DEERING OF DEAL

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
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MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
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[front]

“DON’T HAVE A FIT, DEERING, IT’S ONLY MACLAREN”

DEERING OF DEAL

OR

THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL

BY

LATTA GRISWOLD

“Toujours fidèle et sans souci”

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1914

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1912
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
——
Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1912.
Reprinted July, 1913, July, 1914.

PRESS OF T. MOREY & SON
GREENFIELD, MASS., U. S. A.

To

JOHN GLENOE WRIGHT
LEE HALL JONES
ROBERT GROSVENOR
LUCIUS SCOTT LANDRETH, JR.
HARRY L. FENNER
SAMUEL M. SHOEMAKER, JR.

in warm friendship and in memory of
many happy days at school

FOREWORD

The Author desires to state that none of the characters in this story, either boys or masters, are portraits. The incidents are entirely fictitious, and Deal School, though it shares certain topographical features with the school with which the Author is connected, exists only in his imagination.

St. George’s School,

Newport: 18 April, 1912.

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MAP OF DEAL SCHOOL

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

“Tall, eager, a face to remember,
A flush that could change as the day;

A spirit that knew not December,
That brightened the sunshine of May”

Fresh breezes blow and touch their favorite hill,
The waters quiver in the mellow light,

Wafts Paradise her fragrance o’er the marsh,
The Campus gleams with crimson and with white.

Fair banners flutter in the flowing winds,
And hopes are gleaming from the eyes of youth;

Old songs, from hearts that throb with loyal blood,
Arise, and echo with the ring of truth.

Bright laughter, merry shouts attune the air,
And over all the place is cast the gleam

That early summer lends unto the hours,
The passing hours that flow as doth a dream.

Fleet eager boys the base attain; the ball
In ambient air speeds like a fleeing bird;

Swift hands and sure arrest its vagrant flight,
As from a hundred throats hurrahs are heard.

Dear scenes! as pensive through them wandering,
The shadows lengthen in the slanting light;

Mists float across the golden campus, gleam
As light of stars in stilly depths of night.

Then faces in the wreathes of mist appear,
Dear faces that we loved in long ago

Shine brightly; voices murmur in the air,
Beloved voices that we used to know.

Fades far the dreamy present, fades the day,
With its enduring hopes and passing fears;

Old Boys surround us; and the heart is glad
For all the friendliness of vanished years.

DEERING OF DEAL

CHAPTER I

DEAL SCHOOL

If one chanced to examine the catalogues of Kingsbridge College for the past hundred years it would be found that in most of them is recorded the name of some dead and gone Deering—a name famous in the annals of the South—who came up from Louisiana, “marched through the four long happy years of college,” as the old song has it, with an arts degree to his credit; or, perchance, marched out at the end of one or two of them with nothing to his credit at all. Kingsbridge was a tradition in the Deering family, southern though it was—a tradition that was hardly broken, even when in 1861 Victor Deering and a hundred other chivalrous youths threw their text-books out of the windows and enlisted in the armies of the Confederacy. Victor’s father, Basil, too, was in the war, and laid down his arms at Appomattox as a brigadier-general—brevetted for gallantry on the field of action. For a while it seemed that no Deerings would go to Kingsbridge, but time at length healed the old antagonisms, and when it became a question where young Anthony, Victor’s boy, should go to college, there was no longer any question that Kingsbridge should be the place.

Preparing for Kingsbridge, before the war, had meant going first for three or four years to Deal School, another Cæsarean seat of learning, almost as well known as the college itself. The warm-hearted old general had as fond memories of the school-topped, wind-swept hill above the rocks of Deal, as he had of the meadows and hills about Kingsbridge. There were a great many family counsels held in the old house on the bayou; some prejudices pocketed; some feminine qualms appeased and tears dried; and a great deal of correspondence was exchanged between the Head Master of Deal and the old General, who ruled his family to the third and fourth generation.

And so at length on a bright crisp September morning, when he was about fifteen years old, Anthony Deering found himself getting out of the little way-train that runs from Coventry to Monday Port across the Cæsarean flats, and enquiring diligently for a hack to drive him out to Deal School. He had made the journey up from New Orleans alone, without a quaver until he came to his journey’s end. He was a day late for the opening of school, so that he was the only passenger to alight at Monday Port.

A vociferous cabman offered him the services of a dilapidated fly and a bony horse. He looked about for better, but not finding them, he pulled his belt a trifle tighter, swallowed the lump in his throat, and quieted the man by thrusting his bag into his hand. Then he jumped into the crazy vehicle, and shouted in a high voice, “Deal School!”

Tony had never been to Monday Port before, but he had heard a great deal of it from his mother, who had spent gay summers there in her girlhood, before the war. It had once been a favorite resort for Southerners, but after their exodus, was taken up by Northern people, and for a decade or so was one of the most popular Cæsarean watering-places. The town occupied a long stretch of level country between the sea and a range of low-lying sandhills. Its streets were pretty and clean, shaded for the most part by maple trees, with modest cottages on either side, and here and there more pretentious modern “villas,” representing almost every conceivable style of architecture. Tony was not much interested in Monday Port, however, and he eyed these pleasant homes with a rueful glance, which gave an odd expression to his attractive young face; for despite the shadows in his gray-blue eyes and the frown on his dark brows, it was evident that he was anything but a surly or fretful lad. There was a sparkle in the depths of the shadow; lines of cheerfulness behind the frown; the glow of health in his cheeks.

At last the old horse dragged the fly listlessly out of the shady street and they came into an open space, which fronted on a broad sheet of water flowing down with a fine sweep to the sea. A long bridge led across Deal Water to a straight white road which cleft a clean path through the rising meadowland. Eastward the wide expanse of green was edged by a line of tawny sands, where the turf swept down to the bluffs. Beyond lay the sea, sparkling like a great splendid jewel. Tony loved the sea, and a thrill went through him as he saw it again now after a long time. A load seemed lifted from his heart, though there was still some wistfulness for the sleepy bayou and the old plantation and the dear familiar faces. He remembered how so many Deerings before him had crossed that great still pond on their way to school, and had known that restless sea during happy boyhood.

“Is that the school?” he cried to the driver, springing up as he caught sight of a pile of buildings which crowned a hill-top at the end of the long white road ahead of them. There seemed to be a great many of these buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder, long and low for the most part, but one higher than the rest, marked by a tapering spire. The rays of the morning sun glinted on the windows so that they seemed ablaze with light. A fresh breeze was blowing off the ocean. There was the smell of seaweed in the air and of herby autumnal flowers. Here and there a field was stained literally purple with Michaelmas daisies,—a vivid contrast to the deep green of the meadows.

Tony could scarcely contain himself as the fly crawled up the steep road. Then, just as they reached the summit, a few paces before they turned into the school drive, another splendid view opened to them unexpectedly. On the other side of the school grounds the hill descended much more precipitously toward a point of rocky land which jutted into the sea; to the east the land bent with an enormous curve, embracing a wide beach about a mile in length; then, turning sharply again, rose into hilly land, thickly wooded, rocky-shored, which crowded about the great inlet, somewhat misnamed the Strathsey River. Across the morning haze gleamed the shores of a broad peninsula known as Strathsey Neck. In the midst of the river,—or bay, for it was really that,—a pile of rocks jutted from the waters, on which was situate a lighthouse, marked in the charts as Deigr Light.

Tony was a little bewildered by the unexpected impelling beauty of the situation. The cab turned into the school driveway then, and at the end of a graveled elm-shaded avenue, he saw a low long building of gray stone—of Tudor architecture, he learned afterwards—approached by a broad flight of stone steps.

A maid-servant met him at the door, surmised that he was the new boy, and said, “I will show you at once to the Doctor’s study.” They passed through a large hall, which Tony just could see was attractive, with its black oak paneling and the great open fireplace at the farther end, and then he was ushered into a cheerful pleasant-looking room, his hand was heartily clasped, and a gruff kindly voice bade him welcome.

Tony looked up, and saw a pair of sharp blue eyes, set deep under shaggy gray brows in a firm strongly-lined face, under a mass of thick gray hair, looking enquiringly into his. It was a kindly, inquisitive glance, as though their owner were wondering what manner of boy this was. Doctor Forester was growing old now, but he was still in the prime of his activity as a vigorous and effective head master. He looked down upon the fair copper-colored head of the boy, and into his frank gray-blue eyes, which looked back fearlessly.

“Ah, Deering, I am glad to see you. I am sorry you are late, however, for it is not the best way to begin,” he said, speaking with a sharp accent, and in quick phrases, which Tony was to learn were characteristic.

“I know, sir, but my grandfather—”

“Your grandfather, my boy, used to get caned once a week by old Doctor Harvey for the same incorrigible offense. But I understand the situation. You are not to blame. You are to have a room in Standerland Hall and sit at Mr. Morris’s table in the dining-room. Stop here a moment, while I send for a boy to show you about. Then you can get your books, and go into class the last morning period. We are going to try you in the Third. The master-in-charge will assign you a seat in the schoolroom.” The doctor touched a bell on his desk. “Send Lawrence to me, please,” he said to the servant who answered it; and then turning to Deering again, “Well, my boy, how is your grandfather? Has he told you that we were at Kingsbridge together? He was a senior when I was a freshman. He rescued me one night at a hazing-bee. Those were good old days—never the like of them again! I am glad they are sending you north to school and college. Ah, Lawrence! come in, come in. Lawrence, this is Anthony Deering. He is to be in your form and hall. Take him about a bit—that’s a good fellow—introduce him to the masters—and report to Mr. Morris before the last period. Good-bye now. Come to the Rectory to tea this afternoon, Deering, and we can have some talk about the General.”

The Doctor said all this very rapidly, and almost before Deering and Lawrence had finished their embarrassed greeting, he had turned to his desks and was busy with his papers.

James Lawrence—or Jimmie, as he was always called—was a slender, dark-haired handsome youth. He had a frank countenance, an engaging smile, black hair, and beautiful dark eyes. He recovered his self-possession in a moment and looked Tony over critically, as he waited for the Doctor to finish speaking. “Very good, sir,” he said, at length. “Come along, Deering, and I’ll show you where you are to room.”

“You may think the old gentleman is in the clouds,” he said, as they turned into a long corridor leading from the Doctor’s study, “but we have to wake up early in the morning to fool him—not that we don’t, you know!—but he is keen enough to make it mighty interesting. Why I have got twenty-five distinct directions about you already. You are to sit next me at table, for instance, and poor old Teddy Lansing is transferred to Mr. Williams.”

“Will he mind?” asked Tony, a trifle anxiously.

“Well, you’ll find out if he does mind. Teddy’s a noisy brute. There! that’s the way into the schoolroom,” he interrupted himself to say, “you’ll wish you could forget it in a week or so. Take a tip, watch Kit Wilson and me; we’ll show you a trick or two. But you are so beastly new.... See that animated broomstick toddling along? That’s old Roylston, the Latin master; you’ll meet him too soon for your comfort; we won’t stop now, despite the Doctor’s instructions. Give him a wide berth, and don’t bluff him.”

By this time they had got outside the Old School on the terrace, with the wonderful outlook over bay and sea. Tony began to make some remark about the view.

“Oh, the view!” exclaimed Lawrence, “You’ll get used to that too. That’s Lovel’s Woods over yonder,” he said, pointing to a stretch of thickly-wooded hilly land by the Strathsey shore, “rather useful in the winter term. You’re in Standerland, eh? That’s that long crazy gray stone building over the quad. Lucky dog to get a room, say I. Bill Morris is the master—a decent sort; an old boy, strong therefore with the doctor. Thank heaven and the Head that you’re going to be under Bill. No, we aren’t going over there now. You’ll have to scamper over there to wash up before dinner. I’ve got a page of Cæsar to do before last period, so let’s toddle to the schoolroom. Bill’s in charge, and he’ll smooth things over. Wait for me after school and I’ll pilot you in to grub.”

They had brought up now at the entrance to the Schoolhouse, which was connected with the Old School by a cloister and formed the north side of a great quadrangle. To the west lay Standerland House and the Chapel, a pure Gothic structure with a beautiful tower and spire, and the Rectory, the Head Master’s residence, between. Eastward lay the Gymnasium and the Refectory or dining-hall, the latter on a line with the Old School. North of the Schoolhouse was another quadrangle, flanked by Standerland and the Gymnasium, with Montrose and Howard Houses on its northern side. Beyond that still lay the playing-fields. All this Jimmie barely had time to indicate, as the two boys ran up a wide flight of steps, traversed a broad corridor, and entered the schoolroom, where he introduced Tony to the master-in-charge.

Tony could never remember what was said by either of them; he felt as if the gaze of the hundred pair of eyes, belonging to the hundred boys bent over their desks, was burning into his back. There was a vague sort of comfort in the pleasant tones of Mr. Morris’s voice, and somehow he came back to consciousness a little later, and found himself seated at a desk, with a brand new copy of the Gallic Wars open before him, and his lips pronouncing over and over in a meaningless sort of way—“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres....”

Thus Deering’s school days at Deal began.

CHAPTER II

A HAZING BEE

As a matter of fact Tony did not get over to Standerland all that day. He had waited for Lawrence after that first curious hour in the schoolroom and the subsequent recitation in Cæsar with Mr. Gray, generally known as “Pussie,” a clever, sarcastic young master, who mercifully however paid him no attention. Instead then of running over to the dormitory to wash up, Jimmie led him down a flight of back stairs in the Schoolhouse, and through a series of subterranean passages, to a remote little room, in which stood a stationary washstand in official disuse, which had probably been designed for the use of the servants. This Jimmie announced with pride to be his private luxury. “It saves a deal of time and trouble to wash here,” he explained. Tony could not see that it really did, but he felt at once a boy’s pleasure in doing the irregular thing.

In this makeshift of a washroom they found another boy, already washing his hands. He was a bright-eyed, fair-headed, stockily-built youth, whose face sparkled with good nature. “Hello, Jim,” he cried, as they came up, “who is your new friend?”

“Deering was his father’s name,” Jimmie answered facetiously, “Anthony was bestowed upon him by his sponsors in baptism.”

“So! Well, fellow Christian, where do you hail from?”

“I?—I come from Louisiana.”

“Louisiana! that’s a heck of a way to come. Well, Deering Anthony, lace my boots while I dry my hands.”

“Go to the deuce, Kit!” Lawrence broke in. “Deering’s in the Third. Take your sloppy boots to the First Form locker-rooms, and don’t brag here. Swat him, Tony, if he gets fresh.”

Kit burst into a ripple of delicious, infectious laughter. “Oh, that’s the ticket! Well, Tony, my darling, will you condescend to dip your lily fingers in this humble basin? The attar of roses unfortunately is ‘all,’ as the excellent Ebenezer Roylston has been known to put it. Permit me to offer you a towel.” With the words he deftly extracted Jimmie’s handkerchief, and thrust it at Deering. There was a laugh and scuffle between the two boys, quickly over as a distant bell sounded; they grabbed their coats, and fled unwashed toward the great dining-hall, which occupied the same relation to the Old School on the east as the Chapel did on the west.

“Can you play football?” asked Kit, as they ran along the terrace.

“I don’t know—” began Tony.

“Well, come out this afternoon, and find out. Report to me in football togs at three, and I’ll give you a chance on the Third Form squad.”

“Thanks awfully.”

“Cut that out! Scoot now after Jimmie, or you’ll be late. Good-boy Bill hates a laggard, and you’re at his table.”

Then had come the first bewildering dinner, with the myriads of strange faces about him. Already he thought of Jimmie Lawrence, next whom he sat, as an old friend. In the afternoon he was carried off to the Store and fitted out with football clothes, and then led off to the playing-field back of the quadrangle to be tried out. The game was strange to him, and he felt an awkward muff at it. But as a matter of fact he was quick and fleet and intelligent, and at the end of the afternoon, Kit deigned to pat him on the shoulder and to bid him reappear on the morrow. “You are not half bad, you know; for a land-lubber, so to speak. Mind you’re regular, and don’t eat toffy, and keep clear of the pie-house!”

At 5 o’clock Tony found himself excused from afternoon school by the Doctor’s command, and went in to tea at the Rectory and was introduced to Mrs. Forester—a sweet, motherly, middle-aged woman; and to two or three masters, the sarcastic Mr. Gray amongst them; and to four or five members of the noble Sixth, who were discussing the new football material. Tony spent a pleasant half-hour there, and after a talk with, or rather from, the Doctor about Kingsbridge and Deal in the olden time, he was sent back to the schoolroom and to afternoon recitations.

At 9 o’clock he was dismissed from evening school, and the attentive Lawrence steered him over to Standerland Hall, where Mr. Morris showed him the rooms he was to share with a Fourth Former. This was a pleasant little apartment, consisting of a study and two bedrooms, which looked eastward, over Lovel’s Woods and the Strathsey River.

“You can unpack to-morrow,” said Mr. Morris, “but you may take half-an-hour now to get acquainted with your room-mate.”

As they entered the room a tall, lanky youth had arisen from a Morris chair. He had rather fair, well-moulded features, a cool gray eye, a quiet but somewhat patronizing manner, a drawl to his speech, and a general air of distinction, not unmingled with conceit.

“This is Tony Deering, Carroll. Tony, allow me to present you to your room-mate, Mr. Reginald Carter Westover Carroll, of Virginia.”

“Awh, thanks, Mr. Morris, for getting it all in,” drawled Carroll. “How-de-do, Deering; pray don’t hesitate to make yourself at home.” He languidly extended his hand, and allowed Tony to shake it. “Won’t you honor us, Mr. Morris?” he asked, waving his hand gracefully in the direction of the deep easy chair.

“No, thank you; not to-night, Reginald. Be good enough to explain to Deering the simple rules that theoretically will govern his behaviour. Lights are to be out at nine-thirty. Good-night.”

He shook hands with the boys cordially, and left them alone together. Deering looked curiously about him, a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue; which however he refrained from asking, as he saw Carroll sink back into the Morris chair, extract the novel that he had slipped under it when he had heard the knock, and resume reading.

Tony stood for a moment, a trifle disconcerted. He was a little at loss to know what might be the etiquette of such an occasion. “I say,” he blurted out at last, “I think you might put that book down and tell a fellow a thing or two.”

Carroll placed the book on the table at his side, with an air of mild surprise. “Dear child,” he murmured indulgently, “shall we adopt the Socratic method?”

Tony flushed. “What is the Socratic method?”

“You ask questions; I answer—a few of them.”

“I don’t know that I have any particular questions to ask. I supposed we might find something to say if we tried hard enough. However, if you will tell me in which room I am to sleep, and at what hour we are expected to get up, I think I can get on without troubling you any further.”

“As to the first of your enquiries,” the long languid youth replied, “as I happen to have the advantage of being in the Fourth, and to have arrived a day earlier than you upon the scene of action, I have chosen the larger one to the right, which is protected from the early morning sun by a trifling angle of the exterior wall. A murderous bell will assassinate your innocent sleep at seven in the morning. The time that you arise will be determined by the length of time it takes you to dress and your estimate of the value of late marks. Breakfast, my Socrates, is at half-past seven. Are the problems too much for you?”

Tony smiled. “I reckon I can figure them out.”

“You are both tautological and verbose. The single word ‘reckon’ would have expressed your meaning quite as accurately and not less elegantly.”

“Oh, I don’t go in for elegance.”

Carroll lifted his eyebrows with an air of feigned surprise, and surveyed Tony for a moment or so with languid interest. When it appeared that his new acquaintance had nothing further to say, the older boy leaned his head wearily back upon his chair, and took up his book again, holding it open with an air of heroic patience.

“I think I’ll turn in,” said Tony at last.

“Ah!” murmured Carroll, “in that case, I may bid you good-night.”

Poor Tony was a little chilled by his reception, and he flung himself somewhat petulantly out of the study and into his bedroom. He turned on the light, undressed quickly, and got into bed. For a long time he lay thinking; first of Carroll, the elegant, languid, supercilious Carroll, and rebelled with passionate inner protest at his fate in being cast to room with him. Why had it not been Jimmie Lawrence—clever, handsome, jolly Jimmie, of the sparkling eyes, and the good-natured banter? or the likable self-important Kit, or any one of a dozen or more good fellows he had run against that day? But the memories of them appeased him. He felt himself lucky to have hit it off so well with such as they; and certainly there was much about the school that he was going to like; and it was fine to have a room to himself, a privilege that he had learned was exceptionable with Third formers and was supposed to be due to a “pull” his people had with the Doctor; and it was good luck to be under such a master as Bill Morris, whom he had already decided was to be his favorite. What a horrible fate it would have been to have sat next at table or roomed in the house of Mr. Roylston—“Gumshoe Ebenezer,” as the boys called him! or to have had to submit to Mr. Gray’s sarcasm too often! All things considered, he felt he was very lucky; and so he stifled a queer feeling of loneliness and homesickness, and turned over and tried to go to sleep.

He had heard Carroll moving about for awhile, and then, as he thought at half-past nine, he had heard the click of the electric light as it was turned off, the closing of a study door, and he supposed that Carroll had also gone to bed.

It was perhaps an hour later that he heard a soft tapping, repeated once or twice; then presently a movement in the study, and the creaking of a door being opened and closed; then the sound of whispering in the room without. Tony sat up in bed, wide awake now, and listened intently. In a moment his bedroom door opened. “Who’s that?” he called.

“Shish! be still! don’t make a sound, or I’ll break your head.” Somebody fumbled with the switch, turned the current on, and in a second the bedroom was flooded with light. Four boys, dressed in crimson and white jersies and old trousers, with red caps pulled down over their eyes, crowded into the room.

“What’s the matter?” cried Tony in a whisper, springing out of bed.

“Excellent pupil!” drawled Carroll, at this moment thrusting his head through the doorway, “even in the moment of excitement he preserves the Socratic method.”

“What do you want?” Tony repeated, backing up against his wall, a pathetic but sturdy figure in his white pajamas.

“Get into your clothes, and come along,” said a big fellow, with the air, real or assumed, of a bully.

“Where?”

“Where you’re bid.”

“I’ll be hanged if I will.”

“You’ll be hanged if you won’t,” the other rejoined, advancing toward him menacingly.

“Careful, Chapin!” whispered one of the others, “the kid’ll squeal in a moment, and we’ll have Bill in on us.”

“To heck with Bill! I’ll have that kid, or I’ll know the reason why!”

“Gently, Arthur dear,” murmured Carroll. “Never resort to force until persuasion is exhausted. Dear Socrates, we desire the pleasure of your company for a walk abroad. The hour is unusual, but therefore the greater is the compliment. My friend Chapin is impetuous and slightly rude, but I counsel you to accept his invitation.”

“What do you want with me?” asked Tony, stubbornly.

“Don’t ask me to repeat, I beg of you. Time presses, and the patience of my friends is on the ebb.”

“Hang your friends’ patience!” exclaimed Tony. “I won’t—”

“It will hang them, my child, if you do not come. The effort to remove you by force will cost them no end of a hanging.”

Tony saw that whatever resistance he might make, the kind that would save him was tabooed. He had only to make a noise, of course, and the master of the house would come to his rescue. Intuition told him that this was impossible, as impossible as also he felt it would be to submit placidly to hazing. Being southern, Tony had his prejudices. An objection to interference with his liberty even in the easy-going fashion of school-life was one of them. He decided at once that his protest, however, must be made out of doors, when all chance of attracting the attention of the masters was over. All this went through his mind a great deal more quickly than it can be told. As he made his decision, he pulled on his trousers and a jersey over the shirt of his pajamas, slipped his feet into “sneakers,” and professed to be ready.

“Mumm’s the word, through the corridor,” whispered Chapin, as they slipped out into the dark passage-way, and cautiously felt their way towards the stairs. Carroll had condescended to take Tony’s hand, partly that he might guide him in the dark, partly to make sure that the boy did not give him the slip.

At last they emerged upon the campus. It was dark and still. A late moon was casting its waning light over the hills beyond Strathsey Neck. The boys, still speaking in whispers, led Tony quickly across the ghostly campus, and into a field below the chapel, which sloped down toward the curving beach and sea. As they evidently meant to take him farther still, Deering pulled back here, and wrenched his arm free of Carroll’s grasp.

“I have gone far enough,” he said. “Tell me what you want of me, here.”

“Biff him, Kid,” exclaimed one of his captors, in a voice in which the note of brutality sounded painfully real.

“Nay, nay, gently,” interposed Carroll. “Let me deal with Socrates.... We would lead you to the beach, my friend, where the little lobsters and the mermaids play, and there have you sing us songs and make us merry with your quips and jests; while we, from the recesses of a certain cave well known to us, extract certain delightful viands, and feast.”

Tony listened patiently to this speech, with an expression of contempt upon his face that it was fortunate his captors could not see.

“Oh, all right, Carroll,” he said in reply, “go ahead, if you want to. I tell you frankly, the four of you may be able to beat me into a pulp, but you are not going to haze me.”

“No?” with an air of incredulity.

“No.”

The irritable member of the party poked Tony in the ribs at this point, and for his pains got a stinging blow on the ear. This youth, whose name was Chapin, was exceedingly angry at this, and Tony’s fate doubtless would have been settled then and there, had not the other three interposed, and restrained Chapin’s efforts to enforce an immediate punishment, protesting if there was a fight now he would spoil the fun. After an exciting altercation, which nearly resulted in the hazing party itself engaging in a civil war, peace was restored and the five proceeded toward the beach.

They walked some distance along the sands, which the ebbing tide had left damp and firm, to a point a little on the nether side of a deep stream, perhaps twenty yards wide, which divided the beach from a rocky bit of coast on the farther side. There was a rocky formation along the shores of this stream in the shelter of which Chapin soon indicated the mouth of a natural cave by thrusting his arms deep into the crevice, and then bringing forth one after another several large tin boxes and armfuls of fuel.

One boy quickly started a fire in the lee of a rock, the flame of which was shielded from the view of the school by the neighboring dunes. The other three, leaving Tony for the moment to his own devices, though they kept a watch on him, made preparations for a feast. From the tin boxes they produced various canned stuffs, biscuits, sweets, and the like, while the others began to fry some sausages in a skillet over the fire. It was probably near midnight, and so thrilling and so interesting were these proceedings, that for the moment Tony forgot that he too was not one of them out for a lark and began to enjoy himself hugely. Suddenly Chapin took a seat on a rock, and calling to him sharply, reminded him on what a different status he was there—a despised new boy to be hazed for freshness. He wondered, not without some alarm, what they proposed to do to him.

At length, just as Carroll handed up to Chapin a nicely done sausage, Tony’s principal tormentor turned to him. “Well, Deering, suppose you get up on that rock there, and give us a sample of your beautiful southern voice. We’ll have ‘Louisiana Lou,’ if you please.”

Tony felt a cold shiver run down his back, but nevertheless he braced himself against the rock, instead of mounting it, and faced Chapin. Thorndyke and Marsh drew near, and Carroll looked up from where he was kneeling at the fire.

“Come along.... Nah!” he snarled, in answer to some remark of Carroll’s, “I am going to haze this kid to the limit. Come, step lively there, Deering; what’s the matter with you? Crawl up on that rock, or I’ll biff you over the head.”

Tony backed off a little. “I supposed you knew,” he said, “that I didn’t intend to be hazed when you brought me down here.”

“Didn’t intend to be hazed!” cried Thorndyke, a strapping big chap. “Well, I’ll be——What did you think we asked you to—a party?

“No,” Tony answered. “But I came because I didn’t want to raise a rumpus up near the School, where you might think I was scared and trying to squeal out of it.”

“So you ain’t trying to squeal now, eh?” asked Thorndyke.

“Not a bit, but I don’t intend to be hazed all the same.”

“Why, Socrates, my love, do you expect us to fight you in rotation so as to convince you of the fact that you are going to be hazed?” asked Carroll, in tones of sarcasm.

“Oh, biff him!” cried Chapin.

Tony backed a little. “I don’t expect you to fight me, no,” he answered; then like a flash he kicked off his sneakers, slipped off his coat, and cast it full into Chapin’s face, with his hands behind it, sending him sprawling over Carroll, and upsetting their fire. With a cry, he leaped upon the rocks above. “You’ve got to catch me first.”

There was a chorus of startled exclamations, and then all four started after him, leaping upon the rocks. Tony ran lightly to the farther side, and then just as Thorndyke’s face appeared over the ledge behind, he sprang into the air, off the rocks, and disappeared beneath the waters of Beaver Creek.

“Wait till the little devil comes up,” cried Marsh, standing on the brink of the rock and looking at the bubbling water. “He’ll swim across, but he can’t get back to the school without coming this way. Two of you go round by the bridge. Reggie and I’ll wait here.”

Chapin and Marsh started on a run for the bridge, which spanned the creek along a dune road about a hundred yards from the beach. Carroll and Thorndyke watched for the reappearance of Tony on the surface of the creek, but no Tony reappeared. The seconds lengthened into minutes; they heard their two companions stamping across the bridge, but not a ripple disturbed the dark waters of the creek.

“Good heavens! what’s become of him?” whispered Thorndyke.

“Nothing!” Carroll responded irritably. “Watch the opposite bank.”

In a moment more Chapin and Marsh were on the other side. “Have you seen him?” they called.

“He hasn’t come up yet,” Chapin answered, in an agitated voice.

“Hasn’t come up yet! Then I’m going in after him!” and with the words Marsh plunged into the stream. He floundered about for a moment or so, diving here and there, but in four or five minutes crawled to shore exhausted. The others had investigated the bank to the bridge.

[i22]

LIKE A FLASH HE SLIPPED OFF HIS COAT AND CAST IT FULL IN CHAPIN’S FACE

“He must have swum up stream,” suggested Marsh.

“He hasn’t come up to the surface, you ass!” said Carroll. “Do you think he can swim a hundred yards under water?”

“What then do you think we are going to do?” he asked, in ghastly tones.

“Why two of us are going up to Doctor Forester, and two are going to stay here and keep watch.”

“You don’t think....”

“What, in heaven’s name, can we think?”

Carroll and Marsh started on a run up the beach, leaving their two companions crouched on the rocks, peering down fearsomely into the stream. The night seemed to them to grow colder, darker, more dismal. The moon in fact had set.

“By Jove, this is rum!” Thorndyke choked, in a grisly effort to seem at ease.

“It’s ghastly, Harry,” whispered Chapin, as he put his hand on the other boy’s arm.

CHAPTER III

“PAX”

It is not to be supposed that we share the fright of the four hazers. Tony of course was not drowned, nor indeed at any time had he been in danger. He had not lived on a Mississippi bayou for the greater part of his life in vain. He was an excellent swimmer, and he had the knack to an unusual degree of swimming under water a long distance.

When Chapin had first advanced upon him, he had intended to fight, but he realized at once that such a course would be foolish, for he would inevitably be conquered, and forced in the long run to go through the “stunts” even in a more unpleasant fashion than if he submitted at once. He had, however, no intention of submitting so long as he saw any possibility of a way out of the situation. Suddenly it occurred to him that by jumping into the creek and swimming for some distance under water, he might get a start in the way of escape that it would be difficult for his pursuers to make up. In this way the hazing might be avoided for the night at least, and on the morrow he could take counsel as to the future with some of his new-found allies.

No sooner did he think of this stratagem than he acted upon it. As we have seen, it proved even more successful than he had expected or hoped. The creek was quite deep enough for him to swim a considerable distance beneath the surface. He headed up stream, and kept under water to the limit of his endurance. Then, instead of coming to the surface in the splashing, sputtering fashion of the amateur, he came so far up as to thrust only his face above the waters for breath. So careful were his movements that the anxious watchers did not detect him even at this moment. A second time he went below, swimming beneath the surface for some yards, until he emerged again, this time within a short distance of the bridge. A few strokes brought him to this hiding-place, and he had scarcely ensconced himself there, clinging to one of the heavy wooden supports, when he heard Chapin and Marsh rushing across the planks above his head. He could tell by their tones of alarm, as they talked farther down the bank, that they thought he had drowned. He heard one of them jump into the creek and splash vainly about for some moments, and at last he heard two of them depart, and saw the shadowy outlines of the other two, as they returned disconsolate to wait by the rocks.

In about five minutes Tony crawled out from his hiding-place beneath the bridge. He was shivering with the cold, but otherwise not the worse for his long immersion. He ran softly along the dune road, about a hundred yards or so behind Carroll and Marsh on their way to the school. He followed them at a safe distance across the meadows and the campus, and watched them as they rang the bell of the Head Master’s house. Then he hurried off to his own room in Standerland, slipped off his wet clothes, and got into bed. A little alarm as to his safety on the part of his would-be tormentors, he thought, would be a just bit of revenge, particularly against the supercilious Carroll.

While Deering lay comfortably in bed, rapidly recovering in body and spirit, the two conspirators had a mournful few minutes as they explained matters to Doctor Forester, who had thrust his head and his pyjama’d shoulders out of an upper window.

The Head Master listened to their frightened explanations. “Very well,” he said at length, “I will dress at once. In the meantime, one of you go quickly over to Standerland and see if by any chance he has returned there. It is possible that there has been a serious accident, but I think it much more likely that he has simply outwitted you. I trust that is the case. Report to me immediately.” And with that the Doctor closed his window sash with a bang.

With his heart in his mouth Carroll ran across the quadrangles to Standerland House, resolving with more passion than he customarily allowed himself that the Head had shown himself a brute. He felt his way along the dark corridor, still cautious, although convinced that it was but a matter of moments when the whole school must be alarmed. He always recalled that walk upstairs as one of the most disagreeable quarters of an hour of his life. At last he found his door, entered his study, and breathed a sigh of relief as he switched on the light. Then he cautiously opened the door into Tony’s bedroom, and gave a frightful start as he saw the boy sitting up in bed. But Carroll was not one to betray more than momentary surprise. He gave Tony a long curious look, sufficiently assured after the first glance that he was not a ghost. “So, my Socrates,” he said, “you are back?”

“It would seem so,” answered Tony dryly, and as the older boy thought, impertinently.

“One wondered, you know,” Carroll remarked quietly, as he turned off the light and left the room.

In five minutes he was back at the Head Master’s house. “Deering is in bed, sir,” he reported to the non-committal head at the upper window.

“Good; I thought so. Do you go now after your companions on the beach. Return at once; get back into bed as quietly as you got out of it, and the four of you report to me to-morrow morning after prayers. I fancy that whether or not you become the laughing stock of the school will depend entirely upon yourselves. Good-night!”

“Good-night, sir.”

Carroll had lost but a trifle of his suavity during this nocturnal adventure. He hurried off now to the beach, and explained the situation to Thorndyke and Chapin, who were so rejoiced to learn that they had not been the cause of an involuntary suicide that they forgot to be annoyed with Tony for outwitting them. It was a cold and dejected trio of boys that stowed away the remains of the unenjoyed feast, and then betook themselves up the hill, crept silently into their dormitories, and went to bed.

On the morrow they were excused from first study and reported to the Head Master. To their surprise Doctor Forester had very little to say to them. “I had intended to give you a lecture,” he said, looking up from his writing and without laying down his pen, “and probably a severe punishment, but I fancy you have learned a lesson.... You can see, at least, to what the hazing of a high-spirited boy might lead.... I understand your ideas about hazing. I do not share them. I believe that you will not disappoint me when I say that I expect the practice to stop from this day.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Thorndyke.

“And that is all,” added the Doctor, giving them a nod of dismissal.

“Phew!” exclaimed Chapin, as they entered the corridor, “that’s sliding out easy.”

“Rather,” answered Thorndyke, “unless we have the whole school howling at us when the kid squeals.”

“Which he’s sure to do,” suggested Marsh.

Carroll withered them with a glance. “I rather fancy not,” he drawled. “He’s a southerner and a gentleman.”

“Well, let’s hope not,” interposed Thorndyke.... “There, don’t get huffy, Harry, you can’t help coming from Chicago.”

“Who wants to help it, you big cow?” cried Marsh, giving his chum Thorndyke a good-natured push against the wall. “But if I thought, as Carroll does, that there were not any gentlemen north of Mason and Dixon’s line, I wouldn’t come to a northern school.”

“Rot!” vouchsafed Carroll. “Let’s whoop her up for Gumshoe, and avoid any daffy questions about being quizzled by the Head.”

********

Tony found it difficult the next day not to take Jimmie Lawrence or Kit Wilson into his confidence, and tell them of his adventure of the night before. But he conquered the temptation, for he was singularly incapable of enjoying himself at the expense of any one’s else discomfiture. Tony was not without his faults, as we shall see, but he genuinely disliked to make other people uncomfortable. Perhaps this was an inheritance from a long line of ancestors who had had rather nice ideas about what constitutes a gentleman. At any rate, he was born that way, and did not deserve any special credit for it. He realized that if he told his story he might easily make his three captors the butts of the school, but that was not a form of revenge that appealed to him. Accordingly he held his peace, and if it had depended on him the story never would have been told. But we may say in passing, that eventually Carroll told the tale himself: it entered into the body of Deal tradition, and is frequently told by old Deal boys when hazing is a subject of conversation.

Tony felt almost familiar with the schoolroom as he entered after prayers the next morning. A score of faces were now known to him, and so many had seemed friendly as he looked into them, that the homesick feeling and the alarm of the night before rapidly passed away. Occasionally he noticed Mr. Morris’s glance resting upon him, as he sat at his books during the day, in a particularly interested and friendly way. There was something in Morris’s face—an attractiveness, perhaps one would call it, for he was not precisely handsome—a winningness in the directness of his glance, that more than once had won boys at almost first sight. Morris had the genius of inspiring enthusiasms, and he was to inspire one in Tony. The master was soon to hear from Carroll the inwardness of Tony’s exploits, and marvel with him at the boy’s “whiteness” in not talking. Mr. Morris was the occasional recipient of the intimate confidences of the supercilious Virginian, for even Carroll had moments of weakness when he felt the need of unburdening himself and receiving sympathy—moments, as he would have said, when he was not himself.

As the day wore on Tony was inclined to forget his unpleasant adventure of the night before. The afternoon found him again on the football field, absorbed in learning the game, and winning encomiums in the eyes of Kit, who until Thanksgiving would have few thoughts aside from football. Kit was captain of his form eleven, and his interest in its success was equaled only by the readiness with which he would sacrifice his best players to the school team or even to the scrub if they were needed. He was delighted with Deering’s advent, as he had felt he was weak in ends, and Tony’s fleetness promised much in that direction.

The likelihood of his securing a position on his form team gave Deering a prestige that stood him in good stead as a new boy; and as he was lively, good-natured and appreciative, it seemed that on the whole he would have an agreeable time.

There was, however, a rift in the lute—which Tony detected the second day of his school life. As he would pass Chapin in the Schoolhouse corridors or on the campus, he could see by the expression on his face that he had taken the result of their adventures of the night before in bad part. They exchanged no words on the subject, but Chapin’s behavior was in such contrast to that of Thorndyke and Marsh, or even of Carroll, all of whom had smiled good-naturedly when they had met him, that he put it down that in Chapin he had made an enemy. At the time this troubled him very little. He wondered of course if he should be hazed again, but surmised correctly that if he were it would not be by the same crowd.

The spirit with which he went into things, his success on the form team, and the powerful friends that he had made in Wilson and Lawrence, the leaders of the Third, soon secured him an immunity from hazing in any form. The Sixth frowned on the custom, so that none but adventurous spirits were apt to attempt it.

Tony was tired out that night, and as soon as he was dismissed from the schoolroom at nine o’clock, he ran over to Standerland and got into bed, scarcely noticing Carroll, who had the privilege of working in their common study. Hardly, however, was he in bed, than the door was opened, his light switched on, and again Carroll appeared, but this time there was a friendly grin on his face, and a box of biscuit and a jar of jam tucked under his arm.

“Don’t jump, my philosopher!” he exclaimed, “I am alone and unarmed.” Then he advanced to the bed, and held out his hand. “Shall we make it ‘pax’?”

“With all my heart,” laughed Tony, and gave Carroll’s hand a friendly shake.

“Suppose then we smoke a pipe of peace,” and Carroll extracted from the recesses of his pocket two brierwood pipes.

“Hang it!” said Tony, “I don’t smoke, you know. Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”

“Oh, yes, somewhat,” answered Carroll, as he nonchalantly lighted a match. “But what will you have? School bores me to extinction. I find myself within two days craving nefarious excitement. You are fortunate to possess a calmer temperament. Here, help yourself to the jam and biscuit.”

“You seem calm enough,” commented Tony.

“I assume that, little one, for amusement, I am in reality excitable to a degree. Now take that incident last night—”

“Oh, let’s drop that,” said Tony.

“On the contrary, I should like to discuss it. I was rather a beast to go in for it, you know, when you had been, as it were, put in my tender care. It was the fun of doing something that one knew would get one into trouble if one were caught. You behaved in a singular fashion, I must confess, and lamentably upset our little calculations. Somehow, after blowing the business to the Head the joy of the affair was gone. I felt like a sick cat when I crawled into bed at one A. M.”

“What happened?” asked Tony.

Carroll took a deep pull at his pipe, and blew the smoke out of the window. “Old Hawk laughed at us, and sent us to bed as though we were First Formers. Say, it was rather decent of you, you know, not to peach to the fellows.”

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“Well, we’ve escaped the jolly horsing we’d have got if you had, that’s all.... Do you know, I approve of that,—well, to a degree. Confound it! there’s curfew. Lie still, I’ll souse the light. I guess we’re safe enough. Bill saw us both in, and he isn’t one to nose about after lights unless there’s a beastly noise. Bill is such a gentleman that one hates to take advantage of his considerateness,—like this!” And he blew a puff of smoke into Tony’s face.

“Why do you do it then?”

Carroll got up and turned out the light; then resumed his seat on Tony’s bed.

“Why do I? Hang it, Deering, I sometimes wonder why I do a number of things. I’ve a great notion to chuck it.”

Tony had the good sense to make no reply to this remark, but to munch instead with rather unctious enjoyment on his biscuit and jam. Carroll seemed to meditate for the moment in the dark, then knocked his ashes out on the window-sill, and leaned over, feeling for the jar. “Where the deuce is the biscuit? That jam is the real article, you know. There is a great gulf between the jam I use and what one gets in the refectory. Would that in that gulf we might souse the housekeeper, eh?”

And so they talked the shop and jargon, the boyish confidences, and experiences, and plans, that have been the theme of nocturnal talks ever since schools were invented. It was quite late before Carroll returned to his bedroom, and Tony immediately dropped to sleep, feeling that after all he had misjudged him upon first appearances. His next conscious thought was as he leaped to his feet in answer to the strident tones of the rising bell.

CHAPTER IV

MICHAELMAS TERM

This late talk with Carroll did more toward putting Tony at his ease in the school than perhaps anything that happened to him. From that time on he became very friendly with his room-mate—all the better friends doubtless because they always maintained toward each other a certain reserve, due rather to Carroll’s involuntary elaborateness of manner than to any deliberate effort on their part. All the better also was it that real as was their mutual regard for each other neither had that enthusiastic affection that school boys so frequently experience, and of which Tony was already aware in another direction. For just such a friendship quickly developed between him and Jimmie Lawrence.

He has missed one of the purest joys of life who has not known the delights of an enthusiastic boyish friendship. It has its sweetnesses, its fears and scruples, as has every other love; but there is a cloudless carelessness about its happy days as about no other period of life. For Tony, in that first Indian summer at Deal to wander off from the common fields with Jimmie Lawrence, into unfamiliar haunts, into the enchanted region of Lovel’s Woods, or along the rocky kelp-strewn shores of the Strathsey River or the tawny beaches of the Neck, was a joy pure and unalloyed.

Among others Carroll watched the development of this friendship with interest. Carroll was not the sort to give his affection quickly in such whole-hearted fashion, though he cared deeply enough about things, he thought. He neither approved nor disapproved of his room-mate’s devotion to Jimmie, certainly was not jealous of it. If such things must be—he had a way of smiling with his assumed air of cynicism when friendship was mentioned—why he supposed Jimmie Lawrence was as worthy of Tony’s devotion as the next boy. Carroll never spoke of this friendship to Tony, but tactfully began to welcome Jimmie as a visitor to their rooms during that fall term. To his own form-mates he referred to his study as “the kindergarten.” He did, however, speak unusually frankly to Tony of another friendship which that youth appeared to have made. They had wandered toward the beach one evening. Football practice was just over; Tony had had his bath and was glowing a beautiful pink and white in the soft air of the Indian summer twilight.

“Do you know,” said Carroll, flecking at the pebbles in the sands, as they stopped at the creek, “that you have made a great hit with our beloved Bill?”

Tony laughed. “Bill’s made a great hit with me, I may say. But doubtless that’s plain enough.”

“Oh, perfectly,” answered Carroll who was used to boys liking Mr. Morris, “but it has never been evident before that Bill has particularly cared for one of us rather than for another; he has been extraordinarily decent to everyone with whom he has to do, just as Gumshoe has been extraordinarily odious. For myself, I have always disliked intensely the attitude that most school masters think it expedient to assume—to wit, a sort of official consciousness of a universal in loco parentis, a grim determination to make people think every boy is liked just in the same way, which we know is impossible, and as undesirable as it is unreal. Witness, Gumshoe really makes me grateful to him, despite his native hideousness, because he never addresses me without a sarcastic snarl or an odious grin as though I were amusing him. One understands that amusement.”

“Oh, quite,” said Tony, absently.

Reggie did not like these little interjections in his monologue. “Don’t assume to be paying attention,” he commented now. “I know of course that you are not until I get back to you. Don’t think it necessary to assent. I am accustomed to talking without being listened to.”

“Oh, dry up, Reggie, go on with Bill—what about him?”

“Ah, I thought our curiosity had been aroused. This, little one; he had succeeded better than most people in liking a good many fellows, with the result of course that the fellows really like him. But, for you, his liking is more patent than usual. I congratulate you—not to say, I envy you.”

“Nonsense,” began Tony.

“Cultivate him, my boy.”

“Oh, I mean to do that,” Deering answered. “Tell me, do you like Mr. Morris, Reggie; you’re such a—”

“I, oh I adore him,—in my way; but even so much is between you and me. He is a demi-god, the superman. As for me, I amuse him, interest him, baffle him a little, I hope; but he will never be fond of me. It will be a relief to Bill when I get out of his house.”

“Don’t you think it’s just that he’s never been sure whether or not he could trust you?” asked Tony.

Carroll for once started. “Trust me? Good heavens, Deering, I imagine the man takes me for a gentleman.”

“Oh, of course, that—I meant rather in other ways; if he counts on you to help out....”

“Oh!” Carroll exclaimed, with a tone of relief, “I dare say not.... I dare say not....” And for a while he seemed to think rather seriously. Tony wondered to himself how he had happened to stumble on what doubtless was a sore spot with his room-mate in his relation to the house-master. As for Carroll’s talk about Mr. Morris’s good opinion, Tony only took that half seriously. He hoped it was true, of course. Tony liked to be liked, as perhaps most people do.

Those were really golden days for him, which he was always to recall with a peculiar sense of pleasure. He was consciously happier than he had ever been before, because often at home there had been certain family shadows that dimmed the day. Life went well with him that first fall term. He seemed to catch the spirit of the school almost by intuition; indeed, as he said to himself one afternoon as he stood on the terrace in front of the Old School, looking down across the sloping meadows, past the ochre-colored beach, out upon Deigr Rock and a quivering ocean, it was in his blood: it was his inheritance and tradition to be a part of and to love Deal School.

He was quick and sensible enough to keep his classroom work up to the average, and though he did not distinguish himself as a scholar, he suffered very little from detention or pensums, those popular devices for the torture of the dull and the lazy. He had his long afternoons free, save for football. And football in that day, under what Tony ever felt was a wise dispensation of the Head’s, was never allowed to absorb more than an hour, except when a game was on. As it was, he always had a good hour or so of daylight in which with a congenial companion,—Jimmie, or Kit, or Carroll, often,—he could explore the surrounding country. And this for Tony soon became the most fascinating way of spending his time. Before the Michaelmas term was over he had got to know every path and by-way for five miles roundabout. To a boy who had eyes as well as wits there was a plenty to interest him in the region about Deal;—the bold and varied shore, with its rocks and beaches, its coves and caves, its points and necks, the abode of wild fowl of the sea; the rolling fertile country to the north; Lovel’s Woods; the quiet waters of Deal Great Pond; the quaint streets of the old town of Monday Port, with its rotting wharves and empty harbor.

This strange old town, despite everywhere the lingering touch of the summer invasion, with its suggestion of a vanished trade, in the winter was bereft of all save its memories of a bygone order of things; and with these memories, to an imaginative boy, the town seemed heavy. It required a special permission and a good excuse for any of the schoolboys, except the Sixth, to get the freedom of its streets. Tony was especially keen for such excuses and such freedom. His first walk there had been with Mr. Morris, who seemed to know the intimate stories of its houses, to be familiar with all its little secrets. In less conventional conversations Tony planned escapades for that direction; but as yet nothing very definite suggested itself. The penalties for being caught in Monday Port without the good excuse were considered excessive and usually not worth the risk. Mr. Morris had a glorious tale of the days when he was a schoolboy at Deal, of the actual exodus from the school by night of the whole Fifth, the boarding of a schooner that had lain dreaming in the sleepy harbor for a day or so, a thrilling sail into the open, and the overhauling of the pirate crew by the Head in a steam-launch. Those were the good old days of birching, and yes, Mr. Morris had caught it. He had smiled at the memory as if it were a pleasant one.

Golden days that more and more took the aspect of holidays as midst school strain and throbbing excitement, they drew near the day of the “great game” with Boxford, the rival school across the Smoke mountains.

It had seemed possible for some time that Tony might make end on the School team. Mr. Stenton, the athletic director, though he had a vigorous way of finding fault, forever threatening the boys with defeat and the benches and fines, secretly regarded Deering as a “find.” He had watched his play for a week or two on Kit Wilson’s Third Form team; saw that he was green but teachable, and judged that he was one of the swiftest runners that had ever come to Deal. The end of the first month found Tony a member of the School squad.

To the old boys it seemed almost “fresh” that a newcomer should be able to play football so much better than they, and to be a greenhorn at that! But Jack Stenton knew his business; he was an old Kingsbridge man, and he had played on the Kingsbridge eleven in the very earliest days of American football, when it was a very different game indeed. And Stenton made up his mind that Tony eventually should make the Kingsbridge eleven. Deal boys had not been taking many places on Kingsbridge teams of recent years, which was a matter of real grief to the faithful coach. Stenton, however, was the last man in the world to give a boy a good opinion of himself, so that he pretended to hold out to Tony but the smallest hope. “You may squeeze into shape,” he would say, “but I doubt it.” And in truth he was averse to playing a new boy in a big game; so that up to the eve of the Boxford game the line-up was in doubt. Tony had a vigorous rival for his position, in Henry Marsh, one of the members of the hazing-bee of the first few nights at Deal. Marsh was quick; Tony was quicker; but Marsh had the advantage of knowing the game, and clever as Tony was proving himself, he nevertheless was a greenhorn.

His promotion to the school squad did a great deal for Deering in the way of increasing his popularity. Kit Wilson no longer patronized him; on the other hand he was rather proud of Tony’s friendship, and took a good deal of credit to himself for having discovered him. He proposed Deering for membership in the Dealonian, a semi-secret society that took a great deal of credit to itself for the smooth and successful running of the School. Membership in it was an honor, which a new boy rarely achieved. It was enough to have turned our friend’s head, but he was singularly not a self-conscious youth, and to this it was due that his quick success aroused so little jealousy. Tony had the quality of lovableness to a marked degree, which is after all a quality; it was what won him at college in later years the nickname of “Sunshine,” a famous nickname in the annals of Kingsbridge, as Kingsbridgeans know—but that’s another story.

In all the unexpected happiness of the term there was for Tony nevertheless the inevitable rift in the lute. Chapin was still sulky toward him; and he could see beneath a rather elaborate courtesy, that Henry Marsh, Chapin’s particular crony, was anything but friendly. This lack of friendliness became so noticeable to Carroll that despite his intimacy with the two, he began to draw somewhat away from them. Carroll thought that they had singularly failed to appreciate Tony’s “whiteness” in saving them all from an unmerciful horsing. Even the Head Master had called their attention to that in his brief discourse to them on that unpleasant morning afterwards.

Carroll met the two coming out of Thornton Hall—the refectory—one evening after supper, and joined them as they walked around the terrace in the moonlight.

“I say, you fellows,” he began, plunging in medias res—Carroll always took the unexpected line—“why the deuce do you keep so sour on young Deering?”

Chapin looked up quickly, his eyes glinting unpleasantly in the moonlight. “Hang it, Carroll!” he exclaimed, “what’s that to you? We’ve no obligation to take up with every little southern beggar that comes to school, as you seem to have.”

“No, assuredly,” Carroll replied, suavely, “but it occurs to me that when a chap has behaved as uncommonly decently to us as Deering has, you might show a little—well, appreciation.”

“Rot! Deering has had a swelled head ever since the night of the hazing-bee, and if Jack Stenton sticks him on the team for the Boxford game there’ll be no holding him. We will be for sending him up to Kingsbridge instanter.”

“You are uttering unspeakable nonsense, my dear Arthur, and you know it. Give the lad a show; play fair. What’s the matter with you, Harry?” he added, turning to Marsh, “it is only lately that you have taken to snubbing him.”

Marsh gave an uneasy laugh. “Oh, Arty and me hang together,” he said lamely.

“Well, that is more than you can say for your English,” remarked Carroll, with a contemptuous smile, and turned away.

Chapin followed him up, and laid an arm upon his shoulder. “Look here, Reggie,” he exclaimed, “don’t let’s bicker about this kid. I don’t like him, but what difference need that make between us? We have stuck pretty close these four years. Come on now, let’s slip down to the cave, hit the pipe, and talk things over.”

“No, thank you,” replied Carroll briefly.

“Come on, Reggie, do,” put in Marsh, “we’ve bagged a bottle of wine to-day, and we’ll bust it to-night in your honor.”

“Thanks, no; seductive as your offering is, I rather fancy you may count me out of your little meetings in the future.” And with the words Carroll went on his way.

The two boys looked after him a moment, until he entered the Old School, when Chapin exclaimed, with an oath, “Let him go, Harry; we’ll count him out all right; but we’ll get even with his cub.”

Marsh murmured an assent, but hung back a little when Chapin renewed the proposal to visit the cave on the beach. “Don’t let us go to-night, Art; remember you’re in training.”

“The deuce with training. What’s the use of banging your head against a football for a month if a greenhorn like that is to be shoved into the front row at the last moment. I’m going to have some fun nights, and you’ll see, I shall be as fit as a fiddle in the morning anyway.” And as he spoke, he drew Marsh’s arm within his, and together they started for the beach.

From that day Carroll avoided them, a circumstance that did not increase their friendliness toward Tony. It had been comparatively easy at the time for Reginald to take the course he did, but as the days came and went, he began to miss the companionship of Chapin and Marsh more than he cared to acknowledge. Although naturally there was little in common between them, for so long a time he had identified himself with them and their crowd,—attracted by their willingness to engage upon any lark however wild and their keenness to avoid school rules, a process to which his own languid existence had been secretly dedicated,—that he keenly missed the nefarious exploits their companionship afforded. To be sure he had stopped smoking, he was bracing up a bit and helping Mr. Morris out with the discipline of the house, but beyond that he craved as ardently as ever the excitement and adventure of his more careless days.