FORWARD PASS

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

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[“He went staggering around the goal-post for a touchdown and victory.”]

FORWARD PASS

A STORY OF THE “NEW FOOTBALL”

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL,” “THE
HALF-BACK,” “WEATHERBY’S INNING,”
“ON YOUR MARK,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1908

Copyright, 1908, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published September, 1908

TO

GILBERT H. SHEARER, Jr.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FORWARD PASS

[CHAPTER I]
OFF TO SCHOOL

“All aboa-a-ard!”

There was a warning clang from the engine bell and a sudden return to darkness as the fireman slammed the furnace door and tossed the slicer-bar back onto the tender. The express messenger in the car behind pulled close the sliding door and hasped it, pausing afterwards to glance questioningly at the cloudy night sky. At the far end of the train, which curved serpent-wise along the track, the conductor’s lantern rose and fell, the porter seized his footstool and Dan Vinton, after a final hurried kiss, broke from his mother’s arms and ran nimbly up the steps of the already moving sleeper.

“Good-bye, mother,” he called down into the half-darkness. “Good-bye, father! Good-bye, Mae!”

They all answered at once, his father in a hoarse growl, his mother softly and tearfully and his sister in a shrill, excited voice as she tripped along beside the car steps, waving frantically. The eastbound express carried ten cars to-night, and for a moment the big engine puffed and grunted complainingly, and the train moved slowly, the wheel flanges screaming against the curving rails. From across the platform Dan heard his father’s voice lifted irritably:

“Ma, if you’re coming I wish you’d come! Can’t expect me to keep these horses standing here all night!”

Dan smiled and choked as he heard. Dear old dad! All the way to the station he had been as cross as a wet hen, holding his face aside as they passed a light for fear that the others would see the tears in his eyes, and trying with his gruffness to disguise the quiver in his voice. Dan gave a gulp as he felt the tears coming into his own eyes. The dimly-lighted station hurried by, there was a flash of green and red and white lanterns as the trucks rattled over the switches and then they had left the town behind and were rushing eastward through the September night, gaining speed with every click of the wheels. There was a sudden long and dismal shriek from the engine, and with that the monster settled down into the stride which, ere morning came, was to eat up three hundred Ohio miles and bring them well into Pennsylvania. The porter, with a muttered apology, closed the vestibule door, and Dan, blinking the persistent tears from his eyes, left the platform and entered the sleeping-car.

“I put your suit-case under the berth, sir,” said the porter as he followed the passenger down the aisle. The lights were turned low, and Dan was glad of it, for he didn’t want even the colored porter to think him a baby. The green curtains were pulled close at every section and from behind some of them came sounds plainly indicating occupancy.

“Lower eight,” murmured the porter. “Here you are, sir. Hope you’ll sleep well, sir. Good night.”

“Thanks,” muttered Dan. “Good night.”

“We take the diner on at Pittsburg, sir, at seven. But you can get breakfast any time up to ten, sir.”

Dan thanked him again and the porter took himself softly away. When he was finally stretched out in his berth, with his pocketbook tightly wrapped up in his vest under his pillow, and the gold watch which his father had given him when he had graduated from the grammar school last June tucked into the toe of one of his stockings as seeming to him the last place in which a thief would look for it, Dan raised the curtain beside his head and rolled over so that he could look out. It was after eleven o’clock and he knew that he ought to be asleep, but he felt as wide awake as ever he had in his life. The moon had struggled out from behind the big bank of clouds which had hid it and the world was almost as light as day. For awhile, as he watched the landscape slide by, a panorama of field and forest and sleeping villages, his thoughts clung somewhat disconsolately to Graystone and his folks. But before long the excitement which had possessed him for days and which had only left him at the moment of parting crept back, and, although he still stared with wide eyes through the car window, he saw nothing of the flying landscape.

He was going to boarding-school! That was the wonderful, pre-eminent fact at present, and at the thought his heart thrilled again as it had been doing for two months past. And at last the momentous time had really arrived! He was absolutely on his way! The dream of four years was coming true! Do you wonder that his heart beat chokingly for a few minutes while he lay there with the jar and rattle of the train in his ears? When one is fifteen and the long-desired comes to pass life grows very wonderful, very magnificent for awhile.

Ever since Dan had been old enough to think seriously of the matter of his education he had entertained a deep longing for a course at boarding-school. In Graystone it wasn’t the fashion for boys to go away from home for their educations; Graystone had a first-class school system and was proud of it; a boy who wanted to go to college could prepare at the Graystone High School as well as anywhere else, declared the Graystone parents; and as for the Eastern schools—well, everybody knew that the most of them were hot-beds of extravagance and snobbishness. This is a belief that unfortunately prevails in plenty of towns beside Graystone. Dan’s father was quite as patriotic as any other citizen of the town and held just as good an opinion of its educational advantages. So when, during his second year at the grammar school, Dan had broached the subject of a term at a preparatory school in the East he was not surprised when Mr. Vinton refused to consider it.

“Pooh! Pooh!” scoffed Mr. Vinton, good-naturedly. “What’s the matter with our own High School, Dan? Isn’t it good enough for you, son?”

Dan tried to explain that it was the school life he wanted to try, and, unfortunately for his argument, mentioned “Tom Brown.”

“Tom Brown!” exclaimed his father. “Well, that’s a fine story, Dan, but it’s all romance. I went to boarding-school myself, and I can tell you I never ran up against any of the things you read about in ‘Tom Brown.’ No, son, if that’s all you want you might as well stay right here in Graystone. You’ll find just as much of the ‘Tom Brown’ romance in High School as you will back East.”

Dan wanted to tell his father that the kind of school he wanted to go to was little like the boarding-school which his father had attended. Mr. Vinton’s early education had been obtained at the Russellville Academy, an institution whose name was out of all proportion to its importance. Mr. Vinton had been born in one of the smaller towns along the Willimantic River in Connecticut, and Russellville Academy had possessed for him the advantages of proximity and inexpensiveness. The tuition and board was one hundred dollars a year, and on Friday afternoon he could reach home by merely walking twelve miles. Mr. Vinton’s schooling had terminated abruptly in the middle of his third year, when the death of his mother—his father had died years before—left him dependent on an uncle living in Ohio. So Russellville Academy was abandoned in favor of a position in the Graystone Flour Mills. To-day Mr. Vinton owned the mills and, for that matter, pretty much everything else in that part of the county. But the fact that he had succeeded in life on a very slim education hadn’t made him a scoffer at schools and colleges; on the contrary, he was a firm believer in those institutions and was determined that Dan, who was an only son, should have the best education that money and care could provide.

Dan’s private and unexpressed opinion of Russellville Academy wasn’t flattering. He believed that his father must have had a pretty forlorn, unpleasant experience there. But Mr. Vinton had come to look back upon his few years of school life through rose-tinted glasses.

“There were only about thirty of us fellows,” he would say when in reminiscent mood, “but maybe we had better times for that reason; every fellow knew every other fellow. Why, the first month I was there I fought more than half the school!”

“Did you ever get licked?” asked Dan eagerly.

“Licked!” laughed Mr. Vinton. “Lots of times, son. Why, seems to me as I look back at it, my nose was out of kilter more than half the time!”

“You must have been a set of young barbarians,” observed Dan’s mother with conviction on one occasion.

“Nothing of the sort, Mary; just a parcel of youngsters full of life. We didn’t think anything of a fight; used to make up half an hour afterwards and bandage each other’s heads.”

“Were the fellows nice?” asked Dan doubtfully.

“Nice? Of course they were, most of them. Still, I guess we had all sorts at the Academy. There was ‘Slugger’ Boyd and ‘Brick’ Garrison and ‘Fatty’ Thomas and—and others like them that maybe you wouldn’t just call ‘nice.’ ‘Brick’ got his nickname because of a way he had of grabbing up a brick or a stone when it came to a fight. No one cared to fight ‘Brick’ except in the barn where there weren’t any loose stones lying around handy.”

“Did you have a nickname, too?” Dan asked.

“Yes, they used to call me ‘Kicker.’ You know we didn’t have any special rules to fight by; every fellow just went at it the handiest way. I was a good kicker; used to jab out with my fist and kick at the same time. I won lots of fights that way, for some fellows can stand any amount of punching on the head or body and quit right away when you get a good one on their shins.”

“We wouldn’t call that fair fighting nowadays,” said Dan uneasily.

“No? Well, fashions change. It was good scientific fighting when I went to school,” answered Mr. Vinton smilingly.

“Well, I think your folks must have been crazy to let you go to such a place,” said Mrs. Vinton irascibly. “Fighting all the time and living on almost nothing and sleeping on corn-husks and walking twelve miles to get home and nearly freezing to death!”

“Oh, I only came near freezing once,” responded Mr. Vinton pleasantly. “But that was a close shave. I guess if Farmer Hutchins hadn’t come along just when he did that time—”

“I don’t want to hear about it again!” declared Dan’s mother. “If that’s your idea of having a good time it isn’t mine! And you can just believe that no son of mine ever goes to boarding-school!”

“Well, as for that, ma, I dare say boarding-schools have changed some since my day,” responded Mr. Vinton.

But in spite of this assertion Russellville Academy remained to Mr. Vinton a typical boarding-school, and remembering how little he had learned there and, when the rose-tinted glasses were laid aside, how many unhappy moments he had spent there, he was resolved in his own mind that his wife’s decision was a wise one.

In the end Dan had given up all hope of getting to boarding-school, without, however, ceasing to desire it. In June he had graduated high in his class at the grammar school with every prospect of entering the High School in September. But toward the last of July a conversation had occurred at the dinner table which later put a different complexion on things.

“Well, son, what you been doing to-day?” asked Mr. Vinton, absentmindedly tucking his napkin into his collar, yanking it quickly away again and glancing apologetically at his wife.

“Nothing much, sir. I played baseball for awhile and then ‘Chad’ Sleeper and Billy Nourse and Frank Whipple and I went over to Saunders’ Creek and went in bathing.”

Mr. Vinton frowned.

“‘Chad’ Sleeper, eh? Is that old Dillingway Sleeper’s boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And young Nourse and that Whipple boy, you said, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See a good deal of those boys, do you? Go around with them a lot, eh?”

“Yes, sir, a good deal.”

“I thought Frank Whipple was going to work this summer in his father’s store.”

“He did start to,” answered Dan, “but—I don’t know. I guess he didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t like it, eh? Did he tell you so?”

“Well, he said it was pretty hard work; said the store was awfully hot and his mother was afraid he’d take sick.”

Mr. Vinton grunted.

“All those boys in your class next fall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which one is your especial chum?”

“‘Chad,’ I guess. I like him better than the others.”

“What is it you like about him, son?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s a good baseball player, and a dandy half-back; you know he played half on the team last fall, sir.”

“Did he? I’d forgotten. Well, any other good points you can think of, son?”

Dan hesitated. He didn’t like his father’s tone. It was a tone which Mr. Vinton was likely to use when, to use Dan’s expression, he was “looking for trouble.”

“He—he’s just a good fellow, sir, and we get on pretty well together.”

“I see. Ever hear of him doing anything worth while?”

“He won the game for us last Thanksgiving Day,” answered Dan doubtfully, pretty certain that the feat mentioned wouldn’t make much of a hit with the questioner.

“Ever hear of him doing anything helpful, anything kind, anything useful to himself or anyone else?” pursued Mr. Vinton remorselessly. Dan was silent for a moment.

“I guess he would if he got the chance,” he replied finally.

“Well, did you ever see him shading his eyes with his hand and looking for a chance?”

“John, don’t talk such nonsense,” expostulated Mrs. Vinton, glancing at Dan’s troubled countenance.

“No nonsense at all, my dear,” answered Mr. Vinton. “Dan’s got three of the most useless, shiftless, no-account boys in town for his special chums and I’d like to know just what he sees in them. That’s all. ‘Chad’ Sleeper’s father never did a real lick of work in his life, excepting the time he did the State out of forty thousand dollars on that bridge contract, and ‘Chad’s’ just like him. And young Whipple is no better; and I guess Nourse belongs with them. Look at here, son, aren’t there any smart, honest, decent fellows you can go with?”

“‘Chad’ and Billy and Frank never did anything mean that I know of,” answered Dan resentfully.

“Did you ever know any of them to do anything fine?” asked his father. “Outside of winning a football game, I mean?”

Dan was silent, looking a trifle sulkily at his plate. There was a moment’s pause. Then Mr. Vinton said more kindly:

“Well, I’m not finding fault with you, son. Maybe the boys here are pretty much alike; and as I come to think about it I guess they are. But it’s going to make a difference with you what sort of friends you have during the next five or six years. And if you can’t find the right sort here in Graystone, why—”

But Mr. Vinton paused there and relapsed into a thoughtful silence that neither Dan nor his mother nor even his sister Mae, who was the privileged member of the family, cared to disturb.

[CHAPTER II]
MR. FINDLAY SETTLES THE QUESTION

Nearly a week later the conversation bore fruit.

“Son,” asked Mr. Vinton, “do you still want to go to boarding-school?”

Dan’s heart leaped.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Well, your mother and I have been talking it over and we’ve about concluded that a change of scene for the next three or four years won’t do you any harm. What do you say to the Brewer School?”

Dan hesitated. The Brewer School was in the southern part of the state and had quite a local reputation, but Dan was certain that it wasn’t the school he wanted. So he took his courage in hand.

“I’d rather go East, sir,” he said.

“Would, eh? Well, maybe you might as well. I tell your mother that as long as you have to go away it don’t make much difference how far it is. Takes all day to go to Brewer, anyway; put a night on top of that and you’re pretty well East. Any special school you’ve got in mind?”

“N-no, sir. I didn’t think you’d let me go, and so I haven’t thought about any special place.”

“Hm! Well, I dare say the old Academy is still running back in Russellville, but—I don’t know, son, that it would just suit you. What do you think?”

“If you don’t mind I’d like to go to one of the big schools, sir,” answered Dan.

“All right, all right, son,” said Mr. Vinton cordially. “You put your thinking cap on and study up on schools. When you find one you think you’d like you tell me and I’ll get particulars.”

For the next fortnight Dan perused the advertisements of eastern preparatory schools, sent for catalogues, read them, made up his mind and changed it at least once a day. It seemed that just as soon as he had settled upon one school as being the very place for him the postman tossed another catalogue in at the gate and Dan speedily discovered his mistake. He discovered several other things during that period, one of which was that you can’t always safely judge an article by its advertisement. There was one school in particular which won his admiration early. It was advertised in a magazine all across the top of a page. The picture gave a panoramic view of the grounds and buildings and Dan held his breath as he looked. At first glance there seemed to be at least a quarter of a mile of study halls and dormitories; by actual count the buildings in the picture numbered eleven; and, as Dan pointed out to his father, they were all of them “jim-dandies.” Mr. Vinton allowed that they were. He appeared rather aghast at the magnificence of the place; perhaps he was silently contrasting it with Russellville Academy as he remembered the latter institution. But when the forty-page catalogue came and Dan set out to identify the different buildings in the picture by means of the explanatory text he found to his dismay that only three of them were mentioned. This puzzled him until he came across a casual paragraph stating that “the grounds of the State Normal School adjoined the Academy on the east.” After that Dan viewed with suspicion all pictures until the text of the catalogues made good the pictorial claims.

In the evenings he showed his day’s “finds” to his father; Mrs. Vinton was practically exempt from the evening conferences, since she was called upon at all hours of the day for her opinions; and under the study lamp Mr. Vinton and Dan looked at pictures, read descriptions and weighed the merits of the different institutions under consideration. Of course Dan started out with a pronounced leaning toward the military schools; most every boy will own to the fascination exerted by stirring pictures of long lines of youths in trim uniforms drawn up in battalions on an immaculate parade ground, or dashing recklessly over four-rail gates on splendid white horses, or grouped with stern authority about a field-gun from whose muzzle a puff of white smoke hints stirringly of the aspect of war. But Dan’s father was very discouraging on the subject of military schools.

“If you want to be a real soldier, son,” he said, “I’ve no objection if you can get your mother’s permission. I guess I could get you appointed to West Point in the next year or two. But if you don’t want the real thing I wouldn’t monkey with the imitation. From what I can learn about most of these military academies they’re either play schools or else they’re reform schools in disguise. Of course there may be some very excellent ones, but I don’t believe you stand in need of a military training, son.”

After all Dan was going to school to prepare for college, probably Yale, and, recollecting that, he dropped the military schools and a good many others from consideration. What, he asked himself, was the good of learning to jump a horse over a four-rail fence or make pontoon bridges? He had never heard that equestrianism or bridge-building was required at Yale. And if it was merely a matter of physical exercise he guessed he could get all he needed of that from baseball, football and tennis. He was an enthusiastic lover of athletics; played a fair game of tennis, was an excellent baseman and had captained last year’s football team at the grammar school. And so, naturally enough, he was looking for a school where athletics flourished. But nevertheless one school, which advertised that “Blank Academy has turned out five victorious football teams in the last six years” earned only his contempt. For he shrewdly argued that a school which sought to attract students on the strength of its athletic success must be sadly deficient in other and more important departments. Football and baseball and things like that, thought Dan, were important adjuncts to education, but they weren’t what a fellow went to school for.

In the end, and that was along towards the third week in August, the choice, by an exhaustive process of elimination, was narrowed down to two schools, one in New Hampshire and one in Connecticut. I think all the other members of the family were heartily glad when the end was reached, but Dan had enjoyed it all hugely. He would have felt sorry for the boy whose school is selected by his parents. “Why, just think of all the fun he has missed!” Dan would have exclaimed. It was hard work making the final decision. The New Hampshire school, Phillips Exeter, appealed to him strongly. In Graystone a building thirty years old was considered venerable; one fifty years old—and there was only one such—was absolutely archaic. And Phillips Exeter Academy was a century and a quarter old; was turning out students years before the State of Ohio entered the Union! That appealed to Dan’s imagination. And Dan liked what the catalogue said about the school’s purpose: “The object of the Academy is to furnish the elements of a solid education. The discipline is not adapted to boys who require severe restrictions, and the method of instruction assumes that the pupils have some power of application and a will to work. The purpose of the instructors is to lead pupils to cultivate self-control, truthfulness, a right sense of honor, and an interest in the purity of the moral atmosphere of the school.” I think Dan’s final choice would have fallen on the New Hampshire school had not Congressman Findlay happened in one day to dinner while the decision was still in abeyance. The Congressman was very large and very deliberative, and when in the course of the conversation the subject of Dan’s choice of schools was brought up and his advice requested he demolished two of Mrs. Vinton’s excellent lemon tarts before he replied. Then:

“Both fine schools,” he said. “Not much to choose, Mr. Vinton. Don’t know as I ought to advise you, sir. I’m prejudiced.”

“Eh?” inquired Mr. Vinton. “How’s that?”

“Yardley man myself, sir,” replied Mr. Findlay.

Well, that settled it. Mr. Findlay was one of the State’s best citizens, a man admired by all, even his political enemies. Dan, who was always somewhat in awe of him, liked him thoroughly, and was convinced that a school which could turn out men like the Congressman was all right. After dinner some of Dan’s awe wore off, for Mr. Findlay told about Yardley Hall School and indulged in reminiscences of his own four years there and he and Dan became very chummy. When Dan went up to his room that night he had the Yardley Hall School catalogue in his hand and before he went to sleep he had read it through from front cover to back, word by word, three times.

The following month had been an exciting period in his life. There were so many jolly things to attend to. Of course the first of all was to apply for admission to Yardley Hall, and until the reply was received Dan was on tenter-hooks of suspense. For the catalogue plainly stated that the enlistment was restricted to two hundred and seventy students, and Dan feared that he was too late. But fortune was with him and he learned later that his application was the last but one to be accepted that year. Then came a brushing up on one or two studies in which he felt doubtful of satisfying the examiners. And after that there were clothes to buy, and to this task Mrs. Vinton lent herself with an ardor and enjoyment that for the while soothed her sorrow over her son’s prospective departure. And then, quite before anyone realized it, it was the Day Before, and Dan was listening to a few words of advice from his father.

“I don’t know that I’ve got much to say to you, son,” said Mr. Vinton. “We’ve let you choose your school and after you get there you’ll find that you’ve got to choose lots of other things for yourself. We’ve started out by letting you have your own say, pretty much, and I guess we’ll keep it up. So far you’ve shown pretty fair sense for a youngster. If you want advice about anything, why, you know where to come for it, but unless you ask for it neither your ma nor I will interfere with you. You’re getting along towards sixteen now, and at that age every boy ought to have a mind of his own. You’ll make mistakes; bound to; everyone makes mistakes except a fool. Just so long as you don’t make the same mistake twice you’ll do well enough. You’re going to a pretty expensive school, son. I don’t object to the cost of it, but I want you to see that you get your money’s worth. The extravagant man isn’t the man who pays a big price for a thing; he’s the man who doesn’t get what he pays for. So you’ll have to work. You’ll find all sorts and kinds of boys there, I guess, and I want you to use good sense in picking out your friends. A whole lot depends on that. A fellow can know other fellows that will be good for him if he goes about it right. Don’t make your friendship too cheap; if a fellow wants it let him pay your price; if he has the making of a real friend he will do it. Of course I expect you to behave yourself; but I’m not worried much about that. I’ve never seen anything vicious about you, son, and if you choose your friends right I don’t ever expect to. I might tell you not to do this and not to do that, but I guess if you’ll just make up your mind not to do anything you wouldn’t be afraid of telling your ma or me about you’ll keep a pretty clean slate.”

Next day had come the final frenzied excitement of packing, succeeded by an interminable wait for the moment of departure. Dinner that evening had been an uncomfortable meal, with only Mae looking cheerful or eating anything to speak of. And afterwards how the hours had crawled until it was time to get into the surrey and drive to the station! Dan had felt pretty miserable several times before the carriage came around and his mother spent much of the time out of the room, returning always with suspiciously moist eyes and smiling lips. Then had succeeded the drive to the train through the silent streets, past the darkened houses—for Graystone retires early to bed—with everyone by turns unnaturally animated or depressingly silent. And now here he was whizzing away through the moonlight, leaving Graystone farther and farther behind, the great adventure really and truly begun!

Of course he wasn’t really sleepy; there was too much to think about to waste time in slumber; but the silver and purple world rolled past his eyes with hypnotic effect, the clickety-click of the wheels sounded soothingly, and—and presently he was sound asleep with the moonlight smiling in upon him through the car window.

[CHAPTER III]
THE FIRST ACQUAINTANCE

Dan’s train rolled into the station at Wissining, Connecticut, at a few minutes before five. All the way from New York, and more especially since the Sound had suddenly flashed into view, he had been vividly interested in the view from the window of the parlor car, so palpably eager, in fact, to see this new country through which he was traveling that a kind-hearted, middle-aged gentleman whose seat was on the shoreward side of the car and across the aisle from Dan had insisted on changing chairs with him. Dan had at first politely refused the offer, but the gentleman had insisted with a little tone of authority in his voice and in the end Dan had accepted the coveted seat.

“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” he explained with a deprecating smile as he moved his bag across.

The gentleman smiled and nodded as though to say “I surmised as much, my young friend.” Then he settled down in his new chair and half hid his face behind a magazine. But a few moments later, when Dan happened to glance across, he encountered the gaze of the other fixed upon him speculatively. At once the eyes dropped to the pages of the magazine once more. Dan read the name on the cover, “The Atlantic Monthly,” and wondered whether the magazine was devoted to news of the fascinating ocean upon which he had been eagerly gazing. Then the absurdity of the idea struck him and he turned back to his window smiling.

Not only had Dan never seen an ocean before, but he had never looked on a body of water broader than the Ohio River. This doesn’t necessarily imply that he had spent his entire life in Graystone, for as a matter of fact the family spent an occasional summer away from home, usually in the Cumberland Mountains, and, besides this, Dan had made short trips now and then with his father to Cincinnati, Columbus, Springfield, and once as far South as Memphis. But Lake Erie, which was the nearest approach to an ocean in Dan’s part of the world, was two hundred miles north by rail and it happened that he had never reached it. And not only the ocean interested Dan to-day. The country itself engaged his pleased attention, for, although he had been born in Graystone, yet Connecticut had been the home of his father’s people for many generations and it seemed to him that the smilingly rugged, bay-indented country was holding out a welcome to him.

He had armed himself with a railroad map and had located his father’s old home some eighty miles north. The map even showed Russellville, and the tiny word there seemed a veritable welcome in itself! And so the time went quickly enough for him and almost before he knew it the porter was brushing his clothes and the train had slowed down at Greenburg, which, as he knew, was just across the river from his destination. As he tipped the porter and sank into his chair again he saw that the platform outside was thronged with boys who had left the train from the day-coaches ahead. They must be Yardley Hall boys, he thought; perhaps the train didn’t stop at Wissining and he should get off here! He looked around for someone whom he could ask and his gaze encountered that of the gentleman across the aisle, who, the magazine stowed away in his bag, had donned his light overcoat and was also apparently ready to leave the train. He noticed Dan’s anxious countenance and leaned across.

“Are you for Broadwood?” he asked.

“No, sir; that is, I’m going to Yardley Hall. Should I get off here?”

“No, your station is Wissining, the next stop. This is Greenburg and those boys are going to Broadwood Academy.”

Dan thanked him as the train started again. Suddenly the buildings dropped away from beside the track and in a flash he was looking along the estuary of a little river which wound away between low meadows for a short distance and then opened into the Sound. The sun had gone behind the clouds and a gray evening was succeeding a sunshiny day. Miles away across the quiet water the eastern end of Long Island lay like a purplish smudge against the horizon. He had time to see this, and time to catch a glimpse of a hamlet of scattered houses as the train crossed the little bridge and slowed down beside the station.

“Wissining,” announced the porter as he took up Dan’s bag. “This is your station, sir.”

He took the bag of the gentleman across the aisle also and for the first time it occurred to Dan, as he followed his cursory acquaintance toward the door, that perhaps the other was for Yardley Hall, too; that perhaps he was one of the teachers. But out on the platform he abandoned that theory, for a smart man in automobile livery took the gentleman’s bag and led the way to a big chocolate-brown touring car, and almost before Dan had had time to look about him the car was whisking itself off down the road. Some thirty other boys of various ages had left the train, and Dan, uncertain of his directions, followed them down the platform to where a number of carriages were drawn up, the drivers vieing merrily and loudly for custom. Dan hesitated. He had had in the back of his head an idea that when he left the train there would be someone looking for him. The idea had not been sufficiently concrete for him to know now whether he had expected the Principal himself or merely the school janitor. While he hesitated the other arrivals rushed for the carriages and tumbled themselves in after their luggage and in a twinkling the conveyances were all filled to overflowing and Dan alone remained on the platform, bag in hand, looking somewhat blankly about him. Several of the carriages—tiny affairs they were, holding not more than seven fellows no matter how you packed them in—had already started away when a voice hailed him from one of the remaining vehicles and a boy’s head was thrust out of the door.

“Hi, there, you chap! Coming up?”

Dan supposed that “up” meant to Yardley Hall; and of course he was coming up if he could get up, but—

“Come on in here,” called the boy. “Lot’s of room! Hold your horses, Mike!”

The driver, seated on a pile of bags and suit-cases where his seat had once been, had chirped encouragingly to his horse, but at the command he called “Whoa!” and the horse obeyed instantly, one might say almost with enthusiasm. A chorus of loud and long drawn-out “Whoas!” supplemented the driver’s injunction. Dan strode across and looked doubtfully into the interior of the carriage. At first glance there seemed dozens of occupants, but—

“Climb in,” said his rescuer merrily. “Give me your bag. Here, Tubby, hold the gentleman’s bag.” The bag was passed forward by eager hands until it was deposited unceremoniously in the lap of a stout, round-faced youth who showed no pleasure at the honor conferred upon him.

“Hold the old bag yourself,” he growled.

“Why, Tubby,” cried an outraged voice. “Such manners! I am surprised! Hold it nicely; be a gentleman, Tubby, even if it hurts you.”

“I—I’ll stand up,” said Dan as he pushed his way between the almost touching knees of the occupants. But that was out of the question, for the roof was too low to permit of it.

“Sit down,” said the boy who had hailed him, a youth of about seventeen with a good-looking, merry face. He gave a sudden tug at Dan’s coat and Dan went over backward on to his knees. “That’s the ticket. You’ve got an upper. Sit still.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find it uncomfortable,” said Dan anxiously.

“Not a bit of it! All right, Mike! Go ahead, but do drive carefully!”

This remark caused an appreciative howl from the others, during which progress began again. Dan felt a trifle embarrassed at first, but everyone seemed to forget all about him on the instant, even the boy on whose knees he sat paying no more attention to him. Once as the carriage rattled and shook its way along, Dan had a brief glimpse of a cluster of stone and brick buildings crowning a low hill to the left of the road and felt comforted to know that the school catalogue had not lied either as to the number and attractiveness of the buildings or the commanding situation of them. Then he did his best to maintain his seat and listened to the chatter of the fellows around him. The talk was loud and merry and incessant, but Dan couldn’t make very much of it until the word “football” reached him. There followed a confused and animated discussion of the Yardley Hall eleven, its probable make-up, its chances of success against Broadwood and the date of arrival of a Mr. Colton, whom Dan guessed to be the head coach. The discussion was at its height when the vehicle stopped.

“All out!” was the cry and Dan struggled to his feet and stumbled down on to a stone pavement and found himself in front of a flight of broad granite steps leading to a deep, arched entrance. Rescuing his bag, he looked about him indecisively. The other boys were scattering in all directions, some few entering the doorway before him. The boy who had rescued him at the station was taking his departure with the others. Dan hurried after him and touched him on the arm.

“Where do I go, please?” he asked.

The other boy, Alfred Loring, turned and gazed at Dan in mild surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean where shall I go to—to find someone?”

“Oh, are you just entering?” asked Loring. “I thought you knew the ropes. Well, come on and I’ll show you the office.”

He led the way up the steps and into the building. A broad hall traversed the building from front to rear and was intersected by a narrower passage running lengthwise. The woodwork was dark, and the plaster statues standing at intervals upon their high pedestals gleamed ghost-like against it. Loring turned to the right and led the way down the ill-lighted corridor, past the partly-open doors of recitation rooms, until a door with a ground-glass light in it blocked their further passage. On the glass was printed the legend: “Office of the Principal.” Loring opened the door and nodded his head.

“There you are,” he said. “Tell the chap at the right-hand that you want to register. He will give you a room and look after you.”

“Thanks,” answered Dan gratefully. The other nodded again carelessly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Glad to help you. See you again, I hope.” He took his departure, whistling softly and swinging his suit-case gayly along the corridor. Dan entered the office and closed the ground-glass door behind him. The room was large and less like an office than a library. A thick carpet covered the floor. On two sides shelves ran from floor to ceiling and were filled with books, filing-cases and wooden boxes lettered mysteriously. There were two low, broad-topped desks, one at each side of the room, and between them, opposite the door from the corridor, was a second door marked “Private.” There were three boys ahead of him and so Dan dropped into one of the four high-backed, uncomfortable chairs near the door and waited. Two deeply-recessed windows at his left admitted a flood of white light, and through them he could see an expanse of turf, traversed by red brick walks which converged in the center of the space where an ancient-looking marble sun-dial stood. Across the grass the end of a modern brick and limestone building, three stories in height, met his gaze. Beyond that again were woods. The picture was framed in the green leaves of the English ivy which surrounded the big windows. In the gray failing light of early evening, the quiet vista gave Dan an impression of age and venerability which thrilled him pleasantly and which was quite out of proportion with the real facts, for Yardley Hall School, as Dan well knew, was less than forty years old. Even the glimpse of Dudley Hall, a dormitory erected but three years before, failed to disturb the impression of ancientness.

“Now, if you please.”

Dan aroused himself and approached the desk where a keen-eyed man was regarding him a trifle impatiently over the tops of his glasses.

“What name?”

“Daniel Morse Vinton.”

The gentleman, who was the school secretary, ran his finger down the pages of a book beside him until it stopped at an entry. Then he took a filing card from a drawer and wrote on it.

“Residence?”

“Graystone, Ohio.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

“Class?”

“I don’t quite know, sir. I hope to get into the Third.”

“Father’s name and business?”

“John W. Vinton, manufacturer.”

“Mother’s name, if living?”

“Mary Vinton.”

“Street address?”

“Seventy-four Washington Avenue.”

“Religious denomination?”

“Baptist.”

“Bills to be sent to father or mother?”

“Father, please.”

“That’s all. Examinations in Room N to-morrow at nine-thirty. Your room is Number 28 Clarke Hall. Your room-mate is Henry Jones, a Third Class boy. I hope you will pass your examinations and enjoy your stay here. You have a check for your baggage? Thank you. It will be delivered this evening, probably. When you go out turn to your left, please; Clarke is the second dormitory. Dr. Hewitt receives the new students to-morrow evening from eight to nine in the Assembly Hall. I hope you will attend. If any question as to dormitory accommodation arises please see the matron, Mrs. Ponder, Room 2, Merle Hall. If there is anything else you want to know about you will find someone here from nine until six every day. Good evening.”

“Good evening,” answered Dan. “Thank you, sir.”

But the secretary was already absorbed again, and Dan lifted his bag and went out. To the left was a second building of granite, a very plain, unlovely structure which the ivy had charitably striven to cover. Beyond this a handsome, modern building of brick came into sight. There were two entrances and Dan went in at the first. A sign at the foot of the stairs announced “Clarke Hall; Rooms 1 to 36.” Dan climbed two flights and sought his number. He found it at length on the last door in the entry and knocked.

“Come in!” called a voice.

Dan entered. Before him, scowling interrogatively at the intruder, was the boy who had held his bag in the carriage.

[CHAPTER IV]
“28 CLARKE”

“Hello,” exclaimed Harry, alias “Tubby” Jones. “Who do you want?”

The tone was decidedly uncivil and Dan would have resented it had he been feeling less strange and lonesome. As it was he smiled ingratiatingly as he set down his bag.

“They told me at the office,” he replied, “that I was to room in 28 Clarke. This is 28, isn’t it? And you’re Jones, aren’t you?”

Tubby gave a growl of disgust.

“Gee, I knew I’d draw a freak,” he muttered. Dan heard and flushed. In momentary confusion he picked up his bag and deposited it on the window-seat at the end of the room. Tubby watched him with no attempt at concealing his disgust. Now, lest you gather the impression that our hero is a most unprepossessing youth, I’ll explain that Tubby Jones would have shown displeasure had his new room-mate been an Apollo in appearance, a Chesterfield in manners, a Beau Brummel in attire and a paragon of all virtues. Tubby, who, by the way, was none of these things himself, was what might be inelegantly called a chronic kicker. Tubby had a ceaseless quarrel with the world at large and things in general. He was a stout youth of sixteen with a round, pasty face on which there was habitually an expression of discontent and usually a scowl of sulky wrath. Tubby always had a grievance; he would have been dreadfully unhappy without one. Oddly enough, he was not unpopular in school, although he had few friends. The fellows never took him seriously—which was itself a grievance—and usually treated him with good-natured tolerance, using him as a butt for their jokes. The fact that Tubby couldn’t take a joke made it all the more fun.

When Tubby intimated that Dan was a freak he was more unflattering than truthful. And Tubby was forced to acknowledge unwillingly that this new room-mate of his was a mighty prepossessing chap; well-made, pleasant-mannered and attractive of face. Which was quite sufficient to make Tubby dislike him cordially. You see, Tubby wasn’t well-made, nor pleasant-mannered, nor attractive to look upon. And envy was at the bottom of many of Tubby’s grievances. Tubby stood with his hands in his pockets and looked aggressively at Dan. What he saw was a boy rather large for his age, fairly tall and “rangey,” with little superfluous flesh on his bones and a quick, alert way of looking and moving. He also saw a pair of steady, quiet brown eyes, a short, straight nose, brown hair and a nice mouth which at the present moment was trying bravely to smile. Perhaps Dan’s attire wasn’t quite the thing judged by Tubby’s standard; the clothes had been bought in Dayton “ready-to-wear” and didn’t fit very well; but the material was good and the color unobtrusive.

“Where do you live?” asked Tubby, as Dan, having unstrapped his bag, looked around for places in which to deposit the contents.

“Graystone, Ohio,” answered Dan. “Is that my bureau over there?”

“Yes, only it’s a chiffonier,” replied Tubby with a grin. “Say, do you reckon I could get a hat like that if I sent the money?”

Dan glanced in surprise at his straw hat on the window-seat. Then he looked doubtfully at Tubby.

“Sorry you don’t like it,” he said. “But I guess it’s pretty near time to call it in, anyhow. Which is my bed?”

“Everything on that side of the room is yours. Who said I didn’t like the hat? It’s a beaut! Did they give it to you when you bought the clothes?”

“No,” answered Dan quietly, “I paid for it.”

“Well, they must be robbers out your way,” laughed Tubby.

Dan made no answer. He was feeling too dejected to even get angry; besides Tubby’s ill-nature was so obvious that it lost its effect. Dan cleared out his bag and put it on the top shelf of his closet. Then he went back to the window-seat, took one knee in his hands and looked about him. The room was on the corner of the building, was some twenty feet long by twelve broad and was well if not luxuriously furnished. There was an iron cot-bed against each of the side walls, a chiffonier at the foot of each bed and a stationary washstand beside it. A broad study table stood under the chandelier, flanked on each side by an arm-chair. The floor was of hard wood and an ingrain “art-square” covered all but a narrow border. Beside the arm-chairs there were two straight-backed chairs, and the shallow bay window held a comfortable window-seat. On the walls, which were painted a light gray, hung four pictures, two on each side. These were part of the furnishings supplied by the school and were all framed alike in neat, dark oak frames. There was a photograph of the ruins of the Forum, an engraving of dogs, after Landseer, one of Napoleon on the deck of the Bellerephon and a cheerful colored print of the Christmas annual sort. There was a rule that forbade the hanging or placing of any other objects on the walls, but above each chiffonier a series of narrow shelves were built and on these the students arranged their photographs and posters.

“It’s a real nice room,” observed Dan sincerely.

Tubby sniffed.

“Glad you think so,” he sneered. “I think the rooms here are the limit. You nearly freeze in cold weather.”

“There’s steam heat, isn’t there?” asked Dan, with a glance at the radiator.

“Supposed to be, but you’d never know it. You’ve got the warmest side of the room.”

“On account of that side window there? I don’t mind the cold. I’ll change if you’d rather.”

“What’s the use? You’re cold anyhow, wherever you are. Are you one of those fresh-air cranks that want all the windows open at night?”

“No, one’s enough, I guess,” answered Dan.

“Well, you see that it’s the one nearest you, and don’t think you’re going to have it open all the way, either. I’m susceptible to cold, I am. I had the grippe last winter.”

“All right. When do we have supper?”

“Half-past six.” Tubby looked at his watch. “It’s twenty minutes after. Say, have you got any kind of a clock?”

Dan shook his head.

“Well, we need one,” continued Tubby. “If you’re thinking of adding anything to the furnishing of this palatial abode a clock’s the thing to get.”

“I see. Are you allowed to have furniture of your own?”

“You can have an easy chair if you like,” said Tubby. “Maybe you’d better get one. I usually use the window-seat and it only holds one comfortably.”

Dan stifled a smile.

“I guess we can take turns at it,” he answered quietly. He began to wash in preparation of supper. Tubby stared scowlingly at his back.

“What class are you in?” he asked presently.

“Don’t know yet; Third, I hope.”

“I’m in that. You’d better keep out. It’s an awful roast. They work you to death.”

“You mean you are in the Third Class this year?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I thought you said, but I wondered how you knew so much about it if you were just starting.”

“I know what fellows say,” answered Tubby crossly. “You’d better go in for the Fourth.”

“Maybe I’ll have to,” responded Dan cheerfully. “I’ll tell you more about it this time to-morrow.”

“Huh! You’re one of those smarties who think they know it all, aren’t you?”

“I hope not. If you’re going to supper I wish you’d show me the way, if you don’t mind.”

“All right. Come along. You won’t get much to eat, though, I can tell you that. They simply try to starve you here. Wish I’d gone to Broadwood, like I was going to.”

But Dan found that Tubby’s croakings about the supper were misleading. The food was very good and there was no evident attempt on the part of the waiters to force anyone to leave the table hungry. The dining hall, or commons as it was called, occupied most of the first floor of Whitson Hall, the unlovely granite structure which Dan had passed on his way to his room. There were thirty tables, holding from eight to ten boys each. Some of the tables were presided over by instructors, while in one corner of the hall a small table was occupied by Dr. Hewitt, the Principal; Mrs. Ponder, the Matron; Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, and the Secretary, Mr. Forisher.

When Dan and his room-mate reached the hall they found it already well filled and Tubby gazed disgustedly at his watch, comparing it with the big clock over the fire-place. “Ten minutes slow!” he growled. Then he ambled over to a nearby table, leaving Dan to fend for himself. But a waiter came to his assistance, Dan gave his name, it was checked off from a list, and he was conducted down the hall. It was a long trip, for the table at which Dan finally found himself was quite at the other end of the room from where he had entered, and he tried his best neither to jostle the hurrying waiters or run into any of the occupants of the tables. He succeeded in both attempts and sank thankfully into a chair.

He might easily have thought himself in the dining room of a hotel, save for the absence of color lent by women’s dresses. As his eyes ranged about the hall they fell presently on a youth who was seated across the table. It was the boy who had come to his assistance at the station. As Dan’s eyes rested for a moment on him he wished that his acquaintance of the afternoon would look up and speak to him. He was an attractive, jolly looking chap, with brown hair that was slicked down very carefully on either side of his well-shaped head, a slightly aquiline nose, and dark eyes—probably brown, although Dan couldn’t be certain of that—that were frank and merry. Dan liked his looks very much and hoped they would become friends. After Tubby Jones the boy across the table was decidedly refreshing. But Dan was forced at last to withdraw his gaze without having secured a glance of recognition, and turned his regard to the other fellows at the table.

They were of all sorts, it seemed; in age, from fourteen to eighteen; attractive and unattractive, light and dark, sober and merry. But they seemed to Dan to be all much alike in one thing, and that was their air of absolute self-possession. For some reason he felt himself in comparison awkward and rough. No one spoke to him save the fellow on his left, who once asked for the pepper and once for the bread. Dan ate his dinner with a good appetite, glancing now and then across the table at his acquaintance of the afternoon and listening interestedly to the conversation about him. Much of it was unintelligible, abounding as it did in names and terms that were strange. But he learned in the course of it that the boy who had shown him the way to the office was named Alf Loring; for some of the fellows called him Alf and some Loring. Alf, reasoned Dan, was probably short for Alfred. As in the coach coming from the station, the subject of football claimed a good deal of attention, and it was evident from the deference paid to his opinions that Loring was to some extent an authority. By the time his dessert came on many of the fellows had finished their dinners and left the table, and Dan, for very loneliness, turned to his neighbor on the left, who had not quite finished, and ventured an inquiry.

“Are we—” Then he corrected himself; perhaps he had no right to say “we” yet. “Is the school going to have a good football team this year?” he asked.

His neighbor glanced at him curiously, but with nothing of unfriendliness, and shook his head.

“Pretty fair, I guess,” he answered. “We lost a lot of fellows last Spring, though.”

“I see,” said Dan. He couldn’t think of anything more to say at the moment and his informant paid no further attention to him. A chair scraped at the other side of the table and Dan looked across in time to see Loring arise. A moment later their glances met. Loring’s swept by and then returned, while a little pucker of indecision creased his forehead. Then recognition came and he nodded across, pausing with a hand on the back of his chair.

“Hello,” he said. “How’d you get on? All right?”

“Yes, thanks,” answered Dan, feeling a little self-conscious as the remaining boys turned their eyes to him. “They gave me a room in Clarke Hall.”

“You might have done worse,” said Loring. “Who are you with?”

“With?” repeated Dan, puzzled.

“I mean who’s your room-mate?”

“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Dan. “A fellow named Jones.”

“Not Tubby Jones?”

“I think so. He was in the coach with us.”

“That’s Tubby,” answered Loring with a smile. Several of the others laughed outright and a boy at the end of the table remarked as he pushed back his chair: “I wish you joy!” It wasn’t intended for Dan’s ears, but Dan heard it.

“Well, Clarke’s a pretty good dormitory,” said Loring. “You might have had worse luck.” He smiled again in friendly fashion and took his departure. Dan thought that the two or three fellows who remained at the table seemed a trifle more interested in him than they had before, but none of them spoke and presently he left the table himself.

Tubby Jones was not in the room when he got back to Clarke. His trunk was there, however, and for the next hour Dan was too busy unpacking to feel lonesome. But afterwards, when everything had been put away he wished that someone would come in; even Tubby would have been welcome. But no one came and so Dan glanced over the books on Tubby’s side of the table, selected a battered copy of one of Henty’s stories and settled himself in a chair. He made up his mind to get interested in the story and keep his thoughts away from Graystone and the folks there; he had thought at first of writing a letter, but he knew that if he did he would be homesick in a minute. Luckily the book captured his interest before a half-dozen pages had been turned and he was thoroughly absorbed in the startling adventures of the hero when the door flew open and Tubby entered. Behind came a second boy, a sharp contrast to Tubby. He was about the same age, but there all likeness ended, for the stranger was thin and sallow with untidy hair of a nondescript shade of light brown, a mere apology for a nose and a wide, loose mouth that was always smiling in a nervous, ingratiating way just as Tubby’s was forever set in lines of displeasure. His eyes were quite as indecisive as his hair in regard to color and had a shifty look that Dan didn’t find prepossessing. The first thing that Tubby saw was the book in Dan’s hand.

“Hello,” he said with a scowl, “isn’t that my Henty?”

“Why, yes, I guess so,” answered Dan. “I found it on the table!”

“Well, I don’t lend my books,” growled Tubby.

“Oh!” Dan looked at him rather blankly and then at the stranger. The latter was grinning as though in appreciation of his friend’s discourtesy, but tried to straighten his mouth when Dan looked at him.

“Sorry,” said Dan. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” He got up and put the book back in its place. “I don’t think I’ve hurt it,” he added dryly.

“Well, if you’d asked me—” began Tubby a trifle more graciously.

“You weren’t here, you see,” said Dan. He picked up Tubby’s cap, which the latter had just tossed on the desk, and placed it on top of the row of books.

“What’s that for?” asked Tubby suspiciously.

“This is my side of the table,” answered Dan quietly, “and I don’t like things put on it.”

Tubby scowled angrily and muttered to himself. Then he took up the cap and tossed it onto a hook in his closet, closing the door with a vindictive slam. The stranger had seated himself on the edge of Tubby’s bed and was grinning like a catfish; the expression is Dan’s, not mine. The possibility of a quarrel between the room-mates seemed to fill him with the most pleasant anticipations. But, as before, when he caught Dan’s gaze on him he strove to dissemble his enjoyment. Perhaps Dan’s glance had in it something of the instinctive dislike which he felt for the other, for the stranger seemed a little embarrassed and turned to Tubby.

“I say, Tubby, you might introduce me, you know,” he challenged.

“I forgot,” muttered Tubby. “Mr. Hiltz, Mr. Vinton. Jake is in the Third and he will tell you just what I did, it’s a mighty tough job.”

Dan shook hands with Jacob Hiltz, wondering as he did so how Tubby had learned his name; for Tubby had not asked it and Dan had not volunteered it. As a matter of fact, Tubby had paid a visit to the Office after supper and asked Mr. Forisher, a course quite typical of Tubby, who, as Dan learned later on, would much rather obtain his information in a round-about way than ask a straightforward question. Hiltz laughed nervously as he dropped Dan’s hand.

“Yes, it’s a tough class all right,” he corroborated. “They say the Latin is fierce.”

“Yes,” said Tubby. “We have Collins in Latin, and he’s a regular slave-driver.”

“He’s the Assistant Principal, isn’t he?” Dan asked.

“Yes, that’s what they call him, but he really does most of the work. Toby’s a figure-head. All he does is to interfere with things and spoil our fun.”

“Toby?” repeated Dan vaguely.

“Doctor Hewitt,” Jake Hiltz explained. “His first name is Tobias, you know. He’s not a bad old sort.”

“Oh, he makes me tired,” growled Tubby. “Doesn’t do a thing that’s any good and draws a big salary for doing it.”