Winning his game

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Grafton School looks after slightly over two hundred boys between the ages of twelve and twenty. At the time of which I am writing, February of last year, the number was, I believe, exactly two hundred and ten, of which some thirty-five had attained to the senior class and about eighty were juniors, leaving the upper middle and lower middle classes to share the residue fairly equally. The faculty numbered twelve, beginning with Doctor Duncan, the Principal, and ending with Mrs. Fair, the matron. Doctor Duncan’s full title is Charles William Duncan, A.M., Ph.D., but he is better known as “Charley”! There was—and doubtless are—also a Mrs. Duncan and a Miss Duncan, but they are not likely to enter into this narrative. So much then for our stage setting. I might keep on, but I fear you are weary, and I know I am!

Hugh Ordway roomed on the top floor of Lothrop, the newest and most luxurious of the dormitories, sharing the suite of study and two bedrooms with Bert Winslow. Hugh’s father was English and his mother American, and, although Hugh had been born on the other side and had spent most of his sixteen years there, he declared himself to be half American. His full name was Hugh Oswald Brodwick Ordway, and in spite of the fact that by reason of his father being the Marquis of Lockely, Hugh had every right to the title of Earl of Ordway, he was generally known at Grafton as “Hobo,” a nickname evolved from his initials. As he was a straight, well-built, clear-skinned, young chap with quiet brown eyes and an undeniable air of breeding, the nickname was amusingly incongruous if one stopped to consider it. But Hugh had been known as Hobo Ordway ever since fall, when his cleverness as a running halfback on the first football team had surprised and delighted the school, and nowadays the name was too familiar to excite any comment. Hugh’s particular friends were more likely to call him “’Ighness,” however.

It was Hugh, alone in the study, who responded to the knock at the door shortly after supper that evening and who successfully disguised the surprise he felt when he recognized his visitors as Jimmy Logan and Dudley Baker. He made them welcome quite as heartily as though he had been expecting them all day, and Dud, who had hung back all the way up the three flights of slate stairs, was vastly relieved. The conversation skipped from one subject to another for the first few minutes, during which time Hugh, perched on the window-seat, leaving the easy-chairs to his guests, hugged his knees to his chin, piloted the conversation and secretly wondered at the visit.

You are not to suppose, however, that Hugh was the only one of the three at his ease. Such a supposition shows on your part a vast ignorance of Jimmy Logan. Jimmy was a stranger to embarrassment. Had Hugh been the President of the United States or the King of England or—well, “Home Run” Baker, Jimmy would have been just as splendidly at ease as he was this moment. He might have assumed a more dignified attitude in the Morris chair and his voice might have held a more respectful tone, but beyond that—no, not Jimmy! Just now Jimmy was humorously recounting his skiing adventures that afternoon and Hugh was chuckling over them. Dud smiled when Hugh laughed, sitting rather stiffly in his chair, and tried his best to look animated and pleasant and only succeeded in looking anxious and uncomfortable. Jimmy did his best to get Dud to talk, but Dud’s conversation consisted largely of “Yes” and “No” and Hugh secretly thought him a bit of a stick. Jimmy was wondering whether to withdraw as gracefully as possible before Dud created any worse impression when the door opened to admit a black-haired, dark-eyed fellow of seventeen who, with less command over his features than Hugh, looked frankly surprised when he saw who the visitors were. The surprise even extended to his voice as he greeted them.

“Hello, Jimmy,” said Bert Winslow. “What are you doing up here? Haven’t seen you around here for ages.” He spoke to Dud then, hesitating a moment as though not certain of the latter’s name. Dud, noting the fact, felt his embarrassment increase and wished that Jimmy would give the word to leave. But Jimmy had already abandoned thoughts of withdrawing. He liked Bert Winslow, just as most fellows did, and welcomed the chance to talk to him. Bert and Jimmy were both members of “Lit”—short for Literary Society—and only two evenings ago had been pitted against each other in one of the impromptu weekly debates and had struggled along nip and tuck until Jimmy, abandoning facts, had in a wild flow of rhetoric won the meeting. Bert alluded to it now as he tossed his cap through the open door of his bedroom.

“Jimmy, that was a fine lot of hot air you got off the other night,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t your folks ever teach you anything about the beauties of truthfulness?”

Jimmy laughed. “Sure, but I had to beat you somehow, Bert. Besides, what I said may be so for all I know!”

“Huh! You just said the first thing that came into that silly head of yours! Did you ever hear such a mess of rot as he sprang, Hugh?”

Hugh smiled. “It sounded all right! Some of the figures were corking. You must have a wonderful memory, Logan!”