MYRON LOSES HIS TEMPER
The next morning Joe was as cheerful and smiling and good-natured as
ever, but Myron wasn't yet ready to forget, and his responses to his
room-mate's overtures were brief and chilling. After breakfast, which on
Sundays was a half-hour later, Joe suggested that Myron walk over to the
village with him and visit Merriman and see the puppies. Myron wanted
to go, for the day was chill and cloudy and generally depressing, but
his pride wouldn't let him and so he answered shortly that he had seen
the puppies and he guessed they hadn't changed much. When Joe had taken
himself off Myron felt horribly out-of-sorts and was heartily glad when
church time came and, immaculately but soberly attired, he could set
forth across the campus. Dinner was at one o'clock, a more hearty repast
than most of the fellows needed after a morning spent in comparative
idleness. However, no one skimped it. Myron went right through from
soup to ice-cream, becoming more and more heavy and gloomy under the
effects of an overloaded stomach. He had been placed at a table near the
serving-room doors, and, while some of his companions declared that you
got your things quicker and hotter by being so close to the source of
supplies, Myron disliked having the doors flap back and forth directly
behind his back and detested the bursts of noise and aroma that issued
forth at such times. Today he resented those annoyances more than ever
and found the conversation about him more than ordinarily puerile.
There were a good many third class boys at his table, fellows of
fourteen and fifteen, whose deportment was anything but staid. They
were much given to playing practical jokes on each other, such as
surreptitiously salting a neighbour's milk or sprinkling pepper in his
napkin. And they were not above flicking pellets of bread when the
nearest faculty member was not looking. Each table had a "Head" whose
duty it was to see that proper decorum was observed. In some cases the
Head was one of the faculty, in other cases he was an older boy. The
Head at Myron's table was a second class chap named Rogers, a stoutish,
easy-going fellow who was generally so busy eating everything he could
lay hands to that he had no time for correcting his charges. It was
unfortunate that young Tinkham, the pink-cheeked, sandy-haired little
cherub who sat almost opposite Myron, should have selected today for
his experiment with the bread pellet. Tinkham had longed for days to
see if he could lodge a pellet against Myron's nose. To Tinkham that
nose looked supercilious and contemptuous and seemed to fairly challenge
assault. Until now Tinkham had never been able to summon sufficient
courage to dare the sacrilege, but today there was a demoralising
atmosphere about and so when, having eaten his ice-cream and having
nothing further to live for anyway, he saw Myron's gaze wander toward
the further end of the hall Tinkham drew ammunition from under the edge
of his butter dish and with an accuracy born of long practice let fly.
His aim proved perfect. Myron dropped his spoon and sped a hand to his
outraged nose. Before him, perched on the remains of his ice-cream, was
the incriminating missile, and of all those who had witnessed the deed
only one remained unsmiling, demure and innocent, and that one was the
cherubic, fair-haired Tinkham.
Myron lost his temper instantly and completely. "That was you, Tinkham!
I saw you!" The latter statement was hardly truthful, but Tinkham
didn't challenge it. He only looked surprised and pained. "You try that
again and I'll box your silly little ears for you! Remember that, too!"
Myron flicked the bread pellet disgustedly aside and glowered at the
offender.
"_Boo!_" said one of Tinkham's friends, and the younger element
became convulsed with laughter. At that, Rogers, who had been bending
absorbedly over his dessert, looked up.
"Cut that out, fellows," he remonstrated feebly.
"We're only laughing," giggled one of the boys.
"Wake up, Sam," said Eldredge, who was Rogers' age and had viewed the
proceedings with unconcealed amusement. "You're missing all the fun. If
you didn't eat so much----"
"If he didn't eat so much he might keep order at the table," said Myron.
Rogers was too surprised to reply, but Eldredge took up the cudgels in
his behalf. "Oh, don't be a grouch, Foster," he sneered. "The kid didn't
hurt you. It was only fun."
"I don't like the kind, then," answered Myron haughtily. "After this he
can leave me out of his 'fun.'"
"Oh, piffle! Come back to earth! If I'd been Tinkham I'd have shied the
whole loaf at you. Then you'd have had something to kick about."
"The something would have been you, then," retorted Myron.
"Would it? Is that so?" Eldredge glared angrily across the table. "Think
you're man enough to kick me, do you? Why, say----"
"Dry up, Paul!" begged Rogers. "Tasser's got his eye on you."
"I won't dry up," retorted the insulted Eldredge. Nevertheless he
dropped his voice beyond the hearing of the neighbouring instructor.
"If that stuck-up mollycoddle thinks he can talk about kicking me
and get away with it he's all wrong, believe me!" The younger boys
were listening in open delight and Tinkham was fairly squirming with
excitement. "Get that, Foster?"
"I heard you," replied Myron indifferently.
"You did, eh? Well, any time you feel like----"
"Rogers, what's wrong at your table?" It was Mr. Tasser's voice, and
Eldredge stopped suddenly and gulped back the rest of his remark.
"I--I--that is, nothing, sir," stammered the Head. Then, to Eldredge in
an imploring whisper: "Shut up, will you?" he begged. "Want to get me
in wrong?" Eldredge muttered and shot venomous looks at Myron while the
youngsters sighed their disappointment. Myron folded his napkin and
arose leisurely, aware of the unsympathetic regard of his companions,
and walked out. In the corridor he waited for a minute or two. He had no
desire to carry matters any further with Paul Eldredge, but he felt that
if he hurried away that youth might misconstrue the action. However,
Eldredge didn't appear and so Myron went across to Sohmer, still sore
and irritated, to find an empty study. Eldredge's failure to follow
Myron out of the dining hall had been due entirely to discretion. With
Mr. Tasser's penetrant and suspicious gaze on him, he decided that it
would be wise to avoid all seeming interest in Myron.
Joe failed to return to the room, and after trying to do some studying
and finding that he simply couldn't keep his mind on his task, Myron
pulled a cap on and sallied forth again. It was misting by then, and a
chilling suggestion of autumn was in the air. When he had mooned along
the country road that led toward Cumner for a mile or so without finding
anything of interest he turned back toward the town. A hot chocolate in
a corner drug store restored his spirits somewhat and, having no better
place to go, he crossed the railroad and made his way through the dreary
quarter that held the residence of Merriman. He didn't suppose Merriman
would be in, but it was something to do. Recalling former instructions,
he didn't bother to ring the bell this time, but opened the door and
climbed the dark stairway to the second floor. That Merriman was in
became known to him before he had groped his way to the room, for from
beyond the closed portal came the sound of voices. For a moment Myron
hesitated. He hadn't bargained on finding visitors there. But the
loneliness of Number 17 Sohmer on this Sunday afternoon decided him, and
he knocked. Merriman's voice bade him enter and he opened the door on a
surprising scene.
On the decrepit window-seat reclined Joe Dobbins. Close by, in the
room's one armchair, with his feet on a second chair, was Merriman.
Between the two was a corner of the deal table, dragged from its
accustomed place, and on the table was the remains of a meal: some
greasy plates, a coffee pot, cups, bits of bread, about a third of
a pie, a half-eaten banana, a jar of milk. The room, in spite of a
wide-open window, smelled of sausages. On Joe's chest reposed Tess, the
terrier, evidently too full of food and contentment to bark, and in
Merriman's lap was a squirming bunch of puppies.
"Come in, Foster," called the host genially. "Pardon me if I don't get
up, but just now I am weighted with family cares. Find a chair and draw
up to our cosy circle. Have you had food? There's some pie left, and I
can heat some coffee for you in a second."
"I've had dinner, thanks, a good while ago." He carefully lifted a dozen
or so books from a chair and took it across to the window. He felt
rather intrusive. And there was Joe grinning at him from the seat, and
he was supposed to have a grouch against Joe.
"Well, have a piece of pie, won't you?" begged Merriman hospitably.
"Sure? We were sort of late with our feed. What time is it, anyway?
Great Scott, Dobbins, it's nearly four! How long have we been sitting
here?"
"I've been here ever since I worried down that last piece of pie," said
Joe, "and I guess that was about an hour and a half ago. You ought to
have showed up earlier, Foster. You missed a swell feed!"
"Sausages and potatoes and pie," laughed Merriman. "Still, we managed
to nearly kill ourselves: at least, I did." Joe groaned and shifted the
terrier to a new position. "Been for a walk, Foster?"
"Yes. It's a rotten day, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Merriman glanced through the window in faint surprise. "I
hadn't noticed. Sort of cloudy I see. By the way, I've sold one of these
little beggars."
"Have you? They've got their eyes open, haven't they?"
"Sort of half open," chuckled Merriman. "Maybe they're too fat to open
them any wider. This is the one that's sold. His name is--what was it
you named him, Dobbins?"
"Zephaniah," answered Joe gravely, "Zephaniah Q. Dobbins."
"What's the Q for?" laughed Merriman.
"Haven't decided yet. I just put that in for the sound. You see, Foster,
I'm calling him Zephaniah after an old codger who used to live near us
up at Hecker's Falls, Maine. Zephaniah Binney was his name. He used to
be a cook in the logging camps, but he got so fat tasting the things he
cooked that he had to quit. After that he used to sit in front of his
shack all day, tilted back in a chair, and look for work."
"Look for work?" laughed Merriman.
"Yeah, he was always on the look-out for a job. 'Most strained his eyes
looking. But somehow he never found one; leastways, he hadn't when I saw
him last. Funny old codger. Warren Wilson, who was postmaster and ran
the store and one thing and another, used to bring the Bangor paper to
Zeph every day and Zeph would study the advertisements mighty carefully.
Guess he knew more about the Bangor labour market than any man alive. 'I
was readin' where one o' them big dry-goods houses is wantin' a sales
manager,' Zeph would tell you. 'It don't say how much they're willin' to
pay, though. If I knew that I'd certain'y communicate with 'em, I would
so. Maybe they'll make mention o' the salary tomorrow. I'll just wait
an' see.'"
"And he's still waiting?" chuckled Merriman.
"As far as I know."
"What does he live on?" asked Myron. "Has he got money saved?"
"No, he's got something better; he's got an up-and-coming wife who works
just as hard as Zeph--looks. She's a wonderful woman, too, Mrs. Binney
is. She's lived with Zeph thirty years or more and she ain't--hasn't
found him out yet. Or, if she has, she don't let on. If you ask her has
Zeph got a job yet she'll tell you, 'No, not yet, but he's considerin'
acceptin' a position with a firm o' commission merchants down to
Boston.' And all the considering Zeph has done is read an advertisement
in the Bangor paper where it says the Boston folks want a few carloads
of potatoes!"
"It's sort of tough on the puppy, though," murmured Myron.
"Well, there's a strong resemblance between him and Zephaniah," said
Joe. "I've been watching him. He doesn't push and shove for his food
like the rest of them. He just waits, and first thing you know he's
getting the best there is. If that ain't like Zeph I'll eat my hat."
"Where are you going to keep him?" inquired Myron.
"In my room--when I get it. He won't want any better than I have, I
guess. I don't suppose he's going to kick because there isn't much of a
view."
Merriman asked about the new quarters and Joe supplied a drily humorous
description of them. The room began to grow dark and the boy's faces
became only lighter blurs in the twilight. Tess went to sleep and
snored loudly. Myron listened more than he talked, conscious of the
comfortable, home-like atmosphere of the queer, illy-furnished room and
putting off from minute to minute the return to school. But at last the
town clock struck six and Joe lifted the terrier from his stomach, in
spite of protests, and swung his feet to the floor.
"I've got to be going," he announced. "Haven't peeked into a book since
Friday." He yawned cavernously. "You coming along, Foster?"
"Yes, I guess so." Myron was glad to be asked, but he was careful to
keep any trace of cordiality from his voice.
"Well, come again," said Merriman heartily. "Both of you. Sunday's an
off-day with me and you'll usually find me in about noon."
"Me? I'll be back," declared Joe. "I haven't enjoyed a meal since I left
home like I enjoyed that dinner. Brother, you sure can cook sausages!"
"I like that guy," said Joe when he and Myron were traversing the
poorly-lighted street that led toward school. "He don't have any too
easy a time of it, either, Foster."
"No, I guess coaching isn't much fun," Myron agreed.
"Well, he told me he liked it. Maybe he has to. He says he's put himself
clean through school that way. His father and mother are both dead and
the only kin he's got is an old aunt who lives out West somewhere. He
says she's got a right smart lot of money, but the only thing she ever
does for him is send him six handkerchiefs every Christmas. Says it's
a big help, though, because he doesn't have to buy any. He's a cheerful
guy, all right, and the fellows hit on a swell name for him."
"What's that?" asked Myron.
"Why, his name is Andrew Merriman, you know, and so they call him 'Merry
Andrew.' Cute, ain't it? He works hard every summer, too. Last summer he
was a waiter at a hotel and did some tutoring besides. He's a hustler.
Doggone it, Foster, you've got to hand it to a guy like that!"
"Yes," Myron agreed. Mentally he wondered that Merriman didn't choose a
less menial task than waiting on table. It seemed rather demeaning, he
thought. Joe was silent until they had reached the end of School Street
and were entering the campus gate. Then:
"Say, I'd like to do something for him," he said earnestly. "Only I
suppose he wouldn't let me."
"Do something? What do you mean?" asked Myron.
"Well, help him along somehow. Fix it so's he wouldn't have to work all
the time like he does. The guy's got a great bean on him. Bet you he
knows more than the Principal and the rest of the faculty put together.
A fellow like that ought to be able to go ahead and--and develop
himself. See what I mean? He's too--too valuable to waste his time
serving soup and fish in a summer hotel. If I did it it wouldn't hurt
none, but he's different. If I had my way I'd fix him up in a couple of
nice rooms with plenty of books and things and tell him to go to it."
"But I don't just see how you could do anything much for him," said
Myron.
"No, I guess he wouldn't let me."
"Maybe not. Anyway, it would take a good deal of money, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Well, I'm just talking. No harm in that, eh? I'm not
going over to supper. I couldn't eat anything more if I was paid for it.
See you later, kiddo."
For once Myron failed to resent that form of address. In fact, he
scarcely noticed it. Going across to Alumni Hall, he found himself
looking forward with something akin to dismay to the time when Dobbins
should have left him to the undisputed possession of Number 17!