PAINFUL LESSONS
“Pass a fork, Dave.”
“Haven’t one; use your knife.”
“Can’t get pickles out with a knife, silly. Can’t you----”
“Here’s one,” said Wayne. “I was sitting on it. When will Paddy get
here?”
“Ought to be here now. Wish he’d hurry; I’m getting most powerful
hungry, as Old Virginia there says.”
“Will he be elected?” asked Wayne, as he struggled with the cover of a
biscuit tin.
“Sure to be,” answered Dave, who was arranging the spread on the study
table of No. 2 Hampton, now denuded of its customary litter of books,
paper, and rubbish. “And he’ll be here pretty quick; I told him we’d
wait until nine, and if he wasn’t here then we’d start in.”
“Thunder!” yelled Don, suddenly leaping up and dancing around the table.
“What?” cried the others, in a breath.
“Where’s the water? All the mustard in those pickles got on top and--”
He buried his face in the pitcher that Dave held out.
“Serves you right,” grinned Wayne. “Had no business tasting things.”
“I like your cheek,” said Don indignantly. “You’ve been sitting there
eating biscuits for five minutes. Look, Dave, he’s eaten the whole top
layer off!”
“Pig!” cried Dave, and rescued the tin, placing it on the table, where
it was flanked by sheets of writing paper in lieu of dishes holding
potted duck, mince tarts, a pineapple cheese, and preserved figs, the
latter overflowing in sticky streams on to the table top.
“What’ll we crack the nuts with, Dave?” asked Don.
“Nuts? Find one of Paddy’s football brogans in the closet. Crack ’em on
the hearth and stuff the shells in Paddy’s bed. Too late, though--he’s
coming, and he’s got some one with him. Let’s welcome ’em.”
Paddy and Greene entered amid a fusillade of walnuts and cork stoppers,
and by concerted action ran Dave into a closet and turned the key on
him.
“Are you It?” asked Don eagerly.
“I’m It,” replied Paddy, striking an attitude. “And Greene’s a back
number--aren’t you, Greeney? And I can pommel you all I want and not
lose my place on the team, can’t I?”
“_Hooray!_” It was the muffled tones of Dave from the closet.
“Shut up, you! Greene withdrew and so I got the captaincy. He could
have had it again if he’d wanted it.”
“Rot!” said Greene. “I was out of it, and I knew it. Besides, I didn’t
want it again. Three times is too much. I’m awfully glad it went to
Paddy. He’ll make a good captain, Cunningham; don’t you think so?”
Don’s reply was interrupted by the sound of breaking wood. Dave emerged
from the closet in a heap, and, picking himself up, seized Paddy and
forced him into a wild dance about the room.
“Hooray for Paddy--Captain Paddy!” he shouted. In the dance Paddy’s
nice white bandage came off and exposed a very black eye, which lent a
thoroughly desperate and disreputable look to the countenance of the
newly elected captain of the football team.
“By the way, Greene, do you know Gordon?” asked Paddy, as the boys
found seats about the table and without further ceremony began the
feast. Greene didn’t, and very graciously shook hands.
“You’re the fellow that got spunky to-day, aren’t you?” he asked
smilingly. Wayne nodded, looking bored.
“Wayne doesn’t like the subject,” said Dave. “It’s a matter of lasting
regret to him that he didn’t reach that chap Kirkwell.”
“Well, don’t worry, my boy,” said Paddy, as he filled his mouth with
cracker and jam. “I reached him once. I didn’t do it the way I should
have liked to, of course, because I was seeing double and having hard
work to keep my pins, but I fetched him a very decent little jab on
the neck. He got me four times before I gave up--hang him! Mind you,
fellows, I don’t believe in slugging, and I never did it before--that
is, since I have been on the team--but to-day I got tired of having him
bang me every time there was a mix-up, so I forgot myself.” And Paddy
grinned reminiscently and tried to wink his damaged eye at Wayne.
“Kirkwell’s a dirty player,” said Greene. “Pass some of that cheese,
will you?--He played last year, you know, and Jasper caught him
slugging once in the game with the Yates freshmen and put him off.
Jasper’s St. Eustace’s captain,” he explained to Wayne. “He’s an
awfully decent chap, too, and he promised me to-day that Kirkwell
shouldn’t play again if he could help it.”
“Dave, Wallace was up yesterday to ask about the hockey team--wants
you and me to join again. He’s got seven games arranged; one with St.
Eustace and one with a high school club at Troy, or somewhere. Want to
go in?” And Don poised a tart in front of his mouth and waited a reply.
“I guess so. You going to try, Paddy?”
“I might. There’s lots of time to decide. There’ll be no decent ice on
the river, I dare say, for a month yet.”
“I’m going to try for it,” continued Don. “We had lots of fun last
year. Can you skate, Wayne?”
Wayne hesitated and munched a sandwich.
“Yes, I can skate,” he said finally. “But----”
“Then you’d better report next Saturday in the gym,” said Don. “Greene,
are you trying for a scholarship this term?” Greene sighed.
“Trying? Oh, yes, I’m _trying_; but I haven’t the least idea of making
it. But I’m going to buckle down now and put in some hard licks at
grinding. I suppose you’re sure of one, aren’t you, you lucky beggar?”
“No, I’m not at all sure; but I may win a Master’s. Paddy’s the only
fellow here, I suppose, that’s certain of a scholarship.”
“Indade an’ I’m not certain at all at all,” said Paddy. “I’ve done well
with Latin and fairly well with Greek, but, whisper, English has me
floored. And old ‘Turkey’ has been putting the screws on me all term,
bad scran to him. But,” continued Paddy, with beautiful modesty, “me
deportment has been of the best.”
“Well, we’ll all know in a month; and there’s no good in worrying,”
said Dave. “Somebody have some more of everything.”
“I can ate no more,” answered Paddy sorrowfully. “It’s out of practice
I am altogether.”
“And I’ve had enough,” said Don.
“Same here,” echoed Greene. “I must be getting home. It’s ten o’clock,
and I’m dog tired. Good night, fellows; and better luck next year,
Paddy. Any one going my way?”
Wayne and Don arose, and the three said good night and picked their way
out through the darkened hall and across the dimly lighted green toward
their dormitories.
“By the way, Gordon,” said the ex-captain of the football team,
breaking the silence, “that was well meant to-day, you know--your
jumping on that St. Eustace fellow--and nobody blames you; but--well,
it isn’t just the thing, you see--we don’t do it at Hillton. You--you
see what I mean?”
“Yes,” answered Wayne gloomily. “I see what you mean, but I don’t
understand-- Never mind, though, I’ll remember next time.”
“Glad you take it that way,” said Greene. “It’s not my place to mention
it to you, only--being a chum of Cunningham’s--and your first term
here-- Well, good night, fellows.”
Wayne had almost fallen asleep, when he was aroused by a muffled
chuckle from the direction of Don’s bed.
“What’s up?” he asked sleepily.
“Nothing,” was the response. “I just remembered that I put the walnut
shells in Dave’s boots.”
When Wayne told Don that he could skate, he had not been quite truthful.
“He asked me, ‘Can you skate?’” reasoned Wayne; “not ‘Do you skate?’
And of course I _can_ if I try hard enough!”
But the argument didn’t quite satisfy him, and he set out to lend
veracity to it by purchasing a pair of half-clamp skates in the village
and seeking an unfrequented pond fully a mile from the school. About
Wayne’s home in Virginia skates were seldom seen and more seldom used.
But the boy had been ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance before the
others who did so many things well. He had been about to qualify his
assent by adding that he could not skate very well when Don interrupted
him.
To learn to skate without instruction is almost as difficult as
to learn to swim unaided, and Wayne’s troubles began on the first
afternoon that he eluded his friends and sneaked off through the
village. The pond was hidden from the road by willows, and he had
little fear of interruption. After a struggle of several moments he
at last managed to affix his skates--he put the left one on the right
shoe, and _vice versa_--and stepped on to the ice. The immediate
result was as surprising as it was disappointing, for his first step
resulted not in progress but in prostration, his head coming in violent
contact with the frozen earth at the margin of the ice. He arose with
a thumping headache, and after a moment of painful bewilderment turned
his steps homeward, with a vastly increased respect for the art of
skating and a heightened dislike for it as the result of his first
lesson.
But he was back again the next day. He found a friendly branch leaning
out over the ice, and with its aid experimented on his runners, making
numerous remarkable discoveries in the next ten minutes. He found that
it was necessary to place the rear foot at an angle while he advanced
the front one, and that as long as the center of gravity of his body
remained in advance of one foot he was in little danger of falling. But
as soon as the branch was discarded he sat down just where the ice was
hardest, and it took him a whole minute of the most careful management
to get his feet under him again; and when that was accomplished he
discovered to his dismay that he was sliding, as though propelled
by invisible force, toward the very middle of the pond, his skates
gradually parting company and his body held as though in the act of
sitting. The thing was so disconcerting that he was heartily glad when
he did take a seat, even though it was at a disheartening distance
from shore. He first considered crawling back to _terra firma_ on his
hands and knees, but that would seem too much like giving up; so he
again went through the remarkable contortions necessary to recover his
equilibrium, and finally reached the shore after a series of exciting
adventures, during which one skate became detached at the toe and his
breath forsook him entirely. Four more falls completed that day’s
lesson, and he went back to the school with his head buzzing like a
hive of bees and his body covered with bruises.
A thaw set in that night, and for the next few days he had to content
himself with studying the art from a volume of the Badminton Library.
The book wasn’t much of a help. It seemed as though the famous skater
who had written the chapter headed First Principles of Skating, and
Suggestions to Beginners, had been so overpowered by the magnitude
of his task that he had given up in despair before he had begun. The
few facts of practical value which he had mentioned Wayne had already
discovered by painful experience.
But two weeks before Christmas, and a week before the end of the fall
term, the ice on the ponds again froze to a respectable thickness, and
Wayne continued his self-instruction. Six excursions had been made to
the little pond, and the boy had attained to a degree of skill which
allowed of his circling the ice without falling, and he was fast
becoming both fond of the sport and proud of his ability. But pride
goes before a fall, especially in skating. One afternoon Wayne had
twice encompassed the pond, and was seriously considering an attempt at
skating backward, when one runner encountered a twig imbedded in the
surface, and he took a most undignified tumble. His wounded feelings
were in no measure relieved by the peals of boisterous laughter that
issued from across the pond, where, hidden by the willows, Paddy and
Dave had crouched, interested spectators of his disaster.
“Bully for Old Virginia!” bawled Paddy.
“I say, Wayne,” shouted Dave, “do that again, won’t you? I didn’t see
the first of it!”
And then, as Wayne strove to recover his feet and his dignity, their
gibes took a new turn, and Dave asked Paddy with elaborate politeness
what the young gentleman on the ice was doing; and Paddy assured him
that he wasn’t at all certain, but thought that the young gentleman
was looking for something he had dropped; whereupon Dave thanked Paddy
ceremoniously, and explained that he had supposed, judging from the
fact that the young gentleman wore skates, you know, that the latter
was skating; and Paddy assured him that he was mistaken, oh, quite
mistaken, and that the young gentleman had no idea of skating; and
Wayne floundered dejectedly up and sat down meekly on the bank, and
told them mournfully that he didn’t mind, only they might just cut out
a little of it!
When Don was gleefully informed of the affair by Paddy, he grinned
delightedly.
“That’s just like Wayne,” he exclaimed. “Pluckiest and obstinatest
chump in school.”