FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Archer came in from French next morning feeling depressed. Mr. Alsop
had caught him on an unmastered point in the lesson, and had then
made him the subject of pleasantries which, though they seemed to
the teacher merely casual examples of his innate cleverness, cut
the sensitive boy to the quick. Of course the boy was foolish to be
sensitive; one of the incidental advantages of the Seaton system is
that while it may develop in the pupil a precocious sharpness and
suspiciousness, it also accustoms him to hard knocks. Sam, however,
could not avoid the impression that he was paying the penalty for Mr.
Alsop’s defeat of the evening before. As he felt himself innocent of
wrong-doing, his pride and his sense of justice were both offended.
He closed the door behind him and let the catch down; to keep the door
locked seemed the easiest way to avoid trouble. As he turned, he was
startled to see in the doorway of the second bedroom a coatless lad
gazing at him with critical chilliness.
“Scared of burglars, or is some one after you?” asked the stranger,
scornfully.
“Neither!” retorted Archer. “Who are you?”
“Peck! I suppose you’re the fellow this wise faculty has seen fit to
tie me up with.”
“I’m Archer,” said Sam, curtly, resenting the contempt latent in Duncan
Peck’s words.
“That’s a pretty name. It’ll look well on a card on the door. What’s
your other name? Reginald?”
“No--Sam.”
“Sam! That’s a come-down after Archer. I’ll call you Archer; you call
me Peck. I’ll take one side of the room, you the other. You’ve turned
me out of my bedroom, I see.”
“Yes. I thought you weren’t coming. You can change again if you want
to.”
“It isn’t worth the trouble. What do you want to lock yourself in for?”
“Some fellows came in here last night and raised a row. I wanted to be
let alone.” Sam gave a short account of the experiences of the evening
before.
“They won’t try that again now that I’ve got here,” Peck made
complacent answer. “It’s foolish to get us into trouble with Alsop,” he
added, his tone hardening. “He’ll be down on the room the whole year.
It’ll take a lot of soft soap to make him feel right again.”
Sam was silent, convicted of having brought the room into suspicion
by unwise conduct, yet puzzled to see wherein his error lay. He was
disappointed, too, by the coldness and unfriendliness of this room-mate
whom everybody had described as jolly and agreeable.
Peck put on his coat and went to the door. “I guess we can get along
together if we let each other alone. Only don’t keep the door locked;
I may sometime want to come in.”
Duncan went his way to the house which his fraternity made its
headquarters, a little ashamed of his ugliness, but firm in the opinion
that this new Archer was a “fresh guy” who would require repression
to make him endurable. If Duncan had been forced to give grounds for
this dislike, he could in honesty have advanced but two. With the
first, Archer was in no way concerned: Duncan did not want a dormitory
room-mate at all; he wanted to room with his friends of the Alpha Beta
Gamma at Knowles’s. His father, however, who saw in this scheme but an
additional incentive to waste time, had vetoed it at once, and written
privately to the office to make sure that his son should receive a
“good, quiet, studious room-mate” who might help him to become in his
turn good, quiet, and studious. By what method of induction the office
arrived at the conclusion that Samuel Wadsworth Archer was such a boy
is not worth investigation; the office has its whims, and they are not
always wrong.
Duncan’s second objection was personal. In moving him out of the
bedroom which he had occupied for two years, calmly putting his
household goods on the sidewalk, as it were, and taking possession,
Archer had shown himself to be a fellow of a consummate and incurable
insolence. Duncan didn’t care for the bedroom,--at least, so he assured
himself,--but with a fellow of that stamp he wouldn’t even condescend
to quarrel.
Duncan did not appear again until just before his afternoon recitation;
the evening also he spent elsewhere. During the next day he was at
home for hardly two of his waking hours, and during this time he was
either dressing or undressing in his bedroom, or talking with fellows
who came in, or working at his desk. He was not impolite, and he spoke
pleasantly enough when he found occasion to speak at all; but he
indulged in no unnecessary conversation and asked no favors, while his
general manner indicated clearly his purpose that community of room
should not involve community of life.
Sam, though inexperienced, was not wholly dense. He understood that
his room-mate meant to have nothing to do with him, and at first felt
both humiliated and hurt. But pride soon came to the rescue. If he
was not good enough for Peck, neither was Peck good enough for him;
he had no reason to be ashamed either of himself or of his family. If
Peck did not want his society, he certainly could dispense with the
companionship of Peck. This appeal to pride gave him a certain peace of
mind and stayed him also against discouragements from another source.
In his high school Archer had been considered athletic. He had played
on the eleven and on the nine, and still held the school record in the
high hurdles. At Seaton he found himself judged by different standards.
When he drifted out on the Seaton campus with twoscore football
candidates, he confessed to himself sadly that he belonged in the lower
third. He possessed too much length and too little breadth and weight
ever to be a factor in the Seaton games. The only advantage which
he could surely claim over the average impossible who enlivens the
playing fields during the first fortnight with brand-new trousers and
awkward zeal, was that, being long-legged, he could kick. The Seaton
coaches wanted men who could kick, but they didn’t want men who could
do nothing else. The best that could come within Archer’s reach was a
place on the second, or on his class eleven.
The failure to make good in football had been in a measure anticipated.
In the hurdles, however, Archer had permitted himself certain
ambitions, which, though unexpressed, represented warmly cherished
hopes. Now Collins, the trainer, who had got him out to display his
paces, told him bluntly that he must learn to sprint before he could do
anything worth while. It wasn’t enough to pace his distance properly
and clear the barriers; he must mount in better form and get speed into
his three strides between the hurdles. Archer, being strongly of the
opinion that sprinters are born, not made, took this exhortation as an
adverse judgment,--especially as it was coupled with the information
that Fairmount’s regular racing time was a second under his record,
while Kilham of Hillbury was good for at least one-fifth better.
Sam thought the whole subject over as he sat alone in his room after
dinner on the day of the experiment with the hurdles. It was clear
that he must accustom himself to an entirely new point of view. The
sooner he was reconciled to being classed with the mediocrities, the
better it would be for him. Duncan Peck’s conduct indicated that his
personality was not especially taking; his recitation work was not
brilliant, and he suspected that his conversation gave no assurance of
great mental gifts; his only hope in athletics was to plod along the
trail after the leaders and pick up what they might leave. The outlook
for distinction was not promising--but why must he win distinction? Was
it not better to acknowledge in all humility the commonplace character
of his endowment, and go cheerfully forward doing his best all round,
and letting results take care of themselves? He might play football for
fun on the class team; he might take hurdle practice for exercise and
amusement, without hope of silver cups and gold medals and the sight of
his portrait in the Boston papers. He could certainly meet Duncan Peck
like a polite and self-respecting fellow who courted nobody’s patronage
and understood a sentiment expressed in manner quite as well as one
voiced in rough words.