[Illustration: WITH GLARING EYES HE MADE A RUSH FOR THE CROWD OF
STUDENTS.]
Tom Fairfield’s
Schooldays
Or
The Chums of Elmwood Hall
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF “TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA,” “TOM FAIRFIELD IN
CAMP,” “THE DAREWELL CHUMS SERIES,” “THE
BOYS OF PLUCK SERIES,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS FOR BOYS
BY ALLEN CHAPMAN
=TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
TOM FAIRFIELD’S SCHOOLDAYS
Or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall
TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA
Or, The Wreck of the _Silver Star_
TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP
Or, The Secret of the Old Mill
TOM FAIRFIELD’S PLUCK AND LUCK
Or, Working to Clear His Name
=THE DAREWELL CHUMS SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE DAREWELL CHUMS
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN THE CITY
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN THE WOODS
THE DAREWELL CHUMS ON A CRUISE
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN A WINTER CAMP
=BOYS OF PLUCK SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE YOUNG EXPRESS AGENT
TWO BOY PUBLISHERS
MAIL ORDER FRANK
A BUSINESS BOY’S PLUCK
THE YOUNG LAND AGENT
CUPPLES & LEON CO. PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyrighted 1913, by
Cupples & Leon Company
Tom Fairfield’s Schooldays
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. TOM HEARS STRANGE NEWS 1
II. THE DRIFTING BOAT 13
III. OFF FOR ELMWOOD HALL 20
IV. TOM MAKES AN ENEMY 27
V. TOM FINDS A CHUM 39
VI. AN ANGRY PROFESSOR 47
VII. BRUCE IS WORRIED 55
VIII. THE CALL OF THE PIGSKIN 62
IX. TOM’S TOUCHDOWN 68
X. A COWARD’S TRICK 78
XI. A CLASS WARNING 87
XII. A RUNAWAY ICEBOAT 98
XIII. THE SKATING RACE 107
XIV. WINNING AGAINST ODDS 113
XV. MORE TROUBLE 119
XVI. TOM’S DARING PROPOSAL 128
XVII. DEFIANCE 135
XVIII. THE STRIKE 144
XIX. NEGOTIATIONS END 151
XX. PRISONERS 157
XXI. THE ESCAPE 168
XXII. THE BURNING EFFIGY 177
XXIII. TOM’S FIND 183
XXIV. THE SAVING OF BRUCE 191
XXV. A MISSING PROFESSOR 201
TOM FAIRFIELD’S SCHOOLDAYS
CHAPTER I
TOM HEARS STRANGE NEWS
“Hi, Tom, give us a ride in your boat; will you?”
“Take us across to the other side of the river.”
The request and the suggestion came from two lads who were walking
toward a small boathouse, on the edge of a rather wide river. The youth
to whom they spoke looked up from a small motorboat, the engine of which
he was cleaning.
“What do you want to go over to the other side of the river for, Dick
Jones?” asked Tom Fairfield, of the lad who had made that suggestion.
“Got to go on an errand for dad, and it’s too far to walk away around by
the bridge. Take me over, will you?”
“I will if I can get this engine to run.”
“What’s the matter with it?” asked Will Bennett, the companion of Dick
Jones. The two were chums, and friends of Tom Fairfield, all of them
living in the village of Briartown. Tom, whose parents were quite well
off, had recently bought a motorboat, not very large, but of sufficient
size to enable him to take out several of his chums. “What’s the matter
with the engine?” asked Will again, as he and his chum walked out on the
small dock, at the end of which the motorboat was made fast.
“Matter with it? What isn’t the matter with it?” asked Tom in some
disgust. “The cylinder is flooded with oil, that’s what’s the matter,
and I don’t know how many more things I’ll find wrong before I get
through. It’s all that Dent Wilcox’s fault.”
“How’s that?” asked Dick, as he and his chum watched Tom trying to drain
some of the lubricating oil out through a small valve.
“Oh, I took Dent out for a ride last night, and as I was in a hurry to
get up to the house when I got back, I asked him to shut off the oil
cups. But it’s like everything else he does--he’s too lazy, almost, to
breathe. He didn’t turn off the oil, and all that was in the cups ran
into the cylinder during the night. I’ve tried for the last half hour to
get the engine started, but she won’t run.”
“That’s too bad,” spoke Will sympathetically.
“I’ll never trust Dent to do anything for me again,” went on Tom. “I
ought to have seen to the oil cups myself, and I will next time. Wait
until I catch him!”
“There he goes now!” exclaimed Dick, pointing to a lad crossing a field
some distance away. “Shall I run and tell him you want to see him?”
“No, it isn’t worth while,” replied Tom. “Besides, he’s so lazy he
wouldn’t walk down here. But I’ll talk to him like a Dutch Uncle when I
do see him. Now let’s see if the engine will work. If it does, I’ll give
you fellows a ride.”
Once more Tom turned the flywheel over several times, but, though the
engine coughed, wheezed and spluttered, as though in apology at having
such poor health, it did not start.
“Say, you haven’t got your forward switch on!” suddenly exclaimed Will.
“There’s no spark.”
“No wonder!” cried Tom. “I remember now, I had it on, and then, as I
didn’t want to get a shock when I was cleaning the spark plug, I shut
it off. Then I forgot to put it on again. Hop in, and close the switch,
Will, and then maybe we can start. I guess most of the oil is out, now.”
The two chums got in the boat, and Will, making his way forward, closed
the connection. Then Tom, who had remained near the motor, again turned
over the flywheel. This time there was an explosion, and the engine
worked rapidly. The propeller churned the water, and the painter
strained as the boat moved forward.
“Hurray!” cheered Dick.
“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Will, at the prospect of a ride.
“Yes, I guess it’s all right now,” assented Tom. He shut off the engine
by pulling out a switch near it, and added: “Wait until I get some more
oil from the boathouse, and I’ll be with you.”
As Tom started up the dock toward the little building, which he had
built, with the help of his chums, to house his boat, he saw, coming
along the road that ran near the river, a young man in a small auto
runabout. The youth was well dressed, but on his face was a look of
sadness and worry, in contrast, Tom thought, to the cheerful expression
he should have worn.
“If I had a natty little car like that, I wouldn’t look so glum,”
reasoned Tom, as he opened the boathouse door. The runabout came nearer,
and the lone occupant of it, bringing it to a stop opposite Tom, called
out:
“Is there any place around here where I can hire a boat for a row of an
hour or so?”
“Not near here,” replied Tom.
The young man’s eyes rested on Tom’s own trim rowing craft.
“Is that one to hire?” he asked, nodding toward it.
“No,” replied our hero. “But if you’d like to take it I’ve no objections.
I’ve got a motorboat, and, if you like, I’ll take you for a ride in that.
Did you want to go anywhere in particular?”
“No, I just want to get off by myself, and worry over my troubles,” and
the newcomer laughed, but the laugh had no merriment in it.
“Troubles?” questioned Tom, now that the other had given him an opening.
“You don’t look as if you had troubles.”
“Well, I have--lots of ’em. I’ve acted like a blamed chump, and now
I’ve got to pay the piper. A man is trying to make trouble for me, and
I guess he’ll succeed, all right. I’m too easy, that’s the trouble. But
I’m not going to bother you with my woes.”
“Do you want to come for a ride with me?” asked Tom. “I’m going to take
a couple of friends across the river.”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to seem stiff, but really I’d be better off
by myself for a time. So, if you really mean it, and will lend me your
boat, I’ll go for a row alone. I was out on a little country run--I live
in Camden--and when I saw this river, looking so calm and peaceful, I
just felt as though I’d like to row on it, and forget my troubles.”
“You may take the boat, and welcome,” went on Tom, looking at the
other, and forming a liking for him at once.
“Thanks. My name is Bennington--Bruce Bennington. I haven’t a card, or
I’d give you one.”
“My name’s Tom Fairfield,” spoke our hero, and the two shook hands.
“Know how to row?” asked Tom, as the newcomer started toward where the
small boat was moored.
“Yes, I’m on the crew at Elmwood Hall. I’m a senior there,” Bruce
explained.
“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, for he had often heard of that place of learning.
“That’s quite a school,” he added. “I’ve often wished I could go there.”
“Yes, it’s quite a place,” admitted Bruce Bennington. “And we have a
pretty fair crew. You won’t want your boat right away?”
“No. And the reason I asked if you could row was because there are some
stiff currents in the river. You’re welcome to come in the motorboat if
you like, though it isn’t much of a craft.”
“No, thank you, I’d rather row off by myself, and do some good hard
thinking. I’ve got to go back to school as soon as the fall term opens,
which will be in about two weeks, and I’d like to find a way out of my
troubles before then, if I can.”
“It’s too bad,” spoke Tom sympathetically, for he had, somehow, come
to form a strange and sudden liking for this lad. Tom looked into the
other’s frank and pleasant face, and really wished he could help him.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to squirm out of it the best I can,” went on
Bruce. “A good row, and a rest in the cool shadows, will calm me down,
maybe, and I’ll try to make some plans before I have to get back to the
grind. I’ll take good care of your boat.”
By the manner in which he entered it, and took up the oars, Tom saw that
Bruce knew how to handle the craft. The auto runabout had been left near
the dock, and a little later the senior was sculling down the stream.
“Who was that?” asked Tom’s chums, as he rejoined them.
He explained briefly, as he filled the empty oil cups, and soon he and
the two lads were puffing across the river in the motorboat. The rowing
craft had disappeared around a bend in the stream.
“Troubles, eh?” mused Will. “I don’t believe I’d let much trouble me if
I went to a cracker-jack school like Elmwood Hall, and had a runabout
like that.”
“Me either,” added Dick.
“Well, you never can tell,” spoke Tom, as he thought of the sad look
on the senior’s face--a look that had returned several times during the
talk, in spite of the frequent smiles. “He seems like a nice sort of
chap.”
“Did he say what his trouble was?” asked Will.
“No, and I didn’t ask him. Said some man had it in for him. Look out
where you’re steering, Dick.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Dick, who had requested Tom to let him
take the wheel for a time.
“There’s a big rock somewhere out here,” went on the owner of the
motorboat. “I must mark it with a buoy, or I’ll hit it myself some
night. Keep more to the left.”
Dick spun the wheel over, and the boys rode on, talking of many things.
“Where do you think you’ll go to school this fall?” asked Will of Tom.
“Oh, back to the Academy, I suppose.”
“Why, you graduated from there in June!”
“I know I did, but there’s going to be a post-graduate class formed, I
hear. Going to take up first year college work, and dad talks of sending
me. I wish I could go to Elmwood Hall, though, or some place like that.”
“So do I!” cried Will.
“Boarding school’s the place!” affirmed Dick, with energy. “I’d like to
go to one.”
They had reached the other side of the river now and Dick Jones, who had
been sent by his father to take a message to a lumberman, started off
on his errand, Will and Tom promising to wait for him in the motorboat.
When Dick returned on the run, Tom yielded to the request of the two
lads, and took them for a run up the stream.
“That is, unless you have something to do, Tom,” spoke Will.
“No, I’m going to have all the fun I can before school opens, that’s
all. And it will do the engine good to run a bit and get rid of the oil
that chump Dent let run in.”
The boys were out in the motorboat for about two hours, and, on nearing
the dock on the return trip, Dick remarked:
“That fellow’s auto is gone.”
“Is my boat there?” asked Tom, who was tinkering with the motor of his
craft.
“Yes,” replied Will, who was steering.
“All right; I guess that fellow got tired of rowing, or maybe he thought
of a way out of his troubles, and came in.”
When Tom had made fast his motorboat, he went to the rowing craft to
see if it was in good condition. He saw a piece of paper on one of the
seats, held down by a little stone. Picking it up he read:
“Many thanks for the use of your boat. I had a fine row, and
I feel better, though I’m as much up a tree as ever. I hope
to see you again, sometime. If ever you are near Elmwood Hall,
look me up.
“BRUCE BENNINGTON.”
“That was nice of him,” remarked Will, as Tom showed him the note.
“And he didn’t damage your boat any,” spoke Dick.
“No, he knows how to handle ’em--he rows on the Elmwood Hall crew,” said
Tom. “Well, so long, fellows. I’m going for a long run to-morrow, if
you’d like to come.”
“Sure!” they chorused.
But Tom was not destined to take that long run on the morrow, for, when
he reached his home, not far from the river, he heard strange tidings,
that made quite a difference in his plans.
As Tom entered the house he saw his father holding a letter, that he had
evidently been reading to his wife, and discussing with her. There was a
look of concern on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Brokaw Fairfield.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, quickly. “Any bad news?”
“No, not exactly bad news, Tom,” replied his father. “But it is news,
and it’s going to make quite a difference to us--to you also.”
“What is it?”
“You remember that property in Australia, Tom, which was left to me by
an uncle; don’t you?” asked Mr. Fairfield.
“Yes,” replied our hero, for he had often heard the inheritance
mentioned. “What about it?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to dispose of it, and have the money from
the sale sent to me here, but it seems that some trouble has arisen,
and I’ve got to go there to straighten it out. I tried to do it by
correspondence, but I have just received a letter from a lawyer in
Sydney, saying that my personal presence is needed, or I may lose it
all. So--”
“Your father and I have decided to go to Australia!” suddenly broke in
Mrs. Fairfield, anxious to get the worst over. “Oh, Tom, I don’t want to
go at all, and leave you behind, but I’ve got to!”
“What!” cried Tom. “Can’t I go? You two going to Australia, and leaving
me alone here? Oh, say, now--”
“Wait, Tom,” cautioned his father with a smile, “we’re not going to
leave you alone, exactly. Besides, there is your education to think of,
and we may be gone for many months.”
“Oh, but I say--” began Tom again.
“Now, dear son,” began his mother in a gentle voice, “we have it all
planned out for you. You are to go to boarding school while we are away.”
“Boarding school!” Tom’s eyes began to sparkle. After all, this might be
as good as going to Australia.
“Yes,” said his father, “and we have picked out--”
“Elmwood Hall!” broke in Mrs. Fairfield, unable to let her husband tell
all the news.
“Elmwood Hall!” cried Tom, thinking of the note in his pocket from Bruce
Bennington.
“Yes,” spoke Mr. Fairfield, “though if you’d rather go to some other
place it may be arranged. But your mother and I picked out Elmwood Hall,
and--”
“Elmwood Hall!” cried Tom again. “Say, that’s all right. I’m satisfied!
That beats Australia. When are you going? When can I start for Elmwood?
Have you got a catalog from there? Say, I’ve got something to tell you!”
and Tom, overcoming a desire to stand on his head, pulled out the note
Bruce had left in his boat.
“Elmwood Hall!” exclaimed Tom again. “This is the best ever!”
CHAPTER II
THE DRIFTING BOAT
“What makes you so enthusiastic about Elmwood Hall, Tom?” asked Mr.
Fairfield, when his son had somewhat calmed down. “I didn’t know you
knew much about it.”
“I don’t except what I’ve heard and read, but it just happens that I
met a fellow from there to-day.” And Tom told of his talk with Bruce
Bennington, showing his parents the letter.
“Hum, that is rather odd,” spoke Mr. Fairfield. “I wonder what his
trouble could have been? Bennington--Bennington. I’ve heard that name
before. Oh, I know; Mr. Bennington is a millionaire manufacturer. That
must be his son, though if he’s in trouble I should think Mr. Bennington
would help him out.”
“Maybe it isn’t money,” spoke Tom. “But, anyhow, I’m glad I’m going to
Elmwood, and maybe I’ll get chummy with Bruce Bennington, though there’s
not much chance, for he’s a Senior, and I’ll be a Freshman.”
“I hope, if you can, that you’ll help him,” said Mrs. Fairfield. “And
oh, Tom, do you think they’ll haze you?”
“If they do, I guess I can stand it,” replied her son. “Everyone has
to be hazed. I won’t mind. But now tell me something about going to
Australia.”
“It’s going to be quite a trip,” said Mr. Fairfield, “and one I wish I
could get out of, but I can’t. We’ll start as soon as we can, Tom. We’re
to go to San Francisco by train, and take a steamer there. I’ll write at
once, and make arrangements for you to go to Elmwood Hall. Your mother
will see to getting what clothes you need. Here is a catalog of the
school.”
Tom eagerly looked the pamphlet over, while his father went to his
library to write some letters and Mrs. Fairfield, not without some
misgivings as to what might happen to Tom at boarding school, or to
herself and her husband on their long trip, went to look over her son’s
wardrobe.
As I have explained, Mr. Fairfield was quite well off, and had the
prospect of more wealth. He did not care to lose his Australian
inheritance, and, though the journey meant some trouble for him, in that
it would complicate his business affairs at home, he decided to make it.
He had long promised his wife a trip abroad and now was the chance for
it, as they intended to come home by way of Europe.
Tom Fairfield was a tall, well built youth, fond of all out-doors
sports, and about as lively a lad as you would care to meet.
He had lived in Briartown all his life, though he had traveled
extensively with his father and mother, and knew considerable of the
world. He was an only son, a sister having died when a little girl.
Tom had many friends in the village, where his father’s silk factory
was located, and our hero took part in the scenes and activities of
the place. He had attended the Academy there, and was one of the best
football and baseball players. He always had a liking for the water,
and since getting his motorboat, had been on Pine river more often than
ever. He had tried to get up a crew at the Academy, but could not seem
to interest enough boys, or get them to subscribe the necessary funds.
Tom had one or two enemies, too, chiefly because he would not let them
bully him, but they did not worry him, for any lad of spirit is as
likely to have enemies as friends, and Tom had plenty of the latter.
“Jove! To think that I’m really going to Elmwood Hall!” Tom whispered
to himself, as he leafed over the catalog, and looked at the pictures
of the various buildings. “That’ll be great! I wish I knew some of the
fellows who were going there, but I guess I can soon get acquainted. I
wonder if I can pass the entrance examinations?”
He looked at the requirements for the Freshman class, and noted that
there was no study but what he had had at the Academy.
“I guess I can do it,” he said.
There were soon busy days in the Fairfield household.
Besides making arrangements for the voyage, and getting their business
affairs in shape to leave, Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield had to arrange for
Tom’s stay at Elmwood. This was done by correspondence and, about a week
after Tom had heard the news, he went to the school to take the entrance
examinations. He met a few lads in like case, all rather miserable, and
Tom felt a feeling of pride as he walked about the campus, and thought
that soon he would be a student there.
“That is, if I pass,” he mused. “That Latin exam. was a bit stiff, and
so were the maths. Maybe the others will be easier. I hope so, anyhow.”
Tom’s hopes were realized, for on the second day--the test extending
over that time--he had no difficulty in answering the entrance
questions. Then he went back home, to receive, a few days later, word
that he had passed, and would be admitted to the Freshman class.
“Wow!” he cried, as he read the formal announcement. “That’s great! I’m
going to tell the boys!”
He rushed off to find Dick and Will, his most particular chums. But, on
visiting their houses, he was informed that they had gone fishing on the
river.
“I’ll find ’em,” he said. “I know the fishing hole. I’ll go down in my
motorboat.”
He hurried back to the dock, and, as he reached a point where he could
look down to it, he uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“My motorboat!” he cried. “It’s gone! Some one has it! If it’s stolen--”
He broke into a run, and as he had a good view of the river he saw his
boat out in the middle of the stream.
“Well, of all the nerve!” he cried. “Dent Wilcox has taken my boat
without asking me. I’ll fix him!”
Then he noticed that the boat was not running under her own power, but
was drifting down stream.
“Hi there, Dent! What’s the matter with you?” Tom cried. “What did you
take my boat for? Why don’t you start up and run her back here?”
The lazy lad addressed looked up from what was evidently a contemplation
of the stalled engine.
“Start her going!” cried Tom. “Start the engine, or you’ll be on the
rocks!”
“I can’t,” yelled back Dent. “She’s stopped.”
“Crank her,” ordered Tom. “Turn the flywheel over!”
Dent did so, but in such a lazy and slow fashion that even from shore
Tom could see that the lad was not exerting himself enough. The wheel
needed a vigorous turn.
“Oh, put some muscle into it!” cried Tom. “You’ll never get her going
that way!”
“I’ve tried three or four times, and she won’t go,” retorted Dent,
leaning back against the gunwale, and looking at the engine, as though a
mere glance would set it going.
“Keep on trying!” cried Tom. “Don’t you see where you’re going? You’ll
be on the rocks in five minutes more! Can’t you even steer? Next time
you take my boat I’ll wallop you good!”
“I didn’t think you’d care,” came the answer over the stretch of water.
“Well, I do. Now you crank up!”
Dent Wilcox tried again, but his inherent laziness was against him,
and nothing resulted. The boat was in the grip of the current, and was
rapidly drifting toward the dangerous rocks.
“By Jove! He’ll wreck my boat!” thought Tom. “Say!” he cried desperately,
“can’t you get that engine going somehow, and avoid the rocks?”
“I guess there’s no gasolene,” retorted Dent.
“Yes, there is, the tank’s full.”
“Then the batteries have given out.”
“Can’t be. They’re new. Oh, you big chump, to take out my boat when you
don’t know how to run her!” and Tom looked at his drifting craft in
despair.
“Can’t you come out and get me?” suggested Dent, as he looked helplessly
at the engine.
“Well, of all the nerve!” cried Tom. “But I’ll have to, I guess, if I
want to save my boat!”
He hurriedly cast off his rowing craft, jumped in, and was soon pulling
out toward the drifting motorboat.
CHAPTER III
OFF FOR ELMWOOD HALL
“Talk about lazy fellows!” murmured Tom, as he bent to his oars, “that
Dent Wilcox certainly is the limit. He’s too lazy to row, so he borrows
my motorboat. Then he’s too lazy to learn how to crank the engine, and
too lazy to turn the flywheel over hard enough. It’s a wonder he ever
got started, and when he does get going he doesn’t take enough pains to
look out where he’s steering. If he wrecks my boat I’ll make him pay for
her.”
Tom cast a glance over his shoulder toward his craft, and the sight of
the boat nearer the rocks made him row faster than ever.
“Why don’t you try to steer, or crank her?” he yelled to Dent.
“What’s the use?” asked the lazy lad indifferently.
“Use? Lots of use? Do you want to go on the rocks?”
“No, not exactly,” spoke Dent, and his voice was quicker than his usual
slow tones, as he saw his danger. “But you’ll be here in a minute, and
you can run things.”
“Yes, that’s just like you,” retorted Tom. “You want someone else to do
the work, while you sit around. But I’ll make you row back, and pull the
boat too, if I can’t get her going.”
“Oh, Tom, I never could pull this boat back.”
“You’ll have to,” declared our hero grimly, “that is if the engine won’t
run. Stand by now, to catch my painter.”
Dent stood up in the stern of the drifting motorboat, and prepared to
catch the line Tom was about to throw to him. Tom was near enough to his
motorcraft now so that the headway and the current of the river would
carry him to her.
“I hope I can get that engine going,” he remarked to himself, as he saw
how dangerously near he was to the rocks.
“Catch!” he cried to Dent, throwing the end of his line aboard, and
Dent, forgetting his usual lazy habits, made a quick grab for the
painter. He reached it, took a turn around a cleat, and in another
moment Tom was aboard.
“Pull my rowboat closer up,” he ordered Dent. “I’m going to have a try
at the motor, and if she doesn’t go, we’ll have to row out of danger.”
He gave a quick look at the engine, and then cried:
“Well, you’re a dandy!”
“What’s the matter?”
“You didn’t have the gasolene turned on.”
“I did so. Else how could I have run out from the dock?”
“With what was in the carbureter, of course. But when that was used
up, you didn’t get any more from the tank. You’re a peach to run a
motorboat! Don’t you ever take mine out again!”
“I won’t,” murmured Dent, thoroughly ashamed of himself.
With a quick motion Tom turned on the gasolene, saw that the switches
were connected, and, with a turn of the flywheel, he had the motor
chugging away a second later.
“There you are!” he exclaimed, as he sprang to the steering wheel.
“Glad I don’t have to pull in,” said Dent, thinking of the work he had
escaped.
“Well, it was a narrow squeak,” said Tom, as he steered out of the way
of the rocks, and then sent his boat around in a graceful curve.
“How’d you come to take my boat?” asked our hero, when he had a chance
to collect his thoughts.
“Oh, I just strolled down to the dock, and saw it there. I heard you
were out of town--taking the Elmwood Hall examination--and I thought you
wouldn’t mind.”
“I did take the exams., and I passed,” spoke Tom, his pride in this
rather making him forgive Dent now. “I’ll soon be going there to
school, and I’ll have swell times. I came down to tell Dick and Will
that I just got word that I’m to enter the Freshman class, when I saw
you had my boat. You want to be more careful after this.”
“I will,” promised the lazy lad, as he settled himself comfortably on
the cushioned seats, and watched Tom steer. The latter, after running
ashore, and tying up his rowboat, started for the fishing hole,
intending to look for his chums.
“Can’t I come along?” asked Dent, who had not offered to get out, nor
help Tom tie his boat. “Take me along,” he pleaded. “If you go to school
I won’t get any more rides.”
“Well, you have got nerve!” laughed Tom, and yet he felt so elated at
the prospect before him that he did not seriously protest. “First you
take my boat without permission, then you nearly wreck her, and next
you want to have an additional ride. You have your nerve with you, all
right.”
“Might as well,” spoke Dent, lazily, as he lolled back on the cushions.
“If you don’t ask for things in this world you won’t get much.”
“I guess that’s right,” agreed Tom. “You’ve got more sense than I gave
you credit for. But crank that motor now. Let’s see if you can get it
going. You’ll have to work your passage, if you come with me on this
voyage.”
Dent turned the flywheel over, and after a few attempts he did succeed
in getting the engine to go. Then Tom steered down to the fishing hole.
Dick and Will saw him coming, and called and waved their welcome.
“Any luck?” asked Tom, as he ran his boat close to shore.
“Pretty fair. Did you hear from Elmwood?” asked Dick.
“Yes, just got word, and I passed. I’ll soon be a Freshman. I wish you
fellows were coming along. Come on, get in, and I’ll tell you all about
it. You’ve got fish enough.”
His chums were glad enough to ride back, and soon, with their fish, they
were in the motorboat. While Tom was showing them his letter from the
school, Dent managed, by a great effort, to steer properly.
“How soon are you going there?” asked Will.
“In about a week. I hope I make some friends there. I’m going to look up
that Senior, Bennington. He told me to.”
Talking with his chums of the prospects before him, Tom was soon at his
dock again, and this time he locked his boat fast so that Dent could not
take it without permission.
“I’m going to let you two fellows run it while I’m at Elmwood,” he said
to Dick and Will, much to their delight.
The days that followed were busy ones. Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield had much
to do, and as for Tom, he had, or imagined he had, so much to take with
him, that he thought he would need three trunks at least. But his mother
sorted out his clothes, and reduced the number of his other possessions,
so that one trunk and a valise sufficed.
In the meanwhile arrangements were made for Tom’s father and mother to
sail for Australia. Their railroad tickets had been bought, and passage
engaged on the steamer _Elberon_, which was to sail from San Francisco.
“I’m giving you enough money to last you for the term, Tom, I think,”
said his father. “I want you to have everything you need, but don’t
be wasteful. I will also leave a further sum in the bank here to your
credit, and you will have a check book. But I want you to give me an
account of your expenditures.”
Tom promised, and felt rather proud to have a bank account, as well as
go to a preparatory boarding school. His chums in Briartown envied him
more than ever.
At last the day for Tom to start came. His parents were to leave two
days later, closing up their house for the fall, for it was early in
September.
Good-byes were said, Tom’s chums came in numbers to see him off,
and with rather a tearful farewell of his father and mother our hero
started for school, or rather, college, since Elmwood ranked with upper
institutions of learning in conferring degrees.
“Be sure and write,” begged Tom’s mother.
“I will,” he said. “And you write, too.”
“Of course,” his mother assured him.
The train pulled in, Tom got aboard, and at last he felt that he was
really off. He waved his last good-byes, and could not help feeling a
little lonesome even though so many pleasures lay before him.
As he took his seat, while his chums cheered and shouted “Rah, Rah,
Elmwood!” after him, Tom was aware that a lad across the aisle was
regarding him curiously.
This lad was of athletic build. He had red hair, and a pleasant, smiling
face.
“Are you going to Elmwood Hall?” he asked Tom.
“Yes,” was the answer. “Do you go there?” and then Tom saw that he need
not have asked, since he saw the pin of the college on the other’s coat.
“I do, Burke’s my name--Reddy Burke they all call me. I’m beginning my
third year there. Come over and sit with me, and we’ll have a talk.
Elmwood boys ought to be friendly.”
CHAPTER IV
TOM MAKES AN ENEMY
Tom crossed the aisle of the lurching car, and was soon sitting beside
the red-haired youth who had made such friendly advances.
“How did you know I was going to Elmwood?” asked our hero, as a sort of
opening.
“Easy enough. You’ve got the air of a fellow going to college for the
first time sticking out all over you. Oh, no offense!” exclaimed Reddy
Burke as he saw Tom’s start. “It’s an honor to start at Elmwood Hall.
Lots of fellows would like to, but can’t. I spotted you for a Freshman
right off the bat.”
“I suppose I do look a bit green,” admitted Tom, with a smile.
“Oh, no more so than usual. Then, too, I heard your friends giving an
imitation of the Elmwood yell, and that told me all I wanted to know.
I’m glad to meet you. I hope I see more of you when we strike the
school. Term opens to-morrow and next day you know, and there’ll be no
end of fellows there. Opening day generally lasts a week. I thought I’d
go down a day early, and get settled in my room.”
“That was my idea,” confessed Tom.
“Where are you going to put up?”
“I’ve got a room in Opus Manor. That seemed a nice place, and I picked
it out when I came down for the entrance exams.,” replied Tom.
“It is nice,” admitted Reddy Burke. “It’s where all the Freshmen like
to get, but usually it’s so crowded that you have to go on the waiting
list. You’re in luck, Fairfield.”
“Glad you think so. Where do you room?”
“Oh, I put up with the rest of our crowd at the Ball and Bat. That’s our
fraternity house you know.”
“Yes, I noticed it when I was down before. It’s a beaut place, all
right.”
“Pretty fair. We have some good times there. You must come to some of
the blowouts. I’ll send you a card when we get settled, and you know the
ropes.”
“Thanks,” replied Tom gratefully. “And now tell me all about Elmwood
Hall.”
“Oh land! It would take a week!” exclaimed the red-haired athlete.
“There’s lots to tell about it, but I guess you know the history of it
as well as I do, if you’ve seen a catalog.”
“Yes, but I mean tell me something about the fellows, and the
professors.”
“Well, the professors are no better nor worse than at other colleges,
I suppose,” spoke Reddy, with something like a sigh. “They all seem
to have exaggerated notions about the value of Greek, Latin and
mathematics, though I’ll be hanged if I like ’em. Baseball and football
for mine, though I suppose if I’m ever to become a lawyer, which dad
seems to think I’m cut out for, I’ll have to buckle down sooner or
later, and assimilate some of that dry stuff. It’s time I begin, I
reckon.”
“I should think so--if you’re in your Junior year,” spoke Tom with a
laugh.
“That’s right. Oh, I have done some boning, and I haven’t cut lectures
any more than the rest of the team did. You simply _have_ to cut some
if you play all the games, and I didn’t miss any contests, you can make
up your mind to that. Most all of us at the Ball and Bat play either on
the diamond, or gridiron, or row on the crew. I say though, maybe you’re
that way yourself?” and Reddy looked questioningly at our hero.
“Well,” admitted Tom, modestly, “I can row a bit, and I like baseball.
I’ve never played football much. I wasn’t quite heavy enough for the
team at our Academy.”
“You look husky enough,” spoke Reddy, casting a critical pair of blue
eyes over his seatmate. “You ought to try for the eleven down at
Elmwood.”
“Maybe I will. Think I’d have a chance?”
“It’s too early to say, but have a try, anyhow.”
“Are any of the professors very savage?” asked Tom.
“Only so-so. Doctor Pliny Meredith is head master, I suppose you know.”
“Yes. How is he?”
“As full of learning as a crab is of meat in the middle of August, but
he’s not very jolly. Rather stand-offish, and distant, though sometimes
he warms up. We call him ‘Merry’ because he’s usually so glum. But he’s
fair, and he thinks Elmwood Hall the greatest institution ever. To him
a fellow’s word is as good as his bond. It all goes on the honor system
there. No profs. at the exams., you know, and all that. You have to be a
gentleman at Elmwood.”
“Do the fellows live up to it?” asked Tom.
“Pretty much. There are one or two a little off color, of course. But
any fellow who would lie to Merry wouldn’t stay long at Elmwood if the
fellows got on to it.
“Then, the rest of the profs. are about like the average, except that I
don’t mind admitting that Burton Skeel is a regular grinder, and as mean
as they make ’em. He’s the Latin taskmaster and maybe that’s why I hate
it so.”
“Aren’t there any jolly professors?” asked Tom, beginning to think that
perhaps, after all, he wasn’t going to like it at Elmwood as much as he
had hoped.
“Oh, bless you, yes!” exclaimed Reddy. “I was almost forgetting Live
Wire. That would never do.”
“Live Wire? Who’s he?”
“Professor Livingston Hammond. He’s fat and jolly and he almost makes
you like trigonometry, which is saying a lot, and, as for solid
geometry, and conic sections, well, if anybody can make them look like
the comic sheet of a Sunday newspaper it’s the Live Wire. You’ll like
him; all the fellows do. But he won’t stand for any nonsense. You’ve got
to come ‘prepared,’ or he’ll turn you back to make it up after class.”
“I like maths.,” admitted Tom.
“Then you and the Live Wire will be friends and brothers, I guess,”
predicted Reddy.
“Tell me something about the fellows,” suggested Tom. “I know one
Senior, slightly.”
“You do? How’d you make his acquaintance?”
“He’s Bruce Bennington,” replied our hero, as he told of the manner of
their first meeting.
“That’s odd,” commented Reddy. “Bruce is one of the nicest chaps in
college. ‘Easy Money Bennington’ we call him, ‘Easy’ for short, though.
He’s a good spender, and his own worst enemy.”
“How’s that?” asked Tom. “I could see that something was troubling him
the day I met him, but he wouldn’t say what it was.”
“No, that’s his way,” spoke the red-haired athlete. “I mean that he’s
impulsive. He’d do anything for a friend, or an enemy too, for that
matter, and that often gets him into trouble. He doesn’t stop to think,
but he’s got a host of friends, and everybody likes him, even old Skeel
I guess, for I’ve seen ’em together lots of times.”
“I wonder what his special trouble is now?” speculated Tom.
“Give it up. Bruce will never tell until it’s settled. He’s proud--won’t
take help from any one if he can help it. So you know him?”
“Well, I hardly can say I know him. He may not want to keep up the
acquaintance down here,” spoke Tom.
“Oh, yes he will. Bruce isn’t that kind. Once he meets you he’s always
friendly, and, if he takes a notion to you, why you couldn’t have a
better friend.”
Tom was glad to hear this, and he felt a warm spot in his heart for the
somewhat unhappy Senior. He resolved to find out his trouble, if he
could, and help him if it were possible.
“Of course there are some mean and undesirable chaps at Elmwood,”
admitted Reddy. “Just as there are anywhere, I guess, only I wouldn’t
want to name any of ’em. You’ll find out who they are, soon enough. But
you just play straight and they’ll soon let you alone. They may try to
pick a quarrel, and there are a few who are always trying to get up a
mill. Do you fight?”
“I box a little,” admitted Tom.
“Good, then you can take care of yourself if it comes to a scrap, I
suppose. But don’t get into a fight if you can help it. Not that I mean
to run away, but it’s against the rules to fight, and you don’t want to
be suspended, though there are more or less mills pulled off every term.”
“I’ll fight if I have to; not otherwise,” spoke Tom, quietly.
“Good. Say, you’ll think I’m trying to put it all over you, and do the
big brother act with such advice; won’t you?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied Tom, stoutly. “I’m glad to have you give me
points.”
“All right then. I guess you’ll do. We’ve got one funny character at the
school--Demosthenes Miller.”
“A student?”
“Land no. He’s our educated janitor. He’s always around with a copy of
the classics, or some book on maths., and if he sees you getting at all
friendly he’ll ask you to help him translate a passage, or work out a
problem. He says he might as well be getting an education on the side
as long as he’s at college. He’s good fun, but rather tiresome at times.
Demy, we call him.”
“He must be odd,” agreed Tom.
“There! I guess I’ve told you all I know,” spoke Reddy, with a laugh.
“The rest you’ll find out after you’ve been at the school a few days.
Now tell me something about yourself.”
Which Tom did, mentioning about his father and mother going to Australia.
“That’s a trip I’d like to take,” said Reddy. “Cracky, what sport! I
love travel.”
The lads talked on various topics as the train sped along. They were
nearing Elmwood Hall, which was located in the town of the same name, on
the Ware river. Several other lads, whom Reddy pointed out to Tom as old
or new students, had meanwhile boarded the train. A number greeted Tom’s
seatmate as an old friend and our hero was introduced to them. They
greeted him nicely enough, but talked to Reddy.
Soon the latter was deep in conversation about the chances for a good
football season, and Tom did not like to break in, but listened with all
his might.
“Here we are, Fairfield,” said Reddy Burke, at length. “Get your grip,
and I’ll show you the way to the Hall. Oh, I forgot, you’ve been here
before, though.”
“Yes, I can find my way up well enough,” spoke Tom. “Don’t let me hold
you back.”
“All right then. I’ll see you later. There’s Hen Mattock up ahead. He
was football captain last year. I want to talk to him, so I’ll just
run on. See you again!” and with that Reddy rushed off, to clap on the
shoulder a tall, well-built lad, who looked every inch an athlete. Tom
gathered up his belongings, gave his trunk check to an expressman, and
headed for Opus Manor.
This residence, or dormitory, was one of the school buildings, located
not far away from the main hall and was “within bounds,” so that
the Freshmen, did they wish to spend an evening in town, had to get
permission, or else “run the guard,” a proceeding fraught with some
danger, carrying with detection a penalty more or less severe. It was
the aim of the school proctor, Mr. Frederick Porter, to thus keep watch
and ward over the first year students.
The others were allowed more liberty, or at least they took it, for many
of them lived in fraternity houses, and some Seniors boarded in private
families in town. Most of the Seniors, however, dwelt in a house near
the Hall. It was called Elmwood Castle, and Tom looked longingly at it
as he passed on his way to his own more humble, and less distinctive,
dormitory.
As Tom was ascending the steps, intending to report to the monitor
in charge, and also seek out the matron, he became aware of a student
standing on the topmost platform, looking down at him. Beside him was
another lad, and, as our hero came up, one shoved the other against Tom,
jostling him severely.
Instantly Tom flared up. He could see that it was done intentionally.
His face flushed.
“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.
“Whatever you like to think,” was the reply of the student whom Tom had
first noticed.
“Well, I think I don’t like it,” retorted Tom quickly.
“You’ll have to get used to it then; won’t he, Nick?” and the lad who
had done the shoving appealed to his companion, with a sneering laugh.
“That’s what he will, Sam.”
“I won’t then!” exclaimed Tom, “and the sooner you realize that the
better.”
“Oh ho! So that’s the kind of talk, eh?” sneered the one called Sam.
“What’s your name, Fresh?”
“Fairfield--Tom Fairfield--Fresh!” retorted Tom, for he could see by the
other’s cap that he, too, was a first year lad.
“Well mine’s Heller--Sam Heller, Capital ‘S’ and capital ‘H,’ and don’t
forget it. This must be the fellow who’s got my room, Nick,” he added.
“Probably,” replied Sam Heller’s crony, who was Nick Johnson. “Yes,
that was the name the monitor mentioned, come to think of it.”
“How have I your room?” asked Tom.
“Because you have. I had the room last year, and I told ’em to save it
for me this term. But you came along and snatched it up, so--”
“I took it because it was assigned to me,” spoke Tom, and from the
other’s talk he understood that the lad was a Freshman who had not
passed, and who, in consequence, was obliged to spend another year in
the same grade. Perhaps this made him bitter.
“Well, you’ve got my room,” grumbled Sam, “and I’m going to get square
with somebody.”
“You can get square with me, if you like,” said Tom quietly, “though I
told you I had nothing to do with it. One thing, though, if you do any
more shoving I’ll shove back, and it won’t be a gentle shove, either.”
“Is that a threat?” growled Sam.
“You can take it so if you like.”
“I will, and if you don’t look out--”
What Sam was going to say he did not finish, for, at that moment, the
monitor in charge of Opus Manor came to the door, and the two who had
sought to pick a quarrel with Tom slouched off across the campus.
“New student here?” asked the monitor, who did not seem to remember Tom.
“Yes. I’m Fairfield.”
“Oh yes, I recall you now. Come, and I’ll introduce you to my wife.
She’s matron here. Blackford is my name.”
“I remember it,” spoke Tom, who had met the monitor when down for his
examinations.
As the two were about to enter the building Tom saw his new friend,
Reddy Burke, hurrying along, beckoning to him to wait.
He halted a moment, and the Junior ran up the steps.
“I just saw you talking here to a couple of students,” began the
athlete, “and as I passed them just now I heard Sam Heller say he was
going to get even with you. What happened?”
Tom told him and Reddy whistled.
“Why, what’s up?” asked our hero.
“Nothing, if you don’t mind it, only you’ve made an enemy right off the
bat. That Heller is one of the few undesirables here. His crony, Nick
Johnson, is another. Heller is down on you all right, though it isn’t
your fault.”
“I don’t mind in the least,” spoke Tom.
“He’s one of the scrappers,” went on Reddy. “Look out!”
“I can take care of myself,” replied Tom. “Thanks, just the same,” and,
as he followed Monitor Blackford into the dormitory, he realized that he
had made an enemy and a friend in the same day.
CHAPTER V
TOM FINDS A CHUM
“This is the room assigned to you,” said the monitor, pausing in a long
corridor, after he had introduced Tom to Mrs. Blackford. “It is one of
the best in the Manor, though I don’t quite understand why you picked
out a double apartment.”
“Is it a double one?” asked Tom in some surprise. “I did not know it. As
I was requested in the circular I received, I indicated the section of
the building where I would like to be, and this room was assigned to me.
I supposed it was a single one.”
“No, it is intended for two students, and I suppose it was assigned to
you by mistake. I’m sorry, as it is too late to change now, since all
the reservations are taken, and--”
“Oh, I don’t want to change!” exclaimed Tom quickly, as he entered the
apartment shown him by the monitor. He saw that there were two beds in
it, and that it was large and airy. “I’ll keep this,” our hero added.
“It’s fine.”
“Have you a chum who might like to share it with you?” asked Blackford.
“The expense may--”
“Oh, I don’t mind that part of it,” said Tom. “My father knew how much
it was to cost, and he did not object. I haven’t a friend yet--that is,
a Freshman friend--but I may find one.”
“There is one, a Sam Heller, who had this room last term,” went on the
monitor. “He would doubtless be very glad to come in with you.”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Tom with a smile. “He and I had a little
difference of opinion just now, and--”
“Very well,” interrupted Mr. Blackford. “You needn’t explain. Suit
yourself about the room. It is yours for the term.” He knew better than
to enter into a talk about the disagreements of the students. There were
other troubles to occupy him.
Left to himself, Tom sat down and looked about the room that was to
be his for the Freshman year. It had a good view of the campus and
buildings, and he liked it very much.
“Though I should be glad if I had a good chum to come in with me,”
reflected the new student. “I may get in with somebody, though. It’s
rather lonesome to have two beds in one room, but I can sleep half the
night in one, and half the night in the other I suppose,” he ended,
with a smile.
Tom was unpacking his belongings from his valise when the expressman
arrived with his trunk, and a little later the matron knocked at the
door to ask if our hero found himself at home.
“Yes, thank you,” replied Tom, accepting the clean towels she brought.
He had begun to hang up his clothes.
“I do hope you get a nice young man in with you,” suggested Mrs.
Blackford. “One who won’t be cutting up, and doing all sorts of
mischievous pranks.”
Tom proceeded with getting his room to rights as she left him, and a
little later, finding that it wanted an hour yet to twelve o’clock, our
hero strolled out on the campus.
He looked about for a sight of Sam Heller, or his crony, Johnson, who,
it appeared later, had passed his examinations, and was a Sophomore,
while Sam had to remain a Freshman, much to his disgust. But the two,
whom Tom had come to feel were his enemies, were not in sight. Nor was
Reddy Burke, and, though Tom strolled over past Elmwood Castle, he did
not get a sight of Bruce Bennington.
Tom strolled about until lunch, and the mid-day meal was not a very
jolly affair. About twenty Freshmen, who had come a day before the term
formally opened, were at the tables and they were all rather miserable,
like fishes out of water, as Tom reflected. Still our hero talked with
them, experiences were exchanged, and the ice was broken.
“But I don’t exactly cotton to any of them enough to have one for a
roommate,” reflected Tom.
That afternoon, having formally registered, and being told about the
hours for chapel, and his lecture and recitation periods, Tom wrote a
long letter to his father and mother.
He was coming back, from having posted it, when he noticed, standing on
the steps of Opus Manor, a solitary figure.
“I hope that isn’t Sam Heller, waiting to renew the quarrel with me,”
reflected Tom, as he drew nearer. “Still, if it is, I’ll meet him half
way, though I don’t want to get into a fight my first day here.”
But he was soon made aware that it was not the bully who stood on the
steps. It was a lad about his own age, a tall, straight youth, with a
pleasant smiling face, and merry brown eyes. No, I am just a trifle
wrong about that face. It was naturally a jolly one, but just now it
bore a puzzled and unhappy look.
“Hello,” said Tom pleasantly, as he mounted the steps, and was about to
pass in.
“Hello!” greeted the other. “Do you room here?”
“Yes. This is my first day.”
“Say, you’re in luck. It’s my first day too. I’m a stranger in a strange
land, and I’m stuck.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom.
“Well, very foolishly, I delayed settling about my room until I got
here. I thought there’d be plenty of places, and, when I did arrive I
found that Opus Manor was the only desirable place for us Freshmen. Up I
steps, as bold as brass, and asks for a room and bath. ‘Nothing doing,’
answers the worthy monitor, or words to that effect. Consequently,
behold yours truly without a place to sleep, unless he goes into town to
a common boarding house. And I _did_ want to get in with the Freshmen!
It’s tough luck!”
Tom was doing some rapid thinking.
“I don’t suppose you know of a good place in town; do you?” went on the
other. “My name is Fitch--Jack Fitch. I’m from New York city.”
“Mine’s Tom Fairfield, from Briartown,” said our hero.
“Well, Tom Fairfield, have you been here long enough to recommend a
place to room, where I can also get the eats; especially the eats, for
I’m a good feeder. Know of a likely place?”
Tom’s mind was made up.
“Yes, there’s a place here,” he said.
“Here? Are you stringing me? They told me every room was taken.”
“So it is, but I have a large double one, and I was looking for a chum.
So--”
“You don’t mean you’ll take me in?” cried Jack. “Oh, end the suspense!
Fireman save my child! Don’t torture me!” and he gave a good imitation
of a woe-begone actor.
“I’ll be glad to have you,” said Tom, who had taken a sudden liking to
Jack. “That is, if you’d really like to come. You might look at the
room.”
“Say no more! Come? Of course I’ll come! Will a duck swim? But I say,
you know, you don’t know much about me.”
“I’ll take a chance--if you will,” said Tom, laughing.
“All right. Then we’ll call it square. Lead on and I’ll follow. To think
that, after all, I’m going to get in Opus Manor! It’s great, Fairfield!”
“Call me Tom, if you like.”
“I like. I’m Jack to you, from now on. Shake!” and he caught Tom’s hand
in a firm clasp. The two looked into each other’s eyes, and what they
read satisfied them. They were chums from then on.
“I’ll take you to my room--_our_ room,” Tom corrected himself. “It’s a
fine one!”
“I’m sure it must be. But do you reckon the Lord and Lady of this castle
will allow me to share it with you?”
“Yes. In fact Mrs. Blackford spoke of me getting some one in with me. So
that will be all right.”
“Great! Do you mind if I do a little dance? Just a few steps to show my
joy?” asked Jack, and Tom perceived at once that his new friend was a
jolly lad.
“Not at all,” Tom answered, and Jack gravely did a hop skip and jump on
the top platform of the steps.
As he finished there came a laugh from a couple of lads passing.
“Look at the ballet lady!” mocked a voice, and Tom saw Sam Heller and
Nick Johnson approaching.
“Did you like it?” asked Jack, coolly. He was not to be easily
disconcerted.
“Oh, it was great!” declared Sam with a sneer. “We’ll have you in the
Patchwork Club if you keep on.”
There was no mistaking the sneering tone of his voice, and Jack flushed.
“Friends of yours?” he asked Tom.
“Just the reverse. But don’t bother with them now. We can attend to them
later--if we have to.”
“And I think I shall have to,” said Jack quietly, as he looked Sam full
in the face. “I don’t mind fun, but I like it to come from my friends.
Lead on, Tom, and, as you say, we’ll attend to those two later.”
He followed Tom, and, as they disappeared into Opus Manor there floated
to them the mocking laughs of the two cronies.
CHAPTER VI
AN ANGRY PROFESSOR
“Tom, did you ever balance a water pitcher on your nose? I mean full of
water. The pitcher full, that is to say, not the nose.”
“Never, and I’m not going to begin now.”
“Well, I am. Watch me. I used to be pretty good at juggling.”
“Say, you want to be careful.”
“Oh, I will be. I’ve never done it, but there must always be a first
time. And, though balancing water pitchers may not be an accomplishment
taught in all schools, still there may come a time when the knowledge of
how to juggle one will come in handy. Here goes.”
Tom and Jack were in their room--the room our hero had decided to share
with his new chum. The matron and monitor had been interviewed, and
Mrs. Blackford was very glad, she said, to know that Tom was to have a
companion.
“And such a nice, quiet-appearing lad as he is, too,” she confided to
her husband. Alas, she did not know Jack Fitch!
“The other one seems very quiet, also,” said Mr. Blackford. “I wish all
the students were like those two.”
But if he and his wife could have looked into the chums’ room at that
moment, perhaps they would not have held to that opinion.
For Jack had taken the large water pitcher, and was preparing to balance
it on his nose, while Tom, rather fearing how the experiment would
terminate, had gotten safely out of the way in case of an accident.
“I wouldn’t do it, if I were you,” spoke Tom, though he could not help
laughing at his chum’s odd notion.
“Why not?” demanded Jack.
“Well---- Oh, because it might fall.”
“No reason at all, Tom. If would-be jugglers hesitated on that account
there’d be no experts. Give me a hand until I get it up on my nose; will
you?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid it will fall.”
“Oh, pshaw! Why fear? Never mind. I’ll balance it on my chin instead of
my nose. On second thought it’s a little too heavy for the nose act, and
my nose is like a bear’s--it’s tender. Watch me!”
Jack carefully lifted the pitcher of water, and managed to get it on
his chin. He steadied it with his two hands, bending his head back,
and then, when he thought he had it where he wanted it, he lowered his
palms, and the pitcher--for an instant--was balanced on his chin.
“Look!” he called to Tom, not taking his eyes from the vessel of water.
“Talk about jugglers! Some class to me; eh, Tom?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Now bring me a chair,” requested Jack. “I’m going to do it standing on
a chair.”
“You’ll never do it!” predicted Tom.
“Yes, I will. I’ll get the chair myself, then.”
This was his undoing. As long as he remained in one spot, with his head
carefully held still, the pitcher did not tilt enough to upset. But, as
soon as Jack moved, there was an accident.
“Look out!” yelled Tom, but his warning came too late.
Jack made a wild grab for the slipping vessel, but his hands did not
grasp it in time. A moment later there was a heavy crash, pieces of
china flew about the room, and a shower of water drenched the chums.
For a moment there was a grim silence. Then Jack said:
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”
“You certainly ought to be!” and Tom laughed in spite of himself, for
his new chum was much wetter than he.
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps was heard.
“Oh pip!” whispered the luckless juggler.
“What is the matter? Has anything happened?” demanded the voice of
Matron Blackford, in the corridor.
“Well--er--yes--we have had a slight--er--happening,” replied Tom,
grabbing the clean towels, and proceeding to mop up the water from the
carpet.
“Oh, is anyone hurt? May I come in?”
“Come!” called Jack, following his chum’s example, and the matron
entered.
“What happened?” she asked, as she saw the water, the drenched boys, and
the pieces of the broken pitcher.
“It--it sort of--fell,” replied Jack calmly, mopping away at the carpet.
“And broke,” added Tom. “We’re sorry----”
“And the water all spilled out,” needlessly interrupted Jack. “We are
very sorry for that, too.”
“Oh you boys!” exclaimed the matron, raising her hands in despair. “I
was afraid something would happen. What were you doing?”
“I was reciting my lesson in juggling,” replied Jack gravely. “And the
pitcher slipped. I’ll pay for it.”
“Oh, no, as long as you were at your lessons when it happened, it was
an accident, and you needn’t pay,” said the matron, but, later, Jack
insisted, and then the story came out.
“I’ll bring you some clean towels,” said Mrs. Blackford. “Luckily there
is a wooden ceiling below, or the plaster would have fallen, if there
had been any,” and she hurried away.
Tom’s first day at Elmwood Hall ended quietly enough, as did Jack’s, at
dinner in the big Freshman class dining room, and the two went to bed
early, as they were rather tired. There was very little excitement in
the school that night. A few of the older students sang some choruses on
the campus, but the real life of the institution had not yet begun.
The next day was full of activity. Students--old and new--arrived by the
score, and the professors, the matrons, the monitors, the proctor, and
Doctor Meredith himself, had their hands full. Opus Manor filled with a
laughing, chattering crowd, and Tom was glad he had selected his room
in advance, as there were many disappointed boys, when they found they
could not get the apartments they wanted.
“I struck it right!” declared Jack.
“And so did I!” added Tom, for he liked his new chum more and more. They
made the acquaintance of several lads. On one side of them roomed Bert
Wilson, to whom Tom and Jack at once took a liking, and on the other
side was George Abbot, a rather lonely little chap.
“I’m sure we’re going to like it here,” declared Jack, after their
first lecture, when both he and Tom found that they were well up in the
subject presented.
“Sure,” assented Tom.
“It’s a jolly place, all right,” declared Bert. “I wonder if there’ll be
any hazing?”
“Of course,” declared Jack. “I don’t mind, though.”
“Nor I,” said Tom.
Several days passed, and nearly all the students, save a few Seniors,
had arrived. Bruce Bennington was among the missing, and Tom found
himself wondering if he would come back.
“Maybe his trouble will keep him out of college,” thought our hero, and
he felt some regret, for he had formed a liking for the lad, though he
had met him but once.
“Come on down to the river,” proposed Tom one day, after the last
lecture for himself and his chum. “I’m just aching to get into a boat,
and I understand there are some on the Ware river that a fellow can
hire. I wish I had my motorboat here.”
“Why don’t you send for it?”
“Guess I will. Say, don’t you think the Latin is pretty stiff here?”
“A bit. But old Skeel makes it so. He’s fierce. I guess Reddy Burke was
right about what he said of him.”
“Sure he was. But never mind. Maybe it’ll be easier when we’ve been here
a few weeks. Here’s a short cut to the river,” suggested Tom, as they
came to the rear of a fine residence. “Let’s take it.”
“Looks as if we’d have to cross private grounds. One of the profs. lives
here, I understand.”
“What of it?” asked our hero. “He won’t mind, I guess. I like to take
cut-offs when I can.”
“Go ahead. I’m with you,” answered Jack.
The two cut across a lawn in the rear of the house, for they could
see the glittering river just beyond a fringe of trees, and they were
glad of the by-path, as they had gone a longer and more roundabout way
several times.
Tom was in the lead, and he had just passed a summer house,
vine-encumbered, on the rear lawn, when an angry voice hailed him.
“Where are you going?” was demanded.
“To the river,” replied Tom.
“Who told you to go this way?”
“No one.”
As Tom answered he saw a man come from the summer house, a man he at
once recognized as Professor Burton Skeel, the grim Latin instructor.
“Well, you boys can just go back the way you came,” went on the angry
professor. “These are my private grounds, and I allow no students to
trespass. If I find you doing it again I shall take sterner measures. Go
back the way you came, and don’t come here again. Ah, I see that you are
Elmwood students,” the professor went on. “That makes it all the worse.
You should have known that I permit no trespassing, nor trifling. Be
off!”
He fairly yelled the last words at the chums, who, though abashed, were
not much alarmed by the angry instructor.
As they turned to retrace their steps Tom saw another figure in the
summer house. He had a glimpse of the face, and it was that of Bruce
Bennington. The Senior had been in close conversation with the angry
professor.
“He looks sad,” mused Tom, referring to Bruce. “I guess his trouble
isn’t over yet. I wonder if that glum professor can have anything to do
with it?”
CHAPTER VII
BRUCE IS WORRIED
“Nice, pleasant sort of a chap for a professor--not!” exclaimed Jack, as
he and Tom went a more roundabout, and public, way to the river.
“He certainly is grouchy,” agreed our hero. “Who’d think he’d rile up
just because we cut through his back yard? He may take it out of us in
class.”
“Shouldn’t wonder. His kind usually does.”
“Did you see who was with him?” asked Tom.
“I saw a fellow, but no one I knew.”
“That was Bruce Bennington, the Senior I was telling you about.”
“The one you said had some trouble?”
“Yes, and to judge by his looks he has it yet. I wonder what he was
doing with old Skeel?”
“Maybe explaining why he hadn’t been to lectures before this.”
“No, I understand the Senior class doesn’t have to report as punctually
as we poor dubs of Freshmen. It must be something else.”
“Well, we have our own troubles, Tom. Don’t go to looking for those of
other fellows.”
“I won’t, Jack, only I’d like to help Bennington if I could.”
“So would I. Look, there are some boats we might hire,” and Tom pointed
to a small structure on the edge of the river, where several boats were
tied. A number of students from Elmwood Hall were gathered about, and
some were out in the rowing craft.
Tom and Jack learned that the man in charge kept boats for hire, and
the two chums were soon out in one, pulling up the river so, as Tom
explained, they would have it easier coming back with the current.
“There goes the Senior shell!” exclaimed Jack, as from the college
boathouse the long, slender craft was rowed out, looking not unlike some
big bug, with long, slender legs. “They’re practicing for the race, I
guess.”
“I wish I was with them,” remarked Tom. “I’m going to try for the
Freshman crew.”
“And I’m with you.”
The two rowed on, and soon found a quiet, shady nook, where the trees
overhung the river. There they tied their boat, and talked in the
shadows.
Coming back they again saw the Senior shell, the lads in it rowing more
slowly, for they were tired after their practice sprint. Turning in
their hired boat, Tom and Jack went to the college crew’s headquarters,
and there Tom, on making cautious inquiries, learned to his regret that
there would be no Freshman crew organized that fall.
“You see,” explained Reddy Burke to the two lads, who were much
interested in water sports, “our rowing season is in the spring. This
is only a little supplementary race the head crew is going to row with
Burkhardt college, which is five miles down stream. We beat them in the
spring, but they asked for another meet, and we gave it to them.
“But rowing is practically over for this year, so I guess there’s no
chance for you to get in a shell. Try in the spring, if you want to.”
“We will,” decided Tom.
“Meanwhile you’d better be thinking of football,” advised Reddy.
“Candidates for the team as well as for the class elevens will soon be
called for.”
“That hits us!” exclaimed Jack. “I’m going to train hard. Do you think
our crew will win.”
“Sure,” declared Reddy, and I might add here that when the auxiliary
race was rowed, two weeks later, Elmwood did win easily over her rival.
“Bennington is here,” remarked Tom, as with Jack he walked toward the
campus with Reddy.
“Is that so? It’s about time he blew in. Where did you see him?”
Tom explained, telling of the peremptory manner in which Professor
Skeel had ordered them from his lawn.
“Oh, you mustn’t mind that,” advised Reddy. “He certainly is getting
worse every term. I don’t see why Dr. Meredith keeps him. He’s the worst
one of the faculty, and if he doesn’t look out he’ll get what’s coming
to him.”
“Well, what shall we do this evening?” asked Jack, as he and his chum
were in their room after supper. “I’ve done with my boning.”
“So have I. What do you say to a lark? Let’s run the guard and go to
town.”
“I’m with you. Let’s get some of the other fellows,” proposed Jack.
“Bert Wilson will come, and so will George Abbot, I guess, if he can
stop asking questions long enough.”
“Sure we’ll go,” declared Bert, when the chums made the proposal to him.
“But what will we do when we get there?” George wanted to know.
“Oh. Why, we’ll stand on our heads!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh.
“All of us?” demanded the inquisitive lad.
“No, only you,” retorted Jack. “For cats’ sake, cut out some of those
questions; will you? We’ll call you Interrogation Mark if you don’t look
out, only it’s too much of a mouthful to speak in a hurry. Cut along
now, before we’re caught.”
It was dark enough to elude a possible spying monitor, or one of the
proctor’s emissaries, and soon the four lads were on their way to town.
They went to a moving picture show, enjoying it greatly.
“Now if we can get in without being seen, we’ll be all right,” remarked
Tom, when they had neared the college on the return trip.
“Pshaw, I shouldn’t much mind getting caught,” declared Jack. “It would
be fun.”
“Doing double boning, or being kept in bounds for a week wouldn’t
though,” declared Tom with conviction. “I vote we don’t get caught, if
we can help it.”
“Maybe we can’t,” suggested Bert.
“Why not?” George wanted to know.
“Oh, ask us something easier,” laughed Tom. “Come on now, and don’t make
too much noise.”
They were about to cross the campus, and make for their dormitory, when
there was a movement behind a clump of shrubbery, and a figure was seen
to emerge.
“There’s some one!” whispered Bert.
“Caught!” murmured Tom.
“I wonder who it is?” came from George.
“It’s Bruce Bennington, the Senior,” came from Tom. “We are safe.”
“You won’t be if you continue on this way,” came grimly from Bruce.
“One of the proctor’s scouts is out to-night, just laying for innocent
Freshies. You’d better cut around the side, and go in the back basement
door. It’s generally open, or if it isn’t I’ve got a key that will do
the trick.”
“You know the ropes,” laughed Tom.
“I ought to. I was a Freshman once. Come on, I’ll show you the way, but
don’t work the trick too often.”
Bruce walked up to Tom, and remarked:
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Fairfield. Glad to see you again. I didn’t
recognize you in the darkness. I just got in to-day.”
“Yes, I saw you,” remarked our hero as he introduced his chums.
Bruce continued to walk on beside Tom, the others following. The Senior
led the way along a little-used path, well screened by trees from spying
eyes.
“Won’t you get caught yourself?” Tom wanted to know.
“No, we lordly Seniors are allowed a few more privileges than you
luckless squabs. Though I shouldn’t much mind if I was nabbed. It would
be like old times,” and Tom detected a sigh in the words. Clearly Bruce
was still worrying.
“I saw you in Professor Skeel’s summer house this afternoon,” went on
Tom.
“Oh, so you were the lads he warned away! Yes, Skeel is a--well I guess
I’d better not say anything,” spoke Bruce quickly. “It might not be
altogether healthy.”
“For you?” asked Tom.
“Yes. I’m under some obligations to him, and--well, I don’t like to talk
about it,” he finished.
“Then you haven’t gotten over your trouble?” asked Tom sympathetically.
“No, it’s worse than ever. Oh, hang it all, what a chump I’ve been!”
exclaimed Bruce. “This thing is worrying the life out of me!”
“Why can’t some of your friends help you?” asked Tom. “If I could----”
“No, thank you, Fairfield, no one can do anything but myself, and
I can’t, just now. It may come out all right in the end. Don’t say
anything about it. Here we are. Now to see if the door’s open.”
Letting Bruce lead the way, the other lads cautiously followed. They
saw him about to try the knob of the basement portal, when suddenly Tom
became aware of a light flickering through a side window.
“Hist!” he signalled to Bruce. “Someone’s coming!”
“All right. You fellows lay low, and I’ll take a look,” volunteered
their guide. “I don’t mind being caught.”
“He’s got nerve,” said Jack, admiringly, as he and his chums crouched
down in the darkness.
Tom and the others saw Bruce boldly look in the window through which the
light shone.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CALL OF THE PIGSKIN
“Maybe it’s Professor Skeel,” whispered George, apprehensively.
“Or Merry himself,” added Jack.
“Nonsense!” replied Tom. “Neither of them would be in our dormitory at
this hour.”
“Unless they got wise to the fact that we went out, and they’re laying
to catch us when we come in,” declared Bert. “If I’m nabbed I hope my
dad doesn’t hear of it.”
“Come on, fellows,” came in a shrill whisper from Bruce. “It’s only
Demy, our studious janitor. He’s boning over some book, and if you help
him with his conjugation, or demonstrate a geometric proposition for
him, he’ll let you burn the school down and say nothing about it. Come
on; it’s all right.”
They entered through the door, which was not locked, so that Bruce did
not have to use his key, and at their advance, into what was a sort of
storeroom of the basement, the studious janitor looked up from a book he
was reading.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Is this--ahem! young gentleman, I hardly
know what----”
“It’s all right, Demy,” interrupted Bruce with a laugh. “I brought
’em in. They want to help you do a little--let’s see what you’re at,
anyhow?” and he looked at the book.
“It’s Horace,” said the janitor. “I want to read some of his odes in the
original, but the translating is very hard, to say the least. Still, I
am determined to get an education while I have the chance.”
“Good for you!” exclaimed the Senior. “I’ll help you, Demy. Horace
is pie for me. You fellows cut along to your rooms,” he added,
significantly. “You haven’t seen them, have you, Demy?”
“No, Mr. Bennington, not if you don’t wish me to,” and the janitor,
with a grateful look at the Senior, prepared to listen to the Latin,
while Tom and his chums, grateful for the aid given them, hurried up the
stairs to their apartments.
“That was fine of him, wasn’t it?” remarked Jack, as good-nights were
being whispered.
“It sure was,” declared Tom, wishing more than ever that he could help
the unhappy Senior.
“I wonder why the janitor wants to know Latin?” came from the human
question mark.
“Oh, answer that in your dreams,” advised Tom.
From the fact that no mention was made of their little night excursion,
Tom and the others concluded that the studious janitor had kept his pact
with Bruce. The latter told Tom afterward that he was kept busy giving
Latin instruction until nearly midnight.
“It was good of you,” said our hero.
“Oh, pshaw! I’m glad I can do somebody good,” was the rejoinder. That
was Bruce Bennington’s way. As Reddy had said, the Senior was his own
worst enemy.
“Hear the news?” burst out Jack, as he entered the room where Tom was
studying, a few afternoons later.
“No, what news?”
“Call for Freshmen and regular football candidates is posted. Practice
begins to-morrow. Let’s get out our suits.”
“Fine!” cried Tom, tossing his book on the table, and scurrying for his
trunk where he had packed away his moleskin trousers and canvas jacket.
Jack soon had his out, looking for possible rents and ripped seams.
“I’ve got to do some mending--worse luck!” exclaimed Tom, as he saw a
big hole in his trousers.
“Can you sew?” asked Jack.
“Oh, so-so,” laughed Tom. “I can make a stab at it, anyhow,” and he
proceeded to close up the rent by the simple process of gathering the
edges together like the mouth of a bag, and winding string around them.
“There! I guess that’ll do,” he added.
It was a clear, crisp day, and “the call of the pigskin” had been
heard all through the college. Several score of lads, in more or less
disreputable suits, that had seen lots of service, assembled on the
gridiron under the watchful eyes of the coaches.
“I hope I make the regular eleven,” said Tom, as he sent a beautiful
spiral kick to Jack.
“So do I,” was the reply. “But I hear there are lots of candidates for
it, and almost a whole team was left over from last season, so there
won’t be much chance for us.”
The practice was more or less ragged, and, in fact it was only designed
to let the coaches see how the new lads “sized-up.” Several elevens were
tentatively formed, and taken to different parts of the field to play
against each other.
Tom worked hard, and he was glad to note that one of the older players
had regarded him with what our hero thought were favorable eyes. Jack
was also doing well.
This practice was kept up for several days, and about a week later Reddy
Burke, meeting Tom, exclaimed:
“Say, you fellows are in luck!”
“How so?” asked Jack, who was with his chum.
“You’ve made the eleven, I hear. You’ll probably get notice to-day.”
“The regular?” cried Tom in delight.
“Hardly! There’s only one new fellow going on that, I understand, though
you might fill in as subs. But you’re both going to play on the first
Freshman eleven.”
“The Freshman team,” spoke Jack, somewhat disappointedly.
“Say, what do you want?” asked Tom. “I think it’s fine. Of course I wish
it was the regular, but maybe next year----”
“That’s the way to talk,” declared Reddy, who was on the leading team
himself. “But I tell you that you’re in luck to make the Freshman team.
There are no end of candidates, but you two seemed to hit the mark.”
Tom rejoiced exceedingly, and when he received his formal notice, as
did Jack, our hero at once wrote to his parents, who were soon to reach
Australia. Tom had had several letters from them since leaving home, but
had yet to hear of their safe arrival. He sent the letter to Sydney, in
care of his father’s lawyer.
There were busy days for our hero and his chums now. With lectures to
attend, studying to do, and football practice, their time was pretty
well occupied. Bert Wilson had made the Freshman eleven, and the three
chums played well together.
Tom had not seen much of Bruce Bennington since the night the Senior
aided the first year lads, for Bruce was busy too, as he was on the
’varsity.
Tom found that football, as played at Elmwood, was very different from
the Academy games, but he was made of tough material, and he soon worked
well into his place as right half-back, while Jack was left tackle.
Several scrub games had been played, and the Freshman coaches seemed
satisfied with the work of their charges.
“Hurray!” yelled Tom, running up to Jack one afternoon, as his chum was
strolling across the campus. “Yell, old man!”
“What for?”
“We play our first regular game Saturday against Holwell college.
They’ve got a strong team, but we’re going to win! I’m going to make a
touchdown!”
“Good! Oh, say, it’s great here!” and in the excess of their good
spirits Tom and Jack fell to pummelling each other in hearty fashion.
CHAPTER IX
TOM’S TOUCHDOWN
“Come on now, boys, line up!”
It was the call of Coach Jackson for the final practice of the Freshmen
eleven before their first big game. The regulars were to play against
the scrub, and, as some of the positions were yet in doubt, there were
some anxious hearts. For not a substitute but wanted to fill in on the
regular eleven.
Tom and Jack, because of the good showing they had made, were assured of
places, but Sam Heller, who, to do him credit, was a fairly good player,
was not so certain. It lay between him and Bert Wilson, as to who would
be quarter-back.
“But if I had my rights, and if that Fairfield chap hadn’t come butting
in,” declared Sam to his crony, Nick, “I would be sure of my place.”
“That’s right,” agreed Nick. “We’ll have to get up something on
Fairfield, and make him quit Elmwood.”
“I wish I could. Say, the Sophs haven’t done any hazing this term yet;
have they?”
“No, but they will.”
“I suppose so. Well, just have ’em let me down easy; will you? I’m a
Soph myself, by rights, if old Hammond hadn’t marked me low in maths.
But have the Sophs give it to Fairfield and his chum good and proper;
will you?”
“Sure I will. We’re going to do some hazing after the football game. We
thought we’d put it off until then.”
“All right, only do Tom Fairfield up if you can.”
“I will. I don’t like him any more than you do. He’s got too many airs
to suit me--he and that Jack Fitch.”
“Line up! Line up!” called the coach, and the practice began. Sam Heller
was called on to take his place in the scrub, which he did with no
good grace, casting envious eyes at Bert Wilson, and with a feeling of
bitterness in his heart toward Tom. And with no good cause, for Tom had
done nothing to Sam.
“Now, boys, play your heads off!” ordered the coach. “I want to see what
sort of stuff you’re made of. The best players will go against Holwell
to-morrow.”
Then the scrub game began, with the Freshmen players doing their best to
shove back their opponents, and the latter equally determined to make as
good a showing as possible. Back and forth the battle of the gridiron
waged, with Tom jumping into every play, looking for openings where he
might wriggle through with the ball, or help the man who had it to gain
a yard or two.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” yelled the members of the first eleven, as they
got the ball well down toward the scrub goal. “Make it a touchdown!”
It would have been, but for the fact that Bert Wilson fumbled the ball
in passing it back from centre. A scrub player broke through, grabbed
the pigskin, and was off down the field like a shot.
“Get him, boys!” cried Morse Denton, the Freshman captain, and Jack
Fitch, who was as fleet as some ends, was after the fleeing youth. He
caught him in time to prevent a score being made, but the coach shook
his head at the next line up.
“Heller, you go in at quarter to replace Wilson,” he said. “I am sorry,”
the arbiter added, at the look of gloom on the face of Tom’s chum, “but
fumbles are costly. I can’t afford to take any chances.”
Bert said nothing, but he knew that he was not altogether at fault,
for the centre had not passed the ball accurately. Sam Heller, with a
triumphant smile at Tom, went to quarter, and the game proceeded. But
it was noticed that Sam, who was giving signals, and deciding on most
of the plays, did not give Tom as many chances as when Bert had been in
place behind the centre.
“You want to look out for Sam in the game to-morrow,” said Jack to Tom
that night, when, after gruelling practice, the regular Freshmen had
shoved the scrub all over the field.
“Why so?”
“Because I think he has it in for you. He’ll spoil your plays if he can,
and he won’t give you a chance. Look out for him.”
“I will. But at the same time I don’t believe he’d do anything to spoil
the chance of the team winning.”
“I wouldn’t trust him. At the same time he may do nothing worse than not
give you a chance. It’s going to be a big game, I hear, and the fellow
who makes good will be in line for the ’varsity next season.”
“I’ll watch out. Now let’s do something. Come on in Bert’s room. He
feels bad about not playing to-morrow.”
“I know. But it’s forbidden to visit in other fellows’ rooms after
hours.”
“Oh, what of it?” asked Tom, who liked to take chances. “We’ve got to do
something. It isn’t so late, and there are no lectures to-morrow.”
“All right, go ahead. I’m with you. But I hope we don’t get caught. It
might mean being ruled out of the game to-morrow.”
Bert was grateful for the sympathy of his chums, and soon felt in better
humor. Jack offered to repeat his water pitcher juggling act, and was
only prevented by force on the part of Tom. There was a merry scuffle,
and George Abbot came in to see what was going on, at the same time
bringing warning that a sub-monitor had been patroling the corridors.
“Then we’ve got to be quiet,” declared Tom. “Cut out your juggling,
Jack.”
The four chums talked for an hour or more, and then the three, who were
out of their rooms, taking a cautious survey of the hall, prepared to go
to bed, ready for the big game on the morrow. Jack and Tom just escaped
being caught as they slipped into their apartment, but, as Tom remarked,
“A miss was as good as a mile.”
Then came the day of the great game.
“Line up! Line up!”
“Over here, Elmwood!”
“This way, Holwell!”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!”
“Toot! Toot! Toot!”
These were only some of the cries that burst forth from hundreds of
throats at the annual game between the Elmwood and Holwell schools, as
the Freshmen prepared to clash in their gridiron battle.
The game was to take place on the Elmwood grounds, and both teams were
out for practice. The crowds were beginning to arrive, and the bands
were playing.
“Say, there’s a mob here all right,” remarked Jack to Tom. “A raft of
people.”
“Yes. I hope we win.”
“Oh, sure we will. Don’t get nervous. I only wish Bert was at quarter
instead of Sam Heller.”
“So do I, but it can’t be helped. I guess it will be all right.”
“Line up!”
It was the final call. The preliminaries had been all arranged, the
goals chosen, and the practice balls called in. Elmwood was to kick
off, and the new yellow pigskin was handed to her burly centre, who was
poising it on a little mound of earth in the middle of the field.
“Ready?” asked the official.
“Ready!” answered both captains.
The whistle shrilled out its signal, and the toe of the big centre met
the ball squarely. It was well kicked into the Holwell territory.
The full-back on the latter team caught it skillfully, and started to
return with it, well protected by interference, but Jack Fitch worked
his way through it, and tackled his man hard.
“Good! Good!” screamed the Elmwood enthusiasts, and then the first
scrimmage was prepared for.
I am not going to describe for you that game in detail, for it formed
but a small part in the life of Tom Fairfield. Sufficient to say that
the gridiron battle was fairly even, and that at the end of the third
quarter the score was a tie.
“But we’ve got to win!” declared the Elmwood captain, during the rest
period. “We’ve _got_ to.”
“And we will, if there’s a change made,” declared Jack Fitch boldly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Tom Fairfield isn’t getting a fair show.”
“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Tom.
“That’s right! You’re not!” declared his chum. “Sam hasn’t called on
you three times during the game. It’s been all wing shift plays, or
place kicks, or forward passes, or fake kicks or something like that.
Why can’t we have some straight, old-fashioned football, with a rush
of the half-back through tackle and guard or centre? Tom’s a good
ground-gainer.”
“I’ve played him as much as I saw proper,” snapped Sam.
“You have not!” declared Jack hotly.
“Easy, boys,” cautioned the coach. “There must be no personal feeling.
Perhaps some straight football would go well, Heller.”
“All right, I’ll give it to ’em.”
The whistle blew to start the last quarter.
“Remember, boys, a touchdown will do the trick, and win the game!”
pleaded the Elmwood captain.
“Look out for yourself, Tom,” cautioned Jack.
“Why?”
“Because Sam is just mad enough to make you fumble the ball and spoil a
play. Then he’ll accuse you of losing the game.”
“I’ll watch out.”
The play was resumed. It was give and take, hammer and tongs, with the
best players making the most gains. The ball was slowly forced down the
field toward the Holwell goal.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” screamed the supporters of our hero’s college,
and there were many of them.
“Seven, eleven, thirty-three, Elmwood! Eight--nine--twenty-one!” called
Sam.
It was the signal for the full-back to take the ball through centre. It
was almost the last chance, for the time was nearly up, and Tom had not
been given a single opportunity that quarter. His heart burned against
his enemy; yet what could he do?
The quarter-back dropped his hands as a signal for the centre to snap
the ball back. Sam caught it fairly, and turned to pass it to the
full-back. Then, that always fatal element in football developed. There
was a fumble. The ball was dropped.
“Grab it! Fall on it!” yelled half a dozen Holwell players.
The Elmwood line wavered. Could it hold?
Tom Fairfield, a mist before his eyes, saw the pigskin rolling toward
him. He picked it up on the jump. In another moment Jack Fitch and Joe
Rooney, his guard, had torn a hole in the opposing line.
“Come on, Tom!” yelled Jack hoarsely.
And Tom, with lowered head, with the ball held close to his breast,
plunged into the line. He hit it hard. It yielded. He went through with
a rush, pushed by Jack and Joe. Then, seeing but a single man between
himself and the coveted goal, he rushed for it.
All but the opposing full-back had been drawn in at the sight of the
fumble, and the chance to secure the ball. Tom rushed at this lone
player.
There was a shock. Tom reeled, but managed to retain his footing. He
shoved the full-back aside, and ran on.
“Oh, great!” he heard hundreds yell. “Go on! Go on!”
How he ran! It was the opportunity for which he had waited. In spite of
Sam Heller it had come to him. Over the white chalk marks Tom scudded,
until, with panting breath, with a heart that seemed bursting, and with
eyes that scarcely saw, he fell over the last line, and planted the
ball between the goal posts, making the winning touchdown. The other
players--his own and his opponents--straggled up to the last mark. The
whistle blew, ending the game.
“Oh wow!” shrilled hundreds of voices. “Elmwood! Elmwood! Elmwood
forever!”
“Tom, you won the game! You won the game!” yelled Jack in his chum’s
ear, as Tom got up, holding his foot on the ball. “You won in spite of
Sam!”
“I--I’m glad--of--it!” panted Tom, scarcely able to breathe even yet,
for he had run hard.
CHAPTER X
A COWARD’S TRICK
“Three cheers for Fairfield!”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!--Elmwood!”
“Three cheers for Holwell!”
There were shouts, cries and cheers of joy at the victory on the part of
our hero’s followers, while there was corresponding gloom in the camp of
their unsuccessful rivals.
“Great work, old man!” complimented Tom’s captain. “You did the trick
for us!”
“It was an accident. I just managed to get the ball, and run,” explained
Tom.
“Lucky for us you did. It was an accident that might have counted
heavily against us. What was the matter with you, Sam, in passing the
ball?”
“Aw, it wasn’t my fault. It slipped. Anyhow our full-back had his hands
on it, and he dropped it.”
“I did not!” declared that player. “You didn’t pass it to me fairly.”
“That’ll do!” interrupted the captain sharply. “We don’t want any
quarrels. Besides, we won the game.”
Tom was surrounded by a joyous crowd of his chums, and other admirers,
as the team raced from the field, and the throng of spectators filed out
of the stands.
“Well, how do you feel?” asked Jack of his chum, as they were in their
room together, after a refreshing bath in the gymnasium.
“Great! I expect I’ll be a little lame and stiff tomorrow though.
Somebody gave me a beaut dig in the ribs.”
“And I guess our whole team, and half of the other one, was piled on me
at one stage of the game,” remarked Jack ruefully, as he rubbed his back
reflectively. “But it was a glorious win all right. And how you did run,
Tom!”
“I just had to, to make that touchdown.” And then the two boys fell to
talking of the game, playing it all over again in detail.
“I just thought Sam would be mean enough not to give you a chance,”
remarked Jack.
“Oh, maybe it wasn’t intentional,” replied our hero, who did not like to
think ill of anyone.
“Get out! Of course it was. Ask any of the fellows. But he fooled
himself. That fumble spoiled his plans, and you grabbed your
opportunity.”
“And the ball too,” added Tom, as there came a knock on their door.
“Come!” called Jack, and Bert Wilson and George Abbot entered.
“Came to pay our respects,” spoke Bert. “How does it feel to be hero?
Aren’t your ears burning, with the way the fellows are talking about
you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why should his ears burn?” asked George. “Is it because he--”
“Now you quit, or I’ll fire the dictionary at you,” threatened Bert.
“I told you I’d bring you in on one condition, and that was that you
wouldn’t be a question box.”
“But I just wanted to know,” pleaded George.
“Then look it up in an encyclopedia,” directed Jack, with a laugh. “I’m
not going to answer any more questions.”
“I hope you get a chance next game,” said Tom to Bert. “Maybe you will
after the fumble Sam made.”
And Bert did. For there was a conference between the Freshman captain
and coach that night, which resulted in Sam being sent back to the
scrub. He protested mightily.
“It wasn’t my fault--that fumble,” he declared.
“I think it was,” spoke the coach. “Anyhow you didn’t run the team
as well as I thought you would. Why, you didn’t give Fairfield half a
chance, and he showed what he could do when he did get a show.”
“Aw, he can’t play football.”
“I think he can. Anyhow, you’ll shift back, but if you do good work I’ll
play you on the regular team again before the season is over.” And with
this Sam had to be content.
Football practice was resumed on Monday, and the team seemed to do
better with the change in quarter-backs. There was a match in the middle
of the week, and again Elmwood won handily, Jack Fitch distinguishing
himself by a long run, while Tom made some star tackles, once saving a
touchdown by catching the player a short distance from the goal.
“I’ll get even with Fairfield yet!” threatened Sam to Nick. “He needn’t
think he can run things here.”
“Go in and do him,” advised his crony. “Can’t you pick a quarrel with
him, and have it out?”
“I’ll try. If you see a chance, sail in and lick him.”
“I will,” promised Nick, but Sam’s chance came sooner than he expected,
or, rather, he made the opportunity.
There is a certain fine powder, a sort of a pepper-snuff so fine that
it can not be seen floating about, yet which, if scattered about a room,
will irritate the eyes, nose and throat in a marked degree. Sam bought
some of this powder, and making it up into a small paper parcel, he
watched his chance to slip it into Tom’s handkerchief pocket.
“He’ll pull it out in class,” Sam explained to Nick, “and set the whole
room to sneezing. I’ll try and have him do it in Latin recitation, and
Skeel won’t do a thing to him, for Tom sits in the front row, and the
prof. will see him.”
“Suppose Fairfield catches you?”
“I’ll take care that he doesn’t,” declared Sam, and he was lucky enough
to bring about his cowardly trick undetected. As the students went into
the Latin class, presided over by Professor Skeel, Sam slipped the
sneezing powder into Tom’s pocket, on top of his handkerchief. It was
quickly done, and, in the press, our hero never noticed it. Then Sam
quickly joined one of his classmates, with whom he was more or less
thick, to prevent detection.
The recitation was about half over, and Tom, who had been called on, had
made a failure, for a very hard question, and one he had never dreamed
would be brought up in class, was asked him.
“Remain after the session, and write me out fifty lines of Cæsar,”
ordered the mean instructor. Tom shut his laps grimly. A little later
he pulled out his handkerchief, and, as might have been expected, the
powder flew out, scattering from the paper. A few moments later a
boy began to sneeze, and soon the whole room was doing it--even the
professor.
Now Professor Skeel was no simpleton, if he was mean, and he at once
detected the irritating powder. He realized at once that some one had
done it for a trick, and he had seen the paper fall from Tom’s pocket,
as the stuff scattered.
“Fairfield!” he exclaimed angrily, “did you scatter that powder?”
“Not intentionally, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I did not know it was there. Some one must have put it in
my pocket for a joke.”
“Nonsense! Do you expect me to believe that?” the professor asked
sharply of Tom.
“It’s the truth, sir.”
“Preposterous! I don’t believe you!”
“Sir!” exclaimed our hero, for he was not in the habit of being told
that he spoke an untruth.
“Don’t contradict me!” stormed the teacher. “I say you did it on
purpose--er--a-ker-choo! On purpose--ker-choo! I have known it to
be done before, in other classes, but never in mine. I will have no
nonsense! Ker-choo!”
The professor was having hard work to talk, for he sneezed quite often,
as, in fact, did every one in the class.
“This foolishness will have to stop!” he declared. “I am certain you put
that powder in your own pocket, Fairfield.”
“I did not, sir.”
“Ha! Did any one here put that powder in Fairfield’s pocket?” asked the
professor.
Naturally the guilty Sam did not answer.
“There, you see!” exclaimed Mr. Skeel, triumphantly. “I knew you did
it--ker-choo! But I have no doubt others may have been implicated, and I
will punish the whole class. You will all of you write me out a hundred
lines of Cæsar.”
“That is not fair, sir,” spoke Tom boldly.
“What! You dare to tell me that!” stormed Mr. Skeel.
“It is not fair,” insisted Tom. “Either I alone am responsible, which I
deny, or some one else is. I assure you, sir, that no one in the class
entered with me into any trick to do this thing.”
“I don’t believe you. The whole class will be punished unless the guilty
one confesses--and that includes you!” and the professor looked angrily
at Tom.
Sam, of course, would not admit his part in the affair, and as it was
impossible to have the class remain longer in the powder-infested room,
the students were dismissed. But Professor Skeel would not remit the
punishment.
“Say, this is tough luck--to have to write out all that Latin, for
something we didn’t do,” complained Frank Nelson.
“I should say so,” added Harry Morse. “Why don’t you own up to it,
Fairfield, and save our hides.”
“Because I didn’t do it intentionally.”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Say, if Tom says he didn’t do it, he didn’t,” declared Jack.
“I guess that’s right,” agreed Harry. “Excuse me, Tom,” and, to the
credit of Tom’s classmates, one and all expressed their belief in his
innocence. That is, all but Sam, and he kept quiet, avoiding our hero.
But, to ward off suspicion, Sam growled louder than anyone about the
task.
“I’d like to get hold of the fellow who used that powder,” complained
Ed. Ward.
“You won’t have to look far for him, I guess,” said Jack, in a voice
that only Tom heard.
“Do you think Sam did it?” asked Tom.
“I sure do. But you want to be certain of your proof against him before
you accuse him!”
“I will,” declared Tom. “I’ll do a bit of detective work.”
But he had no clews to work on, and, though he was sure his enemy had
made him and the others suffer, he could prove nothing, for the paper in
which the powder was wrapped was blank.
CHAPTER XI
A CLASS WARNING
“Well, if any of you young gentlemen have any more powder to scatter
around, you had better do it, and have done with it,” remarked Professor
Skeel a day or so later, when Tom and his chums came in to recite. “Only
if you do,” he added sarcastically, “the punishment I meted out before
will be doubled, and, in case the offense is repeated a third time, I
will go on doubling the task, if necessary in arithmetical progression.”
He looked at the lads, with a sneering smile on his face. There were
mutterings of discontent from all, save perhaps Sam Heller, for the lads
felt not only the injustice of the uncalled-for remarks, but the former
punishment still rankled in their minds.
“No one seems inclined to take advantage of my offer,” went on Professor
Skeel, “so we will go on with the lesson. Fairfield, you may begin.
We’ll see if you are prepared.”
Tom was, fortunately, and it seemed not only to him, but to some of the
others, as if the teacher was displeased. Very likely he would have been
glad of a chance to punish Tom. But he did not get it--at least that day.
“Unmannerly brute!” murmured Tom, as he sat down. “I’ll pay you back
yet. Not because of what you did to me, but because you’re unfair to the
rest of the class.”
Tom hated unfairness, and he also felt that, in a way, he was to blame
for the punishment the class had unjustly suffered. He had not been able
to learn anything about how the powder came to be put in his pocket,
though he suspected Heller more than ever, as he saw how vindictive the
Freshman bully was toward him.
“I almost wish he’d pick a fight with me,” thought Tom. “Then I could
give him what he deserves.”
But Sam saw no chance of doing any further harm to the lad whom he hated
with so little cause.
“Why can’t you think of something to help me out?” Sam asked of his
crony.
“Think of something yourself,” retorted Nick. “I’ve got my own troubles.
We’re going to haze the Freshmen tonight, and I’m on the committee of
rules and regulations,” and he laughed.
“You are? Then this is my chance! Come over here where we can talk,”
and the bully led his crony to one side.
This talk followed the dismissal of Professor Skeel’s Latin class,
during which nothing had occurred save that the instructor took every
chance of insulting the students.
“Say, if this keeps up much longer, we’ll have to do something, Jack,”
declared Tom, as they proceeded on to another recitation.
“That’s right. But what can we do?”
“Oh, I’m going to think of something. I wish we could haze him.”
“So do I. But I guess we’ll be hazed ourselves first.”
“How’s that?”
“Why it’s this week that the Sophs get after us. We may expect them any
night now. Going to crawl?”
“I am not! Might as well have it over with.”
“That’s what I say.”
Though Tom and his Freshmen chums rather expected the advent of their
traditional enemies, the Sophomores, they hardly looked for visits that
same night, and so, when a knock came on the door of the room occupied
by Tom and Jack, they opened it unsuspectingly.
“Here are two!” exclaimed a voice, as several masked figures entered.
“We’re in luck! Grab ’em!”
The orders of the ringleader were obeyed. Tom and Jack could not tell
who their captors were.
“I say, Tom, shall we fight ’em?” asked Jack, always ready for a battle.
“No, what’s the use--in here?” asked Tom significantly.
“Ha! Scrappers, eh?” remarked another Sophomore. “You’re the kind we’re
looking for!”
“And maybe you’ll get more than you want!” exclaimed Tom. Neither he
nor Jack resisted as they were led forth. It was a sort of unwritten
rule that no fighting against the hazers should take place in the
dormitories, as property was likely to be damaged.
“Wait until we get in the open!” whispered Tom to Jack, as they were
being led down stairs. “Then we’ll upset ’em if we can, and run. They
don’t look to be very husky.”
“That’s right,” agreed Tom’s chum.
“Ha! No plotting!” cried the ringleader, giving Tom a dig in the ribs.
“I’ll give you that back with interest when I get the chance,” murmured
our hero.
Other parties of hazers made their appearance in the corridor, some
leading Bert Wilson and George Abbot.
“Where are you taking me? What are you going to do? Is this allowed?”
fired George at his captors.
“Sure it’s allowed, you little question mark!” exclaimed a Sophomore.
“Trot along now.”
Tom and his chums were led over the campus. They could see other little
groups of prisoners in like plight, and the Sophomores, all of whom wore
masks, gathered together with their captives.
“To the river!” ordered the ringleaders. “We’ll make ’em wade a bit.”
“Oh, they’re going to duck us!” whimpered George. “I wonder why they do
it?”
“Oh, there goes Why!” exclaimed Jack. “He can’t keep still.”
“They’re not going to duck me!” murmured Tom. “Come on, Jack, now’s our
chance. Make a break!”
It was the best chance Tom had seen, and, with a sudden push, and a
putting out of his foot, he tripped the lad who had hold of his arm.
Then, with a well-directed punch, he paid him back for the dig in the
ribs. Tom was free to run.
“Come on, Jack!” he called. His chum, performing a like trick, was also
free, and their two captors were down on the ground. But the flight did
not go unnoticed.
“Two are loose! Grab the two Freshies!” yelled the lads who had held Tom
and Jack. The cry was taken up, and some of the Sophomores, who had
no Freshmen to take care of, ran after the two chums. Our heroes might
have gotten away but for the fact that two lads, masked, who were coming
across the campus to join their fellows, saw them, and waited to catch
the two fleeing ones.
Tom and Jack tried to dodge, but could not. There was a clash, and Jack
was caught. In a moment other Sophomores came up, and had him. Tom was
struggling with his captor.
“Take that!” cried the latter, when, finding he could not subdue Tom, he
struck our hero a blow in the face.
“I won’t take that from any one!” cried Tom fiercely. “Hazing customs
or not!” He retaliated, and with such good measure that he knocked the
other down. The black mask came off in the fall, and it was light enough
for Tom to see Sam Heller.
“You!” he cried. “You’re not a Sophomore! You have no right to haze!”
“This is my second year here. I’m a Sophomore by rights!” growled Sam,
much put out that his trick had been discovered. “I’ll get even with
you, too!”
In his rage he leaped up and rushed at Tom. It was just the chance the
other wanted, and our hero promptly knocked Sam down again. He was wild
with rage. By this time a knot of Sophomores surrounded Tom.
“Hold on there, Fresh!” cried some one who seemed to be in authority.
“This won’t do, you know. You shouldn’t fight back when you’re being
hazed.”
“Has a Freshman the right to help the Sophs haze us?” demanded Tom, as
he recognized Bruce Bennington in the objector. “Here’s Sam Heller, of
our class, joining against us.”
“Is that so?” asked Bruce in surprise. With some other Seniors he had
come out to see the fun. “That’s not allowed, you know, Wendell,” he
said, turning to the leader of the Second year lads.
“I didn’t know Heller was here,” replied Wendell. “That’s straight. He
has no right. We beg your pardon, Fairfield. Sam, how did this happen?”
Wendell was justly indignant.
“Well, I claim I’m a Sophomore, and I would be if I had a fair show.
I thought I had a right to help haze.” Sam was whining now, like all
cowards when found out. His trick, which he had formed with the aid of
Nick, had failed. The two had planned to get Jack and Tom off alone,
during the general excitement over the hazing, and thrash them.
“You’re not a Soph, and you can’t do any hazing,” declared Wendell
decidedly. “You ought to be hazed yourself, and you would be, only you
got yours last year. Come along now, Fairfield, and take what’s coming
to you.”
“All right,” agreed Tom good-naturedly. He was satisfied with what he
had done to Sam. The crowd of Sophomores was now so large that there was
no chance for our hero and his chum to escape.
“Take your medicine, Fairfield,” advised Bruce with a laugh. “It won’t
be very bad.”
“All right,” said Tom again, and he and Jack were led back to their
luckless mates, the little group of Seniors following.
The hazing was not very severe. The Freshmen were made to wade in
the river up to their knees, and then, with coats turned inside out,
forced to dance in a ring, while the Sophomores laughed their delight,
and played mouth organs. Some few were tossed in blankets, and much
horse play was indulged in. But the discovery of Heller’s trick rather
discomfited the second year lads, and they felt that there was a little
blight on their class. Otherwise the hazing might have been more severe.
“Now then, form in line, and give three cheers for the Sophs, and you
can go home to your beds,” declared Wendell. “Only remember, every
Freshman must wear his cap backwards every time he comes on the campus,
for the next two weeks, and salute every Sophomore he meets, under
penalty of being hazed over again. Remember! Now for the cheers!”
They were given, and the hazing was over. No one had been much annoyed
by it, save perhaps Sam Heller.
“It didn’t work,” he grumbled to Nick, later that night. “We had a
fight, though.”
“Did you lick him?” asked Nick, who had been separated from his crony
during the fracas with Tom.
“I sure did.”
“How’d you get that bruise near your eye?” asked Nick.
“Oh--er--I--sort of fell,” stammered Sam. The bruise was where Tom had
hit him.
And thus the hazing of Tom’s Freshman class passed into history.
Several weeks passed, and our hero came to like the school more and
more. He made many new chums, and no more enemies, though Sam and Nick
disliked him more than ever, and thought bitter thoughts, and devised
endless schemes to “get even,” as they expressed it, though the debt
was on their side. But, though they annoyed Tom and his chum often, the
latter as often got back at them in hearty fashion.
Tom heard from his parents, that they had arrived safely, and they said
the business was going on satisfactorily. The weather was getting
colder each day, and the boys began to have thoughts of skating and ice
boating as soon as the river should be frozen over. The football season
had closed.
Then, unexpectedly, there came another clash with Professor Skeel. In
Latin class one day several students came unprepared, and failed in
reciting.
“We’ll stop right here!” exclaimed the professor. “It is evident to me
that an organized attempt to miss in Latin is under way. I shall double
the usual number of lines that you are all to write out. Perhaps that
will teach you not to trifle with me.”
Several protested at this, saying that the reason for their failure was
additional work in other classes. Others, who had not failed, declared
that it was manifestly unfair to make them suffer with the rest.
“Silence!” snapped the professor. “You may stay here until your tasks
are done,” and he prepared to leave the room, intending to send a
monitor to take charge of the lads.
“Say, this is rank injustice!” exclaimed Jack.
“It sure is,” came from Tom. “And the ice on the river is thick enough
for skating, I believe. If we didn’t have to stay here we could cut the
next lecture and have some fun.”
“We sure could. What’ll we do?”
“Let’s haze Skeel!” suggested Bert Wilson, for there was no one in
authority in the room now.
“Let’s send him a warning,” suggested Tom. “We’ll write it out in Latin,
and threaten to go on a strike, or burn him in effigy if he doesn’t act
more fair. How’s that?”
“Good!” exclaimed several. “Tom, you write out the notice.”
“I will!” agreed our hero, and then a monitor came in, and silence was
enforced. But Tom, after hurrying through the prescribed number of lines
of prose, began work on the warning.
CHAPTER VII
A RUNAWAY ICEBOAT
“How are we going to get it to him?” asked Bert Wilson, as the Latin
class, its members having finished their punishment, filed out on the
campus.
“Mail it to him,” suggested Jack.
“No, leave it at his door,” advised Henry Miller.
“Huh! Who’d do it?” asked George Abbot.
“There you go again, Why!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh, as he passed
around the warning he had composed.
“Well, I mean who would have the nerve to go up and leave that at
Skeel’s door?” went on the small lad. “I wouldn’t.”
“I would!” declared Tom. “I’m tired of being imposed upon!”
“And so am I!” exclaimed Jack. “I’m with you. Let’s get a lot of
Freshmen, tog up in masks, or with pillow cases over our heads, and
leave the warning at his door. That’ll make him be more decent, I
guess.”
“All right,” agreed Tom. “We’ll do it.”
That same night Tom, and several bold spirits, with pillow cases, or
white cloths over their coats, slipped from the dormitory where the
Freshmen lived, moved and had their being. Tom carried his warning.
It was in Latin, more or less accurate, and in plain terms demanded on
the part of Professor Skeel a more tolerant attitude toward the Freshman
class, or, failure would be met with a burning in effigy of the disliked
instructor. And the boys meant it, too.
“All ready now?” asked Tom as he and his chums, in the dark shadows of a
thick hedge around Mr. Skeel’s house had adjusted their head-coverings.
“All ready?”
“Lead on!” whispered Jack. “Who’s going to knock at the door?”
“I will,” agreed Tom. “We’ll go around to his ‘study,’ as he calls it.
It’s got a door opening directly into the garden, and he’ll answer the
knock himself.”
Advancing from amid group of his chums a little later, with the warning
held in the cleft end of a long stick, Tom knocked on Mr. Skeel’s door.
The professor was in his study, poring over some book, and laying new
traps, in the way of difficult questions, for his pupils.
“Who’s there?” he cried sharply, at the sound of Tom’s rap.
A groan was the answer.
“What nonsense is this?” demanded Professor Skeel, as he rose from his
chair.
“If those are students they’ll pay dearly for this nonsense!” he was
heard to exclaim, as he opened the door. The sight of the white-robed
figures, with one standing out from the others, holding forth a letter
in a cleft stick, was a distinct surprise to the professor.
“What is the meaning of this?” he cried. “Who are you? I demand to know!”
Groans were his only answer, and Tom waved the letter before the
professor’s face. In very wonderment the instructor took it and then,
with a final series of groans, Tom and the others turned and hurried
away.
“Come back. I demand that you return. Take those silly cloths from your
heads, and let me see who you are!” cried Professor Skeel, but our hero
and his chums knew better than to tarry.
“Halt!” cried the professor. He started after the lads, but, as he
reached the bottom step he tripped on a stick, and fell and, as he had
on light slippers, the contact of his toes with the ground was anything
but comfortable.
Uttering an exclamation of anger, the professor went back into his study
with the letter, while Tom and his chums hurried to their rooms, getting
to them undetected.
“What’s this?” burst out Professor Skeel, as he read Tom’s Latin
warning. “They demand better treatment! Burn me in effigy, eh? Why this
is a threat! A threatening letter! I’ll have the entire Freshman class
suspended! I shall see Dr. Meredith at once!”
In his anger he did go over and see the head master, showing him the
letter.
“Hum! Well,” mused Doctor Meredith. “That is a sort of threat, Professor
Skeel, but--er--would not it be well to--er--to grant the class a
few more privileges? Remember they are first year lads, unused to
the discipline of a college, and, therefor, not to be dealt with too
harshly. Could you not grant their request?”
“What? My dear sir! Grant a request coupled with a threat? Never!
I demand the suspension of the entire Freshman class, until the
perpetrators of this outrage are discovered, and then I demand their
expulsion. Why, Doctor Meredith, they had the audacity to call on _me_,
disguised. On _me_! They had the effrontery to threaten _me_ in a
miserably composed Latin scrawl. _Me!_ I demand the suspension of the
entire class!”
“Hum! Well, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said the head master. “I shall
take this under advisement, and act in the morning. But I can’t suspend
the whole class. They are not all guilty, I’m sure,” and nothing the
irate professor said could change this decision.
In the morning Doctor Meredith referred to the matter, not half as
strongly, however, as Professor Skeel thought should have been done.
There was no threat to suspend the class, and all the doctor did was to
suggest that different measures be taken in the future. He also asked
those engaged in the affair to make themselves known.
“As if we would!” exclaimed Tom, later. And I hardly believe Doctor
Meredith expected that the lads would. He had been a college master for
many years, and he knew boys, which Professor Skeel did not.
“Oh, but we’ll get it in Latin class,” predicted Jack. “We’d better all
be prepared today.”
And they all were, very well prepared, but that did not save them from
an angry tongue-lashing, in which the professor, on his own account,
demanded to know those who had been instrumental in writing and bringing
the warning.
Of course no one answered, and, as Tom had taken the precaution to
print out the letter, his handwriting was not recognized. Every device,
however, that an angry and bullying teacher could bring to bear, was
used on the class. But no one failed, and no punishment could be
inflicted. Though had the professor been able to use his power he would
have administered corporal punishment to all the Freshmen.
The result was, however, that the Latin recitation was perfect, and, in
his heart the instructor was just a little bit afraid of the threat of
burning him in effigy. So, in a few days he did mend his ways somewhat,
and the class began to feel that Tom’s plan had worked wonders. But the
end was not yet.
“Well, Tom, I’ve had enough of this!” exclaimed Jack, one cold
afternoon, when the two chums had been “boning” away in their room for
some time. “Let’s go hire that iceboat you were talking of, and have a
sail on the river. I guess she’s frozen over thick enough.”
“I’m with you!” and Tom tossed his book to one side. “Let’s get George,
Bert and some of the others.”
Some days before Tom had discovered that the man of whom the lads hired
their rowboats, had a couple of ice craft for rent, and he had engaged
one for the first good day.
A little later Tom and several of his chums, including Jack, were on
their way to the frozen river, lessons being over for the day.
“Well, where are you bound for?” asked Bruce Bennington, as he met Tom
and the others near the stream.
“Ice boating. Come along,” invited Tom.
“Thanks. I believe I will. I was going for a skate, but somehow, I don’t
feel like exerting myself.”
There was a look of worriment still on the Senior’s face, and he talked
as though the trouble that was worrying him had not passed away. Tom
wanted to help him, but knew it was best to say nothing.
A part of the river, where the water was not so deep, nor the current
under the ice so swift as elsewhere, had been set aside by the school
authorities as the place where the students might skate. They were
forbidden to use the steel runners elsewhere, as a matter of safety,
and, as the skating course was plenty long enough, none of the lads
ventured on the part of the river where the ice boats were used. In
fact the presence of those craft, of which there were several, made it
necessary that the numerous skaters keep clear of them.
The place where Tom hired the iceboat was quite a distance from the
skating course, and, in consequence of a bend in the river, none of the
other pupils, who were indulging in sports on the steel blades, were in
sight. There was one iceboat out on the broad surface of the river as
our hero and his chums arrived.
“Know how to sail one?” asked Bruce, as he took his place in the shallow
box that served as a sort of cockpit, while some of the boys perched on
the runners.
“Fairly well,” replied Tom, and soon they were skimming over the
slippery surface, with Tom at the helm. It was great sport, and they
liked it immensely.
“This is fine!” exclaimed Bruce, with sparkling eyes, and something of a
return of his old manner. “It beats skating!” and he kicked his skates
that he had tossed into the box near him.
“Oh, skating’s all right!” declared Tom, as he changed the course
slightly. “We’ll have some skating races soon, won’t we?”
“Yes, it’s about time for them,” answered the Senior.
After sailing for several miles Tom decided to put up a sort of
auxiliary sail on the boat, to get more speed. It was fitted to a short
bamboo mast, about five feet high.
“You’ll all have to get out while I fix it,” suggested Tom, as he let
the wind spill out of the big sail, and brought the boat up with a turn,
while it gradually came to a stop.
They piled out, stamping up and down to warm their rather benumbed legs
and feet. Tom and Jack were soon putting up the little sail.
“I’ve got to whittle down the end of the mast to make it fit in,”
declared Tom after a trial. “Lend me your knife, Jack.”
Bruce had put on his skates for a little turn while he waited, and the
others were racing up and down. Tom and Jack were working over the
auxiliary sail, standing a short distance away from the iceboat, when
there came a sudden puff of wind. The main sheet became caught, the big
sail filled, and a moment later the empty iceboat was racing over the
smooth, frozen river at dangerous speed!