HE TRIES AGAIN
On the Saturday after the Faculty Shield day, Sam ran in the
forty-five-yard hurdles again, in the handicap meet which regularly
follows the scratch contests. The handicapper thought one yard about
the right allowance for the long-legged upper middler; Somers got two
and Foote three. Fairmount ran from scratch. It was a hot race, with
every contestant hoping to cross the line first, the man in front
driving himself that his advantage might not be wrested from him,
the pursuers confident of superiority and struggling to secure the
positions which belonged to them. Sam felt the presence of Somers and
Foote ahead pulling him forward as the magnet attracts steel; his legs
followed each other faster than they had ever gone before; the three
hurdles were but three exhilarating bounds in his course. Forgetting
Fairmount, who was behind, he ran down Somers, pressed on after Foote,
and passed him by a convulsive straining effort at the finish. Never
before had he felt what it was to _fight_ his way in a race; to mark
his adversary and beat him, as one throws his opponent in a wrestling
bout, or as the tackier downs his man, surely and hard, on the football
field. In his struggle to pass Foote he had kept ahead of Fairmount,
who finished two feet behind him.
Collins was pleased, as much with the new spirit of the hurdler as with
his success in the event. “He’s slow,” he remarked to Bruce, “but he’ll
come in time.”
“This year?” questioned Bruce, closely. It was “this year,” the year of
his captaincy, that interested Bruce.
“I can’t say,” answered Collins, thoughtfully. “It may take a long
while. He’s a good, steady boy; he’ll come all right sometime.”
Duncan Peck, too, seemed to be influenced by Sam’s modest success in
the handicap meeting. He confessed one day in a burst of confidence,
after Sam had led him through the maze of a foolish algebra problem
about two men who rowed past each other up and down stream--each,
apparently, with a stop watch and a log line--that his duel joke
with Shirley had proved a boomerang. In return Sam told him of the
initials--D. P.--in the back of Mulcahy’s book.
“It’s mine all right,” remarked Duncan, “but I’ve got another now, and
it isn’t worth while to make a row about it. I can’t prove anything
against him. He’d say he bought it at Moran’s or of one of those
fellows who were fired last week. It shows you what he is, though.”
“I know what he is,” said Sam, blushing. “I don’t need any more
lessons.”
Another person with whom Sam hoped that he might gain some influence by
the prestige of his improvement in the hurdles was his second cousin,
Wally Sedgwick. Wally was a lower middler, active-minded and ambitious.
Athletics would have given a natural scope to his energy, but he was
too small and immature to have any chance in Seaton sports. He had
fallen in with a set of idle boys of not the highest standards, who
appealed to Wally’s imagination as gay young bloods; they knew things
and were up to date. None of these was in the class of John Fish, a
reprobate, and callous to the opinion of his associates; nor in that of
Mulcahy, whose ambition led him to conceal his wrong-doing, but could
not prevent his determined selfishness from pushing to the surface.
The wickedness of Wally’s friends lay mainly in talk and swagger, but
they had already suggested to him that the code of morals taught in his
home was goody-goody, and that the proper way to show his spirit was
to do “what everybody did.” Wally was popular with many of the older
boys because he was the brother of Margaret Sedgwick. They bestowed
attentions on him in the hope of “making themselves solid” with Miss
Margaret, caring little whether these attentions were good for the boy
or not.
The track team were going to Boston to compete in the schoolboy games
of the Boston Athletic Association. For the first time in his school
career Sam was to be a member of a Seaton team in contest with other
schools. He was to wear the significant red letters on his shirt, was
to see his name on the big official programme as a representative
of Seaton, was to be trusted to do a part in gaining public honors
for the school. He thought of it by day, dreamed of it by night, and
longed, as only an inexperienced tyro can long, to do credit to those
who trusted him. Mr. Archer, who sympathized with his son in all
innocent interests, that he might wield the stronger influence when
great questions of conduct came up for settlement, ordered a ticket and
promised to be present at the contests. Sam wrote the usual disclaimer
of any expectation of getting a place, but his secret hopes ran high.
Why shouldn’t Fairmount win first and he second, as they had done at
Seaton?
Then came the trip in pleasant but orderly company, the lunch in town,
the dressing in confused, cramped quarters, the facing of tier on tier
of partisans encircling the huge room, the disorderly jumble about the
starting lines, the hurried calling of contestants, the uproar of rival
cheers--and at last the all-important summons. Few looked upon that
particular heat of the forty-five-yard hurdles with special interest.
Occasional friends of runners scattered through the benches, Mr. Archer
straining his eyes at the long, lank figure crouching in the outside
course, Collins ever calmly observant of his protégés, the little
batch of eager Seatonians watching the red letters, a noisy squad
cheering the wearer of a big W--these were the real audience.
The pistol cracked. The line shot forward, over hurdles, through
hurdles, stampeding for the tape. Sam stumbled, caught his step again
and dashed blindly on. He sprang for the last hurdle as another was
leaving it. A blue N was first, the W second, Sam an unplaced third.
The starters were calling the sixth heat.
It was all over in ten seconds--the set, the start, the struggle, the
finish, Sam’s dream of achievement. He slipped into a corner by his
schoolmates and tried to forget his disappointment in watching the
efforts of his friends. He saw Kilham of Hillbury beat out Fairmount
by a foot in the finals of the hurdles. He cheered vigorously when Gay
took the forty. He groaned in dismay as Bruce was pocketed on the curve
of the track in the six hundred and forced behind. When Weatherford
won the thousand yards and Brewster the mile, and Jones soared a
handbreadth above the bar after all rivals had failed, he exulted with
pure delight. At such times the sight of the success of his school
almost comforted him for his own failure. But when unfamiliar letters
were in the van, when the Seaton runners were lost in the field of
pursuers, then the fruitlessness of his own effort recurred to him
afresh, and the folly of his hopes. Abashed, he glanced up at the
indistinct face in the distant gallery and wondered whether his father
felt himself the victim of false representations. Exactly what his
father did think he had no opportunity to discover. When Sam looked
for him after the pole-vault, his place was empty; Mr. Archer, having
stayed to the limit of his time, was hurrying for his train.
The next day Sam approached the groups of chattering acquaintances with
some dread of sarcastic comment. His fears were needless. Kendrick
and Taylor and a few others remarked sympathetically on his “hard
luck”; Duncan Peck made a creditable effort to be encouraging; but the
majority showed no concern whatever in his failure. This contemptuous
indifference on the part of the many, this assumption that he didn’t
count or that nothing was expected of him anyway, stirred Sam’s
fighting blood. He did not need the consolation which Collins gave
when he spoke of the event as “just practice,” nor the inspiration of
Bruce’s gay derision of himself for being blocked off on the track. The
public disdain was stimulus enough to a proud spirit. Sam’s resolution
to brook no discouragement until time had fully proved his incompetency
dates from that day.
But there were other interests in Sam’s daily life besides hurdling.
His lessons were going, some well, some tolerably, some ill. In French
he did not get ahead, and consequently he did not gain in favor with
Mr. Alsop. In truth, it is to be feared that Sam did not try his very
best for the lord of his entry. The experienced had informed him that
if one did well enough with two or three teachers to make himself solid
with them, they would defend him against those with whom he did ill.
As Sam’s schedule was a full one and some neglect was inevitable, he
followed his inclination and neglected Mr. Alsop. That gentleman did
not relish neglect; it offended his dignity and cut through the smooth
coating of his self-satisfaction. Mr. Alsop would never have struck an
enemy whose hands were bound, but he did not hesitate to assail in the
classroom with personal flings and stinging sarcasms the luckless boy
who incurred his displeasure. Unable to strike back, the boy endured
in silence and nursed his sense of unjust treatment with sullen,
unforgiving wrath. Mr. Alsop meant well, but he lacked the instinct of
fairness.
In the dormitory entry there were troubles for which Sam and Birdie
Fowle were generally held responsible by Mr. Alsop,--Sam as the
accessory who was too clever to be detected, Birdie as the criminal
occasionally caught in the act. Some one, supposed to have been Birdie,
had thrown water out of a window in the vain attempt to reach a boy
who was hurling taunts from below. Mr. Alsop had called up Fowle and
charged him with the offence. Birdie had acknowledged his sin. The
teacher, instead of welcoming this frankness as an encouraging symptom,
and by tact and kindness inspiring in that careless youth the desire to
keep the peace, read him a harsh to the indignant satisfaction of the
boy that the fellows were right when they said that honesty was not the
best policy in dealing with profs. Injustice being the rule, one might
as well be actually bad, as good and always suspected of badness.
Soon after this the day’s collection of waste paper in the wire grate
in the basement was set on fire, causing small damage, but much
excitement throughout the well and great chagrin to the official
regulator thereof. Fortunately for Birdie, his presence at recitation
at the time enabled him to prove a complete alibi. Right upon the heels
of this act of vandalism some miscreant, in the middle of the evening
study hour, set off a cannon cracker in the entry. Mr. Alsop, who was
at home, tore open his door and rushed savagely up the stairs. Through
a dense cloud of smoke he descried John Fish standing in his doorway.
“What is it, Fish?” Mr. Alsop demanded angrily.
“Some one’s set off a cannon cracker, sir,” answered Fish. “I was just
coming out to see if I couldn’t catch the fellow.”
Doors were open now about the stairway, heads peered over from above.
“Could you tell where it came from?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you have anything to do with it, Booth?”
“No, sir.”
“You, Rand?”
“No, sir.”
“You, Moorhead?”
“No, sir.”
“You, Taylor?”
“No, sir.”
“You, Fish?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Alsop went upstairs, called out every occupant of every room, and
put to all the same question. Fowle and Archer he asked twice. Peck
was out, and so was Lord’s room-mate. Otherwise the entire well was
canvassed. After the cross-examination was concluded, the teacher
gathered the whole company into his room.
“Some one has told me a falsehood,” he began solemnly. “I do not know
who it is, but I can guess. To that person I want to say that I
consider a lie as much worse than setting off crackers, as crackers
are worse than an ordinary rough-house. The one who is responsible
will do well to come to me and confess the truth. The rest of you who
are shielding the guilty one should remember that by keeping silent
you assume a share in the guilt. If I can’t have order in this well by
any other means, I’ll put the whole well on study hours, and if that
doesn’t answer, it will have to be cleaned out altogether. The school
has no use for rowdies.”
This last threat Mr. Alsop did not really mean, as it would have
involved firing the studious Moorhead, the good John Fish, and the
cherub Rand,--the sweetest, most friendly, most diligent little boy
that Mr. Alsop had on his list. But instances were known of whole
dormitory wells ruthlessly swept clear at an indignation meeting of
an offended faculty. Fowle and Archer as the scapegoats of the well
foresaw trouble for themselves, at any rate, whatever punishments
were inflicted. They got together soon after Mr. Alsop’s audience was
dismissed, and held wrathful council. At the end they picked up Taylor
and moved down on John Fish, who opened his door a crack to see who
was knocking, and then opened it wide because a big foot prevented its
being closed.
“I’m getting popular,” he said, smiling feebly at his visitors.
“Not with this gang!” said Taylor, as he shut the door behind him.
“You set off that cracker!” blurted Sam, with suppressed fierceness.
“I didn’t.”
“You lie! You did,” retorted Sam. “You know you did. We want to give
you warning that this funny business has got to stop. You know that
Fowle and I get the credit if anything happens here, whether we’re
in it or not. If we get soaked by Alsop for anything that’s done
hereafter, we’ll maul you so that you can’t stand!”
Fish looked at the trio in apprehension. Archer’s fight with Runyon
had passed into dormitory history; he was regarded as a dangerous man.
Fowle and Taylor were solid fellows, the latter a member of his class
football team. Fish himself, though easily superior to the smaller
occupants of the well, would have shrunk from single combat with any
one of the militant trio. His chance against them all would have been
very poor indeed.
“What do you want?” he asked sullenly.
“We want you to cut it out, that’s all,” answered Fowle.
“Cut it out entirely,” added Taylor.
“Well, I will,” answered Fish, in a sour tone, “but I can’t be
responsible for everything that happens.”