THE CAPSIZED BOAT
Allan and Pete didn’t forget that day for a long time. In retrospect,
it was the brightest one between the beginning of the college year and
the Christmas recess. For long afterward Pete would point with pride to
his performance at table on that day, and declare that he believed that
should he live to be a hundred he could never eat as much again. Dinner
began at two o’clock and ended, not because of lack of further viands
but because of inability on the part of the guests, at half-past four.
The family at Hillcrest consisted of Mr. Guild, his wife, a
pleasant-faced and sweet-voiced woman several years his junior, and a
three-year-old son and heir, who did not make his appearance at table
but who was afterward ceremoniously introduced in the nursery. Both
host and hostess appeared to have no other desire in life than to make
the two guests happy and utterly ruin their digestions.
Even Pete had had momentary qualms over appearing at table in the
unconventional attire of shooting-coat and flannel shirt, but their
objections had been politely overruled, and by the time the turkey had
made its appearance they had both lost sight of the fact that they
were not dressed in the mode. It was while carving the turkey that the
morning’s episode was recalled.
“This, Mr. Burley,” said their host, “is only turkey. Had there been
more time, we would have had a duck prepared for you.”
Allan wondered, while he laughed, whether Mrs. Guild had heard the
story of the duck-hunt. The demure expression about her mouth led him
to suspect that she had.
After dinner they adjourned to the library again, and Pete was induced
to smoke a cigar, although, as Allan guessed, he would much rather
have used his corn-cob pipe. Mrs. Guild disappeared for a while, and
Pete and Allan stretched themselves luxuriously in front of the fire
and listened to their host and did a good deal of talking themselves.
Mr. Guild led them to tell of their college life, and displayed such
sympathy with their views and ambitions that at the end of an hour the
two boys had become his enthusiastic admirers. He knew the West like a
book, and Pete became quite excited--for Pete--swapping recollections
and stories of “out there.”
After a while Mrs. Guild appeared again, and they went into the
drawing-room and sat silent and happy in the firelight while she
played for them. She apologized for knowing no college songs, but Pete
gallantly assured her that he preferred “straight music.” Still later
there was a four-handed game of billiards in an upper hall, in which
Mrs. Guild and Allan were badly defeated by the host and Pete. Then
came the visit to the pink-hung nursery and the formal introductions
to Master Thomas Guild, Junior. And by that time it was after eight
o’clock, and a surrey stood at the door, waiting to bear them back to
Centerport.
“You must come out some afternoon,” said their host, “and let me show
you around. Both Mrs. Guild and I have enjoyed your visit, and we want
you again. We don’t have so many callers but what a couple more will be
welcome at any time. And when you come, it must be to stay to dinner
with us.”
And Allan and Pete readily agreed, and kept to their agreement. They
each voted Mr. Guild a fine fellow, and each lost his heart to the
hostess. The dollar was duly paid, and they received a receipt “in full
for two ducks. Trusting to receive a continuance of your patronage, I
remain, Yours faithfully, Thomas A. Guild.” There was another visit to
Hillcrest the following week, and several more before the occurrence
of the incident which, for a time at least, put thoughts of visiting
out of mind.
On the Monday after Thanksgiving and the duck-hunt, the story of which
was now college property, Pete stamped into Allan’s room just before
dinner, kicked the snow from his shoes against the chimney, tossed his
sombrero onto the desk, and subsided into the armchair with a mighty
sigh of triumph.
“_That’s_ all right,” he announced, heartily but vaguely.
“What?” asked Allan, momentarily abandoning his struggle with Herodotus.
“Club table. I’ve got my eighth man.”
“Not really? Who have you got?”
“Well, there’s”--he took a list from his pocket--“there’s you, and Hal,
and Wolcott, Poor----”
“Pete, you’re lying!”
“--and Cooper, Van Sciver, Maitland, and your Uncle Pete.”
“But--but how’d you do it, Pete? How’d you get them to join? Offer to
pay half their board, or--or what?”
“Oh, it just took a little dip-lo-macy, my son; just a little
dip-lo-macy. I started out with you and Hal. I got Hal to introduce
Poor. Then I told Poor I was getting up a representative table, and
got him to promise to join if I secured Maitland and Van Sciver. He
introduced me to Van Sciver. I told him that you and Hal and Poor had
promised, and he came right over to the party. You were quite a card,
my son. I had no trouble with Cooper when I told him you were one of
our principal sights. And so it went. After I’d got Poor and Cooper
and Van Sciver cinched, there was nothing left to do but receive and
consider applications. I could have had twenty, but I set out to make
this table exclusive, and exclusive it’s going to be, if I have to get
the Dean--hang him!” Pete frowned a moment in silence. Then, “Wolcott
was the last to join; he agreed ten minutes ago; I just came from his
room.”
“Pete, you surely are a lucky dub!” said Allan. “I don’t believe
there’s another fellow in college that could have got all those chaps
together!”
“There wasn’t much luck about it,” said Pete, calmly. “It just took
hard work. Why, I haven’t studied a lick since Wednesday, and I’ve cut
half my recitations. I guess that’s why the Dean wants to see me.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Yes. I had a polite postal card from him yesterday, and an impolite
one to-day.”
“But why----”
“Well, I didn’t have time to call on him yesterday; I was too busy
seeing fellows. It seems to have made him some angry.”
Allan whistled expressively.
“You ought to have gone, Pete. He’ll raise thunder with you now; see if
he don’t.”
“Oh, _that’s_ all right; he can’t do any worse than expel me. And I’m
getting pretty tired of this shop, anyway; there isn’t much doing. And
now that I’ve got the table made up, all the excitement’s over with.
I’ve thought all along I wouldn’t be here much after Christmas.”
“Oh, shut up that! Who’s going to run the table, if you go and get
fired? And what do you suppose I’m going to do, you idiot?”
“Oh, I guess you wouldn’t care,” said Pete, sheepishly. But he seemed
rather pleased when Allan threw Fernald’s Selections at his head.
“Well, maybe he’ll let me off easy this time; just suspend me, perhaps.”
“You’d better go and see him right away. But you can’t until to-morrow,
now.”
“Oh, yes; I guess I’ll call at his house to-night.”
“He doesn’t like you to, they say,” cautioned Allan. “If I were you,
I’d wait until morning.”
“No; better have it over with. I’ll drop around afterward and tell you
about it. Coming to dinner?”
Allan pleaded study, and Pete took himself off.
As it turned out, the Dean was merciful and Pete was merely placed upon
probation--a fact which appeared to amuse him vastly.
“It’s just like old times,” he explained to Allan and Hal, the latter
having come in to recount the wonderful things which had happened to
him during his visit home. “Out in Colorado, I was most always on
probation. Used to feel downright lonesome when I wasn’t.”
“That’s all well enough,” said Hal, “but you want to be careful, for
old Levett’s the very dickens if you get too gay with him. First thing
you know, you won’t know anything.”
“Don’t now,” answered Pete, promptly and cheerfully. “But I wouldn’t be
surprised if something did drop. The fact is--” he hesitated, sighed
dolefully, and shook his head, “the fact is, I’ve been feeling lately
that something unpleasant is going to happen to me. I guess it’s a--a
premonition.”
His tone was quite sad, and Allan and Hal stared at him in silent
surprise. Then--
“What’s the matter with you, you idiot?” asked Allan.
“Nothing; I dare say it’s just foolishness, but somehow--” He sighed
again. “Well, _that’s_ all right,” he went on, with an evident effort
at cheerfulness. “Have a good time, Hal?”
“You’re off your feed, that’s what’s the matter with you,” said Hal,
severely. “Your liver’s out of whack. Better see the doctor.”
“What’s probation, anyway?” asked Allan, lightly. “It’s likely to
happen to any one.”
“It isn’t that,” Pete replied, dolefully. “But I don’t want to talk of
my troubles,” he continued, with martyr-like complacency. “Tell us what
you did, Hal.”
“Oh, you’re plumb woozy!” exclaimed the latter. Nevertheless, he
consented to tell again of the remarkable events which had transpired
during his absence, and Pete’s melancholy disappeared. It was a
peculiar feature of it that during the following week it possessed him
only occasionally. But when it did, he seemed in the uttermost depths
of melancholy--a melancholy quite as mysterious and remarkable to his
friends as the celerity with which he recovered on each occasion.
Hal declared over and over that he was “woozy”--a term of doubtful
significance, but quite satisfying to the user--and Tommy hinted at
overstudy. This was among themselves. When Pete was present, they
merely called him a fool, and let it go at that.
It was the first day of December that witnessed the advent upon the
scene of a new character in our story. A wagon stopped in front of
Mrs. Purdy’s in the afternoon and an expressman deposited a small
box inside Allan’s door. He found it there when he returned from
his last recitation. It had slats nailed across the top, and from
its dark recesses came strange sounds. Allan stared. The sounds
resolved themselves into the plaintive mewings of a kitten, and Allan
recollected his request to his mother--a request long since forgotten
by him, but evidently well remembered by her. He tore off a couple of
the slats and lifted out a six-weeks-old kitten.
It was a pathetic little white object, with two black spots on its back
and weak-looking pale blue eyes which blinked inquiringly at him. Its
mouth opened, and the appealing cry was repeated. Allan set it down and
raced for the kitchen. When he returned, he carried a huge bowl of milk.
The kitten was roaming disconsolately about the floor, but at sight
of the milk trotted up, and apparently strove to commit suicide by
overeating--an intention frustrated by Allan, who removed the bowl
finally and took the kitten into his lap in front of the fire. It
seemed to have suddenly grown to twice its size, and instead of the
heart-rending mews, Allan heard a faint but enthusiastic purring as
the poor little object curled itself up in his arm and blinked its
gratitude. Presently it went fast asleep and, rather than disturb it,
Allan sat there for almost an hour, with his books just out of reach.
That evening they named it. Tommy wanted something patriotic: Erskine,
he thought, was just the thing. Hal showed the possession of an
unsuspected streak of sentiment and clamored for Hortense. Allan,
recollecting the fact that the mother’s name was Edith Cinnamon, was
in favor of calling the offspring Clove or Nutmeg. But Pete, who had
been gravely examining the kitten at arm’s length, took his pipe from
between his lips, and with the stem tapped the two black spots on its
back.
“Two Spot,” he said, with finality.
Two Spot it was. And a few days later neither of the others would have
changed the name for any consideration, since, as Tommy sadly expressed
it, “Poor old Pete had named her.”
That first day of December was memorable not only for the arrival of
Two Spot, but for the first gathering at Pete’s club table. Of those
beside our friends who composed the table, it is not necessary to speak
at any length.
Poor we already know very slightly. Wolcott, Cooper, Van Sciver, and
Maitland were average fellows who had gained prestige for one reason or
another, among their companions. It was a fact that Pete had succeeded
in gathering together what might have been called the pick of the
freshman class. That he had been able to do so was partly because of
his tact and powers of persuasion and partly because freshman club
tables were so seldom formed at Erskine that the project had the flavor
of the unusual.
Dinner was the first meal, and it was a very jolly one. There were one
or two introductions to be made, and these Pete performed with his
usual breeziness. After that the eight members sat down, Pete thumped
the bell commandingly, and the table began its official existence--an
existence which endured for four college years.
By the time the roast beef and vegetables made their appearance the ice
was very thoroughly broken. When the cabinet-pudding and fruit came on,
good-fellowship reigned supreme, and long after the last plate had been
pushed aside the members still sat about the table, as though loath to
leave. It is doubtful if there was a single one of them who did not,
mentally at least, thank Pete Burley for including him in his club
table.
One gusty winter afternoon, four days later, Pete appeared at Allan’s
room at about three o’clock. He wore his thickest sweater and a pair
of woolen gloves.
“I’m going up to see the Guilds. Want to come along?”
“You know plaguey well I can’t,” said Allan, impatiently. “I’ve got
all this stuff to do.” He indicated the litter of books and papers
hopelessly. Somehow, of late the Midyears had seemed perilously near.
“Sorry. I’ll tell ’em you said ‘How.’ I think I’ll take a boat and row
up.”
“You’ll what?” gasped Allan. “Why, it’s an easy three miles by the
river.”
“_That’s_ all right; I feel like a little exercise.”
“You’re a chump if you do,” answered the other, irritably. “How’ll you
get the boat back?”
“I’ll let it stay there, maybe. Maybe I’ll come back in it after
dinner. It’s easy enough to get down-stream.”
“Not in the dark. You’ll drown your fool self.”
“Oh, I guess not. Sorry you can’t come along.”
“I’m not,” muttered Allan, as the door closed. “Pete’s a perfect idiot
lately.”
After dinner the wind increased into a very respectable gale, and Allan
fell to wondering whether Pete would be fool enough to attempt the trip
back in the boat. At nine o’clock his uneasiness drove him forth. He
fought his way down Main Street to Center, and so around to Pete’s
lodgings. Lights in the windows reassured him, and he had half a mind
to go back to his studies, but after a moment’s indecision he decided
to go up for just a moment and tell Pete again what an idiot he had
been. So he climbed the stairs and thrust open the door. At the table
stood Tommy.
“Oh!” he said, “I thought you were Pete.”
“Isn’t he here?” asked Allan.
“No; I don’t know where he is.”
“I do,” Allan replied. Tommy was plainly uneasy when he learned of
Pete’s trip. The two stayed until almost eleven. Then, as Pete had not
returned, they went home together.
“He’s probably decided to stay there all night,” said Allan, hopefully.
“Like as not, they wouldn’t let him come back.”
“I guess that’s it,” answered Tommy. “Pete wouldn’t be such a fool,
anyhow, as to try and come down the river on a night like this.”
But despite his words, Allan went to sleep feeling not a little
worried, and awoke the next morning with a feeling of impending
misfortune. Pete was not in the dining-hall, but it was after eleven
o’clock before Allen had an opportunity to make inquiries. When he did,
he could find no news of his friend. No one had seen him that morning.
Allan cut a recitation and hurried down to Pete’s rooms. The bed had
not been occupied. Allan returned to the yard fighting against fear.
At three he heard the news from Hal, who, white of face, was waiting
him on the porch.
“It’s--it’s all up with p-poor old Pete,” he announced, with his mouth
working tremulously. “They found the boat he had a mile down the river.
It--it was capsized!”
Allan felt his own face go pale, but after a moment he muttered:
“Pete could swim like a fish; you know that.”
Hal shook his head.
“Then why hasn’t he showed up?” he asked, hopelessly. “No, he’s a
goner. You remember what he said about premonitions and things going to
happen to him? I guess he was right, Allan. Poor old Pete! They--they
found his hat, too, down by the wharves.”