SO DOES JOE DOBBINS
Myron didn't know who "that Hoyt guy" might be, but he was sure that
he or some one else had made a horrible mistake. Why, this big,
good-natured, badly-dressed boy was the roughest sort of a "roughneck,"
the identical type, doubtless, that his mother had spoken of so
distastefully! Myron viewed him during a moment of silence, at a loss
for words. The newcomer had removed his tattered hat and was now
struggling with a jacket that, far too tight in the sleeves, parted
reluctantly from the moist garments beneath. But it came off finally and
the boy tossed it carelessly to a chair and stretched a pair of long
arms luxuriously ere he sank onto it. "That train was like a furnace all
the way, and the ice-water gave out at Hartford," he said. "Well, here
we are, though. What's your name? Mine's Dobbins; Joe Dobbins, only they
generally call me 'Whoa.'"
"My name is Foster," replied Myron rather weakly.
"Foster, eh? That's all right. I know a fellow at home name of Foster.
Drives for Gandell and Frye. They're the big dry-goods folks. He's an
all-right guy, too, Sam is. He and I used to be pretty thick before I
came away. Were you here last year, Foster?"
"No, I--this is my first year."
"What class?"
"Third, I expect."
"Same here. I'm new, too. I was at St. Michael's last year, until April.
I beat it then. Got in wrong with faculty, you know." He smiled and
winked. "Great little school, St. Michael's, but sort of narrow. My old
man said he guessed I needed more elbow-room. So I thought I'd try this
place. Looks all right so far; sort of pretty: plenty of trees. I like
trees. Grew up with 'em. Maybe that's why. Dad made his money out of
trees."
"Indeed?" responded Myron, coldly polite. "Lumber, I suppose."
"Wrong, kiddo. Spruce gum."
"Oh!"
"Maybe you've heard of him: Tom Dobbins: the Spruce Gum King, some call
him."
Myron shook his head. For some absurd reason he felt slightly
apologetic, and was angry with himself for it.
"No? Well, I guess you don't come from my part of the country. Portland,
Maine's my home. We've been living there six or seven years. I missed
the woods at first a heap, let me tell you. Why, we used to live right
in 'em: big trees all around: no town nearer than six miles. I was born
there, in a log house. So were my three sisters. Them was the happy
days, as the guy says."
"Very--very interesting, I'm sure," said Myron, "but about this room,
Dobbins: You're quite certain that they told you Number 17?"
"Sure! Why not? What's wrong with it?" Dobbins gazed questioningly about
the study and then leaned forward to peer through the open door of the
bedroom. "Looks all right. Plumbing out o' order, or something? Any one
had smallpox here? What's the idea?"
"The idea," replied Myron a bit haughtily, "is that I am supposed to
have this suite to myself. I particularly asked for a single suite. In
fact, I am paying for one. So I presume that either you or I have made a
mistake."
Dobbins whistled. Then he laughed enjoyably. Myron thought it was a
particularly unpleasant laugh. "Say, that's rich, ain't it?" asked
Dobbins finally. "No wonder you were sort of stand-offish, kiddo! Gee,
it's a wonder you didn't biff me a couple and throw me out on my bean!
I'll say it is! Butting in on your--er--privacy, like, eh? Say, I'm sure
that Hoyt guy said seventeen, but he may have got his wires crossed.
I'll mosey over and----"
"Don't bother. I haven't registered yet. I'll straighten it out. Maybe
he meant one of the other halls."
"Might be," said Dobbins doubtfully, "but he sure said Sohmer. This _is_
Sohmer, ain't it?"
"Yes. Well, I'll find out about it. Meanwhile you might just--er--wait."
"Got you, kiddo. I'll come along, though, if you say so. I don't mind.
I'm fine and cool now. Maybe I'd better, eh?"
"No, no," replied Myron quickly. "You stay here." He repressed a shudder
at the thought of being seen walking into the Administration Building
with Dobbins! For fear that the latter would insist on accompanying him,
he seized his hat and fairly bolted, leaving the intruder in possession
of the disputed premises.
The Administration Building was but a few rods away, and Myron, nursing
his indignation, was soon there. But it was evident that he would have
to wait a considerable time, for the space outside the railing that
divided the secretary's office in half was well filled with returning
students. There was nothing for Myron to do save take his place in the
line that wound from the secretary's desk across the room and back
again. But the official, in spite of a nervous manner, handled the
registrations efficiently, and after fifteen minutes or so, during
which he was annoyedly aware of the amused stares and whisperings of a
couple of fourth class youngsters, Myron's turn came. He gave his name
and answered the questions and then, when the secretary waved him on,
"There's been a mistake made about my room, sir," he said. "I engaged
a single suite nearly two months ago and you wrote that I was to have
Number 17 Sohmer. Now I find that you've put another fellow in with me,
a fellow named Dobbin or Dobbins."
The secretary rescued the card that he had a moment before consigned
to the index at his elbow and glanced quickly over it. "Oh, yes," he
answered. "I recall it now. But I wrote to your father several days ago
explaining that owing to the unexpectedly large number of students this
year we'd be unable to give you a study to yourself. Possibly you left
before the letter reached your home in--ah, yes,--Port Foster, Delaware.
The school catalogue states distinctly that rooms are rented singly only
when circumstances permit. The suite assigned you is a double one and we
have had to fill it. Very sorry, Mr. Foster, but perhaps you will find
it an advantage to have a companion with you."
"But my father is paying for a single room----"
"That has been arranged. One-half of the first term rental has been
refunded. That is all, Mr. Foster?"
"Why--why, I suppose so, but I don't like it, sir. You agreed to give me
a room to myself. If I had known how it was to be, I--I think I'd have
gone somewhere else!"
"Well, we'd be sorry to lose you, of course," replied the secretary
politely, "but unfortunately there is no way of giving you the
accommodations you want. If you care to communicate with your father by
wire we will hold your registration open until the morning. Now I shall
have to ask you to let the next young gentleman----"
"I guess you'd better do that," replied Myron haughtily. "I'll telegraph
my father right away."
The secretary nodded, already busy with the next youth, and Myron
made his way out. As he went down the worn stone steps he saw the two
fourth class boys adorning the top rail of the fence that bordered
Maple Street, and as he passed them he heard a snicker and a voice
asking "Isn't he a _dur-ream_?" His first angry impulse was to turn
back and scold, but second thoughts sent him on with an expression
of contemptuous indifference. But the incident did not sweeten his
disposition any, and when he strode into Number 17 again it needed only
the sight that met him to set him off. Joe Dobbins, minus coat and vest,
his suspenders hanging, was sitting in the room's one easy chair with
his stockinged feet on the table. Myron, closing the door behind him,
glared for an instant. Then:
"What do you think this is, Dobbin?" he demanded angrily. "A--a stable?"
Dobbins' jaw dropped and he viewed Myron with ludicrous surprise. "How
do you mean, a stable?" he asked.
"I mean that if you're going to stay here with me tonight you've got to
act like a--a gentleman! Sitting around with your suspenders down and
your shoes off and your feet on the table----"
"Oh!" said Joe, in vast relief. "That's it! I thought maybe you were
going to crack some joke about me being a horse, on account of my name.
Don't gentlemen put their feet on the table and let their galluses down?"
"No, they don't!" snapped Myron. "And as long as you're rooming with
me--which I hope won't be long--I'll ask you to cut out that 'roughneck'
stuff."
"Sure," grinned Joe. "Anything to oblige, Foster." He had already
dropped his feet, and now he drew his suspenders over his shoulders
again and slipped his feet back into his shoes. "Don't guess I'll ever
get on to the ways of the best circles, Foster. I'm what you call an
Unspoiled Child of Nature. Well, what did the guy in the Office say? I'm
betting I was right, kiddo."
"And don't call me 'kiddo'! You know my name. Use it."
"Gosh-all-hemlock!" murmured the other. "Say, you must have one of those
fiery Southern temperaments I've read about. Now I know how the Civil
War happened. I'll bet you're a direct descendant of General Lee!"
"I'm not a Southerner," answered Myron. "Just where do you think
Delaware is?"
"Well, I didn't know you hailed from there," replied Joe untroubledly,
"but I'd say Delaware was sort of Southern. Ain't it?"
"No more than Maine. Look here, Dobbin----"
"Dobbins, please; with an S."
"Dobbins, then," continued Myron impatiently. "That fellow over there
says the school's so full I can't have a room to myself. They promised
me I could two months ago, and we've paid for one. Well, I'm going
to get out and go somewhere where--where they know how to treat you.
But--but I can't leave until tomorrow, so we'll have to share this place
tonight."
"That'll be all right," replied Joe affably. "I don't mind."
Myron stared. "I didn't suppose _you_ did," he said.
"Meaning _you_ do, eh?" Joe laughed good-naturedly. "That it?"
"I'm not used to sharing my room with others," answered Myron stiffly.
"And I'm afraid you and I haven't very much in common. So I guess we'll
get on better if--if we keep to ourselves."
"All right, kiddo--I mean Foster. Anything for a quiet life! Suppose we
draw a line down the middle of the room, eh? Got a piece of chalk or
something?"
"I've taken the chiffonier nearest the window," said Myron, disregarding
the levity. "But I'll have my things out in the morning, in case you
prefer it to the other."
"Chiff--Oh, you mean the skinny bureau? Doesn't make any difference to
me which I have, ki--Foster. Say, you don't really mean that you're
going to leave Parkinson just because you can't have a room to yourself,
do you?"
"I do. I'm going out now to send a wire to my father."
"Gee, I wouldn't do that, honest! Why, say, maybe I can find a room
somewhere else. I don't mind. This place is too elegant for me, anyway.
Better let me have a talk with that guy over there before you do
anything rash, Foster. I'm sorry I upset your arrangements like this,
but it isn't really my fault; now is it?"
"I suppose not," replied Myron grudgingly. "But I don't believe you can
do anything with him. Still, if you don't mind trying, I'll put off
sending that telegram until you get back."
"Atta boy! Where's my coat? Just you sit tight till I tell that guy
where he gets off. Be right back, kiddo!"
Joe Dobbins banged the door behind him and stamped away down the
corridor. Pending his return, Myron found a piece of paper, drew his
silver pencil from his pocket and frowningly set about the composition
of that telegram. Possibly, he thought, it would be better to address it
to his mother. Of the two, she was more likely to recognise the enormity
of the offence committed by the school. Still, she would see it in any
case if he addressed it to the house and not to the office. When it was
done, after several erasures, it read:
"Mr. John W. Foster, Warrenton Hall, Port Foster, Del.
"Arrived safely, but find that I cannot have room to myself
as was agreed. Must share suite with impossible fellow named
Dobbins. Prefer some other school. Not too late if you wire
tonight. Love. MYRON."
Putting Dobbins' name into the message was, he considered, quite a
masterly stroke. He imagined his mother's expression when she read it!