JERRY ACCEPTS AN INVITATION
There was a yell from the lower corridor the next morning: “_Oh,
Benson! Jerry Benson! Telephone!_”
Jerry descended, wondering. Only once before had he ever been summoned
to the instrument, and that had been in the spring when Major Laurence
had asked him over to dinner. This morning a strange voice came to him
when he picked up the receiver.
“Hello! Is that you, Benson? Well, this is Ted Ingraham. Say, mother
got on to that stunt last Sunday, Benson, and she wants you to come
over for supper to-night. How about it? I’ll get you in the canoe.”
For a moment Jerry recalled neither the name nor the “stunt.”
“Who did you say you were?” he asked in puzzlement.
“Ingraham. You know, the fellow you towed to the beach last Sunday?
Forgotten?”
“Oh! No, I ain’t forgot, but――I reckon I can’t come to supper. I wish
you’d tell your mother that I’m powerful much obliged to her, though.
It’s――it’s right kind of her.”
“Oh, shucks! Why can’t you come? You’d better. Look here, if you don’t
mother’ll be over there to see you, certain sure. She’s just bound
to thank you for saving my life”――Jerry heard chuckles at the other
end――“and she’ll do it, Benson. You’d better come over here and let her
do it quietly! I’ll be at the float at four. How’s that?”
“Why, I don’t know. I reckon I’d rather――――”
“All right, then! Four o’clock, Benson! Bye-bye, see you later!”
“Hold on!” called Jerry, but there was no reply and he knew that
Ingraham had hung up. For a moment he deliberated renewing the
connection and begging off definitely, but in the end he decided to
see it through. If Mrs. Ingraham was the determined sort of lady that
her son described her as being perhaps it would be wiser to accept the
invitation. Jerry had a disturbing vision of a large and ample woman
expressing her gratitude in front of the Hall to the delight of the
assembled school! Of course, it might not happen just that way, but you
couldn’t be certain!
There was another surprise in store for him, for after dinner there
was a knock at the door and Purves Jordan came in. Jordan was a member
of the first class, a rather large youth with good looks that were
somewhat marred by an arrogant expression and a pair of mandarin
spectacles. Jordan had very dark hair that was worn slicked back from
his forehead in a shiny wave that suggested much brilliantine. Jordan
was popularly supposed to pattern his tonsorial effect on that of a
well-known moving picture hero. To-day he was as carefully attired as
usual, and his hair, or so much of it as was visible beneath his school
cap, was smooth and radiant. He appeared slightly embarrassed, which
was very unusual for Jordan, and accepted Tom’s invitation to enter
somewhat hesitantly. After a moment’s talk of the game yesterday he
reached the object of his visit.
“I want to see about hiring the Cabin for next Saturday evening,
Benson,” he announced. “Want to take a few fellows out there and have a
little party. We’d do our own cooking, of course, and clean everything
up after us. Weren’t going to use it yourself, were you, that evening?”
The question suggested a ready excuse to Jerry, but he didn’t like
lies, even conventional ones. “No, I wasn’t going to use it,” he
answered slowly, “but I ain’t never rented it, Jordan.”
“Maybe you’ve never had a chance,” said the visitor, with a laugh.
“What about the price? A couple of dollars do?” Jordan considered
that he was offering about twice what it was worth. He knew that
Jerry hadn’t much money and believed that such a munificent sum would
outweigh any hesitation. Consequently he was surprised, and showed it,
when Jerry shook his head.
“Reckon I don’t want to rent the Cabin, Jordan. Much obliged to you,
but I’d rather not.”
“Oh, piffle, Benson! We won’t hurt it any! Give you my word we’ll
clean everything up shipshape before we leave, and lock the door and
everything. I’ll pay you now, too, if you like.” He pulled out a
pigskin coin purse and, opening it, exposed much silver and some folded
bills. “Might as well make a little money out of the place, eh?”
“I’m right sorry,” said Jerry, “but I ain’t wishing to rent it.”
Jordan frowned and glanced inquiringly at Tom, who shrugged his
shoulders with a laugh. “Don’t appeal to me, Jordan,” he said. “If
Jerry doesn’t want to he won’t, I guess. Might as well put your gold
away.”
“Oh, all right,” answered the other huffily. “But I don’t see why
you’re so choice of the old shack. There isn’t anything there to hurt,
I reckon, Benson. Look here, I’ll buy the whole thing from you, if you
say so. Give you ten dollars for it.”
Jerry’s eyes snapped, but he answered as mildly as before. “I ain’t
wishing to sell, thanks.”
Jordan laughed as he dropped his purse back in a pocket and stood up.
“Well, I reckon you couldn’t, anyway, could you? I mean it isn’t yours,
is it? Any more than it’s mine or any one else’s. Can’t sell what don’t
belong to you, eh, Hartley?”
“Don’t reckon I’d have any right to sell it,” replied Jerry, “but it’s
mine a heap more than it is any other fellow’s, just the same. I found
it and fixed it up, Jordan, and that sort of gives me title, don’t it?”
“I wouldn’t think it did,” answered Jordan, with a shrug. “Well, I’m
sorry you won’t let us have it, but if you won’t that’s all there is to
it.” He paused questioningly with a hand on the door knob.
“Reckon so,” said Jerry amiably.
“All right. But you can’t expect fellows to――to patronize the place if
you’re so pesky mean with it, Benson. You might just think of that.
Bye!” Jordan took his departure, closing the door very gently when, as
those behind him knew well, he would much rather have slammed it! Tom
was grinning enjoyably when Jerry turned to him.
“That sort of evens things up, doesn’t it, Jeremiah?” he asked.
“I didn’t refuse him to even anything up,” answered Jerry. “I just
don’t like to have fellers go out there when I ain’t around. I――I’m
sort of fond of that Cabin.”
“Well, I’m rather glad you turned him down. He was so cocksure about
it! I guess I don’t like him any better than Joke does, and Joke can’t
stand him. Wonder who he was going to take out there with him. Munson
and Tarbell and that gang of toffs, I suppose.”
“Toughs?” questioned Jerry.
“Not exactly. ‘Toffs’ was the word. An English expression, Jerry,
meaning――well, about what we’d call a ‘sport.’ You know Munson, don’t
you? I mean you know him when you see him?”
“I reckon so. I’ve seen――saw――――”
“Seen will do, Jerry.”
“Seen him with Jordan, I reckon. Sort of a fat feller, and wears silk
shirts and silk socks.”
“Quite so, only he would probably refer to them as hose, Jerry. When
socks cost over a dollar a pair they automatically become hose.”
Jerry blinked. Then he chuckled. “Sort of reminds me of Derby Boose,”
he said.
“And who was Derby Boose?”
“Feller back home in Huckinsburg. He was a barber. Leastways, he was
evenings and Saturdays. Other times he worked for Mr. Gaines, over to
the freight house. He had one chair in the back of Pap’s store until
his wife died and left him three hundred and forty dollars. Then he
moved into the other half of Schroder’s feed store, bought him another
chair and painted ‘Tonsorial Artist’ on the window.”
Tom laughed. “Does he work regular at it now, or just evenings?”
“Just evenings and all day Saturday,” answered Jerry. “Mostly on
Saturday, though. Folks in Huckinsburg ain’t particular about getting
shaved during the week.”
“Jerry, I guess I’ll have to see Huckinsburg some time. You’ll have to
take me home with you next summer.”
Jerry smiled. “Reckon you’d find a right smart of funny things there,”
he said. “Folks, too.”
“I’ll bet I would,” laughed Tom. Then he sobered. “I don’t know that
I would, either, Jerry,” he went on. “Guess I wouldn’t laugh at them,
anyway.”
“I wouldn’t want you should,” said Jerry gravely.
At four o’clock, attired in his best suit, with his shoes shined to an
almost blinding radiance and uncomfortably conscious of one of Tom’s
high collars about his neck, Jerry descended to the float and found Ted
Ingraham awaiting him in the canoe. Ingraham was dressed――or undressed,
as you like――in a scanty blue bathing suit, and Jerry, recalling the
plight from which he had rescued the other a week ago, wondered whether
his host’s attire was not the more appropriate for the undertaking
before them. But he strove to disguise his apprehensions as he made his
way carefully to the bow seat and, at Ted’s invitation, picked up the
second paddle.
“We’ll paddle down to the bridge and back,” announced Ted gayly.
“Supper isn’t until six-thirty and we’ll have stacks of time. Take her
straight out to the middle and we’ll get the tide. Say, you needn’t
think I let on about that spill, Benson. A neighbor up the river saw it
from her house and she called yesterday and let out about it. Mother
had a conniption and made me fess up. She insists that you saved my
life and you’re in for a fine old time when she gets you! But it won’t
last long. You might as well let her think what she likes, Benson, for
she’s got her heart set on making a hero of you. Just let her have her
say and get through with it. She’s all right, you understand, only
she’s――she’s funny that way. You know how mothers are.”
“I ain’t ever had one,” Jerry replied, “but I reckon I know how you
mean. Sort of――of coddling.”
“Coddling?” Ted Ingraham looked dubious. “Well, maybe,” he said, “only
my mother isn’t exactly like that; not nowadays, anyhow. What do you
mean when you say you never had a mother?”
“I mean I don’t remember her. Course I did have one; father, too; but
they died when I was a baby.”
Ted considered that in silence a moment while he dug his paddle with
slow, steady sweeps. Then: “You’re a queer character, Benson,” he
chuckled. Jerry was quite unaffected by the statement. He was thinking
that floating downstream was pleasant enough but that paddling back was
likely to emphasize his deficiencies as a canoeist. After a moment Ted
asked: “You know Purves Jordan, don’t you?”
“Not very well.”
“He’s a bit of a pill,” chuckled Ted, “even if he is my cousin. Mother
thinks he’s a wonder, but a little of him goes a long way with me. He
wants me to go on some sort of a shindig next Saturday with him and
some of the fellows over there; a kind of a picnic, I reckon; but I
don’t know as I will. I don’t know the other chaps, and if they’re
like Purves I don’t want to. Who does the light blue canoe belong to,
Benson?”
Jerry looked and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “If they
were nearer maybe I’d know them.”
“That’s a good-looking canoe of yours,” said Ted. “Had it long?”
“’Tain’t mine. It belongs to Billy Conger. I just borrowed it.”
Ted chuckled again. “Thought you didn’t act like you knew much about
it. I reckon you haven’t done much paddling, have you?”
“I never did any till last Sunday,” replied Jerry.
“Well, you certainly had your nerve! Still, if you’re a good swimmer
it’s all right. Just the same, it’s a sight better to have a bathing
suit on. I don’t care how well you can swim, Benson, if you go over in
your clothes you have a pretty hard time of it.”
“Reckon I could swim about as well with my clothes on as I could with
them off,” answered Jerry calmly. “I ain’t much of a swimmer.”
“For the love of mud! Boy, you’d better stay off the river! If you
can’t paddle better than you seem to and can’t swim much, you’re taking
awful chances.” Ted suddenly burst into a laugh. “My, that’s funny!” he
gasped.
“What?” inquired Jerry mildly.
“Mother wanting to fall on your neck for saving my life! And you never
having paddled a canoe before! Say, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell her!”
“Reckon I ought to,” said Jerry. “Don’t seem right to let her think I
done what I didn’t do, does it?”
“Well, I don’t see any harm in it. Anyway, you don’t need to say
anything unless she asks you. Let’s swing around and take her back
now. It won’t be so easy going upstream.”
Nor was it, and before very long Jerry had to shift his paddle to port
to relieve the aching in his arms and back. By the time they were
opposite the school landing again the river was almost deserted and the
windows of Founders’ Hall were aglow with the rays of the setting sun.
Soon they swung in toward the purple-shadowed bank where the strip of
white beach lay and made for the little float there. Ted’s mast and
sail lay along the planks and he pointed to them as he and Jerry lifted
the canoe from the water.
“Reckon I’ll have to make that smaller,” he said. “There’s too much
spread for a canoe without an outrigger. I’ve been over five times so
far, and mother’s getting fidgety. Women don’t understand much about
sailing and all that.”
Jerry followed his host along a steep path that zigzagged its way up
the bank and presently came out on a plateau of lawn and shrubbery
where, against a background of forest, the Ingraham bungalow stood and
looked up and down the river with lattice-window eyes. As the boys
crossed the grass a small and rather droopy lady arose from a chair
on the veranda and came to meet them at the step. Jerry’s vision of a
large and overpowering woman died a sudden death. Ted’s mother was no
larger than Ted, and Jerry’s dread of the meeting vanished. He felt
rather ashamed, however, when she took his two hands and thanked him
lavishly for rescuing Ted from what she called “a watery grave,”
and he would have disclaimed all credit had it not been for Ted’s
meaningful looks and warning gestures. Afterwards, Jerry concluded
that Ted’s advice had been excusable, for there was no doubt that Mrs.
Ingraham derived a lot of pleasure in expressing her gratitude and in,
during the rest of Jerry’s stay, referring to him at intervals as a
hero. She seemed a kind-hearted little lady, but extremely nervous and
timid, and confided to Jerry that during the summer she seldom had a
happy moment.
“Ted is always in that horrid canoe or jumping off places into the
river. Of course he will be killed some day, but I can’t do anything
with him. He will take his life in his hands. I shall be so glad when
we get back to Baltimore!”
“Gee, I don’t see why you don’t go, then,” said Ted. “You can’t go any
too soon for me, and I keep telling you so!”
“Ted dear, you know how much better my health is here,” reminded his
mother gently. “If only you would go to North Bank while we’re here
and not spend all your time on the river I wouldn’t be so worried.
I dare say you know Purves Jordan, Mr. Benson? He’s such a dear boy
and so――so manly. He’s my sister-in-law’s boy, Ted’s cousin. I tell
Ted that with Purves there North Bank would be a splendid place for
him. And he really ought to go to school more. He’s not had nearly
enough education. But you might just as well talk to a stone wall as
to Ted.” Mrs. Ingraham sighed and Ted winked wickedly. “I suppose,”
continued the lady, “if his father had only lived things would have
been different. A father is so _good_ for a boy, I always think. I’m
sure you must have excellent parents, Mr. Benson.”
“No’m, I ain’t,” replied Jerry apologetically. “They died when I was
little.”
Mrs. Ingraham was very sympathetic about that, so much so that Jerry
was vastly relieved when a colored maid appeared and announced that
supper was ready. The meal was a very good one and Jerry was hungry,
but Mrs. Ingraham talked to him so incessantly and asked so many
questions that he didn’t make out very well. Afterwards Ted bore him
upstairs to a low-ceilinged and many-windowed room over the river and
showed him his treasures: books and stamps and a quite remarkable
collection of skins from animals that Ted had trapped or shot himself.
There were several squirrel skins, red and gray, and a chipmunk and two
mink and a raccoon and even a fox, and rabbit, of course. Ted’s curing,
however, had not been very well done and most of the pelts were stiff
and hard. Jerry was able to give him pointers there and the two amateur
taxidermists compared notes for some while. Jerry had never seen so
many books, outside the school library, as Ted possessed. There were
three long and low cases filled with them, and, while Ted talked, Jerry
browsed quite excitedly.
“If there are any you want to borrow,” said Ted, “help yourself.”
Jerry selected a sober-clad, rather musty old volume called _The
Signers of the Declaration_, much to Ted’s surprise, and then, at the
latter’s earnest solicitation, added three more books to his pile: a
volume of South American travels, _The Conquest of the West_, and a
more gayly-bound one which Ted enthusiastically recommended and whose
engaging title was _The Mystery of the Pink Pavilion_. An hour later,
when he followed his host down the path to the float and somewhat
blindly embarked in the gray canoe, he was so encumbered that progress
was slow and difficult. Ted did the paddling across the darkened river
and Jerry crouched in the bow and clutched his treasures and watched
the lights along the banks and the distant bridge. He reflected that
Ted Ingraham had improved on acquaintance and that it would be only
proper to invite him to supper at the Cabin soon. But he didn’t issue
the invitation then. He only thanked Ted for his hospitality and the
books and agreed to visit him again soon, and Ted cried a cheery
good-night from the mysterious gloom of the river as Jerry made his way
up the slope.