TOM ASSUMES A RESPONSIBILITY
Tom got separated from Jerry Benson on the way out, though it came
about through no effort of his. However, that he was somewhat relieved
I won’t deny. To have appeared on the platform of the tiny station in
the rôle of sponsor to the uncouth North Carolinian would have required
some courage! In all, six boys disembarked. The school carriage, a
three-seated, covered conveyance known locally as a “hack,” capable of
accommodating nine passengers and drawn by a pair of sleek black mules
that were the pride of Cicero, the negro driver, was waiting, and into
it clambered all save Tom. As the train had pulled up at the station
Tom had descried Joe Kirkham there to meet him, and now, tossing his
bag to Cicero, he elected to walk the short distance to school with
Joe. He noted Jerry Benson question the driver of the vehicle and then
climb into a back seat, as he did so sending a surprised glance after
his newly-found friend. Tom experienced a pang of self-reproach at his
desertion of the other and, impulsively, he walked back and called to
Jerry.
“I’m going to walk, Jerry,” he said. “See you later. Go to the Office
and they’ll look after you.”
Jerry smiled and nodded as the carriage moved away, and Tom, aware of
the amused expressions on the faces of the other boys, returned to the
waiting Joe. Joe’s expression was less amused than bewildered.
“Who’s that fellow?” he gasped.
Tom explained as they began their walk, ending with: “He’s in for a
tough time, I guess, Joke, and it’s sort of too bad, for he seems a
decent chap. I feel rather mean for shaking him just now, too. The
fellows will rag the life out of him when they see him.”
“Joke” chuckled. “Reckon they will,” he agreed. His nickname had
evolved itself naturally from the sound of his first and last names and
was not intended to indicate his character or habits, for although he
was a cheerful chap he had no special gift for joking. “Some one,” he
went on, “ought to make him get some decent clothes, first thing. Say,
who’s he rooming with?”
“Room――” Tom stopped short, struck speechless by a horrible thought,
and gazed at Joe in wide-eyed dismay.
“What’s the matter?” asked the other. “Lost something?”
“You don’t suppose he――they――” He swallowed and made a fresh start.
“Joke, they might――might put him in with me!”
“With you? Gee, that’s so! I’d forgotten Tim was gone!” Joe stared back
at Tom’s troubled countenance and a look of unholy glee overspread his
face. Then he gave a whoop of joy and doubled up in laughter. “Oh,
boy!” he gurgled. “Oh, me! oh, my! That’s rich!”
“Oh, shut up! Listen, there are two or three fellows in Follen without
roommates, aren’t there? Birkenside’s alone, and that red-headed fellow
who played on the scrub last spring, Joyce or Royce or something like
that.” Tom was recovering his spirits.
“I know,” gasped Joe, “but――but something tells me you’ll be the lucky
guy, Tom! You’ll win the prize! I fu-feel it!”
“You’ll feel my fist if you don’t shut up that cackling,” threatened
Tom, starting on scowlingly. “Anyway, I won’t have him. They haven’t
any right to. I――I’ll leave school first!”
“Yes, you will,” jeered Joe.
“I will! You see if I don’t!” Tom spoke very determinedly. After
a moment, during which Joe, at his side, viewed him with secret
amusement, his brow cleared. “He’s only in the third class,” he said
hopefully. “They’ll put him in Follen as sure as shooting. Gee, but I
had a fright, just the same. I sort of took to the fellow, Joe, because
he seemed sort of pathetic and all that, but I wouldn’t care a whole
lot to have him for roommate.”
“Oh, I reckon you’ll get to like him,” chuckled the other.
“Dry up and tell me the news. Who’s back?”
“Not many. Lory and Danny and Billy Conger and a dozen or so others.
The crowd won’t begin to get here until late. How’d you happen to come
so early?”
“Got in New York at eight-forty; went down to the city with dad, you
know; and thought I might as well take the nine o’clock as wait around.
How did you know I’d be on that train?”
“Didn’t know, Tom, but just took a chance. There wasn’t much to do. Rod
isn’t back yet.”
“Have a good time at Christmas?”
“So-so. Pretty quiet. We had some skating for a couple of days. Mother
was sick for three or four days, though, and that kind of spoiled the
fun. How about you?”
“Corking! I was in New York until Christmas morning with dad and my
sister. Went to two plays and three movies and had a lot of bully eats.
What did you get, Joe?”
Joe enumerated his presents and Tom followed suit, and for the rest of
the distance they swapped reminiscences of the holidays. The road wound
picturesquely through the winter woods, the sunlight was warm and the
air brisk. Here and there the entrance to some summer home appeared and
occasionally a clearing gave them a glimpse of the Severn, very blue
under the cloudless sky. So far the Maryland winter had been fairly
mild and on the southern slopes the grass still held more than a hint
of green. When they had walked unhurriedly something over a half mile a
hedge of privet appeared at their left and a comfortable and commodious
house met their gaze. From the chimneys blue smoke drifted away to the
line of nearly leafless poplars that marked the boundary of the estate,
and an automobile stood before the doorway.
“Hello,” said Tom. “The Laurences are here.”
“Yes, been here right along, Cicero says. If I had a house in the
country like that I’d spend Christmas in it, too. It’s a lot more fun
than being in town.”
“Ye-es,” agreed Tom doubtfully. “Still, you can have a pretty good time
in the city. I mean a real city, of course. I dare say it’s different
in Philadelphia.”
Joe, who lived in Philadelphia, grunted, but refused the challenge.
It was an old subject of debate between them, that matter of the
superiority of New York and Philadelphia. A moment later the grounds
of North Bank School came into view, adjoining the Laurence place. A
small grove of trees hid the buildings until they were opposite the
ball field. A wooden stand stood between the iron fence and the first
base line and beyond it, interrupting their view again, was a similar
but larger stand at the north side of the football gridiron. The school
boundaries encompassed some six acres of field and woods. Near the
center of the grounds was Founders’ Hall, a large and imposing brick
building graced by a wooden tower that shone dazzlingly white in the
afternoon sunlight. The sun shone, too, on the big bell in the open
cupola, striking coppery rays from its surface. The Hall held class
rooms, chapel, commons and offices within its three ivy-draped stories.
On the side nearer the road the four dormitories were arranged in a
half circle, their entrances facing the front of the Hall, their back
toward the thoroughfare. At the farther end of the arc was McCrea
House. Then came Baldwin, then Follen and, last, Ellicot. Although the
Houses were all of wooden construction, they differed in age, size
and appearance. Follen, at the right of the entrance driveway, was
the largest, a timber and cement edifice of many gables containing
forty rooms. McCrea was a modest structure, the oldest of them all,
and accommodated but thirty students. These five buildings, if we omit
the stable, near by, the boathouse below the gently sloping bank, and
the row of bathhouses beyond, comprised the plant with one important
exception. The exception was the Sharples Gymnasium. This building,
standing behind Ellicot House, its glassed roof almost shaded by the
trees that followed the boundary on that side to the river’s edge, had
been presented to the school by the parents of a former student who had
died in the service of Great Britain in the first few months of the
World War, as a bronze tablet beside the handsome entrance informed one.
Passing through the entrance, where an ivied gate house presented
two inquiring windows toward the passers, the boys made their way to
Founders’ Hall. A hail from the steps of Baldwin House, where three
boys were loitering in the sunlight, delayed them an instant. In the
Office, Tom signed the register, Joe waiting outside. As he laid the
pen down the assistant spoke.
“Mr. Ledyard would like to see you a minute,” he said.
In the inner office the school secretary arose as Tom entered and
shook hands heartily. He was a somewhat dapper little man with a
carefully trimmed brown beard and keen dark eyes. “Glad to see you
back, Hartley,” he said. “Sit down, won’t you? Well, you look as if
vacation had agreed with you. No use asking if you’ve had a good time,
I guess. Hm.” Mr. Ledyard cleared his throat, picked a filing card from
his desk, glanced at it and put it down again. “What I had to say to
you was this, Hartley. We’ve had a rather extraordinary fellow come to
us. Perhaps I shouldn’t say extraordinary, though; out of the ordinary
is better. He’s a boy named”――he glanced at the card again――“named
Jeremiah Benson, from a small town in North Carolina. His parents died
when he was a baby, as I understand, and he was adopted by a gentleman
named”――another glimpse of the card――“Huckins. Mr. Huckins is placing
the boy here. Frankly, he is rather unsophisticated and, using the word
in the French meaning, _gauche_. I don’t think he is stupid; rather the
contrary; but his schooling has been somewhat neglected and he has,
I think, never been long outside his home village. A boy of his sort
requires careful handling, Hartley. He will run up against fellows of
his own age who stand higher in class, who are more experienced and
more worldly wise and who will, I fear, be tempted to ridicule his
innocence and odd manners and even his appearance, for”――and here the
secretary smiled reminiscently――“there’s no denying that he presented a
somewhat uncouth appearance a few minutes ago. It’s no very difficult
thing to wound the susceptibility of such a fellow, Hartley, and too
many wounds will work ill. Naturally, the faculty can’t keep every
student under constant care and supervision. Therefore the next best
thing is to place Benson with some one who may, to an extent, provide
the protection that we aren’t able to give, some one who will advise
him and see that he gets along as smoothly as is possible. Of course
he will have some battles to fight for himself. That’s proper. But the
lad mustn’t be bullied and hectored and ridiculed too much. He mustn’t
have his spirit broken. Now there are several vacancies in the Houses,
Hartley, and several boys with whom I might have placed Benson. But
after considering them all my choice fell on you.”
If Mr. Ledyard expected surprise or protest he was disappointed. Tom
merely said “Yes, sir,” and waited for the other to proceed. From the
first he had known what was coming. Mr. Ledyard cleared his throat
again.
“You may think this something of an imposition,” he went on, “but I
hope you won’t look at it that way. I’d like you to realize that here
is a chance to be of real service to a brother mortal and to your
school as well. And I venture to say that you’ll be doing yourself no
ill service, Hartley, for if this country boy comes through right, as
I fully expect him to, you’ll be proud and happy because of your share
in his development. The lad has plenty of fine qualities, I think.
For instance, when we entered the War he walked sixty-odd miles to
enlist in his country’s service. Because of his youth――he was only
fifteen, I believe――he was turned down. Six months or so later, having
passed his sixteenth birthday, he made the journey a second time. He
frankly admits lying on this second occasion. He told the recruiting
officer――he was trying for the Navy then――that he was seventeen. This
time he would have succeeded had not the armistice been signed a day
or two later. Of course, I don’t excuse the falsehood, but I can view
it with leniency. I mention this incident, Hartley, only to show
that there must be a great deal in the boy that is worth going after
and cultivating. Now, what do you say? How do you feel toward the
obligation I’ve set you?”
Tom smiled. “I’ll do the best I can, sir,” he answered. “I ought to
have told you before, I guess, that I’ve seen Benson. He was on the
train with me and we got――got sort of acquainted, I rather took to him,
sir, in spite of――of everything.”
“I certainly am glad, Hartley! Understand, please, that I’m not
proposing a guardianship for you. Benson must hoe his own row. But
you can make that row easier for him by advice and example. You see,
my boy, I’ve a pretty fine opinion of you. We all have. You’ve been
with us two years, nearly, and you’ve shown yourself clean and manly,
cool-headed and sensible. In short, you’re the man for the job. And
I’m mighty glad you’re assuming it cheerfully. Come to me with your
problems if you can’t solve them alone and let me help. You may be sure
that I’ll be watching all the time with a whole lot of interest. I’ve
sent Benson over to Baldwin and you’ll probably find him awaiting you.
Thanks, Hartley.”
The secretary stood up, smiling, with outstretched hand. Tom smiled,
too, as he accepted the clasp, but smiled a trifle ruefully. “I hope
I’ll prove up to the job, sir,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll do the best I
know how.”
“I’m sure you will, my boy. Good luck to you!”
Outside, in the corridor, a bored and somewhat resentful Joe awaited
him.
“Been having afternoon tea in there?” he inquired sarcastically. “Or
have you and ‘Whiskers’ been rearranging the study course for the rest
of the year? Gee-gosh, I thought you weren’t ever coming out!”
“He’s just been telling me,” replied Tom, “that he’s put that chap
Benson in with me.”
“Benson? Who’s――you mean the country jay? Great Jumping Jehosophat,
Tom! What are you going to do?”
Tom looked at his watch. “Just now,” he answered, “I’m going over and
have a bath before the crowd gathers.”