THE
FIGHTING SCRUB

By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

Yardley Hall Series

Purple Pennant Series

Hilton Series

Erskine Series

The “Big Four” Series

The Grafton Series

North Bank Series

Books Not In Series

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York

[THE BALL SAILED UP AND AWAY]

THE
FIGHTING SCRUB

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “INFIELD RIVALS,” “KICK FORMATION,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK :: 1924 :: LONDON

COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTERPAGE
I.[The Rotter]1
II.[Getting Acquainted]12
III.[“Lovey” McKnight]22
IV.[A Boy in a Wheel Chair]35
V.[Out for the Team]48
VI.[Wattles]60
VII.[Mr. Babcock Takes Hold]73
VIII.[Mr. Bingham Pays a Visit]86
IX.[An “Unexpected” Honor]100
X.[Clif Goes for a Paper]114
XI.[Tom Is Bored]129
XII.[Defeat]139
XIII.[The Consulting Coach]150
XIV.[The Fighting Scrub]160
XV.[Tom’s Luck Turns]170
XVI.[Loring Takes Command]183
XVII.[Wattles Uses Coercion]193
XVIII.[A New Play Is Tried Out]205
XIX.[Bad News]215
XX.[“Cocky” Makes a Call]225
XXI.[Scrub vs. Scrub]234
XXII.[The Scrub Disbands]243
XXIII.[Wyndham Plays Wolcott]254
XXIV.[Wattles Agrees]266

THE FIGHTING SCRUB

CHAPTER I
THE ROTTER

“Well, son, I guess I’d better be getting along,” said Mr. Bingham. He glanced frowningly at his watch and then across the driveway at the dusty car awaiting him. He carefully avoided looking at the boy beside him, and for that the boy was very grateful. Now that the moment for saying good-by had come Clif’s spirits, which had been getting lower and lower during the past hour, had reached bottom, and he knew that his face revealed the fact. He was glad when his father went on, speaking with exaggerated cheerfulness which fooled neither of them, for there was a lump in Clif’s throat and he was horribly afraid that it would make his voice sound queer. Being only sixteen years of age, he was far more fearful of displaying emotion than he would have been of facing a firing squad, and not for anything in the world would he have had his father suspect the presence of that lump!

“It’s seventeen after two,” Mr. Bingham was continuing, “and I won’t be able to make as good time as we did coming up, I guess. Won’t make Providence much before six, probably. Got to get gas somewhere, too. Well, I’d say you were pretty nicely fixed here, son: nice room, fine buildings, lots of—of grounds, eh? And the Doctor struck me as a particularly fine sort. Not at all the type of man you—er—picture as a school principal. Got a good business head, I’d say. Well—”

Mr. Bingham looked approvingly over the scene, nodded commendingly and drew on his left-hand glove. Clif, realizing that speech was at last imperative, swallowed hard. “Don’t forget to have some air put in that left rear tire, dad,” he managed. “I think there’s a valve leak. It was all right when we left home.”

His voice sounded sort of squeaky at first, he thought, but he had it under excellent control toward the last. He hoped his father hadn’t noticed anything wrong with it.

“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Bingham heartily. “Mustn’t forget that. Don’t want to have to make a change on the road.” He turned down his glove at the wrist—he always wore just one when he drove the car, and never buttoned it—gave a final tug to his tweed cap and began the descent of the six stone steps. Clif followed, his brown hands thrust deep into the pockets of his knickers, his well-set shoulders swinging carelessly. Few fellows had arrived yet, but the car stood in plain view of many windows and it was up to him to affect a nonchalance he was far from feeling. Mr. Bingham climbed into the seat, glanced again at his watch and turned the switch. Clif slammed the door shut with a bang. Mr. Bingham pressed down on the starter and a low, steady hum came from under the long blue hood. “Well,” he said, “let’s hear from you often, Clifton.”

“Yes, sir.” Clif’s cheerful grin tightened up harder than ever. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the idiotic expression off his face! His father’s use of his full name had almost done for him. Years ago, when he was just a little kid, his father used to kiss him when they parted; even after his mother’s death, when there seemed no excuse at all for it; but nowadays Mr. Bingham said “Clifton” instead, and they both understood. And now he had gone and done it again, and Clif’s throat felt worse than ever and his eyes felt smarty and—gosh, he wished dad would hurry up and go!

Perhaps dad suspected further delay might prove dangerous, for he suddenly reached his ungloved hand over the top of the door and said very gruffly, “So long, son! Be a good chap!” And Clif returned the tight grasp and nodded silently, and the big touring car purred more loudly for an instant and swept off down the blue gravel driveway and in a twinkling became just a moving shadow between the trunks of the trees where the drive curved to the gate. Clifton Cobb Bingham watched it disappear, waved a gayly negligent hand—although the lone occupant of the car never once looked around—and then, that frozen grin still on his face, lounged back across the gravel to the entrance of West Hall. Probably, he was reflecting, not a soul had watched that parting, but it wouldn’t do to take chances, and so he played the rôle of stoic to the end, or, rather, as far as the second step.

He was there when an object disconcertingly obtruded itself on his vision. It was a brown, rubber-soled shoe dangling from the end of an amazingly colorful golf hose. Clif’s gaze darted higher and his own fixed grin was instantly reflected. Only, whereas Clif’s facial contortion was designed to express ease and gayety, the countenance of the boy seated on the top step unquestionably indicated derision. The fellow hadn’t been there when Clif had followed his father to the car, but he must have appeared soon after, for his countenance said as plainly as words could have said it: “You didn’t fool me! Almost cried, didn’t you? Couldn’t even say good-by to him! Gee, what a baby! Huh!”

Clif’s grin vanished. With one foot on the next step above, he stood stock still and glared back at the boy. He felt outraged, degraded and very, very angry. The other stared steadily, maliciously back at him. Clif’s hands closed and tightened. Then:

“Go on,” he demanded, his voice low and tight. “Go on and say it!”

The other only chuckled mirthlessly, still staring.

“You—you confounded spy!” said Clif. “You might find something better to do than sneak around, sticking your nose into other folks’ business, I should think!”

The other boy’s grin faded perceptibly, but his look, if it held less of amusement, was still dark with malice. “Oh, shut up!” he answered listlessly. “Go on in and have a good cry. You’ll feel better.”

“You get up from there and I’ll teach you a lesson in manners,” cried Clif. He plunged up the intervening steps and stood threateningly above his enemy. The latter looked up almost eagerly.

“Mean it?” he asked.

“Get up!” thundered Clif.

But the momentary gleam of animation faded in the face below and the boy shook his head. “Can’t be done,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a date with one of the instructors at two-thirty, and it’s twenty-eight after. How about to-morrow?”

“To-morrow!” jeered Clif. “You’re scared!”

“You bet I am, but not of you,” answered the other dispiritedly. “I’m scared of Mr. Wyatt. Met him yet?”

Clif shook his head, suspiciously. “No, but what’s he got to do with—with you getting your nose punched?”

“Plenty,” was the gloomy reply. “He’s the English shark here, and he’s going to give me the third degree and tell me whether I stick around or beat it home again. I’m a total loss at English. This Wyatt guy’s the old man’s nephew or something and he’s a tartar, they say. Well, figure it out for yourself. I’m going to be up against it, anyway, but if I bust in on him all smeared up with your gore it’s going to make it a heap worse, isn’t it?”

Clif scowled in puzzlement. His wrath was melting fast, and the fact made him feel rather ridiculous. He unclenched his hands, thrust them into his pockets and summoned a note of contempt. “I hope he kicks you out,” he declared. But the words lacked conviction. The fact was that the strange chap, in spite of his behavior and in spite of the detestation in which Clif held him, sort of worked on your sympathies! Now he nodded agreement.

“Yes, I guess maybe that would be best,” he said. He arose slowly, with a deep sigh, and stared morosely over the wide stretch of lawn that, beyond a single formal bed of scarlet geraniums and coleuses, led from the school building to the village road. Clif watched him frowningly. A straight bodied, finely built chap, and, to an unprejudiced observer, extremely good-looking, with hair that held a glint of bronze where the sun reached it, deeply tanned skin, dark gray eyes, a short nose and a rather assertive chin. If, thought Clif, the fellow wasn’t such a rotter—

Then the rotter turned and looked moodily at him. “You might wish me luck, you know.”

Clif laughed ironically.

“Because,” the other went on as he moved toward the wide doorway, “if he turns me down I’ll be out of this dump in an hour. If he doesn’t I’ll see you in the morning. By the way, where do I find you?”

“I’m in 17 West Hall, and my name’s Bingham.”

“My name’s Kemble. Glad to know you. Well, see you again.”

He straightened his shoulders in the manner of a condemned man starting for the gallows and disappeared indoors. Clif looked after him, frowning in puzzlement for an instant, and then followed. Beyond the reception room a wide flight of slate stairs curved to the second floor, and up it Clif made his way, his footsteps arousing tiny echoes in the silent building. In the second floor corridor one or two doors stood open, but so far he had the Hall almost to himself. His door was the fourth on the right. On the oaken panel was an oval disk of white enamel bearing the number 17. Beneath it were two small brass slots, in one of which a somewhat yellowed visiting card indicated that Mr. Walter Harrison Treat dwelt within. Mr. Treat was not within at present, however, for when Clif swung the door shut behind him he was the sole occupant of the room.

His father had thought well of the apartment, but Clif was not so pleased with it. It was large enough and nicely furnished, but, although it contained two windows, it was on the inner side of the building, close to the angle formed by the junction of West and Middle Halls, and the view was confined to the courtyard. At Wyndham everything save the gymnasium was under one roof, an advantage emphasized by the school advertisements. The original structure, now known as Middle Hall, formed the nucleus of the present plant. Within a year or two of each other, East Hall and West Hall had been erected to connect with either end of the old building. The three halls formed as many sides of a quadrangle, with the opening toward the front and the space between affording a seldom used approach to Middle Hall flanked by turf and shrubbery. This space was Clif’s outlook from Number 17. The grass was smooth and well kept, the shrubs neatly trimmed, the blue gravel newly raked, but Clif wondered if one wouldn’t get a bit tired of that restricted view after a while. Of course, it was possible to look up and see blue sky above the slate roof of the opposite Hall; and three pigeons, sunning themselves and conversing throatily across the way, offered momentary interest; but Clif would have preferred a wider outlook. Besides, since the windows faced the east, the room promised to be rather dark after midday. In fact, away from the windows it was already shadowed.

In the shrubbery along the farther side of the courtyard a gang of noisy sparrows were chasing each other about, plump, truculent roisterers who squabbled and fought for no apparent reason. Beyond them the ivy along the lower wall of the three-story stone building was still green and varnished looking. Some of the ambitious tendrils were well above the second line of windows over there. Clif’s gaze wandered toward the front of the building and was captured by a moving flash of color at an open window. It was a bit of yellow silk curtain that swayed beyond the frame in the stirring of a languid breeze. Clif was viewing that window at an angle, but the room beyond was flooded by sunlight and so much of it as was within his range of vision was visible in detail. He could see the end of a couch tapestried in blue and brown, the corner of a bookcase, a picture on a wall. But what interested him far more was the object that occupied most of the foreground.

That object was his late adversary, Kemble. Even across the width of the courtyard Clif read in attitude and countenance dejection and perplexity. It wasn’t difficult for the observer to complete the scene from imagination. Kemble was seated at one side of a table. Across from him, wearing, doubtless, a look of stern yet patient displeasure, sat the Mr. Wyatt of whom he had so feelingly spoken. In short, Clif was viewing his enemy in the throes of an inquiry into his knowledge of English!

For the moment Clif’s emotion was one of unmixed delight. Retribution had overtaken the hated foe! Then, however, his feeling of triumph waned—gave way before a faint stirring of sympathy. Even if the fellow was a blighter he deserved some pity under such conditions, and, besides, simple esprit de corps demanded that Clif should align himself on the side of the oppressed fellow student rather than with that enemy body the Faculty! For a minute longer he looked and then turned away. To-morrow, he told himself, he would hold Kemble to strict accountability, but meanwhile he was “rooting” hard for that suffering youth and for the confusion of the tyrant.

Away from the window, he gave his attention to the room and its possibilities. It was furnished with two metal beds, two fumed-oak chiffoniers, four chairs, of which two were straight-backed and two of the variety known as morris, and a good-sized study table. There was, besides, a cushioned bench under each window. The prevailing color was brown. The furniture was dark brown, the walls were light brown and a heavy brown linoleum covered the floor. On the latter were spread three medium brown rugs with dark blue borders. Only the ceiling of creamy white and the bedspreads of a chalkier hue offered relief from the general scheme. Even the side curtains at the windows and the corduroy of the seat cushions were brown. On the whole, though, the room was rather pleasing, save for the single exception of lack of light, and, when Clif had switched the electricity on, even that failing disappeared. The two closets, one at each side of the door, were of generous size and held such conveniences as a shelf for shoes, a rod for hangers and a trousers rack on the door. Oh, he guessed it wasn’t so bad, after all!

And at the moment of reaching this conclusion there was a commotion at the front of the building, telling him that the first wholesale influx of students had begun. There was the sound of voices, the chug chugging of motors, the thud of bags. Then came the shuffle of feet on the stone stairs, and laughter and whistling. Clif turned off the illumination, wondering if Walter Harrison Treat had arrived with the present contingent. Naturally, he felt some curiosity about Mr. Treat. There were voices in the corridor now, and doors opened and banged shut. Clif retreated to a window seat, took one foot in his hands—noting approvingly that the brown leather shoe chimed in harmoniously with the surroundings—and waited. Then the door of Number 17 opened, swinging inward leisurely and with a certain dignity, and the end of an immaculate black suit case came into sight.

CHAPTER II
GETTING ACQUAINTED

A boy of seventeen followed the suit case, and the first occupant of Number 17 sighed with relief. Walter Harrison Treat looked more than possible as a roommate. He was fairly tall, rather thin, wore excellent but unobtrusive clothes and observed Clif with sober inquiry through a pair of spectacles. Being made with a very light gold frame, the spectacles were not especially apparent, and a second relieved sigh escaped Clif. It would have been a horrible thing had Treat worn those staring, tortoise-shell contraptions. Clif was certain he could never live through the school year with a pair of mandarin spectacles!

They shook hands, Clif with warmth, Walter with a polite reserve that the other soon learned to be natural with him. Then they talked, carefully avoiding apparent interest in each other’s affairs. Even so, however, certain facts regarding Walter were laid bare. He lived in Boston. Well, not exactly in Boston, you understand, but just outside; West Newton, to be exact. This was his third year here. He had entered as a Junior. Last year he had roomed in East Hall. He thought he might like this better, as it seemed quieter. Over there, the Juniors had the first and second floors and were a noisy lot. He was a third classman this year. By rights he should be in the second class, but he had begun school late, owing to illness when he was thirteen. What did Clif think of the school?

Presently they selected beds, closets, chiffoniers, window seats and chairs at the study table, choosing alternately after Clif, at Walter’s insistence, had spoken first. Then Clif started unpacking, and Walter, whose trunk had not yet arrived, took himself off to report at the Office. Twenty minutes sufficed to transfer the contents of trunk and bag to drawers and closet, and then, since Walter had not returned, Clif slipped his coat on again and went downstairs. The scene below had changed since he had last viewed it. Boys congregated thickly about the Office, wandered in and out of the recreation room, and liberally sprinkled themselves over the steps outside. Clif went out and perched himself near the bottom of the flight. It was not so warm now. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to four. His father would be somewhere about Hartford, he guessed; that is, barring trouble with that soft tire. He hoped there had been no trouble, for his father usually left tire changing to him. Clif smiled. He guessed his father would make pretty hard work of putting on a new tire! Then the smile faded. He was going to miss his father a good deal, he told himself. They had been together so much, that it seemed strange to think that he wasn’t to see him again for a fortnight. He guessed his father would miss him, too. Maybe it was going to be harder for dad than for him!

He wondered why he had decided on Wyndham, when there were so many schools near home which he could have attended as a day student. Well, that was just the reason, wasn’t it? They had both thought it would be better if he went far enough away so that he would get the benefit of school life. “You pick the place yourself, son,” Mr. Bingham had said. “I don’t care what the price is, only see that you get your money’s worth.” And so, after months of indecision during which he had perused a veritable library of prospectuses and catalogues, Clif had chosen the John Wyatt Wyndham Preparatory School for Boys for no better reason than that while looking through the program of last year’s Brown and Dartmouth game he had paused at a half-tone picture of a clean, earnest looking youth in football togs and idly read the lines beneath it:

“E. W. Langley, Jr., End. Class of 1923, age 21, weight 169, height 5 ft. 11 in. Cooperstown, N. Y. Prepared at Wyndham School.”

Clif had watched “Wuzzy” Langley play football, and “Wuzzy” had become very close to hero size in Clif’s estimation, and it seemed to him that a school that could turn out fellows like “Wuzzy,” fellows who played wonderful football and whose names were synonymous with all that was clean and healthy and manly, was exactly the school he was looking for. That evening he told his father that he had decided on a school, and Mr. Bingham, after learning his reason for choosing Wyndham, gravely agreed that he had undoubtedly made a wise selection. If Mr. Bingham was secretly amused he didn’t show it. So Clif wrote for literature and studied it interestedly. Even if the description and pictures sent to him had been disappointing he would still have gone to Wyndham, but they weren’t. On the contrary, what he read increased his enthusiasm, and after that, until he received assurance from “J. Coles, Secretary,” that he had been admitted, he was on tenterhooks.

It wasn’t until close to the time for departure that the thought of being separated from his father began to dampen his pleasure of anticipation. There were days, toward the last, when he would have backed down had Mr. Bingham given him the slightest encouragement. Keeping on at high school seemed plenty good enough then. But Mr. Bingham kept on smiling cheerfully and the fatal day grew nearer and nearer and—then one September morning they were speeding off in the car, Clif’s trunk in the tonneau, and the die was cast.

Clif’s somewhat doleful reminiscences were broken into by the tooting of a motor horn down the drive, and a big blue bus rolled past to East Hall and disgorged nearly a score of very small, very noisy boys. “The infant class has arrived,” said a youth behind Clif. A second bus paused at West Hall and a dozen or so older fellows went crowding past, bag laden, exchanging greetings. A load of trunks passed around the side of the wing. The tall clock in the reception room chimed out four o’clock. Another automobile, a hired vehicle, crowded to the steps and four more laughing, sun-browned fellows piled out of it and dragged suit cases and bags to the gravel while one of the number haggled amusingly with the driver. When the new arrivals had disappeared inside Clif remembered Kemble and wondered if that objectionable youth had been released from his session with Mr. Wyatt, and, if he had, whether he was even now preparing for his exodus. Judging from the expression Clif had seen on his face, Kemble’s chance of remaining at Wyndham was mighty slim! Well, Clif guessed the school would be well rid of him. Fellows who hadn’t the common decency to mind their own affairs and—and didn’t know any better than to sit and gloat over another chap’s—another chap’s—well, embarrassment, weren’t wanted at a school like Wyndham. No, sir! Only—well, when you came to think of it, it was sort of tough to get turned down like that. And the fellow was kind of nice looking, too; and there had been something about him. Sort of—sort of appealing. Or—or something. Oh, well, Clif didn’t wish him any ill luck. If they let him stay it wouldn’t make any difference to Clif. There’d be room enough for both of them in a school that looked after a hundred and ninety fellows!

Presently he got up and climbed the stairs again to Number 17. Walter Treat’s trunk had arrived and he was unpacking. Clif sat down on a window seat and watched. Walter was astonishingly methodical and particular. It took him many minutes to dispose of a couple of dozen collars to his liking in the left-hand top drawer of his chiffonier, and he rearranged his five pairs of shoes exactly three times along the bottom shelf of his closet. Clif began to wonder if he was going to like Walter Treat, after all. Conversation was desultory, consisting mainly of questions from Clif and answers from Walter. The latter was parsimonious of information, then and ever after. It seemed to be Walter’s philosophy to never offer anything not asked for and then to give as little as possible of it. But by dint of requestioning Clif managed to elicit information regarding school customs and rules which he stood in need of; information regarding the hours for meals, the location of class rooms, the time of rising and so on. With his father—they had reached Freeburg at half-past twelve and had luncheon at the Inn before proceeding to the school—Clif had been conducted through the buildings by one of the faculty and had everything shown and explained. But there were certain details that Mr. Frost, Latin instructor and Assistant to the Principal, had neglected, and it was these that Clif now obtained, not without difficulty, from Walter.

“What sort of a chap is this Mr. McKnight?” Clif inquired. “He’s my adviser, you know.”

“‘Lovey’? Not a bad sort. He’s Chem.”

“Yes, I know, but is he—is he a young man or a fossil?”

“About twenty-eight, I believe. Haven’t seen him yet?”

“No, I’ve got a date at seven-thirty to fix up my schedule. I’m glad he’s youngish. And how about Wyatt?”

“You won’t like him. ‘Alick’s’ a tartar. But you won’t have him more than four hours a week. He’s English Lit.”

“Do you have McKnight, too?”

“For adviser? No, ‘Cheese’ is my ‘nurse.’ He’s French. You don’t have him until next year.”

“Is Cheese his real name, or—”

“Parks, Charles Parks. They call him ‘Charlie’ sometimes.”

“Do they all have pet names?” asked Clif.

“Naturally. There’s ‘Old Brad’ and ‘Lovey’ and ‘Pink’ and ‘Cocky’—and ‘Wim’—”

“Who’s ‘Cocky’?”

“Babcock, Physical Director and Hygiene. ‘Wim’s’ Head of the Junior School. It’s run separate, you know. Then there’s ‘The Turk’ and—” But possibly Walter realized that he was offering unsolicited information, for he stopped short, selected a towel from a neat pile in a lower drawer and made for the lavatory. Clif hugged a knee and watched the shadows creep across the courtyard. Life didn’t look promising to him just then. This fellow Treat—well, Clif didn’t believe he was going to find him just what his name implied. Sort of a “frozen-face,” he seemed. Maybe you were like that if you came from Boston. Still, there had been a corking chap at the beach last month who had hailed from the Hub, too. Too bad he wasn’t to have Benson for a pal instead of Walter Treat. Even that cheeky Kemble was more—more human, Clif grudgingly acknowledged. He got up and sent a difficult look toward Mr. Wyatt’s window. It was empty now and the room was full of shadows. His watch proclaimed four-forty. There remained, then, an hour and twenty minutes before dinner—no, supper. Funny scheme, having supper in the evening and dinner at midday. He didn’t suppose he was going to like that at first. Well, there were probably plenty of other things he wouldn’t like any better! He guessed there wasn’t any school that was as nice as a fellow’s own home. Thinking of the square, brick house back in Providence made him feel decidedly unhappy. Pretty soon—well, not yet, but in another two or three hours—the lights would come out all over the city, and from the window of his room up there on the hill it was like looking down on fairyland. Sophie would be trotting to the front door about now, looking for the evening paper. She always got it first and took it back to the pantry and read the love story and the beauty hints before any one else could get hold of it. And pretty soon dad would come walking up the hill, the Boston financial paper held in one gloved hand, his silver-knobbed stick in the other—no, he wouldn’t either; not this evening. Clif looked at his watch again. His father ought to be somewhere around Willimantic now; maybe further; he had a way of “stepping on it” when the road was clear that was a caution! Clif wished mightily that he was in that softly purring car this minute!

Walter came back, looking annoyingly virtuous for having washed up, and Clif said he guessed he’d walk around a bit. He would have been glad if Walter had offered to accompany him, as little as that youth’s society would have appealed to him under other circumstances, but Walter didn’t offer. He just said “Yes,” in that irritatingly noncommittal way of his. Clif took up his cap and went out and down the stairs and so, presently, into the late sunshine. Well, it was a heap better than that gloomy room, he told himself, and the threatened attack of homesickness disappeared. He walked down the drive and out at the wide gate at the corner of the grounds and on to Oak Street. He knew it was Oak Street because a neat sign told him so. The village proper began a block south with comfortable if unpretentious residences that presently merged into the business district. The hotel, the Freeburg Inn, at which they had eaten a very satisfactory luncheon, was across the wide, elm-shaded street. Beyond it was a short block of two-story brick store buildings; a busy, modern looking drug store, a hardware emporium with one window devoted to football and other sporting goods, a dry goods store, a grocery displaying a colorful array of canned fruit, a real-estate and insurance office. There were more stores on the other side, and then, at the corner, the Town Hall; and the library beyond that, where the street branched and a tiny patch of park surrounded a memorial fountain. At the apex of the junction a small fire house offered, through a wide doorway, an arresting glimpse of red paint and shining brass. Clif paused to look in at the apparatus, wondering why an alarm of fire never came in while a fellow was on hand to get the benefit of it! Beyond the fire house more residences bordered the quiet stretch of recently sprinkled asphalt, but they offered small interest to the boy and he crossed to the other side of Oak Street and loitered back, stopping before each window until he had exhausted its possibilities for entertainment. He managed to kill more than a half hour in this wise, and got back to West Hall about half after five to find Number 17 empty and dark. The room, however, looked quite cheerful after he had switched on the lights, and he got a magazine he had brought with him and read until a few minutes to six. He was still slicking down his wet hair when a gong clanged thrice somewhere below. He put out the lights and, suddenly aware of a very healthy appetite, set out for the dining hall.

CHAPTER III
“LOVEY” McKNIGHT

The dining hall occupied the ground floor of the rear section of West Hall, a spacious room of oak beams and rough gray plaster, of paneled walls and many high windows. On either side, like soldiers on parade, eight white-draped tables were spaced. There was, also, a seventeenth table, but this was in the corner beyond the door that led to Middle Hall, and, whereas the other tables held twelve persons each, the seventeenth accommodated only Doctor Wyndham; Mr. Frost, his assistant; Miss Coles, the secretary; and Mrs. Flood, Junior School matron. At the head of each of the eight tables along the farther wall sat a faculty member; in Wyndham School parlance, a “fac”; and his surveillance included not only the board at which he sat but also the one directly across from it. Seats at tables bearing even numbers were much sought after since those were the ones lacking, as one might say, local government. Clif, though, wasn’t aware of good fortune when he found himself seated at Table 12; beyond, that is, the good fortune of being provided a place where food was supplied.

There was nothing especially remarkable about any of his table companions, he decided after furtive study. Many of the eleven were of about his own age; three or four were older. One of the latter sat at the head of the board, a broadshouldered, athletic-looking fellow of possibly eighteen with good features and a pleasant, crisp voice. He didn’t talk much, however. Clif mentally catalogued him as a person of importance, probably a football or crew captain. The boy on his right was thin and nervous and ate a great deal. The one on his left was neither thin nor nervous, but, or so it seemed to Clif, equally heroic with the food. Directly opposite sat a short youth with a large, square head and hair that grew erect and was very thick and coarse and black. This youth had table manners never learned from any book of etiquette, Clif thought. It was evident that the members of Table 12 were not yet well acquainted, for conversation was neither general nor frequent. Clif applied himself diligently to the matter of satisfying his appetite, finding more food than sufficient and of an excellent quality; then, having finished, made his way out again.

His course took him around the end of Table 10, and as he passed he was surprised to find himself spoken to. “Hi, Bingham,” said a voice. Clif looked, expecting to see Walter Treat, but the boy who had spoken, seated at the farther side of the table, was Kemble. He waved the half of a muffin and followed his hail with: “Wait around, will you? I want to speak to you.” Clif nodded and went on. So, it appeared, Kemble had survived the ordeal after all! Probably he wanted to arrange about that scrap in the morning. Evidently he was a man of his word and didn’t intend to attempt a back-down. Clif followed some other fellows along the corridor, past the reading room and library on one side and the offices on the other, and reached the recreation room. The place appeared pretty well filled, but, after a moment’s hesitation at the doorway, he saw that there were still vacant seats along the leather-cushioned bench that followed the walls from door to great stone fireplace. He picked his way between the chattering groups and found a place by one of the front windows and looked about him.

The recreation room was a big square apartment filled with chairs and couches and game tables. Already several games of chess or checkers were in progress, and Clif wondered how the players could put their minds on their problems with such a din of talk and laughter going on about them. There was one huge table in the center of the room, and from it half a dozen fellows swung their feet and took part in a loud discussion with the occupants of several clustered chairs. Clif couldn’t make out what the subject under consideration was, because they all talked at once, but it was undoubtedly important since several of the assemblage were gesticulating excitedly and getting quite red of face. Clif watched for a minute or two and then turned his gaze to a checker battle being waged a few feet distant between two absorbed and silent opponents. He had become quite interested in it when some one squeezed down beside him on the bench and claimed his attention.

“Well, I didn’t have any luck,” announced Kemble.

“How do you mean? Aren’t you going to stay?” Clif took pains to keep all trace of interest from his voice.

“That’s it,” replied Kemble. “I am. Wyatt said he ought to turn me down, but that that would be too easy on me. Said he was going to pass me and devote the next three years to letting light in on the dark places. Or something insulting like that. Anyway, I’ve got to stay.”

“But don’t you want to?” asked Clif, surprised.

Kemble shook his head gravely. “I don’t know. Of course I did want to when I came, but Wyatt got me scared so I was dead sure I couldn’t, and so I had it all planned to go back home. And now he’s gone and double-crossed me and I’ve got to—to readjust myself, so to say. Isn’t that the dickens?”

Clif eyed the other suspiciously. “I guess you’ll live through it,” he said coldly. “What class are you?”

“Third. You, too, I suppose.”

Clif nodded. “Funny you being shy on English. The course doesn’t look hard in the catalogue.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose it’s hard. I just never got up much interest in those guys that wrote literature. I’m pretty fair on math and Latin and history and the rest of the junk, though. Well, I’ll just have to make the best of it, I suppose. Got your schedule fixed up yet?”

“No, I’m to see Mr. McKnight at half-past seven.”

“We’ll probably get the same hours, mostly,” mused Kemble. “Fellow sufferers, we twain!”

“Gee, if you don’t want to study or anything, what did you come here for?” demanded Clif impatiently.

“Thunder! You don’t suppose I came because I wanted to, do you?” asked Kemble incredulously. “I wanted to stay where I was, at Morristown. I was dead sure of the First Team this fall, too, hang it!”

“Where’s Morristown, and what First Team do you mean?”

“New Jersey, of course. High School Team. I’d made the backfield certain if I’d been there. I nearly did it last year.”

“Well, you can play football here, can’t you?”

“Yes, and you can jump out the third-story window, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to fly! A swell chance I’d have to make the team here, Bingham! Oh, well!”

“I guess it’s just a question of playing well enough. I’m going to try, anyhow.”

“That so? Played much? What school?”

“I haven’t played much, no,” answered Clif, “but I mean to. I played on our Second Team last fall, but just as a sub. I was too light. I’ve put on eight or ten pounds since then, though.”

“Back?”

“End.”

“Half back’s mine. Still, I’d play—play center if they’d let me! Best you and I’ll make, though, is a class team or a hall team, or whatever they have here. Well, if the old high school gets licked this year it’ll be Wyatt’s fault.”

Clif laughed, and then, remembering that here was an enemy, he froze up quickly. “I guess it would worry him to know that,” he remarked with immense sarcasm. “Look here, Kemble, how about to-morrow?”

“To-morrow?” Kemble looked blank.

“Yes, to-morrow,” answered Clif sternly. “You needn’t pretend you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, that! I really had forgotten, though; give you my word, Bingham. Why, any time you say. That is, if you really want to go on with it.”

“I certainly do,” answered Clif emphatically. “Unless,” he added after an instant, “you care to apologize.” He hoped, when he had said it, that his tone hadn’t sounded as eager to Kemble as it had to him!

“Apologize? Sure! Why not?” replied the other readily. “That’s much the best way, eh? You know, I’m about a dozen pounds heavier than you, old scout, and a couple of inches taller, too, and I guess—here, put your arm out.” Clif obeyed and Kemble tucked his fingers under the other’s armpit. “Just as I thought. I can outreach you by two inches.”

“That makes no difference,” declared Clif warmly. “You said you’d fight me—”

“Yes, I know,” broke in Kemble soothingly, “but I’ve apologized, haven’t I?”

“No, you haven’t. You merely said you were willing to.”

“Oh, gosh, why the formality? All right, though. I apologize, Bingham, for—I say, what the dickens do I apologize for?”

His perplexity was so genuine that Clif’s severity relaxed in spite of himself. It was, he decided, no use trying to stay angry with this chap, and having reached that decision he felt much relieved, and laughed frankly at the puzzled Kemble. Whereupon Kemble’s brow cleared and he grinned back.

“You’re a perfect ass,” declared Clif indulgently.

“No one is perfect,” Kemble demurred modestly, “although some of us do come pretty close.”

“Just the same, you were a good deal of a rotter to sit there and—and make fun—”

“Yes, I was, Bingham, and I’m sorry. I apologize, honestly. It isn’t much of an excuse, I know, but—but I wasn’t feeling very chipper myself.”

Clif nodded. Kemble, of course, was referring to that session with Mr. Wyatt. Then:

“Maybe,” added Kemble more constrainedly, “I’ll tell you about it some time.”

“Oh!” said Clif, for want of anything better. Kemble was staring frowningly at the nearby checker board. Observing him, Clif sensed a matter more serious than the recent English quiz. A silence that might have become slightly awkward in another moment was dispelled by the golden tones of the clock across the corridor. They reached Clif even above the noise of the room, and he sprang to his feet. “Gee! Seven-thirty! I’ve got to beat it, Kemble. Listen; I—”

“Go ahead. I’m with you.”

In the corridor, where half a dozen boys were awaiting their turns at the telephone booths outside the Office, Kemble said, “Look for me in Assembly Hall at eight, eh? I’ll stick around the door.”

“Right-o!” agreed Clif, making for the stairs. “Wear a red carnation, will you?”

Kemble grinned and waved.

Although Clif reached his appointment several minutes late he had to wait several more minutes while Mr. McKnight disposed of a previous visitor, and he used the time in making an interested and approving examination of his surroundings. There were four faculty suites in each of the two dormitory buildings, and Mr. McKnight occupied Number 19, W., just around the corner from Clif’s room. Number 19, however, didn’t resemble Number 17 much. The study was a big, nearly square room with windows on two sides. Back of it, visible between parted draperies of dark blue, was the bedroom, and from that opened a bathroom of white tiling and gleaming nickel. But it was the study that enthralled Clif. Everything about it was so homelike and jolly. There was a small grand piano by the nearer window with a gorgeous silk prayer rug laid across it. Before the fireplace ran a huge couch that simply begged to be lolled in, and there was a shaded light behind one corner, in exactly the right place for reading. Rugs covered the floor, pictures—good ones, too, Clif was certain—peered down from the pleasant dimness of paneled walls, bookcases flanked the chimney. Here and there a deep chair; its leather cushion a mite shabby from honorable service, held forth inviting arms. Beside one, on a low stand, lay a blackened pipe, a magazine, opened face-down, and a heavy brass paper knife. For the first time Clif discerned advantages in the profession of pedagogy. If a fellow could live in a room like this, why, gee, teaching wouldn’t be so bad!

Mr. McKnight sat at the farther side of a desk table, the light from a green-shaded lamp cutting him off at the top button of his waistcoat and leaving his face in mellow shadow. But when Clif had taken the chair across the polished expanse of mahogany surface the instructor’s countenance was plainly visible. Mr. McKnight was the youngest member of the faculty, being but twenty-eight. Although his first name was Godfrey, he was popularly known as “Lovey.” The reason was obscure. Some said that he had brought the nickname with him from college, others that it had been conferred upon him after he had arrived at Wyndham, but none could say why. Clif didn’t consider that the name suited. In the first place, “Lovey” was rather a large man, dark haired, keen eyed and deep voiced; and, after that, there was nothing at all effeminate in his manner nor affectionate in the tone in which he had bade Clif exchange the chair by the door for that at the table.

“Your name’s Clifton Bingham,” said Mr. McKnight briskly. “You’re in the Third Class.”

Clif assented, watching the instructor take a gray oblong of cardboard from a drawer and begin to write on it. The writing was small and extremely neat and legible.

“You have five prescribed courses in this term, of a total of eighteen hours, Bingham, as I presume you know. I include Hygiene, two hours, and I mention it because formerly one didn’t get it until Second Class year.” His pen moved rapidly and certainly. “There are two other courses open to you, either of which you may elect if you care to. They’re both ‘snap’ courses, you know, Bingham, and won’t strain you any. But if I were you I’d leave them alone this year; at least until the next term. I find that you chaps have plenty of work if you do it right. All right. Now about athletics.” Mr. McKnight laid his pen down, pushed the gray card aside and folded his hands. “Anything in that line appeal to you?”

“I’m going out for football, sir,” said Clif.

“Good. You understand that regular participation in some recognized sport is demanded, and that in any case you are required to attend gymnasium classes unless excused by the Physical Instructor, Mr. Babcock. If you are taken permanently on to one of the football squads you won’t have to bother with gym stuff for a while. See Mr. Babcock to-morrow, by the way. You’ll find him in his office in the gymnasium from nine to twelve. Or you can get him at his study in East Hall, probably. Better look this over and then put it somewhere where you can refer to it until you’ve got your hours memorized.”

He indicated the schedule and Clif picked it up and, after a somewhat vague examination, placed it in a pocket. Mr. McKnight asked about his roommate, about his football experience and about himself, and Clif gradually sank back against the chair and felt more at ease. Mr. McKnight leaned back, too, and listened and watched. Clif told about Providence and high school and his father and, before he realized it, how he had decided on Wyndham School. Mr. McKnight chuckled then, but it was a genial, understanding sort of chuckle, and Clif smiled in response, and after that the instructor didn’t seem so awe-inspiring.

“That,” said Mr. McKnight, “reminds me of the story of the boy whose father and mother wanted him to go to college but who wasn’t keen on it himself. His father wanted Jack to go to Princeton and his mother wanted him to go to Harvard. (You can swap the names around to suit yourself, Bingham. I’m a Princeton man, and I’m telling it the Princeton way.) Jack didn’t care where he went, you understand, and so, after his parents had argued the matter for weeks, he said, ‘Tell you what, Dad. I’ll toss a coin. If it comes down heads, you win and I go to Princeton. If it comes down tails, Ma wins and I go to Harvard.’ So they agreed and Jack tossed up a quarter and when it fell and stopped rolling, there it was leaning up against the leg of a chair, straight on edge! Jack took a look at it and kicked it down the register. ‘It’s a “dud.” I’ve got to go to Yale!’”

Clif laughed, but not so heartily as he might have if he had not at that period been vacillating between Yale and Brown as a scene for future scholastic and athletic triumphs!

A few minutes later Mr. McKnight said, “I’d like to remind you, Bingham, that an adviser is one who supplies advice. Most fellows think his business is only to get them out of trouble. Well, I’m always glad to do all I can in that way, but you chaps ought to remember that prevention is better than cure and that if you come here for advice you’re not likely to come back later for help. Just bear that in mind, won’t you? And bear in mind that I’ve been through just what you and all the rest of you are going through—and not so long ago, either—and know pretty well what your problems and temptations are. So don’t think I’m no use to you except to advise you about your studies. Studies, school work, are a small part of your life here. The real problems and the biggest worries are likely to concern your relationship with your fellows, your attitude toward the school, your social and athletic interests. Very often the smallest problems are the hardest to solve, Bingham. Well, when you run up against something that you can’t settle to your own satisfaction come and see me and we’ll talk it over. Maybe we’ll find the answer that way, maybe we won’t; but it always helps to talk it over. Sort of blows the fog away. You’ll find me here in the evenings, generally, and always between five and six. And that reminds me: Friday evenings, after study hour, we get together here and have a sort of quiet shindig; talk a good deal, have a little music, maybe, and get acquainted. Not much in the way of excitement, you know, but usually a pleasant time is had by all. Drop in as often as you can, Bingham, and bring a friend with you.” Mr. McKnight glanced at his watch. “You’ve just time to make assembly hall before the fun starts. Good night. Drop in often, Bingham. You don’t have to wait for a Friday evening, you know.”

Traversing the dimly lighted corridor of Middle Hall, past the gloomy caverns of the darkened class rooms, Clif was sensible of a new cheerfulness. The echoes aroused by the brisk tramp of his feet on the old, worn floor sounded almost friendly to him.

CHAPTER IV
A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR

To reach the assembly hall, which occupied the entire first floor rear section of East Hall, just as the dining hall occupied the same location on the other side, Clif had to go the length of Middle Hall, pass into the wider corridor of the newer building beyond, turn left and follow the main corridor to the staircase. East Hall, save for a dozen rooms on the third floor, was devoted principally to the use of the Junior School, composed of boys between the ages of eleven and fourteen. Mr. Clendenin, known as “Wim” because of his invariable custom of signing himself “Wm. Clendenin,” was at the head. The Juniors had their own parlor, recreation room, library, reading room, game room and office on the ground floor. They ate, however, in the dining hall in West and shared the class rooms in Middle with the older students. Middle, once containing all there was of the school, had long since been remodeled into class rooms only.

Doctor Wyndham, the Principal, occupied a suite of three rooms and bath on the second floor of East Hall. Other suites, smaller, similar to Mr. McKnight’s, were situate in each of the newer buildings, and accommodated fourteen faculty members.

Clif descended the stairway to the first floor corridor. At the far end the vicinity of the assembly hall entrance was crowded with boys who, waiting outside until the last moment, had now begun to crowd through the wide doorway. Clif concluded that he was the last one to arrive, but he wasn’t, since, as he passed the open door of a room beyond Mr. Clendenin’s office, he was obliged to step quickly aside to avoid collision with a wheel chair which, emerging noiselessly on rubber tires, had given him no warning. The chair was occupied by a boy a year or so Clif’s senior. A dark plaid rug covered the lower part of his body. On a shelf stretched between the chair arms lay a book and a fountain pen. The occupant of the chair propelled it by the wheels, turning it deftly to avoid Clif and directing it along the corridor toward assembly hall. He smiled an apology as he did so. Noting that he was obliged to lean forward slightly to grasp the wheels, or, rather, a rim that projected from them for the purpose of propulsion, Clif said impulsively:

“Let me be chauffeur, won’t you?”

The boy in the chair looked back and smiled again. “Why, thanks. I’m just going to the assembly hall, and it really isn’t hard, but if you don’t mind giving me a shove—”

“Glad to,” said Clif heartily.

By the time they had reached the door the throng had thinned to a few embarrassed, giggling juniors, and, at the other’s request, Clif wheeled the chair just inside the portal. Doctor Wyndham was already on the platform and the fellows were clapping loudly. The boy in the chair smiled his thanks and Clif tiptoed across to Tom, who had saved a seat for him in the rear row.

“Who’s that fellow?” asked Tom in whispers.

“I don’t know. I met him in the corridor.” Then, as the applause ceased, Clif gave his attention to the speaker. Doctor Wyndham was a tall, erect man of sixty who looked rather more like a successful business executive than a school principal. His hair, of which he had managed to retain a goodly amount, was scarcely more than grizzled, and his healthily tanned skin spoke of fine physical condition. He was extremely good looking and very distinguished appearing, and the School was proud of him. That he was the business man as well as the pedagogue was proved by the institution of which he was the head and owner. In the brief space of twenty-four years he had built it up from nothing to one of the finest and best-known preparatory schools of the east. The Doctor had been a widower for many years and was without children. It was believed that, at his death, the school would go to Mr. Wyatt, his nephew.

He had a wonderfully clear and resonant voice and enunciated each word so distinctly that, listening, one was likely to lose the matter of his discourse in the enjoyment of his delivery. Something of that sort occurred to Clif, for when the frequent patter of applause broke in on the pleasant flow he usually discovered that he didn’t know what the speaker had just said. Then, too, the boy in the wheel chair interested Clif. He stole frequent glances across and wondered a good deal about him. He looked remarkably healthy, with a good deal of color in his cheeks and plenty of sparkle in his dark eyes. His hair was dark, too, almost black, it seemed, and was brushed straight back from a high forehead which, aided by a straight nose and a slightly pointed chin, made Clif think of the Flaxman profiles of ancient Greek heroes. A handsome fellow, Clif decided, and attractive. He had frequently heard the word magnetic used in reference to persons, but this was the first time it had ever occurred to him as appropriate. He concluded that he would rather like to know the boy in the chair.

The Principal’s talk was a good deal like a dozen or more other talks he had made on similar occasions. There was a welcome to the new students, a greeting to the old ones, much sensible advice on many subjects, a reference to athletics—and especially football, a touch of humor here and there and, at the last, an appeal to his hearers for a conscientious performance of their duties to themselves, their parents and the School. Outside, Clif hazarded the opinion that it had been a mighty fine talk, hoping that Tom wouldn’t call on him to prove it by quotations. Tom said: “Yes, but I didn’t get much of it. Let’s go over to the big city and buy some peanuts or something, Bingham. I’m starved!”

“Will they let us?”

“Why not? There’s no study hour to-night. Anyway, we won’t be gone more than ten minutes.”

There was a light behind the windows of Number 17 West as they passed the courtyard, and Clif pictured Walter Harrison Treat up there rearranging his shoes for the fourth time and chuckled. Kemble asked what the joke was and Clif explained. Kemble declared that Treat must be a pill, adding: “I wish you and I had got together, Bingham. I’m with a Second Class fellow named Desmond, Billy Desmond. Not a bad sort, but a bit snifty because he’s been around here a couple of years.”

“I guess Treat feels sort of superior for the same reason,” mused Clif.

“I don’t want to be harsh with Desmond, because he’s a First Team man; plays tackle, I think; and he might be useful. I say, you’re going out for practice to-morrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I haven’t heard anything about it, but I suppose they want candidates.”

“Of course they do. Did you bring togs?”

“Some old ones. I’ll get others if—it’s worth while.”

“Oh, you’ll get to play somewhere. Desmond says there’s a lot of rivalry amongst the class teams. And then there’s the scrub, too.”

“I’ll be lucky to make that, I guess. The fellows here look awfully big and husky, Kemble.”

“Yes, there’s a guy at my table who must be nineteen if he’s a day, and if he doesn’t top six feet I’ll eat my hat! Say, I wonder if we can’t fix it to get together in dining hall. Suppose they’ll let us? I’ll find out to-morrow. There’s a fruit store over there, and I think I smell peanuts!”

Going back, Kemble explained, while he cracked peanuts steadily, that he hadn’t been able to do very well at supper. “Mental exhaustion, you know. I was all in when Wyatt let me go. I ought to hate that guy, but I don’t seem to. He surely handed me some hot ones, but I guess I deserved them. What’s the good of knowing so blamed much about the queers who wrote books a couple of hundred years ago? Heck, it’s all I can do to half keep track of the guys who are doing it now! Wyatt asked me to tell him what I knew about Scott, and I said he was a mighty clever shortstop, but I didn’t know his batting average. But, gosh, he wasn’t talking baseball, he was talking about the fellow who wrote ‘Ivanhoe’!”

“I saw you from my window when you were making some of those brilliant sallies,” laughed Clif, “and you certainly did look unhappy, Kemble!”

“I was! Say, drop the ‘Kemble,’ will you? I’m generally called Tom.”

“I like Tom better. My name’s Clif, short for Clifton.”

“I know. I heard your father call you that. That’s a real classy name.”

Clif reflected that he hadn’t thought of his father for a long while, and felt sort of guilty.

“Not much style to Thomas,” the other was continuing. “My middle name’s Ackerman. That was my mother’s before she married. When I was a kid I used to write my name T. Ackerman Kemble, but the fellows got on to it and called me Tackerman, and then Tak. Mother used to call me Tommy, but I had to lick a chap in school for doing it. It was all right from her, but I couldn’t stand for it generally.”

“Is your mother—I mean—”

“Yes, she died about six years ago. A man named Winslow is my guardian. Mother didn’t have any near relatives and this guy was her lawyer and so she stung me with him. He’s sort of a pill. I say, pipe the faculty chap on the steps!”

Against the light of West Hall entrance a tall figure was darkly silhouetted as they came up the drive.

“Faculty chaps are bad luck for me,” confided Tom; “like black cats!” Clif laughed uneasily. Then they were at the steps and he said “Good evening, sir,” as pleasantly as he knew how.

“Good evening,” was the response. “Where have you boys been?”

“Just looking around, sir,” answered Tom promptly.

“What have you there?” The man indicated Tom’s right hand. Tom looked and replied affably: “A peanut, sir.”

“Hm. What’s your name?”

“Kemble, sir.”

“And yours?”

“Bingham, sir.”

“Well, Kemble and Bingham, it’s contrary to rules to go off the grounds after six o’clock. You didn’t, I presume, pick that peanut off any of the trees here.”

“Oh, no, sir,” answered Tom. “I rather think they grow on vines.”

“Your knowledge of agriculture is impressive.” Tom thought the instructor’s features relaxed a trifle, but since they were in shadow he couldn’t be certain. “You boys had better report to Mr. Frost in the morning,” he went on. “Tell him Mr. Waltman sent you; and why.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom politely. Then, as Mr. Waltman ascended the steps and disappeared inside the Hall, he added sadly: “Heck! This is a fine start, isn’t it? Something tells me, Clif, that I’m not going to like this place!”

Clif went up to Number 34 with Tom and met the “snifty” roommate and liked him a lot. Billy Desmond was a large, good-hearted and generally smiling fellow of seventeen. Perhaps he was rather inclined just at first to use a patronizing tone with Tom and Clif, but he got over it before many days had passed and was voted a good scout by both of them. To-night he joked them a lot about their mishap and drew lugubrious pictures of the Assistant to the Principal, Mr. Frost, and described a variety of dire results any one of which might befall them. Even though he discounted Billy’s predictions Tom was characteristically pessimistic and frequently reiterated his conviction that he wasn’t going to be happy at Wyndham.

Although on the third floor and on the opposite side of the building from Clif’s room, Number 34 was a replica of it. The only noticeable difference was in the amount of floor space. Number 34 seemed smaller. But Clif soon saw that this was due to a leather couch which, at present occupied by Billy, thrust out from the end of the study table like a sore thumb. It had a history, that couch. Billy had bought it last term from a departing owner who, in turn, had purchased it three years before from some one else. Beyond that point it could not be traced, but it looked every day of twenty years! Its brown leather covering was missing in many places and torn in others, and wherever this was the case the stuffing of tow protruded pathetically. It had been tufted at one time, but the buttons had long since disappeared. While it probably retained the same number of springs with which it had started, most of them had ceased functioning. A few had not, however, and it was those few which made it extremely difficult for the stranger to occupy the couch with any degree of comfort. They stuck up at unexpected places and, in collusion with the slippery surface of the well-worn leather, had deposited many an unwary visitor on the floor. But Billy was very fond of that relic, very proud of it, and was still convinced that when he had exchanged three dollars and twenty-five cents for it he had consummated a master stroke of finance. With the aid of two faded, lumpy pillows—thrown in with the couch for good measure—he occupied a sort of trough down the center of the antiquity and, with the desk light conveniently near, could read or study at ease. Just now, of course, he was doing neither.

“You fellows want to see ‘Cocky’ in the morning and take your physical exams. If you don’t you can’t turn out for practice. You play football, too, I suppose, Bingham?” Billy gave Clif an appraising look that held approval. Clif was tall for his sixteen years and, although lacking weight, didn’t look stringy. Of course, Billy reflected, he wasn’t First Team material yet, but he looked promising. He seemed alert and might be fast. Billy liked his clean-cut features, and the way his face lighted when he smiled. Rather the sort of fellow, he imagined, who would get along fast and make a name for himself at Wyndham.

“You won’t get much more than a lot of hard work this year,” Billy continued when Clif had replied affirmatively. He was addressing them both, however. “But you’ll be mighty glad next year that you had it. That is, you will if you take your medicine and don’t quit because you can’t be bloomin’ heroes the first thing! That’s going to be your trouble, likely, Tom. You’ll go off half-cocked some day and resign because the coach doesn’t pat you on the back.”

“How do you get that way?” asked Tom indignantly. “Don’t you suppose they play football anywhere but here? I’ve played since I was twelve, and I’ve never quit yet, and I’ve had some raw deals, too!”

Billy laughed. “You’re going to be a lot of fun for me this year, Tom,” he said. “You’ve got quite a lot of new stuff, son.”

“Huh!” Tom regarded his roommate doubtfully. Then he grinned. “It’s going to be fifty-fifty, I guess. I’m not the only funny one in this room.”

“Good lad,” approved Billy.

They talked football for a while and Billy told about last year and how Wolcott had turned the tables in the last quarter of the big game and turned a Wyndham victory into a devastating defeat. “We had them all the way until the tag end of that period. We’d scored in the first and second, and booted a goal each time. It was all over but the shouting, you might have thought, for 14 to 3—they’d snitched a field-goal in the third—was good enough for any one, and all we had to do was hold them for the rest of the game. Then they put this chap Grosfawk in at end. No one had ever heard of him before around here. Our scouts didn’t even remember his name. They had the ball down on their thirty, and there was less than five minutes of the game left. Their inside half, Cummins, faked a kick and tossed to this Grosfawk chap, who had managed to sneak pretty well across the field. It wasn’t an awfully long throw, and he made it slow and sure. Grosfawk was just about even with the scrimmage line when he caught and when we’d nailed him he was three yards from our goal-line. He’d run about sixty-five yards, and there wasn’t a fellow on our team who could lay claim to having touched him! Dodge? That boy invented it! And he can run like a jack rabbit. He’s a wonder, and why Wolcott didn’t find it out before that game is more than I know!”

“Did they make the touchdown?” asked Tom.

“Yes, it took them four downs, but they finally got the ball over, and that put the score 14 to 10. We still thought we had the game, and we played for time and stalled all they’d let us. But, shucks, that Grosfawk didn’t know he was licked. Of course we laid for him and he got used sort of hard, but with only a couple of minutes left we didn’t pay so much attention to him as we should have. So what does he do but pull the same stunt? This time he only had about fifty yards to go, and we made him earn them by chasing him back and forth across the field two or three times. I nearly had him once myself. So did most of the others. He got tired of reversing the field after a while. Maybe he was afraid the whistle might go off by accident before he got the touchdown. Anyway, he streaked it through our whole bunch just when it seemed we had him, with two or three of his team interfering by then, and dodged our quarter and went over right between the posts. Well, that spilled the beans good and plenty. Why, we had that old game in our pocket five minutes before! We—we’d even spent it! I guess we were just about the sorriest, saddest, most disgustedest bunch you ever saw that evening!”

Tom chuckled. “Good thing for you fellows Bingham and I came along, I guess. You need some one to look after you and see that those naughty Wolcott boys don’t steal your games. Mighty lucky, I’d say, they didn’t take the uniforms off you fellows when you weren’t looking!”

“You’re a cheeky cuss,” said Billy, but he laughed. “Well, that’s the way the battle was fit, fellows. This year ‘G.G.’ will probably detail a couple of fellows to do nothing but watch Mr. Grosfawk. If he ever gets loose, good-by, game!”

“Oh, piffle,” said Tom. “The guy’s good, I dare say, but you fellows let him hypnotize you. It takes more than one player, no matter how good he is, to win a game. All you’ve got to do this year is break up their passing game. You must have had a slow bunch, I guess.”

“Tom,” said Billy, shaking his head, “you’re a great little know-it-all. You come around and tell me all that again in a couple of months and maybe I’ll believe it. There’s the gong, Bingham. Better beat it. Good night. See you again soon, I hope.”

CHAPTER V
OUT FOR THE TEAM

Despite Tom’s forebodings the interview with Mr. Frost went off quite pleasantly the next morning. The Principal’s assistant was rather bald and wore thick-lensed spectacles, but he was quite a young man and did not strive to appear otherwise. He seemed more amused than pained by the explanation of the visit.

“Tough luck, boys, to buck the rules the first night of the term!” he commented. “Of course you knew you shouldn’t do it?”

Clif assured him he hadn’t known it, and Mr. Frost—“Homer” the school called him, that being his given name—turned to a page in a blue-covered booklet, placed a finger half-way down it and invited Clif to read. It was there, as plain as daylight, and Clif, who had perused that volume thoroughly, as he thought, couldn’t understand how he had missed it. As for Tom, the latter explained cheerfully that he had only looked at the pictures! Mr. Frost gravely presented each of them with a copy of the booklet, advising them to become better acquainted with the school regulations, and dismissed them smilingly.

Returning to West Hall, Clif made fun of his companion for having been so pessimistic last evening. Tom grinned. “There’s something wrong with that fellow,” he answered. “He won’t be here long. You mark my words, Clif. He’s too easy!”

That first day was devoted principally to preparing for future labor. He and Tom visited several class rooms and listened to instructions and made notes. They bought books and stationery. They also visited Mr. Babcock, the Physical Director, in the gymnasium, which stood a few rods back of East Hall, and underwent tests. Since there were at least a dozen other fellows waiting, “Cocky” put them through expeditiously, handed each a small card bearing his name and a lot of figures and dismissed them. Then came dinner, followed by another visit to Middle where, in Room H, they listened while Mr. Waltman explained what a beautiful thing was the Science of Mathematics and how much pleasure could be derived from the study of it, if they would but realize it. “The Turk” also dwelt at some length on the results that might accrue to them if they didn’t realize it! Tom, who had taken a dislike to the instructor since last evening, made sarcastic comments under his breath and caricatured “The Turk” on the back of a blue book. Finally, having obediently taken note of to-morrow’s lesson, they were released. Going out, Clif glimpsed the wheel chair and its occupant rolling along the corridor toward East Hall. He had encountered them several times before during the day. Evidently, he concluded, the fellow was Third Class, too. He spoke to Tom about it.

“I don’t know what class he is,” said Tom, “but his name’s Deane. I heard a chap call him that this morning. Get your togs and wait for me down front. I won’t be more than a minute.”

They obtained adjoining lockers in the gymnasium and changed into football attire. Then, since they were early for practice, they snooped around the building, upstairs and down. The gymnasium was new and well appointed. The floor was large enough for two basketball games to be played at once, there was a good running track above, and, occupying the second story of the wing, a rowing room and two other apartments variously used for fencing, boxing, wrestling and possibly other sports. Underneath was a large baseball cage and a dressing room for visiting teams. The basement, which was half above ground and well lighted, held the lockers, a swimming pool, shower baths and the trainer’s quarters. On the main floor, near the front entrance, Mr. Babcock had his office.

There were numerous trophies to be viewed and a wealth of pictures hung about the halls and rooms, most of the latter group photographs of teams and crews of former years. Here and there, however, was to be seen a picture of a football game or a view of a crew race. “‘1919—Wyndham 16—Wolcott 0,’” read Tom. “Huh! ‘1917—Wyndham by Seven Lengths.’ Say, it’s a funny thing you can’t find any photographs where we were licked!”

“Well,” laughed Clif, “here’s a football game we only tied. ‘Wyndham 7—Wolcott 7,’ it says.”

“That must have got hung up by mistake! But it’s a pretty nifty gym, just the same. Let’s go and see what the field’s like.”

Wyndham School had almost outgrown its athletic field, but the fact wasn’t apparent to Clif and Tom as they left the gymnasium and started across the grass toward the football gridiron. The farther line of the school property was indicated by a soldierly array of tall poplars. Against them, almost directly across from the gymnasium, was a commodious concrete stand. The quarter-mile track was in front, inclosing the First Team gridiron. Another pair of goals, farther away, provided a field for the second squad, while what was known as the class field lay, somewhat cramped, behind the school halls. There were two diamonds, although in the fall the Second Team gridiron infringed on the more distant one. A brook flowed across one corner of the property and had been dammed to make a sizable pond well south of the running track. In winter the pond supplied skating facilities and sufficient surface for two rinks, but at other seasons its usefulness was not so evident. When the soccer team played on the small expanse of turf awarded to them the small punt now moored to a stake was occupied by some Junior School volunteer whose duty was to recover errant balls from the placid surface of the pond.

There was only a handful of candidates present when Clif and Tom reached the shade of the covered grandstand and the latter clumped their way to a couple of seats and awaited the beginning of practice. It was a warm afternoon, with but little air stirring, and, although Freeburg was set well amongst the lesser slopes of the Berkshires, that air was decidedly humid. Tom mopped his forehead with the sleeve of a brown jersey and then tried to fan himself with an ancient headguard. “Hope the coach doesn’t give us much to do,” he muttered. “It’s too hot for football.”

“You might suggest it to him,” answered Clif. “I guess that’s he now; the man in the white shirt.”

Tom looked and said he guessed so, too, but he didn’t leave his seat to offer the coach any advice. A more self-assured fellow than Tom would have hesitated to approach “G.G.” on any matter not vitally important. “G.G.’s” name was George G. Otis. Some said the second “G” stood for “Grumpy,” but it really didn’t. It stood for Gray. Mr. Otis wasn’t very large—Captain Dave Lothrop, beside him, was four inches taller and quite as wide of shoulders; and even the long trousers of faded gray flannel didn’t wholly conceal the fact that he was slightly bowlegged. But there was plenty of body there, and the fact that his legs weren’t quite straight hadn’t kept him from winning a fair share of fame as a plunging half not many years back. He hadn’t greatly distinguished himself while at Wyndham, but his subsequent career had been linked with two football teams by which all later teams at his college were judged. He had a rather bullet-shaped head, with thin hair of a faded brown, sharp eyes of a brown that wasn’t the least bit faded, a short nose a bit too flat for beauty, a mouth that closed tight and straight and an aggressive chin. On the whole he wasn’t an Apollo. But he knew a lot of football and could teach it to boys; and teaching football to boys is a different and much harder task than teaching it to men.

“G.G.” didn’t seek popularity, and so he won it. He was a hard taskmaster, could act the tyrant on occasion and had a sharp, harsh tongue. He insisted on absolute obedience and had been known to use drastic methods to enforce discipline. He was sometimes intensely disliked by those who didn’t share his views on the necessity for obedience. But he was fair, could laugh as heartily as any one, off the field, and never made the mistake, a too common one, of expecting boys of preparatory school age to think or perform like collegians. Best of all, perhaps, from the point of view of the School, was the fact that during his three years as coach at Wyndham his charges had won twice from Wolcott. That was almost enough to account for popularity, but I think that there was another reason for it. Boys have a respect for despotism and a liking for being firmly ruled just so long as they are certain that the despotism is just and the ruler is worthy. And as a despot George G. Otis would have satisfied the most demanding!

Tom, after looking the coach over exhaustively from the distance of some ten yards, said “Huh!” in a very doubtful tone. After a moment he said “Huh!” again, and this time it seemed to express conviction. It did, for he followed it with: “Something tells me, Clif, I’m not going to like that guy! He—he’s got a bad eye!”

The gathering in front of the stand increased rapidly, while the stand itself began to fill along its front seats with spectators. Mr. Hilliard, Instructor in Modern Languages, who was also assistant coach, joined the throng by the bench. The trainer, Dan Farrell, a short, chunky man with a round, good-natured countenance and sharp blue eyes, directed the unloading of the two-wheeled pushcart of its contents; two canvas bags of ancient and scarred footballs, a carboy of water, two cartons of paper cups, two buckets, a large sponge, several headguards, a skein of shoe lacings, a battered black bag and some other objects. The black bag held Dan’s first-aid appliances. The manager, Jack Macon, carried a board with a clip at one end that held down several large sheets of paper. He talked with Mr. Otis while the two assistant managers, one from the Second and one from the Third Class, wandered about vaguely as though anxious to be helpful but not knowing how. Clif saw the coach pull a watch from his trousers pocket and glance at it, and nudged his companion.

“Let’s get down,” he said.

So they clumped back to the field, Clif, at least, feeling extremely unimportant amidst the gathering of older, larger and self-confident youths. Here and there, however, was a boy whose appearance or bearing proclaimed the neophyte, and Clif regained a trifle of assurance. Tom, although still plainly disapproving of Mr. Otis, showed no indication of being troubled by an inferiority complex. He sauntered to the thick of the throng, and Clif went with him, showing, though, a disposition to keep in the lee of his companion’s slightly larger bulk. The coach clapped his hands and silence fell, while some sixty canvas-clad youths closed about him.

“Fellows, we’re starting to-day to lick Wolcott,” announced “G.G.” “We’ve got eight weeks to do it in. We’re going to keep our objective in mind every minute of those eight weeks. There’s going to be a lot of hard work, and any of you who are afraid of work had better keep away from me. You won’t like me, and I’m certain I shan’t like you, and we’d better not try to mix. I’m dead set on having my own way, and I’m a crank when I don’t get it. Any one who doesn’t like the prospect should resign right now. Those of you who sign up will be expected to stick for the duration. All right. Shed your headguards, fellows. You won’t need them to-day. Last season First and Second Team players and substitutes down the field. The rest of you here. Mr. Hilliard, will you take this bunch, please? Balls, Dan!”

Clif and Tom found themselves in the squad under Mr. Hilliard and put in nearly an hour passing the ball and receiving it. There were frequent rests, for the day was hot and most of the squad were soft with easy living, but the work was hard enough to cause more than one erstwhile ambitious youth to wonder whether it wouldn’t be wiser to seek glory in some other less strenuous pursuit. Even Clif, who had sought to keep himself conditioned during the summer, was soon perspiring freely and was both surprised and a trifle dismayed to find himself puffing. It was evident to him that his system of summer training had not been a success. Looking back, he realized that he had spent more time on the hotel porch or lolling on the sand than he had meant to!

Mr. Hilliard was called “Pinky” because his hair was coppery-brown. It didn’t approach red, but since no other faculty member presented a better claim to the nickname it was awarded to Mr. Hilliard. He was about thirty years old, Clif concluded. He was fairly tall and thin, with a peculiar quick manner of moving his head; sort of jerky, as Clif phrased it to himself; like a hen’s!

Practice ended with a single lap around the inner border of the running track. It nearly finished Clif, and he ended the circuit at a slow walk. Tom poked fun at him as they returned to the gymnasium, and Clif was much too short of breath to make any defense. So ended the first day.

The second wasn’t much different. There was more long passing and they practiced starts, but getting acquainted with the ball was the principal desideratum, just as yesterday. Both Clif and Tom slightly resented being treated as members of the kindergarten class, although acknowledging that it probably wouldn’t do them any harm. Mr. Otis, who had the first squad in charge, found time to look over the others occasionally, and at such times Mr. Hilliard’s pupils sought pathetically hard to attract the coach’s favorable notice. Or most of them did. Tom, for some reason not quite plain to Clif, resented the infrequent visits of “G.G.” Once, seeing the head coach’s approach, Tom, at the receiving end of a ten-yard pass, opened his arms wide as the ball came to him and made a most ridiculously amateurish effort at catching. The ball went through, bounded from his body and trickled across the turf. Tom affected deep chagrin and followed it. He picked it up a few yards from Mr. Otis and then looked at him invitingly. The coach returned the look for a moment. Then he said: “Your left shoe lace is trailing. Fix it.”

Tom sped the ball across vindictively. In a pause he said to Clif: “Did you hear him? Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to like that guy?”

Clif laughed and then sobered. “What did you want to do that for, anyway? Just to show off?”

“Why, heck,” answered the other indignantly, “a fellow can’t catch it every time!”

“Run along and sell your papers!” jeered Clif. “You did that on purpose. You just wanted Mr. Otis to jump on you so you could have a grouch on him. Anyway, I see you’ve tied your lace!”

“Oh, go to the dickens,” grumbled Tom.

To-day’s practice lasted longer than yesterday’s and, since it involved a good deal of running around, it left the candidates rather more wrung out than on the previous afternoon. Clif confided to Tom that if he was called on to jog the track he’d die before he was half-way around. Fortunately, then, only a handful of fellows, all from Mr. Otis’s squad, were called on for that final martyrdom, and Clif was able to reach the gymnasium and to insinuate himself under the refreshing downpour of a shower bath without further suffering. But he was so fagged out and so lame by the time supper was over that he flatly refused Tom’s challenge to chess—a game he knew very little of—and dragged his weary body up to Number 17 and flopped on his bed. Tom, not to be deprived of his chess, sought the recreation room, promising to meet the other for study hour.

Walter Treat looked mildly disapproving when Clif stretched his tired body out on the bed. Walter’s athletic activities were confined to an infrequent game of tennis and an even more infrequent afternoon of golf, and it is probable that he didn’t appreciate his roommate’s condition. Interpreting the look correctly, though, Clif presented his excuse, wondering as he did so why he should consider it necessary to secure Walter’s approval.

“I don’t see why they make you fellows practice on such a warm day,” observed Walter when Clif had added a groan to his explanation for good measure. “Still, I dare say there’s so little time that they can’t afford to waste any. Better take a hot bath before bed.”

“Gee, that sounds good,” assented Clif. After a minute he asked: “Say, Walter, do you know who the fellow in the invalid’s chair is?”

“His name is Deane; either Laurence or Lorin, I think. His father is Sanford Deane.”

“Sanford Deane? You don’t mean the Sanford Deane, do you?”

“Yes. I’m telling you what I heard. It may not be right.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was,” said Clif. “He sort of looks like—like somebody important. Was he here last year?”

“No, he’s new. As for his looking important, maybe he does, Clif, but I don’t know that the fact that his father is immensely wealthy gives him the right to!”

“Why, no, and I didn’t mean just that, I guess. Still, his father is pretty well known, pretty prominent, aside from being rich, isn’t he? You’re always reading about him in the papers.”

“Important in a financial way, certainly.” Walter almost, but not quite, shrugged. “Any one who gets hold of fifty or sixty million dollars can get his name in the papers every day if he wants to. Sometimes it gets there when he doesn’t want it to.”

Walter smiled cynically.

CHAPTER VI
WATTLES

Clif was glad that the next day was Sunday.

He could lie abed a half-hour later, which was something to rejoice over, and, save for church at eleven o’clock, no duties claimed him until study hour at eight. He awoke before the rising bell and had a full ten minutes in which to stretch his lame muscles and accustom himself to the thought of getting up. The muscles were not as sore as he had expected they would be, and by the time he was ready for breakfast he felt quite fit. As though having atoned overnight for his talkativeness, Walter spoke but twice during dressing, and then only when spoken to.

In the afternoon Clif and Tom went to walk. They set out to find the golf links since, although the students were not allowed to play the game on Sunday, there were certain club members whose views were less strict than Doctor Wyndham’s, and Tom had a mind to select a promising twosome and follow it around, his idea of spending a Sunday afternoon pleasantly being to derive entertainment from others at as slight a cost of physical or mental exertion to himself as possible. But his plan went agley since a full half-hour’s search failed to discover the links. Billy Desmond had said it was a good mile from the school, and so far he had proved truthful, but the rest of his information had been purposely misleading. Perhaps Billy’s idea of spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon was to sit comfortably in Number 34, surrounded by pages of the morning paper, and mentally picture Tom and Clif seeking a golf course where there never had been one!

They located it finally, however. Having abandoned search for it, they climbed Baldhead Mountain, which deserved only the first half of its title and presented few difficulties, and from the bare granite ledge on the summit saw figures moving about over a green expanse some two miles distant. The figures were recognizable as men playing golf. Tom said “Huh!” disgustedly and resolutely turned his gaze away.

Well, there were more things than golf courses to be seen. On a clear day, such as this was, one could look into three states from the summit of Baldhead. Since, however, there was no way of telling where Connecticut merged into Massachusetts or where Massachusetts became New York one’s satisfaction in the feat was somewhat dimmed. Tom declared that the different states should have signs on them.

It was warm up there on the sloping, weather-worn ledge, but the breeze prevented discomfort. Tom hugged his knees, sending a puzzled look toward the distant links. Finally he seemed to see a light, for he said “By heck!” in a most explosive fashion, following it, after a moment of grim silence, with: “But I’ll get even with Billy!”

Later Clif recalled Walter’s revelations about the boy in the wheel chair, and he proceeded to spring the news on Tom. “Say, who do you suppose he is?” he asked, having introduced the subject.

“King Tut,” said Tom, hurling a pebble into the distance.

“No, seriously. Well, he’s Sanford Deane’s son!”