MYRON CHANGES HIS MIND
The fact that the incident would never become known and make him
look ridiculous made it much easier for Myron to forgive Joe for the
trick. And the latter's account of the meeting with Eldredge--Myron
got it piecemeal before and after chapel--was so funny that he had to
smile more than once in spite of his determination to be haughty and
unrelenting. In the end he said grudgingly: "We-ell, I suppose you meant
it all right, Dobbins, but it wasn't fair. Now was it?" And Dobbins
obligingly shook his head very soberly and allowed that it wasn't. In
such fashion amity was restored and peace prevailed again.
That afternoon, encountering Harry Cater on the field before practice,
Myron regarded that youth keenly, looking for signs of amusement and
ready to resent them. But Katie's countenance suggested no secret
diversion. Perhaps he regarded Myron with just a fraction more interest
than usual, but it was quite respectful interest. There was a big cut
in the football candidates that afternoon and when Coach Driscoll had
sheathed his knife again their number had been reduced to sixty-odd.
Myron survived, as he deserved to, and so, naturally, did Joe. Joe was
already being talked about and more than once had heard his playing
discussed and praised. Good linemen are always in demand, and this year,
at Parkinson, they were more than ever welcome, for graduation had
deprived the eleven of several stars since last fall.
The squads were reduced to four now, and Myron had slipped into a
half-back position on the third. There was nothing certain about that
position. Some days he went into practice at right half and some days
at left, and sometimes he sat on the bench most of the time when
scrimmaging began. He was rather resentful because his work wasn't
getting recognition. As a matter of fact, however, he was showing up no
more cleverly than half a dozen other candidates for the positions. He
handled the ball well, remembered signals, ran hard and fast, dodged
fairly and caught punts nicely. So did Meldrum, Brown, Brounker, Vance,
Robbins and one or two more. Myron's mistake was in supposing that,
because none praised him, his work wasn't appreciated. He had an idea
that neither coach nor captain really knew of his existence, when, as
a matter of fact, he was more than once under discussion during the
nightly conferences in Mr. Driscoll's quarters.
"Promising," was the coach's comment one evening when the subject of
half-backs was before the meeting. "Plays a nice, clean-cut game. Lacks
judgment, though."
"Handles punts well," said Captain Mellen. "Made a corking catch
yesterday. Remember when Kearns punted down to the twenty yards? That
was a peach of a punt, by the way: all of fifty, wasn't it, Ken?"
"Forty-six," answered Farnsworth.
"That all? Anyway, this Foster chap made a heady catch, with two ends
almost on him and the ball nearly over his head. He'll round out nicely
for next year, I guess."
It was Myron's misfortune that he had elected to try for a half-back
position at a time when there was much excellent half-back material on
hand. Probably he didn't realise the fact, for he began to get more
disgruntled by the end of that week and secretly accused Mr. Driscoll
and Jud Mellen of "playing favourites." Not altogether secretly, either,
for he once aired his suspicions for Joe's benefit. "There's no chance
for a chap here unless he's known," he said bitterly. "Maybe if I stay
here two or three years longer Driscoll will discover that I'm alive. As
it is, if it wasn't for Farnsworth keeping tabs on the fellows, I could
cut practice and no one would ever know it."
"Well, I don't know," answered Joe judicially. "It looks to me like
you were getting the same treatment the rest of 'em are getting. Some
day you'll show 'em what you can do and they'll wake up. I guess your
trouble is that you're bucking against a lot of good backs. Take fellows
like Brown and Meldrum and Vance, now. They're _good_. You've got to
hand it to them, kiddo. Corking halves, all of them. Hard to beat.
But that don't mean that you can't beat 'em. Buckle down and go hard,
Foster. The season's young yet."
"I'm not anxious enough," answered Myron, "to kill myself. I dare say I
can get along without playing on the team this year. And next year I'll
go somewhere where they give a fellow a fair chance, by George!"
"Well, if that's your idea you won't get far," said Joe drily. "If you
don't care yourself no one's going to care for you. A guy's got to
hustle and be in earnest to get anywhere in this world. I know that!"
"You fell into it pretty soft," answered Myron, with a laugh that
sounded none too agreeable. "There's nothing like getting in with the
right crowd, eh?"
Joe regarded him with a frown, started to speak, thought better of it
and merely grunted. But after a moment he said dispassionately: "Don't
be a sore-head, Foster. It don't get you anything but hard looks."
"I'm no sore-head," laughed the other carelessly. "Gee, it doesn't mean
anything in my young life to play with their old football team. I've
captained a better team than this school will ever turn out!"
"If I was you," replied Joe earnestly, "I'd forget about being captain
of that team, kiddo, and see if I couldn't make a first-class private of
myself."
Myron flushed. "It's all well enough for you to--to give advice and say
cute things, Dobbins, but you've made yourself solid with the fellows
who have the say in football matters and you're pretty sure of a place.
I haven't, and I don't intend to. If Mellen and Cater and some of those
fellows think I'm going to kow-tow to them, they're mightily mistaken."
"Meaning I got my chance by--what do you call it?--cultivating those
fellows?" asked Joe. "You made that crack before and I let it pass,
Foster, but it don't go this time. If I'm playing on the second squad
it's because I got out there and worked like a horse, and you know it,
Brother!"
Myron dropped his eyes and a long moment of silence followed. Then he
said: "I was a rotter, Dobbins. I'm sorry. I guess I am a sore-head,
like you said. I guess--I guess I'll just quit and have done with it."
Joe laughed. "All right, kiddo! We'll start fresh. But why don't you cut
out the grouching and just play the game? What's it to you if you don't
get into the lime-light? Ain't it something to do what you're put at and
do it well? Say, there's about sixty guys out there every afternoon,
ain't there? Well, how many of them do you suppose will get places on
the first team? Not more than twenty-six, probably. And about twenty
more will go into the scrub team. And the others will beat it and try
again next year, likely. Every one can't be a hero, Foster. Some of us
have got to lug water!"
"There's no fun in lugging water, though," Myron objected.
"Who says so? There's fun in doing anything if you set out to like it,
kiddo. The guys who miss the fun are those who get it into their heads
that the job isn't good enough for 'em, or that some one's imposing on
'em. What sort of a fellow would Merriman be if he got that dope to
working in his bean? He's lugging water, all right, believe me! Living
on a couple of dollars a week and working about sixteen hours a day!
But he gets fun out of it, don't he? He's about the happiest guy around
these parts, ain't he? Mind you, Foster, I ain't saying that a fellow's
got to be _satisfied_ with just lugging water. He oughtn't to be. He
ought to be thinking about the time when he can chuck the pail and do
something better. But while he is lugging water he wants to do it well
and whistle at it!"
"All right," laughed Myron, good temper restored, "I'll keep on with the
pail a while longer. Say, Dobbins, you ought to prepare for the ministry
or the lecture platform. You're going to waste yourself shovelling
spruce gum!"
Joe smiled. "I'm not going to shovel spruce gum, kiddo. I'm going to be
a lawyer. How's that hit you?"
"If I'm ever arrested for murder I'll certainly send for you!" answered
Myron emphatically.
Two days later Myron received notice that his overdue furniture had
arrived. For some reason he was not nearly so keen about it as he had
been a week or more ago. And when, accompanied by Joe--he had felt the
need of a practical mind in the matter of getting the things off the
car and up to the dormitory and had begged Joe's assistance--he saw
how many pieces of furniture there were he was, to use his own word,
flabbergasted. For his part, Joe just stared and blinked. Every piece
was carefully and enormously crated, and the staring address on each was
a horrible challenge. For the things were much larger than he remembered
them and when he thought of the limited area of Number 17 Sohmer he
gasped. The services of the Warne Warehouse Company had been called on,
and three husky men were soon emptying the car while Myron and Joe sat
on a baggage truck and looked on. Myron felt somewhat apologetic and
shot occasional inquiring glances at his companion. But Joe was silent
and seemingly unmoved after the first survey. Myron ventured at last:
"I don't see where all the stuff is going, do you?"
Joe shook his head. "No, I don't. Maybe they'll let you put about half
of it in the corridor."
"It's nothing to joke about," Myron grumbled. "We won't be able to move
without barking our shins. I'd like to know how big mother thinks those
rooms are!"
"I'm not worrying about my shins," said Joe placidly, adding when Myron
looked a question: "I won't be there, you know."
"Oh!" said the other. Silence again prevailed. The trucks trundled from
box-car to platform and a nearby engine let off steam with disconcerting
suddenness. Finally: "I shouldn't think you'd want to live in that room
if it's like you say it is," observed Myron. "Only one window and--and
all."
"Oh, it ain't so worse. Merriman wants me to go over and take half his
place, but that part of town's pretty fierce."
"Great Scott! Why, that's an awful hole he's in!"
"Well, with something more in it, it wouldn't be bad."
"I don't see----" Myron paused and was busy for a moment detaching a
splinter from beside him. "I don't see," he continued, "why you want to
move anyhow."
Joe turned slowly and observed him in mild surprise. "Well, considering
that you invited me to," he answered, "that's a funny crack to make."
"Maybe they wouldn't let me have the rooms by myself, anyhow," said
Myron. "And I'd rather have you with me than--than some fellow I didn't
know at all."
"Thanks, but I guess I'd better light out. I'm sort of backwoodsy
for you, Foster. Maybe the next guy will be more your style, see?
Besides----"
"Besides what?" demanded Myron with a frown.
Joe chuckled and nodded toward the furniture. "I couldn't live up to
that," he said.
Myron's gaze followed his companion's and he viewed the crated
monstrosities distastefully. "I don't see why you need to keep rubbing
it in about my--my 'style,'" he said crossly. "Just because I have more
than two suits of clothes you needn't always try to make out that I'm
a--a----"
"I don't," answered Joe calmly. "Besides, I've got four suits myself
now: and an extra pair of trousers!"
"Then--then it's just that stuff?" asked Myron, waving toward the
furniture.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe. You see, kiddo--I mean Foster----"
"Oh, dry up," muttered Myron.
"You see, I've been used to simple things. The old man and
me--I--me--whatever it is--lived pretty plain for a long time. Lately
we've stayed in a hotel in Portland most of the time. I ain't used to
chiffoniers and enamelled tables and all those gimcracks. I'd feel sort
of--of low in my mind if I had to live in a place all dolled up with
ribbons and lace and mirrors and things."
"There aren't any ribbons and----"
"Well, you get my idea," continued Joe untroubledly. "Me, I sort of feel
freer and more contented in a log-cabin. I suppose it's all what you're
used to, eh?"
Myron made no reply for a minute. They were loading the big moving-van
now and he watched them morosely. He half wished they'd drop that
grey-enamelled bookcase over the side. At last he said desperately:
"Look here, Joe! If I dump all that truck into the warehouse will you
stay?"
It was the first time he had ever called Joe by his first name and that
youth looked almost startled. "Why--why, you don't want to do that!" he
stammered.
"Yes, I do," replied Myron doggedly. "That's just what I do want. It was
a mistake, sending it. I sort of felt so when mother suggested it, but
she set her heart on it, you know: thought I'd be more comfortable and
all if I had my own things. But they'd look awfully silly, all those
light grey tables and chairs and bookcases, and I don't want them there.
So--so I'm going to let these folks store them until spring. There's
no use hurting mother's feelings, and I'll just let her think that I'm
using them; unless she asks me. When spring comes I'll ship them back.
And you'll stay where you are, won't you?"
"Gosh! Say, this is so sudden, kiddo! And it sure seems an awful shame
to hide all those corking things. But--why, if you really don't want
them and--and you don't mind me being sort of rough and--and all that,
I'll stick around."
"Honest, Joe?"
"Sure, kiddo!"
Myron drew a long breath of relief and turned to the man in charge of
the job. "I've changed my mind," he said. "Take those things to the
warehouse, will you? And tell them I'll be around tomorrow and fix
things up."