HITTING THE LINE

By Ralph Henry Barbour

Purple Pennant Series

• The Lucky Seventh
• The Secret Play
• The Purple Pennant

Yardley Hall Series

• Forward Pass
• Double Play
• Winning His Y
• For Yardley
• Around the End
• Change Signals

Hilton Series

• The Half-back
• For the Honor of the School
• Captain of the Crew

Erskine Series

• Behind the Line
• Weatherby’s Inning
• On Your Mark

The “Big Four” Series

• Four in Camp
• Four Afoot
• Four Afloat

The Grafton Series

• Rivals for the Team
• Winning His Game
• Hitting the Line

Books not in Series

• The Brother of a Hero
• Finkler’s Field
• Danforth Plays the Game
• Benton’s Venture
• The Junior Trophy
• The New Boy at Hilltop
• The Spirit of the School
• The Arrival of Jimpson

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York

[The footsteps pounded behind on the frosty turf.]

HITTING
THE LINE

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF “RIVALS FOR THE TEAM,” “THE PURPLE PENNANT,”
“DANFORTH PLAYS THE GAME,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
NORMAN ROCKWELL

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1917

Copyright 1917, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

HITTING THE LINE

CHAPTER I
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

Two boys alighted from a surface car in front of the big Terminal in New York and dodged their way between dashing taxicabs, honking motor cars and plunging horses to the safety of the broad sidewalk. Each boy carried a suitcase, and each suitcase held, amongst the more or less obliterated labels adorning it, a lozenge-shaped paster of gray paper, bearing, in scarlet, the letters “G. S.,” cunningly angulated to fit the space of the rhombus.

If I were Mr. Sherlock Holmes I should write, as a companion work to the famous monograph on tobacco ashes, a Treatise on the Deduction of Evidence from Hand Luggage. For one can learn a great deal from a careful scrutiny of, say, a suitcase or kit bag. As for example. Here is one bearing the initials “D. H. B.” on its end. It is quite an ordinary affair, costing when new in the neighborhood of six dollars perhaps. Its color has deepened to a light shade of mahogany, from which we deduce that its age is about three years. While it is still in good usable condition, it is not a bit “swagger,” and we reach the conclusion that its owner is in moderate circumstances. There are no signs of abuse and so it is apparent that the boy is of a careful as well as a frugal turn of mind. A baggage tag tied to the handle presumably bears name and address. Therefore he possesses forethought. The letters “D. H. B.” probably stand for David H. Brown. Or possibly Daniel may be the first name. We select David as being more common. As to the last name, we frankly own that we may be mistaken, but Brown is as likely as any other. The letters “G. S.” on the label indicate that he belongs to some Society, but the G puzzles us. It might stand for Gaelic or Gallic—or Garlic—but we’ll let that go for the moment and look at the other bag.

This bears the initials “J. T. L.,” not in plain block letters but in Old English characters. It is of approximately the same age as the first one, but cost nearly twice as much, and has seen twice as much use and more than twice as much abuse. The handle is nearly off and those spots suggest rain. There is no tag on it. The initials probably stand for John T. Long. The gray label with the scarlet letters indicate that the owner of the suitcase is also a member of the mysterious Society. Other facts show that he is wealthy, careless, not over-neat, fond of show and lacks forethought. There!

And just at this moment “J. T. L.” lays a detaining hand on his companion’s arm and exclaims: “Wait a shake, Dud!” And we begin to lose faith in our powers of deduction and to fear that we will never rival Mr. Holmes after all!

Dud—his full name, not to make a secret of it any longer, was Dudley Henry Baker—paused as requested, thereby bringing down upon him the ire of a stout gentleman colliding with the suitcase, and followed his friend’s gaze. A few yards away, in a corner of the station entrance, two newsboys were quarreling. Or so it seemed at first glance. A second look showed that one boy, much larger and older than his opponent, was quarreling and that the other was trying vainly to escape. The larger boy had the smaller youth’s arm in a merciless grip and was twisting it brutally, eliciting sharp cries of pain from his victim. The passing throng looked, smiled or frowned and hurried by.

“The brute!” cried Dud indignantly, and started across the pavement, his companion following with the light of battle in his eyes. But the pleasure of intercession was not to be theirs, for before they had covered half the distance a third actor entered the little drama. He was a sizable youth of about their own age, and he set the bag he carried down on the ledge of the step beside him, stuffed a morning paper in his pocket, seized hold of the larger boy with his left hand, placed his right palm under the boy’s chin and pushed abruptly backward.

Needless to say, the smaller boy found himself free instantly. The bully, staggering away, glared at his new adversary and rushed for him, uttering an uncomplimentary remark. The new actor in the drama waited, ducked, closed, crooked a leg behind the bully and heaved. The bully shot across the sidewalk until his flight was interrupted by the nearest pedestrian and then, his fall slightly broken by that startled and indignant passer, measured his length on the ground. At the same instant a commotion ensued near the curb and the rescued newsboy sensing the reason for it, exclaimed: “Beat it, feller! The cop’s coming!” and slid through the nearest door. His benefactor acted almost as quickly, and when the policeman finally pushed his way to the scene he found only a dazed bully and an irate pedestrian as a nucleus for the quickly-forming crowd.

Dud and his companion, grinning delightedly, followed the youth with the bag. The newsboy had utterly vanished, but his rescuer was a few yards away, crossing the waiting-room. On the impulse Dud and his companion hurried their steps and drew alongside him, the latter exclaiming admiringly: “Good for you, old man! That was a peach of a fall!”

The other turned, showing no surprise, and smiled slowly and genially. “Hello,” he responded. “What did you remark, Harold?”

“I said that was a peach of a fall.”

“Oh! Were you there? I guess we’d have had some real fun if the cops hadn’t butted in. Is this the way to the trains, Harold?”

“Yes, but my name isn’t Harold,” answered the other, slightly exasperated. “What train do you want?”

The boy observed the questioner reflectively for a moment. Then: “What trains have you got?” he inquired politely.

“Come on, Jimmy,” said Dud, tugging at his friend’s sleeve. “He’s too fresh.”

“Thought you might be a stranger, and I was trying to help you,” said James Townsend Logan stiffly. “You find your own train, will you?”

They had emerged into the concourse now and the stranger stopped and put his bag down, facing Jimmy with a quizzical smile. “I guess you’re an artist,” he said. “Making believe to get mad would fool most any fellow. What is it now? Eskimo Twins? Or——”

“That’ll be about all for you!” said Jimmy hotly. “If I’m an Eskimo you’re——”

“Back up, Harold! You don’t savvy. Far be it from me to take a chance on your nationality——”

“Oh, dry up!” growled Jimmy, turning away.

“Well, but you’re not going, are you?” called the stranger in surprised tones. Jimmy was going, and Dud was going with him. And on the way to the gate they exchanged short but succinct verdicts on the youth behind.

“Flip kid!” sputtered Jimmy.

“Crazy!” said Dud, disgustedly.

The subject of the uncomplimentary remarks had watched them amusedly as long as they were in sight. Outraged dignity spoke eloquently from Jimmy Townsend’s back. When the two boys were hidden by the throng about the gate the stranger chuckled softly, took up his bag again and moved toward a ticket window. He had a long, easy stride, and the upper part of his body, in spite of the heavy kit-bag he carried, swung freely, giving the idea that he was used to much walking and in less crowded spaces.

“One of your very best tickets to Greenbank, please,” he said to the man behind the window.

“Any special Greenbank?” asked the latter, faintly sarcastic.

“Which one would you advise?”

The man shot an appraising look at the boy, smiled, pulled a slip of cardboard from a rack, stamped it and pushed it across the ledge. “Two-sixty-eight, please.”

“Thank you. You think I’ll like this one?”

“If you don’t, bring it back and I’ll change it.”

“That’s fair. Good-morning.”

At the news-stand he selected two magazines, paid for them and then glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes past eleven exactly. He drew a watch from his pocket and compared it with the clock. “Is that clock about right?” he asked the youth behind the counter.

“Just right,” was the crisp reply.

“Honest? I make it three minutes slow.” He held his own timepiece up in evidence. The youth smiled ironically.

“Better speak to the President about it,” he advised. “He just set that clock this morning.”

“Wouldn’t he be too busy to see me?” asked the other doubtfully.

“Naw, he never does nothin’! He’d be glad to know about it.”

“Well, I’m sure I think he ought to know. I guess he wouldn’t want folks to be too early and miss their trains!” He smiled politely and moved away, leaving the news-stand youth to smile derisively and murmur: “Dippy Dick!”

The sign “Information” above a booth in the center of the concourse met his gaze and he turned his steps toward it. “Will you please give me a timetable showing the train service between New York and Greenbank?” he asked gently.

“Greenbank, where?” demanded the official bruskly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on! Greenbank, Connecticut? Greenbank, Rhode Island? Greenbank——”

“Which do you consider the nicest?” asked the boy anxiously.

“Now, look here! I haven’t got time to fool away. Find out where you want to go first.”

“I’m so sorry! I saw it said ‘Information’ here and thought I’d get a little. If I’m at the wrong window——”

“This is the Information Bureau, son, but I’m no mind reader. If you don’t know which Greenbank you want—Yes, Madam, eleven-thirty-two: Track 12!”

“Maybe this ticket will tell,” hazarded the boy, laying it on the ledge. The man seized it impatiently.

“Of course it tells! Here you are!” He tossed a folder across. “You oughtn’t to travel alone, son,” he added pityingly.

“No, sir, I hope I shan’t have to. There’ll be other people on the train, won’t there?”

“If there aren’t—Yes, sir, Stamford at twelve, sir—you’d better put yourself in charge of the conductor!”

“I shall,” the other assured him earnestly. “Good-morning.”

“Just plain nutty, I guess,” thought the man, looking after him.

Eleven-twenty-four now, and the boy approached the gate, holding his bag in front of him with both hands so that it bumped at every step and fixing his eyes on the announcement board, his mouth open vacuously.

“Look where you’re going!” exclaimed a gentleman with whom the boy collided.

“Huh?”

“Look where you’re going, I said! Stop bumping me with your bag!”

“Uh-huh.”

The gentleman pushed along, muttering angrily, and the boy followed, his bag pressed against the backs of the other’s immaculate gray trousered knees. “Greenbank, Mister?” he inquired of the man at the gate.

“Yes. Ticket, please!”

“Huh?”

“Let me see your ticket.”

“Ticket?”

“Yes, yes, your railway ticket! Come on, come on!”

“I got me one,” said the boy.

“Well, let me see it! Hurry, please! You’re keeping others back.”

“Uh-huh.” The boy set down his bag and began to dig into various pockets. The ticket examiner watched impatiently a moment while protests from those behind became audible. Finally:

“Here, shove that bag aside and let these folks past,” said the man irascibly. “Did you buy your ticket?”

“Huh?”

“I say, did you buy your ticket?”

“Uh-huh, I got me one, Mister.”

“Well, find it then! And you’d better hurry if you want this train!”

“Huh?”

“I say, if you want this—Here, what’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

“This?” The boy looked at the small piece of cardboard in a puzzled manner. “Ain’t that it?” he asked. But the man had already whisked it out of his hand, and now he punched it quickly, thrust it back to the boy and pushed him along through the gate.

“Must be an idiot,” he growled to the next passenger. “Someone ought to look after him.”

“All aboard!” shouted the conductor as the boy with the bag swung his way along the platform. “All aboard!”

“Is this the train for Greenbank?”

The conductor turned impatiently. “Yes. Get aboard!”

“Pardon me?” The boy leaned nearer, a hand cupped behind his ear.

“Yes! Greenbank! Get on!”

“I’m so sorry,” smiled the other. “Would you mind speaking a little louder?”

“Yes, this is the Greenbank train!” vociferated the conductor. “Get aboard!”

“Thank you,” replied the boy with much dignity, “but you needn’t shout at me. I’m not deaf!” Whereupon he climbed leisurely up the steps of the already moving train and entered a car.

CHAPTER II
THE BOY FROM OUT WEST

Jimmy Logan and Dud Baker discussed the eccentricities of the obnoxious youth they had encountered in the waiting-room for several minutes after they were seated in the train. (By arriving a good ten minutes before leaving time they had been able to take possession of two seats, turning the front one over and occupying it with their suitcases.)

“Know what I think?” asked Jimmy, his choler having subsided. “Well, I think he was having fun with us. There was a sort of twinkle in his eye, Dud.”

“Maybe he was,” agreed the other. “He was a nice-looking chap. And the way he lit into that big bully of a newsboy was dandy!”

“Guess he knows something about wrestling,” mused Jimmy. “Wish I did. Let’s you and I take it up this winter, Dud.”

“That’s all well enough for you. Seniors don’t have anything to do. I’m going to be pretty busy, though. Say, you don’t suppose that fellow is coming to Grafton, do you?”

“If he is, he’s a new boy,” was the response. “Maybe he’s a Greenie. A lot of Mount Morris fellows go back this way. It’s good we got here early. This car’s pretty nearly filled. I wish it would hurry up and go. I’m getting hungry.”

“How soon can we have dinner?” asked Dud.

“Twelve, I guess. They take on the diner down the line somewhere. Got anything to read in your bag?”

Dud opened his suitcase, lifted out several magazines and offered them for inspection. He was a slim boy of sixteen, or just short of sixteen, to be exact, with very blue eyes, a fair complexion and good features, rather a contrast to his companion who was distinctly stocky, with wide shoulders and deep chest. Jimmy’s features were a somewhat miscellaneous lot and included a short nose, a wide, humorous mouth, a resolutely square chin and light brown eyes. His hair was reddish-brown and he wore it longer than most fellows would have, suggesting that Jimmy went in for football. Jimmy, however, did nothing of the sort. In age he was Dud’s senior by four months. Both boys wore blue serge suits, rubber-soled tan shoes and straw hats, all of a style appropriate to the time of year, which was the third week in September. The straw hats were each encircled by a scarlet-and-gray band, scarlet and gray being the colors of Grafton School, to which place the two boys were on their way after a fortnight spent together at Jimmy’s home. The similarity of attire even extended to the shirts, which were of light blue mercerized linen, and to the watch-fobs, showing the school seal, which dangled from trousers’ pockets. It ended, however, at ties at one extreme and at socks at the other, for Jimmy’s four-in-hand was of brilliant Yale blue, and matched his hosiery, while Dud wore a brown bow and brown stockings.

Jimmy turned over the magazines uninterestedly. “Guess I’ve seen these,” he said, tossing them to the opposite seat. “I’ll buy something when the boy comes through. I wonder what the new room’s like, Dud.”

“It’s bound to be better than the old one. I’m sorry we didn’t get one on the top floor, though.”

“Guess we were lucky to get into Lothrop at all. That’s what comes of leading an upright life, Dud, and standing in with Charley and faculty. Bet you a lot of fellows got left this fall on their rooms. Gus Weston has been trying for Lothrop two years. Wonder if he made it. Hope so. Gus is a rattling good sort, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Do you suppose he will be the regular quarter-back this year?”

“Not unless Nick Blake breaks his neck or something. Gus will give him a good run for it, though. Still, Bert Winslow and Nick are great friends, and I guess Nick will naturally have the call.”

“Winslow never struck me as a fellow who would play a favorite,” objected Dud.

“Of course not, but if you’re football captain and there are two fellows who play about the same sort of game, and one is a particular friend and the other isn’t, and——”

“Here we go,” interrupted Dud as the conductor’s warning reached them through the open window.

“Good work! That’s what I meant, you see. Bert will naturally favor Nick. No reason why he shouldn’t. Besides, Nick was quarter last year and he was a peach, too. Bet you we have a corking team this fall, Dud. Look at the fellows we’ve got left over! Nick and Bert and Hobo and Musgrave——”

“Look!” exclaimed Dud in a low voice, nudging his companion. The train had begun to move. Following the direction of Dud’s gaze, Jimmy’s eyes fell on the form of the boy he had accosted in the station. The latter was coming leisurely down the car aisle, looking on each side for a seat. But the weather was warm and the passengers who were so fortunate as to be sitting alone were loathe to share their accommodations. The newcomer, however, displayed neither concern nor embarrassment. Something about him said very plainly that if he didn’t take this seat or that it was only because he chose not to, and not because he was intimidated by scowls or chilly glances.

“Maybe,” began Dud, looking about the car, “we’d ought to turn this over, Jimmy.”

But before Jimmy had time to answer the boy had paused in his progress along the aisle and was smiling genially down on them.

He was, first of all, an undeniably good-looking youth. Even Jimmy was forced to acknowledge that, although he did it grudgingly. In age he appeared to be about sixteen, but he was tall for his years and big in a well-proportioned way. He had brown hair that was neither light nor dark, and eyebrows and lashes several shades paler. His face was rather long and terminated in a surprisingly square chin. His brown eyes were deeply set and looked out very directly from either side of a straight nose. The mouth was a trifle too wide, perhaps, but there was a pleasant curve to it, and at either end hovered two small vertical clefts that were like elongated dimples. Face, neck and hands were deeply tanned. For the rest, he was square-shouldered, narrow-waisted and deep-chested, and there was an ease and freedom in his carriage and movements that went well with the careless, self-confident look of him.

“Hello, fellows!” he said. “Mind if I sit here?” Whereupon, and without waiting for reply, he lifted Jimmy’s suitcase to the rack above, piled his own bag on top of Dud’s and settled himself opposite the latter. “Warm, isn’t it?” he observed, removing his soft straw hat and putting it atop his bag. As he did so his gaze traveled from Jimmy’s hat to Dud’s, and: “Belong to the same Order, don’t you?” he said affably. “Is it hard to get in?”

“School colors,” answered Dud stiffly.

“Oh! Thought maybe you were Grand Potentates of the High and Mighty Order of Kangaroos or something.”

“You’re chock full of compliments, aren’t you?” asked Jimmy. “Called us Eskimos a few minutes ago, I think.”

“No, you got that wrong, Harold. What I meant——”

“Cut that out! My name isn’t Harold.”

“Oh, all right. I couldn’t know, could I?” asked the other innocently. “About the Eskimo Twins, though. It’s like this. You see, this is my first visit to your big and wicked city and the fellows out home told me I’d surely be spotted by the confidence men. Well, I’ve been in New York since yesterday afternoon and not a blessed one of them’s been near me. Made me feel downright lonesome, it did so! And when you fellows came along I just naturally thought someone was going to take a little notice of me at last. You didn’t look like con men, but they say you can’t tell by appearances. Sorry I made the mistake, fellows. Dutch Haskell—he’s Sheriff out in Windlass—got to talking with a couple of nice-looking fellows in Chicago once and they invited him to go and see the Eskimo Twins, and Dutch fell for it and it cost him four hundred dollars. That’s why I mentioned the Twins. Wanted you fellows to know I wasn’t as green as I looked, even if I did come from the innocent west.”

“That’s rot,” said Jimmy severely. “You didn’t mistake us for confidence men. You only pretended to.”

Dud was secretly rather amused at Jimmy’s ruffled temper. This breezy stranger was the first person Dud had ever seen who was capable of causing Jimmy to forget his highly developed sense of humor.

“Well,” answered the boy in the opposite seat, smilingly, “I dare say you are a little too young for a life of crime.”

“I guess we’re not much younger than you are,” replied Jimmy, with the suggestion of a sneer.

“No, about the same age, probably. I’m sixteen and seven-eighths. Is there a parlor car on this train?”

“Yes, it’s about two cars forward,” answered Dud.

“Oh, that’s why I didn’t see it. Back home we generally put them on the rear of the train.”

“You can find it easily enough,” said Jimmy meaningly. “Don’t let us keep you.”

The boy smiled amusedly. “Thanks, Harold, I won’t. But I guess——”

Jimmy tried to stand up, but the confusion of legs and a sudden lurch of the car defeated his purpose and his protest lost effect. “Cut that out, Fresh!” he said angrily. “You do it just once more and I’ll punch your head.”

“My, but you fellows in the East are a hair-trigger lot,” said the other, shaking his head sadly. “Maybe you’d better tell me your name so I won’t get in trouble. Mine’s Crail.”

“I don’t care what it is,” growled Jimmy, observing the other darkly. “You’re too flip.”

The boy opposite raised a broad and capable-looking hand in front of him and observed it sorrowfully. “Monty,” he said severely, “didn’t I tell you before you left home you were to behave yourself? Didn’t I?” The fingers crooked affirmatively. “Sure I did! I told you folks where you were going mightn’t understand your playful ways, didn’t I?” Again the fingers agreed, in unison. “Well, then, why don’t you act like a gentleman? Want folks to think you aren’t more’n half broke?” The fingers moved agitatedly from side to side. “You don’t?” The fingers signaled “No!” earnestly. “Then you’d better behave yourself, Monty,” concluded the boy sternly. “No sense in getting in wrong right from the start. Going to be good now?” The fingers nodded vehemently, and the boy took the offending right hand in his left and placed it in his pocket. “We’ll see,” he said, with intense dignity.

By that time Dud was laughing and the corners of Jimmy’s mouth were trembling. The stranger raised a pair of serious brown eyes to Jimmy as he said gravely: “I have to be awfully strict with him.”

Jimmy’s mouth curved and a choking gurgle of laughter broke forth. “Gee, you’re an awful fool, aren’t you?” he chuckled. “Where do you come from?”

The boy brought the offending hand from the pocket and clasped it with its fellow about one knee and leaned comfortably back. “Windlass City, Wyoming, mostly,” he replied. “Sometimes I live in Terre Haute.”

“Where’s Terre Haute?” asked Dud.

“Indiana. Next door to Wyoming,” he answered unblinkingly.

“No, we know better than that,” laughed Dud. “Indiana’s just back of Ohio, and Wyoming’s away out beyond Nebraska and Oklahoma and those places. Do you live on a ranch?”

Crail shook his head. “No, there isn’t much ranching up our way. It’s mostly mining. Snake River district, you know. Windlass City’s about a hundred miles northwest of Lander. Know where the Tetons are? Or the Gros Ventre Range? We’re in there, about ten miles from where Buffalo Fork and Snake River join. Some country, Har—I mean friend.”

“Is it gold mining?” asked Jimmy interestedly.

“No, coal. That’s better than gold. There’s more of it.”

“And you live there, Creel?”

“Crail’s the name. Only in summer. I’ve been there pretty late, though. Winters I go back east to Terre Haute. Last year I was at school, though. Ever hear of Dunning Military Academy at Dunning, Indiana?”

The boys shook their heads.

“It’s not so worse, but they teach you so much soldiering that there isn’t much time for anything else. And you have to live on schedule all day long, and that gets tiresome. I kicked myself out last May. Couldn’t stand it any longer.”

“Kicked yourself out?” echoed Dud questioningly.

“Yes, they wouldn’t do it so I had to. I tried about everything I could think of, but the best they’d do was to put me in the jug and feed me bread and water. I spent so much time in ‘solitary’ that I got so I liked it. It gives you a fine chance to think, and I’m naturally of a very thoughtful disposition. Say, I used to think perfectly wonderful thoughts in the jug, thoughts that made a better boy of me!”

Jimmy grinned. “What did you do to get punished?” he asked with lamentable eagerness.

“What little I could,” sighed Crail. “There wasn’t much a fellow could do. You see, you’re dreadfully confined. The last time I set a bucket of water outside the commandant’s door and rang the fire gong. He came out in a hurry and didn’t see the bucket and put his foot in it. He was awfully peeved about it. I told him he ought to blame his own awkwardness.”

“And they fired you then?”

“Oh, no, they jugged me again. Six days that time. Six days is the limit.”

“What did you do when they kicked you out?” asked Dud.

“They didn’t kick me out. I gave them all the chance in the world, but they wouldn’t part with me. Stubborn lot of hombres. So I held a court martial on myself one afternoon, found myself guilty of gross disobedience and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman and sentenced myself to dishonorable discharge. Then I wrote down the finding of the court, tucked it under the commandant’s door and mushed out of there. They came after me but I doubled back, and swapped clothes with a fellow I met on the road—he didn’t want to swap, but I persuaded him to—and then walked back to Dunning and took a train for home. Military academies are all right for some fellows, but they irk me considerable.”

“Where are you going now?” asked Jimmy.

“School. I told Jasper—Jasper’s my guardian since dad died—that I wanted to go to Mexico and be an army scout or something, and he said an army scout ought to know a heap more than I did and he reckoned I’d better find me a school and go to it. I thought maybe there was a heap in what he said and decided I’d hike east here where learning comes from. So here I am, Ha—fellows. I don’t know what sort of a place this Mount Morris is, but I don’t have to stay if I don’t like it.”

“Mount Morris!” exclaimed Dud and Jimmy in one breath.

“Yes. Know it?”

They nodded.

“Aren’t going there yourselves, are you?” asked Crail.

Jimmy snorted with disgust. “I should say not! We’re Grafton fellows.”

“Are you? What’s Grafton, another school?”

“No, it’s not ‘another’ school,” replied Jimmy with great dignity. “It’s the school, the only school.”

“Think of that! Then this place I’m going to doesn’t stack up very high, eh?”

“Oh, Mount Morris is all right,” replied Jimmy, carelessly condescending, “if you aren’t particular. A lot of fellows do go there.”

“Just like that, eh?” asked Crail, grinning. “Well, aside from that it’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

“We naturally like Grafton a good deal better,” said Dud seriously. “And I guess it really is better. But Mount Morris is good, too. That is so, isn’t it, Jimmy?”

“Oh, it’s good enough, I suppose,” answered Jimmy without enthusiasm. “We generally manage to beat it at about everything from chess to football, and we have a lot more fellows, and better buildings and better faculty, but it’s fair.”

“I savvy. This place you go to and Mount Morris are rivals, eh? Play football together?”

“Sure.”

“And you fellows always win?”

“Well, not always,” granted Jimmy, “but pretty generally. We won last year and——”

“First call for dinner in the dining car!” announced a waiter, passing through the car. “Three cars forward!”

“Me for that!” exclaimed Crail. “You fellows eating?”

“You bet! I’m starved. Hurry up before the seats are all gone.” Jimmy struggled heroically and finally disentangled his legs and stood up. “Get a move on, Dud! Maybe if we go now we can get three seats together.”

CHAPTER III
MONTY CRAIL CHANGES HIS MIND

Three minutes later they were established at a table and had ordered the first two courses, oysters and soup, accompanied by such trifles as celery and olives and mango pickles. They were already consuming bread and butter with gusto, or, at least, Jimmy and Dud were, for they had breakfasted very early. Crail was less enthusiastic about food, and while the others ate he took up the interrupted subject of Mount Morris School.

“The way I came to know about this place was seeing an advertisement in a magazine,” he confided. “It certainly did read well, fellows. I sort of got the idea that it was the leading educational institution of the country. Maybe I was wrong, though.”

“You certainly were,” said Jimmy, speaking rather indistinctly by reason of having his mouth very full. “Mount Morris never led in anything. Why didn’t you pick out a good school while you were picking?”

“I suppose it’s a mistake to believe all the advertisements tell you,” said Crail. “Well, I guess it’ll be good enough for me. I’m not very particular. If they give me enough to eat and treat me kindly and beat a little algebra and history and a few languages through my skull I won’t kick. Know whether I have to take Latin, fellows?”

“Depends on what class you enter, I suppose,” replied Dud, helping himself to Jimmy’s butter, to that youth’s distress and muffled remonstrances. “I guess you’ll have to take one year of it, anyway.”

“Snakes!” said Crail. “That’s sure disappointing. I never did have any luck with Latin. Sort of a half-baked language, I call it.” His sorrow was dispelled by the appearance of the waiter with the oysters, and he beamed approval and beckoned with his fork. “Sam,” he said confidingly, “you bring in six more of these little birds. I haven’t eaten a real nice fresh oyster for a long time.”

“Can’t serve no more, sir,” replied the waiter. “Only one order goes with a dinner.”

“That’s all right, Sam,” said Crail untroubledly. “You don’t have to sing when you bring them in. Just do it unostentatiously.”

“Can’t be did, sir. I’d like to oblige you, but——”

“I know you would,” interrupted Crail earnestly. “I just feel it, Sam. Say no more about it, but get busy. And put them right here when you bring them. Try for the plump ones, Sam. These look sort of—sort of emaciated.”

“You won’t get them,” laughed Dud. “The steward would take them away from him.”

“I’ll get them all right,” was the reply. “Say, fellows, they sure are good! I used to think I’d like to live by the ocean and raise my own oysters. A fellow could, eh?”

“Where do they find oysters?” inquired Jimmy. “In the ocean or rivers or where?”

“Both,” said Dud. “They sow the young oysters and——”

“Sow them!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Oh, sure! Just like wheat or oats, I suppose. Where do you get that stuff?”

“They do, don’t they, Creel?”

“It’s still Crail. Search me, though. I never saw an oyster field. Ah, that’s the good old scout, Sam. Place them right here and remove this devastated affair.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry those wasn’t good, sir.” The waiter uttered the regret loudly, evidently for the benefit of the near-by diners, or, possibly, the eagle-eyed steward.

“Couldn’t eat them, Sam,” replied Crail cheerfully. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“No, sir. Now what can I bring the rest of you gentlemen?”

“Do you always get what you want like that?” inquired Jimmy enviously after the waiter had departed with their order. “If I’d asked for a second helping of oysters they’d have thrown me off the train!”

“The main thing to do,” answered Crail, holding an oyster up on his fork and viewing it approvingly, “is to think you’re going to get what you want and let the other fellow know you think it. That gets him to thinking so too, you see. How’s that soup?”

“Punk,” said Dud.

“I’ll pass it. Say, have you fellows got any names?”

“A few,” replied Jimmy. “His is Baker and mine’s Logan.”

“Thanks. I was afraid I’d call you Harold again and get beat up.” Crail didn’t look vastly alarmed, however, and Jimmy secretly congratulated himself on not having to carry out his threat of punching his head. Crail didn’t quite look like a fellow who would stand around idle during such a process! “I know a fellow named Baker out in Wyoming. He’s foreman on the Meeteetse Ranch. Might be kin to you, eh? He comes from back here somewhere. I don’t know what his first name is, though. He’s generally called ‘Soapy.’ Any of your folks out my way?”

“Not that I know of,” replied Dud. “Why do they call him ‘Soapy’?”

“Search me! You get all kinds of names out there. Up at the mines there’s a choice collection: ‘Pin Head’ Farrel, ‘Snub’ Thompson, ‘Tejon’ Burns, ‘Last Word’ MacTavish: a bunch of them. Sometimes they sort of earn their names and sometimes they just stumble on them, I guess. ‘Pin Head,’ he’s a big, tall chap with a head six sizes too small for him, and MacTavish is a Scotsman who is always saying ‘If it’s my last wor-r-rd on airth!’ But I don’t know why Thompson is called ‘Snub.’ Nor where Burns gets his nickname.”

“What were you called?” asked Dud.

“Just Monty. That’s my middle name, or part of it. The whole of it’s Montfort. That was my mother’s name. She was French.”

“What’s your first name?” Dud inquired.

“A.”

“A?”

“Yes, A Montfort Crail.”

“But—but doesn’t the A stand for anything?”

“Not a thing. Snakes, fellows, if I eat all this truck I’ll pass in my chips! Where’s this Grafter School you tell about at?”

“Grafton, not Grafter, if you please. Grafters is what the Greenies call us.”

“Who are the Greenies?”

“The Mount Morris fellows. Their color is green, you know.”

“Seems like it would be a good place for me,” chuckled Crail, transferring a large slice of roast beef to his plate and starting to work on it. (The others observed with interest as the meal progressed that their new acquaintance dealt with one thing at a time. He consumed his beef to the last portion before he paid any attention to the vegetables and then ate each vegetable by itself.) “Which comes first, Grafton or Greenbank?”

“Grafton, in everything,” laughed Dud. “We get to Needham Junction about half-past two. That’s where we change. You stay on and get to Greenbank about an hour later.”

“I didn’t know it took so long,” said Crail. “Tell me about your school, fellows. What’s it like? What do you do there? How many of you are there?”

“We had two hundred and sixteen last year,” replied Jimmy, “and I guess we’ll have a few more this year. I suppose the faculty would take more if we had dormitory room. We have three big dormitories and two small ones. Dud and I are in Lothrop this year. That’s the newest one, and it’s a peach. Then there’s Manning, where the younger fellows live, and Trow, the oldest one. And there’s Fuller and Morris, but they’re just wooden houses on the Green. They look after about twenty fellows altogether.”

“Don’t any of you live around?” asked Crail. “In the town, I mean?”

“No, the school’s about a half-mile from the town. Of course, we have some fellows who live in Grafton, you know, but not many.”

“I guess I’d rather live outside the school,” said Crail. “You don’t have to toe the mark so much, eh?”

“You won’t do that at Mount Morris,” said Dud, “because you’re nowhere near the village there. The school’s about three miles from Greenbank; and it’s up-hill all the way, too. I know, for I walked it once.”

“Oh, you’ve been there?”

“Yes,” answered Dud grimly. “Last June. Jimmy was with me. We got left at Webster and had to foot it most of the way. We found a handcar after awhile and did pretty well until a train came sneaking up on us and we had to throw the handcar down the bank. That was some journey, Jimmy.”

Jimmy smiled reflectively. “It certainly was! And say, Crail, what do you suppose this idiot did after we got to Greenbank? Well, he went in and pitched three innings and won the game for us!”

“Good leather!” Crail viewed Dud with new interest. “Pitched, eh? Say, that’s something I’d like mighty well to do. I tried baseball at Dunning last spring, but the captain and I had a falling-out and I got fired.”

“What position did you play?” asked Dud.

“First base—when I played. There was another fellow, though, that had me beat. Football is what I’m crazy about, though. What sort of a team do you have at Grafton?”

“Good enough to win from Mount Morris two years out of three,” answered Jimmy. “We’ll have a wonder this year, for we’ve got a lot of good men left from last season. Do you play?”

“I tried it a little last fall,” answered Crail, “but I didn’t make the team. I’d never seen football near-to until then. I guess it takes a pile of learning, that game. I’m sure fond of it, though, and I’m going to try it again this time.”

“You ought to make good at it,” said Jimmy, running an appreciative eye over Crail’s muscular body. “Guard is your place, I guess.”

“They had me trying for tackle, but I’m heavier now. I bought me a book about football and I’ve been studying it. Say, there’s a lot to it, isn’t there? Is it hard to get on the team at your school?”

“N-no, not if you show something,” answered Jimmy. “Of course, there are a good many fellows turn out every fall and you’ve got to work like an Indian to make it, but——”

“Work like an Indian, eh?” laughed Crail. “Say, did you ever see an Indian work? Well, I did, just once. He was plowing a piece of ground about eight times the size of this car and it took him three days to do it. It’s Mrs. Indian who does the work, partner. I guess I’d have to work a sight harder than any Indian to get a place on a football team. But I sure mean to do it, Har—I mean Logan. Sam, I’ll have a dish of ice cream and a man-size cup of coffee. Don’t fetch me one of those thimbles now! I suppose they make you study pretty hard, eh?”

“You bet they do!” said Jimmy feelingly. “And then some!”

“Harder than at this place I’m headed for?”

“N-no, I guess about the same.”

“Maybe it costs more money at Grafton?”

“Tuition, you mean? That’s about the same, too, I suppose. I don’t know how much it is at Mount Morris, do you, Dud?”

Dud shook his head, but Crail supplied the information. “A hundred and fifty,” he said. “Seventy-five down and seventy-five in January. And anywhere from two hundred to five hundred for board and lodging. Education sure costs a heap of money in this part of the world. I know a fellow went through college in Nebraska, and it cost him less than six hundred for the whole three years!”

“Two hundred and fifty is the least you can pay for a room at Grafton,” said Jimmy, “and that means either Trow or one of the houses. But the tuition is the same, except that we pay in three installments.”

“Well, I got two hundred and seventy dollars with me,” said Crail, “and I guess that would see me through for one term, eh? Only thing is, though, will they let me in?”

“Why, you’ve taken an exam, haven’t you?” asked Dud.

Crail shook his head. “No, they said at Mount Morris that I could do that after I got there. Won’t they let me?”

“Oh, yes, only fellows usually enter by certificate after the junior year. Let’s go back. We’ll be at the Junction in a few minutes.”

“What did you mean by entering by a certificate?” asked Crail, when they were once more in their seats in the day coach. “Where do you catch these certificates?”

Dud explained and Crail frowned a moment. Then his face cleared, and he laughed. “Well, I guess they wouldn’t have given me any kind of a certificate at Dunning that would have helped me much, fellows! I’ll just have to go up against the examination. Will it be hard, do you think?”

“I don’t believe so,” Jimmy reassured him. “They’ll probably let you in, and then sock it to you afterwards. I guess they want all the fellows they can get at Mount Morris.”

“Mount Morris, yes, but how about this Grafton place?” said Crail. “What about the examinations there?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I never took them. Neither did Dud. You’d be sure to pass for the lower middle, though, if you failed for the upper. They call them third and second at Mount Morris. We’d better get our bags closed, Dud. There’s the whistle.”

Crail arose and took his kit-bag out of the way, and set it in the aisle while Dud stuffed the magazines back into his suitcase, and Jimmy rounded up his own belongings. The train slowed down gradually, and finally came to a stop, and a trainman sent the stentorian cry of “Needham Junction!” through the car. “Needham! Change here for Grafton!”

“Well, I’m glad to have met you,” said Jimmy, holding out his hand to Crail. “And if you ever come to one of the games— Say, hold on! This isn’t your station! You’ve got another hour yet, Crail.”

But Crail, bag in hand, shook his head. “Fellows, I’m plumb tired of traveling,” he said, “and I sort of think I’ll get off right here.”

“But you’ll have three hours to wait, nearly!” Jimmy expostulated to Crail’s broad back. “There isn’t another train to Greenbank until five!”

Crail smiled over his shoulder as he pushed through the car door.

“Oh, I’ve changed my mind about that place,” he answered. “You see, I don’t know anybody at Mount Morris, and I sort of like you fellows, and I guess one school’s as good as another. Which side do we get off at?”

CHAPTER IV
“OUT FOR GRAFTON!”

“Do you really mean that you’re coming to Grafton?” demanded Dud when they had reached the station platform.

“If they’ll have me,” replied Crail, looking about him curiously. “What do we do now? Take another train?”

“Yes, that one there. But—but——”