SUNSHINE AND SHADOW
I have never found any one with sufficient courage to defend the
winters at Centerport. At the best they are bearable, at the worst they
are beyond description. Nothing any one might say would be too harsh to
apply to what the residents call “a hard winter.”
In short, from January to April the weather is everything detestable,
and reminds one of a very bad little boy who has made up his very bad
little mind to be as very bad as he possibly can.
And then--as like as not between a sunset and a sunrise--spring
appears, and it is just as though the very bad little boy had grown
sorry and repentant and had made up his mind to be very, very good
and sweet and kind, and never do anything to grieve his dear, _dear_
parents any more. And there is a soft, warm breeze blowing up the river
valley, the grass on the southern side of the library is unmistakably
green, a bluebird, or maybe a valiant robin, is singing from a branch
of the big elm at the corner of the chapel, and there is a strong,
heartening aroma of moist earth in your nostrils. And you know that
from thenceforth until you leave the old green town the last of June
your lines are cast in pleasant places and that it is going to be very
easy to be happy and good.
Well, I suppose there are other places where spring is superlatively
pleasant, where the trees and sod are extravagantly green, and where
youth finds life so well worth living. Only--I have never found them.
And I doubt if there is an old Erskine man the country over who can
recollect the month of May at Centerport without a little catch of the
breath and a sudden lighting of the eye.
For in those Mays his memory recalls Main Street and the yard were
canopied with a swaying lacework of whispering elm branches, through
which the sunlight dripped in golden globules and splashed upon the
soft, velvety sod or moist gravel and spread itself in limpid pools.
And the ivy was newly green against the old red brick buildings, the
fence below College Place was lined with fellows you knew, and the
slow-moving old blue watering-cart trundled by with a soft and pleasant
sound of splashing water. Fellows called gaily to you as you crossed
the yard, the muslin curtains at the windows of Morris and Sesson were
a-flutter in the morning breeze, and from Elm Street floated the
musical and monotonous chime of the scissor-grinder’s bells. What if
the Finals were close at hand? The sky was blue overhead, the spring
air was kind and--you were young!
I think something of this occurred to Allan when, at a quarter of ten
on a mild, bright morning three days before the dual meet, he crossed
the street from his room, books under arm, and turned into College
Place.
Perched on the fence in front of the chapel were Clarke Mason, the
editor of the Purple, and Stearns, the track team captain. After
exchanging greetings, Allan dropped his books back of the fence and
swung himself onto the top rail.
The sun was pleasant, the ten o’clock bell would not ring for several
minutes, and there was an invitation in the way in which Mason edged
away from the post. Allan was a warm admirer of Mason, and the fact
that, as was natural, he seldom had an opportunity to speak with him
made him glad of the present opportunity. There was but one topic of
overwhelming interest at present, and that was the track and field meet
with Robinson. With two successive defeats against them, and the added
result of the last football game still in memory, it is not strange
that Erskine men had set their hearts on administering a trouncing to
the Brown and regaining something of their old athletic prestige. The
boat race and the baseball contests were too far distant for present
consideration.
“I don’t know when there’s been so much enthusiasm over the athletic
meet as there is this year,” said Mason. “And it’s bound to tell, too.
I’ve noticed that when the college as a whole wakes up and wants a
thing it generally comes pretty near getting it.”
“We wanted the football game badly enough,” said Stearns.
“Yes, just as we want all of them, but there wasn’t the enthusiasm
there has been some years. I think we expected to win, and so didn’t
get much wrought up over it. But next year--although you and I won’t
be here to see it, Walt--I’ll bet the college will be red-headed over
football; there’ll be mass-meetings and the band up from Hastings, and
Ware here will be marching out to the field singing ‘Glory, Glory for
the Purple’ at the top of his lungs. And the team will just naturally
go in and win.”
“At that rate,” ventured Allan, “we ought to lick Robinson on Saturday,
for, as you say, the fellows are all worked up over it.”
“I think we’re going to,” answered Mason, with quiet conviction. “But,
of course, I don’t know so much about it as Walt here, and he says I’m
off my reckoning.”
Allan looked at the captain with surprise. All along Stearns had
displayed a confidence that, in Allan’s case at least, had been a great
incentive to hard work. Stearns frowned a little as he answered:
“Oh, well, maybe to-morrow I’ll be hopeful again. A fellow can’t help
having a spell of nerves now and then, you know.”
“Well, if it’s only that, we’ll forgive you,” Mason replied. “I thought
maybe something had happened. Things have a way of happening, I’ve
noticed, just before a meet; Jones lames his ankle, Brown is put on
probation, Smith is protested, or something else unforeseen plays
havoc.”
“That’s so,” said Stearns, emphatically, “and maybe one reason I feel
uneasy is because nothing _has_ happened; Robinson hasn’t protested any
one and no one has sprained his ankle or got water on the knee. I think
I’d feel safer if something of the sort had occurred.”
“Well, I guess you’re safe now,” laughed Mason. “The men have quit
practise and Robinson’s opportunity for protesting our best men has
passed.”
“I don’t know,” said Stearns, doubtfully. “Something will turn up, you
see if it doesn’t.”
“Nonsense! How about you, Ware? Going to win the two miles?”
“I’m scared to think about it,” answered Allan, uneasily. “That
Robinson crack can do better than I’ve succeeded in doing yet, and so I
guess I’ll have to be satisfied with second place.”
“Oh, Ware’s all right,” said Stearns, encouragingly. “He’s going to
present us with five points, and we’ll need ’em!”
This sounded more like the Stearns Allan was accustomed to.
“They tell me that chum of yours, Burley, is going to do great things
with the shot, Ware,” said Mason, questioningly.
“I hope so,” Allan answered. “He can, all right; the only thing is
whether he will get fussed and forget how; he’s funny that way.”
“Well, Billy thinks he’s a wonder, and says that by next year he’ll
be able to give a foot to the best college man in the country. Well,
there’s the bell. I hate to waste a day like this indoors, but--needs
must when the faculty drives!”
The trio slipped off the fence and went their separate ways, but before
they parted Stearns drew Allan aside.
“I say, Ware,” he said, “don’t say anything to any one about what--what
you’ve heard. There’s no use in discouraging them, you know, and what
I just said doesn’t amount to anything; I guess I’m feeling a bit
nervous. You understand?”
But Allan, as he crossed the yard to College Hall, in the tower of
which the bell was clanging its imperative summons, couldn’t help
feeling apprehensive and worried. It was so unlike Stearns to admit
even the possibility of defeat. On the steps Allan ran against Pete,
big, smiling, and serenely satisfied with life.
“How’d you get on yesterday?” asked Allan, as they went in together.
“Oh, pretty middlin’,” said Pete, cheerfully. “I got within four inches
of that cayuse of a Monroe.”
“But you’ll have to beat him if you expect to win over Robinson,” said
Allan, anxiously.
“Oh, I’m not bothering about Robinson,” answered Pete. “If I can do up
Monroe, that’s all I give a hang about!”
The next afternoon, Thursday, Stearns appeared at Allan’s room, looking
excessively cheerful.
“Hello!” he said, as he sat down. “How are things?”
“All right,” answered the other, wondering at the track captain’s
errand. “How about you?”
“Fine as silk,” he said. “Say, Ware, Robinson has sent a foolish
letter, and asks the committee to look up your record. Of course,” he
went on, carelessly and hurriedly, “it’s all poppycock, but they think
they have a case, and so maybe you’d better walk over with me and see
Nast about it; just explain things so he can write back to ’em, you
know. Are you busy?”
Allan, bewildered and dismayed, looked across at Stearns with wide eyes
and sinking heart. The track team captain’s forebodings of yesterday
flashed into memory, and it was with a very weak voice that he asked
finally:
“You mean that--that Robinson has protested me?”
Stearns laughed carelessly, but something in the other’s tone sent a
qualm of uneasiness to his heart.
“Oh, there’s no question of a protest,” he answered, “because the time
for protests has gone by. But, of course, they knew the committee would
investigate the matter, and that if everything wasn’t all right they
wouldn’t allow you to run. But, of course, as I say, it’s all nonsense.
They say you were entered in the mile run at the St. Thomas Club Meet,
in Brooklyn, during vacation, and came in third. And--and there’s a
silly newspaper clipping with your name in it. But, as I told Nast, you
can explain that all right, I guess. Fact is, you know,” he continued,
with a little annoyed laugh, “you’ve got to; we can’t afford to lose
you, Ware.”
Allan took his cap from the desk.
“Come on,” he said, quietly.