of a motor horn down the drive, and a big blue bus rolled past to East Hall and disgorged nearly a score of very small, very noisy boys. “The infant class has arrived,” said a youth behind Clif. A second bus paused at West Hall and a dozen or so older fellows went crowding past, bag laden, exchanging greetings. A load of trunks passed around the side of the wing. The tall clock in the reception room chimed out four o’clock. Another automobile, a hired vehicle, crowded to the steps and four more laughing, sun-browned fellows piled out of it and dragged suit cases and bags to the gravel while one of the number haggled amusingly with the driver. When the new arrivals had disappeared inside Clif remembered Kemble and wondered if that objectionable youth had been released from his session with Mr. Wyatt, and, if he had, whether he was even now preparing for his exodus. Judging from the expression Clif had seen on his face, Kemble’s chance of remaining at Wyndham was mighty slim! Well, Clif guessed the school would be well rid of him. Fellows who hadn’t the common decency to mind their own affairs and—and didn’t know any better than to sit and gloat over another chap’s—another chap’s—well, embarrassment, weren’t wanted at a school like Wyndham. No, sir! Only—well, when you came to think of it, it was sort of tough to get turned down like that. And the fellow was kind of nice looking, too; and there had been something about him. Sort of—sort of appealing. Or—or something. Oh, well, Clif didn’t wish him any ill luck. If they let him stay it wouldn’t make any difference to Clif. There’d be room enough for both of them in a school that looked after a hundred and ninety fellows!
Presently he got up and climbed the stairs again to Number 17. Walter Treat’s trunk had arrived and he was unpacking. Clif sat down on a window seat and watched. Walter was astonishingly methodical and particular. It took him many minutes to dispose of a couple of dozen collars to his liking in the left-hand top drawer of his chiffonier, and he rearranged his five pairs of shoes exactly three times along the bottom shelf of his closet. Clif began to wonder if he was going to like Walter Treat, after all. Conversation was desultory, consisting mainly of questions from Clif and answers from Walter. The latter was parsimonious of information, then and ever after. It seemed to be Walter’s philosophy to never offer anything not asked for and then to give as little as possible of it. But by dint of requestioning Clif managed to elicit information regarding school customs and rules which he stood in need of; information regarding the hours for meals, the location of class rooms, the time of rising and so on. With his father—they had reached Freeburg at half-past twelve and had luncheon at the Inn before proceeding to the school—Clif had been conducted through the buildings by one of the faculty and had everything shown and explained. But there were certain details that Mr. Frost, Latin instructor and Assistant to the Principal, had neglected, and it was these that Clif now obtained, not without difficulty, from Walter.
“What sort of a chap is this Mr. McKnight?” Clif inquired. “He’s my adviser, you know.”
“‘Lovey’? Not a bad sort. He’s Chem.”