The play that won

by Ralph Henry Barbour

The cogitations ceased and Jonesie, his gaze still on the communicating door, slid noiselessly from the window-seat and tiptoed across the room until he stood in front of it. Then, thrusting hands into pockets to aid thought, he began a slow, close and minute study of it. It was quite an ordinary door, placed there when the dormitory was built in order, presumably, that the two rooms might be thrown together and used as study and sleeping apartment. But Randall’s didn’t believe in too great luxury, and you drew only one room and, if economical, shared it with another fellow. Talbot Cummings didn’t share his, which to Jonesie was most satisfactory. Jonesie whistled under his breath as his eager eyes became acquainted with every niche and angle and knot and bit of hardware before him. Of course the door was locked, and the key was doubtless in safe keeping at the office, but besides being locked it was secured by a bolt on each side; and some secretive former occupant of Jonesie’s room had plugged up the keyhole with red sealing-wax. When it did open it swung into the adjoining room, and, as the hinges were on the inward side of the door, Jonesie was denied contemplation of them. He was also denied contemplation of the knob for the excellent reason that it was not there. He recalled having detached it but couldn’t remember for what purpose. Not that it mattered, however, for what is a knob between enemies?

At intervals Jonesie retired to the window-seat and scowled over his problem. At intervals he arose hopefully and stared anew at the door. Beyond it, unsuspecting of the malign influences at work, Cummings read on in peace. The brief afternoon darkened to twilight. Across the yard pale lemon-yellow pin-points of flame struggled above the entrances. Below the door a thin line of radiance indicated that Cummings had lighted up. But in Jonesie’s room darkness crept from the shadowed corners until only the window remained visible, a grayish oblong in the encompassing gloom. And presently the eerie silence was shattered by the sound of a sinister chuckle.

Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., arose phenomenally early the next morning and at eight o’clock, having attended chapel and eaten a hearty, if hurried breakfast, might have been seen entering the popular hardware emporium of Bliss & Benedict. At four minutes to nine, after a return journey through unfrequented streets and alleys and an entrance to the building by way of the furnace room door, he turned the key in the lock of Number 14 and unburdened himself of numerous packages which he thereupon secreted where they would be safe from the prying eyes of the chamber-maid. After which he seized on certain books and hurried to a nine o’clock recitation.

It cannot be truthfully said that he was a shining success in classrooms that morning, although he managed somehow to “fake” through. His fresh, cherubic countenance shone with the light of a high resolve and for the first time in two days he faced the world with fearless eyes. Whispered jibes fell from him harmlessly. Instructors, noting his innocence and nobility, viewed him with a suspicion born of experience.

At ten-thirty Jonesie had a free half-hour. Returning to his dormitory he glanced across to the second floor of Manning and was filled with gratitude. For there, in the school infirmary, “Sparrow” Bowles was interned with mumps. Three days ago Jonesie had deeply resented his room-mate’s good fortune, charging the Fates with inexcusable favoritism, but to-day he had no fault to find. Envy and all uncharitableness had departed from him. Indeed, instead of begrudging “Sparrow” his luck, he sincerely hoped that the malady would continue for at least a week longer!

I now offer to your attention Talbot Cummings. Cummings was an Upper Middler, a large, somewhat ungainly youth of seventeen addicted to bookishness and boils. But in spite of much reading he was not a learned nor brilliant youth, and in spite of the boils he had little of Job’s patience. He thought rather well of himself, however, and prided himself on a delicate wit which was really rather more blatant than delicate. In spite of the fact that he avoided all forms of athletics and abhorred physical exertion, he was well-built and, when free from gauze and surgeon’s plaster, was rather comely. Upper class fellows viewed him tolerantly and lower class boys pretended an admiration they didn’t feel because he had an uncanny ability for finding their weak spots and holding them up to ridicule. As has been said, Cummings lived alone. In the matter of furnishings he affected artistic simplicity, leaning toward fumed oak and brown leather. His study—he liked to call it study rather than room—was supposed to express individuality. The table was never littered. There was a very good-looking drop-light with a near-Tiffany shade, three or four soberly-clad books, an always-immaculate blotting-pad and a large bronze ink-well which, as he invariably wrote with a fountain-pen, was more ornamental than necessary. So much for the table. The dresser, instead of being the repository for numerous photographs and miscellaneous toilet articles, held a pair of silver-backed military brushes, a silver shoe-horn and one large photograph in a silver frame. The bookcase was always orderly. The window-seat adhered to the color scheme of brown and tan, the tan necessitated by the wall paper, which was not of his choosing. The cushions were of brown ooze leather or craftsman’s canvas. If I have seemed to dwell overlong on the room and its furnishings it is for a reason presently to be perceived.

At a few minutes after twelve that day Cummings threw open the door of his study and paused amazed. Nothing was where it should have been. The lovely near-Tiffany shade rested precariously atop a pile of pillows in the middle of the floor. The drop-light dangled over the edge of the table. The volumes in the bookcase leaned tipsily outward at various angles. The silver-framed photograph smiled blithely from the top of the radiator. And so it went. Everything was elaborately misplaced. Cummings viewed and swallowed hard, doubled his fists and hammered at the portal of Daniel Webster Jones, Jr. There was no reply and the door proved to be locked. Bitterly, Cummings vowed that so his own door should be hereafter! It took him a long time to restore order and he narrowly escaped being late for dinner.

He failed to encounter Jonesie until four o’clock. Then they met in a pool of water in front of Whipple and Cummings spoke his mind to an amazed and uncomprehending audience. Cummings offered to accommodate Jonesie in a number of ways, to wit: to break his head for him, to kick him across the yard, to make his nose even stubbier than it was and to report him to faculty. Jonesie closed with none of the offers. Instead he viewed the irate Cummings with surprise and heard him patiently, and in the end Cummings was assailed by doubts, although he didn’t allow the fact to be known. Surely such an innocent countenance and demeanor could not hide guile! Fearing that he might apologize to Jonesie if he remained longer, he tore himself away, muttering a last unconvincing threat.

Cummings slept that night, as always, with his door locked and a chair-back tilted under the knob. (Once in his first year at Randall’s there had been a midnight visitation attended by unpleasant and degrading ceremonies.) In the morning he awoke to find that the pillows had moved from the window-seat to the foot of the bed, doubtless accounting for a certain half-sensed discomfort. Also that his clothing, left neatly arranged over a chair, now lay scattered over the floor. He arose in a murderous mood and tried the door. It was securely locked, the key was in place and there was the guardian chair just as he had left it. He cast unjustly suspicious looks at the eleven-inch transom. It was closed as usual, nor could it be opened from without in any case. He went to the window. Below was a sheer twelve feet of straight brick wall. From his casement to the casement on either side the distance was a good three yards. Then and not until then his gaze fell on the communicating door and he said “Ha” triumphantly and seized the knob. It came forth in his hands and he staggered half across the room. When he had recovered himself he said “Huh!” But further investigations left him still puzzled, for the stout bolt on his own side of the door was shot into its socket and secured. Cummings went to breakfast in a detached frame of mind that caused him to walk into Mr. Mundy, the Hall Master, in the corridor, and, later, to say “yes” when he meant to say “no.” As a result of the latter mistake “Puffin” Welch seized on his second roll and devoured it before Cummings awoke to the situation.