A FOOLHARDY ADVENTURE
The inhabitants of the east well of Hale became lovers of peace.
Mr. Alsop had not full confidence in the change, scenting something
ominous in the unnatural calm. The rumor that had spread among his
colleagues that Alsop was having a sad time in his dormitory touched
that gentleman in a sensitive spot. Ability to get on with pupils
is considered a most desirable quality in a teacher, even in an
institution like Seaton, in which the headsman’s axe is the chief
disciplinary weapon, and the fear of it the great persuader to the
quiet life. Trouble with his boys meant that Mr. Alsop was not in all
respects a success; and the teacher, while forced to confess this
fact to himself, did not wish it unpleasantly noised abroad. He was
suffering for his own conscientiousness and keenness of perception; he
knew Fowle and Archer as dangerous boys, while other teachers were
still dull-witted or misguided enough to defend them.
One morning, as Mr. Alsop, thinking gloomy thoughts about the waste of
himself which a talented man commits when he takes up the life of a
teacher, swung sharply round the corner of his dormitory, he beheld a
most exasperating sight.
Wally Sedgwick had been loafing in 7 Hale that morning, keeping both
Sam and Duncan from work which neither wanted to do. Wally’s hat lay
on the window seat. Duncan, concluding that Wally had overstopped
his leave, lifted the window and pushed the hat gently from its
resting-place. Then he calmly informed Wally that his “dip” had fallen
out. Both peered over the sill to see where the hat had fallen.
John Fish, in the room below, had caught sight of the object falling
past his window, and leaned out to investigate. It occurred to him
immediately that (as the physicians say) water was indicated; so he
brought his pitcher and began pouring upon the hat. Duncan, observing
this manœuvre from above, was seized with a bright idea. He too
fetched a pitcher and poured his libation upon John Fish’s unprotected
head as it projected from the window below. It was this spectacle of
pitchers and streams of water and heads and an all-suffering hat which
greeted Mr. Alsop’s gaze and outraged his sense of propriety as he
emerged into view before the front of Hale.
Fish did not pour long. The chilling grip of the water upon the back of
his neck quickly reminded him that his conduct was unbecoming. Duncan
stopped when Fish stopped, but neither before the teacher got a good
view of the offenders.
“Gee, there’s Alsop!” cried Duncan, jumping back into the obscurity of
the room. “My name is mud.”
“I guess I’ll go,” said Wally, quickly, “before some one pinches the
hat.”
Wally scuttled downstairs, dashed past the teacher at the door, seized
his hat and sped away from danger. Mr. Alsop mounted directly to Number
7, and knocked vigorously. Sam opened the door.
“Peck, it was you who were pouring water out of your window upon the
head of a boy below?”
[Illustration: THIS SPECTACLE OF PITCHERS AND STREAMS OF WATER AND
HEADS GREETED MR. ALSOP’S GAZE.--_Page 164._]
“Yes, sir,” said Duncan, promptly, “but it was in self-defence. You
see, the hat fell out, and before we could get it, some one downstairs
began to dump water on it. I had to do the same thing to him to make
him stop.”
“I suppose there was no other way of stopping him,” answered Mr. Alsop,
with angry sarcasm. “You knew very well that all throwing of water from
dormitory windows is forbidden. I shall report you at the office as on
study hours.”
“That’s a pretty note!” said Duncan in disgust as soon as the enemy was
out of hearing. “Put me on study hours for that! It was nothing at all.
Fellows do it all the time in Sibley and Wentworth and don’t get even a
call-down. That’s a way to run a dormitory, isn’t it? He probably won’t
do anything to Black Hand Fish!”
Therein Duncan was wrong. Mr. Alsop stopped on his way downstairs to
give Fish the same punishment, but he did it with reluctance, in fact
almost apologetically, and he took the penalty off at the end of a
week. Duncan, being of a proud spirit and showing evident resentment
in his manner, the instructor disciplined by a longer period of
restraint. During this season of penance, when Duncan was at home
morning, afternoon, and evening, cut off from all visitors, the two
room-mates were inevitably much together. Some of this time Duncan
wasted in maledictions on his unjust fate and on all those whom he
held responsible for his sufferings; some he spent profitably in
studying, and in getting acquainted with his room-mate. The experience
of this period, which proved effectively the value of Sam’s friendship,
destroyed the last shreds of the prejudice which Duncan had nursed so
long. He signalized his conversion by suggesting to Archer that it was
time they addressed each other by their first names. He made atonement,
not by falling on his friend’s neck and beseeching his pardon for
misjudging him, but by treating him with frank cordiality at home and
commending him abroad.
“Black Hand” Fish, released from the ban at the end of a week with a
gentle recommendation that he restrain his sprightliness, returned
most subservient thanks and went his old way. Fish’s old way was not
a good one from the point of view of morality or of the happiness of
his neighbors. He was the “bad boy” of the well, a natural Ishmaelite.
His hand was against every one. He borrowed money without the slightest
intention of paying; he rough-housed recklessly in the rooms of those
not strong enough to eject him, smashed furniture, threw books, spilled
ink, played hair-dresser with the shoe-brush. And withal, so strong
was the code of honor among his victims, so suave and respectful was
his demeanor toward Mr. Alsop, so craftily did he choose his hours of
molestation, that the teacher had no suspicion of his character. When
Mr. Alsop passed Fish’s room on a visit of reproof to Fowle, and saw on
the door a threatening demand for money emphasized by the drawing of a
black hand, he reflected sadly upon the persecution which an orderly
student must suffer at the hands of the disorderly. Indeed, he felt
tempted to call a meeting of the well to protest against the cowardice
of anonymous threats.
Fish himself was not greatly disturbed by the sight of these
manifestoes. He was not to be frightened into disgorging by the threat
of a Black Hand. When, however, a similar notice appeared on the
blotting-paper on his desk, he began to suspect his long-suffering
room-mate Moorhead, and made him the special object of his attentions.
Moorhead was a studious youth, an honor man, very ambitious to keep
his rank. Fish hid his books, poured away the water from his pitcher,
pulled his bed to pieces, inked his exercises. A favorite diversion was
to sing Moorhead to the verge of madness when the boy wanted to study.
This was especially effective when a “dec” had to be learned, or lines
memorized for English.
With the occupants of Number 7 Fish took no liberties. They “wouldn’t
stand for it,” and they were capable of defending themselves. The
weaker inhabitants of the well safeguarded themselves and their
possessions as best they could by keeping their doors locked. Even with
this precaution there were times when the pest found admittance. Being
debarred from outside disturbance by the serious threats of the trio,
he was in a way thrown back upon the rooms for amusement.
Spring came, if a muddy windy March has any right to the name of
spring. Sam, whose reputation was better with other teachers than
with Mr. Alsop, sometimes got permission to go off with his gun. He
returned one Wednesday night, empty-handed, as usual, but eloquent of
the grandeur of the heavy surf as it broke over the rocks at the foot
of Great Boar’s Head. He wrote a theme on the subject before he went to
bed, and read it to Duncan.
“Gee! but it must be worth seeing!” exclaimed Duncan. “If that beast of
an Alsop hadn’t put me on study hours, I might go down and get a look
at it.”
“Why don’t you ask him to take you off?”
“Ask him to take me off!” repeated Duncan, indignantly. “I wouldn’t ask
him to take me out of a pit, if I were dying of thirst!”
“He probably wouldn’t do it anyway,” remarked Sam, recalling the
humiliating refusal which he had himself received when he asked for a
special make-up on French vocabulary.
Thursday and Friday the wind blew hard from the east. Saturday was
clear. At nine, after his first recitation, Duncan came dashing in with
the signals of exciting news flaming in eye and cheek.
“Alsop’s gone to Boston to-day to tell the Modern Language Profs how to
do it. He won’t get back until to-morrow night.”
“What of it?” asked Sam, calmly.
“I’m going to take a holiday. I’m going to see the surf, that’s ‘what
of it’!”
“You’d better not. You can’t get permission; and if any of them see
you, they’ll report you, and it’ll be all up with you.”
“I’m not going to stay cooped up here all the time. I did nothing to
be put on probation for, not as much as John Fish, and he was let off
a week ago. I’m going to see the surf!”
“Supposing they see you?”
“They won’t see me. I’ll get something to eat early down at McLane’s;
then I’ll take the one o’clock car outside the town. Nobody would leave
as early as that, and if they do, Brucie, who’s got permission to go,
will take the same car in town, and signal me at the right place if
there’s any danger. Then I’ll jump off at Leavitt’s, skip over to the
rocks, have a look at the waves, and take the same car back. I’ll be
here by three.”
“It’s risky,” said Sam, thoughtfully.
“I’ll take the risk!”
All that morning, Duncan’s foolhardy scheme troubled Sam’s mind. There
was danger in it--a danger quite out of proportion to the pleasure to
be gained. The boy who leaves town without permission goes permanently.
That was a rule to which the faculty rarely made exceptions. It was
useless to expostulate with Duncan; he had made up his mind, and
the resolution of a boy who had studied the ins and outs of Academy
discipline for four years could hardly be expected to yield to the
objections of a newcomer. And yet there was an objection which appeared
to Sam to be serious.
“What are you going to do about the two o’clock car going down?” he
asked Duncan, as the chums came together again at twelve o’clock.
“There’s sure to be some one on that who would recognize you; it will
pass you at the power-house.”
“That’s easy!” answered Duncan, confidently. “I’ll duck down when we
pass the cars, going and coming. If you’re trying to scare me out of
this, you’re wasting your breath. I’m going, anyway.”
This ended Sam’s attempts at interference. He hung around the room
for a while after Duncan had gone, then hunted up Dr. Leighton and
asked permission to go to the salt marshes or elsewhere, shooting. Dr.
Leighton knew Mr. Archer and believed in the boy. As a result, we may
say by way of parenthesis, the boy believed in Dr. Leighton, and, what
is more to the point, strove to earn his esteem by honest work for him.
Dr. Leighton’s permission was quickly obtained.
Sam boarded the two o’clock car in his shooting togs, without any
clear idea as to his purpose. He didn’t care much about shooting that
afternoon, and he did want to help Duncan, but how he could help
Duncan he had but the vaguest notion. If there were teachers aboard,
he might engage them in talk at the critical time, and so divert their
attention. Two teachers did get in at the square, Professor Towle and
Mr. Snow, both elderly men above the temptation of spying--the fault of
overzealous youth--but quite as rigid in their sense of duty as their
younger colleagues. If Duncan showed himself, his head was forfeit.
The car bowled rapidly along the desolate, water-soaked highway. Sam
left his seat and went forward with the motorman to catch the first
glimpse of the waiting car at the turnout. As they bore down upon
the power-house, they saw ahead of them a group of workmen gathered
about a heavily loaded service car which appeared to have broken down,
obstructing both main track and turnout.
“Looks like a block,” observed the motorman, as he crowded down the
brake.
“What will they do?” asked Sam, quickly.
“Probably swap passengers with the up car when it comes, and send us
back.”
The car came to a stop. The motorman opened the door of his vestibule
and leaned out. Sam peered over his shoulder.
“You’ll have to go back, Jim,” said an official to the conductor.
“Transfer your passengers.”
Sam seized his gun, pushed by the motorman, and strolled along the
track past the obstruction. As soon as he felt himself sheltered by the
derailed car from the argus eye of the faculty, he jumped the wall, and
in its shelter ran headlong for the curve round which the up car was
expected.