THE "RETREAT"
Not far from the high school, at the end of a long row of houses, stood
an unpretentious two-story frame building painted white. Big black
letters almost covering the width of the house announced that therein
was located "Terry Guffin's Student Retreat."
Terry had lived in the "White House" long enough to know generation
after generation of schoolboys. His pies, doughnuts and cakes were
famous; so were his chops. And many an old "grad" who had left his
student days far behind found it convenient to return to Kingswood so
that he might see the round, red face of Mr. Guffin, and once more
partake of his tasty wares.
The interior of the Student Retreat was filled with interesting
souvenirs of school life--photographs, sketches, bits of writing--each
possessing a significance dear to the heart of Terry Guffin.
There were rather curious paintings, too, on door panels, or over
mantel-pieces, which showed ambition, if not high artistic ability. The
largest and most important, painted on real canvas, with a gold frame
around it, and hanging so conspicuously that all who entered must rest
their gaze upon it, was signed "David Brandon."
The picture represented a wild stampede of cattle on the plains.
Cowboys, terror-stricken animals, and clouds of dust were depicted in
a spirit which had often aroused the enthusiasm of visitors to the
Retreat.
At the rear of the building, a large yard enclosed by a high board
fence was a favorite spot with many of the students, for tables,
with the whitest of table-cloths, and comfortable chairs were placed
temptingly about. Several trees and palms, together with a number of
small flower beds, helped, in warm weather, to make the place very
attractive.
When Nat Wingate and Owen Lawrence entered the "Retreat," late that
afternoon, their ears told them before they reached the yard that it
had been captured by a crowd of lively boys. And the new student of
the Kingswood school immediately noted that his companion seemed to be
highly popular.
"Hello, Nat! Hello!" came from half a dozen throats.
"Zip--boom--hooray for the captain of the Stars!" called out a boy
almost as tall as Tom Clifton.
"Hello, Hackett! Hello, Talbot!" greeted Nat. "Gee--there's 'Crackers,'
too. Howdy, everybody! Fellows, let me introduce Owen Lawrence."
The latter was busy for a few moments exchanging salutations. Then he
plumped himself down on a chair, which the smiling Terry Guffin pushed
toward him.
Mr. Guffin was pleased--the round, cherubic face under his chef's white
cap plainly showed it. A new customer to the "Retreat" generally meant
a permanent customer so long as he remained a boy--and sometimes after.
Owen was soon holding a rapid-fire talk with Kirk Talbot, John Hackett,
Benny Wilkins, Ted Pollock, and a heavy-set, stoop-shouldered boy
wearing spectacles, and who was invariably addressed as "Crackers."
"'Crackers'?" queried Owen, at one of the infrequent pauses.
The heavy-set boy flushed slightly. A ripple of mirth was communicated
to various groups.
"Ha, ha!" grinned Nat. "He doesn't do it any more."
"Do what?" asked the new student.
"Why, at one time he almost supported a cracker foundry," explained
Nat--"never seemed to be separated from a large bag of them."
"A continuous performance," supplemented Hackett.
"And of course such an awful example had to be made an example of,"
chuckled Benny Wilkins. "Anywhere within a five-mile zone his name is
'Crackers.' When he gets beyond, some people call him Dan and others
Brown. He's been done up brown, too; haven't you, Brown?"
"Some greenies may think so."
"Well, it's a good thing talk like that doesn't mean a black eye for
some one. What were you saying, Nat?"
"I'm trying to put Owen straight on who we are and what we are,"
answered Nat. "You see, John Hackett, Kirk Talbot and myself left
school at the end of last term, and have already begun our struggle in
life."
"So far, it's been something fierce, too," confided Hackett. "I'm
working for my father, and the howl he raises when I want a day or two
off would almost make you run out of the store."
"John's the meanest apology for a dry-goods clerk that ever skimped on
a yard of cloth," announced Benny Wilkins.
Nat turned toward Lawrence. "Ted Pollock, an old chum of ours, is still
making the professors at the school throw up their hands in despair. So
are most of the other chaps around here."
"I've seen Benny Wilkins at the school," said Owen.
"We must whisper that he's seen too often everywhere. He totes around
a note-book--must fill one every week. What did you put down to-day,
Benny?"
Wilkins slowly drew from his pocket the article in question, and,
opening it, read:
"Four thirty-five P. M. Sized up the candidates for the
ball team. No good. Four forty P. M. Tom Clifton received
notification to that effect. Four forty-one P. M. Tom Clifton
said so much in about three minutes that I left it all out. Four fifty
P. M. Looked at a book containing logarithms, but decided that
Terry Guffin's was better."
"There is hope for you yet, Benny," remarked "Crackers," solemnly.
Owen Lawrence paid but little attention to the boys outside of his
immediate circle, for he quickly noticed that they were apparently but
a chorus playing a very secondary part to the principal "stars" of the
"Retreat."
"Say, fellows, who was that elderly gentleman who came over to the ball
grounds this afternoon?" he inquired, presently.
Several started to answer at once. But Nat Wingate silenced them.
"Mr. Rupert Barry," he explained. "They say he's the oldest graduate
of the high school. Has a great lot of the stuff everybody's scrapping
for, too--money."
"Awful queer old chap," confided Ted Pollock.
"What's all the talk about a new ball field that Tom Clifton is
getting off every day?" asked Owen.
"I was just about to tell you," answered Nat. "Hello, Terry"--he raised
his voice--"are you baking that pie?"
The white cap and smiling countenance of Mr. Guffin immediately
appeared in the doorway.
"Just a moment, Nat," he answered, rubbing his hands together.
"Hurry it up, Terry. Well, Lawrence, Mr. Barry owns a large field about
three-quarters of a mile from the school. And, last year, he sprang a
sensation on the crowd which some of 'em haven't gotten over yet."
"If I'd only known about it at the time I'd have stayed at the school
and won it for the boys," remarked John Hackett.
"You?" scoffed Benny Wilkins.
"Before night comes I guess I'll know the particulars," laughed Owen.
"Everybody keep quiet until spoken to," commanded Nat. "Mr. Barry
ambled over to the school one day and saw Professor Hopkins."
"I'll tell him what happened," interrupted Ted Pollock. "You weren't
there, Nat. I can see the principal now----"
"You can't," declared Benny Wilkins--"unless you've eaten too much pie."
"He came into the assembly room with Mr. Barry. 'Boys,' he said, in
solemn tones, 'you all know our esteemed fellow townsman. He tells me
that on several occasions some of you have attempted to play ball on
his lot.'"
"Thought you were going to catch it, I suppose?" grinned Owen.
"Certainly did. But the principal switched off on a line of talk that
filled the fellows with so much astonishment that it's a wonder they
could do any studying for the rest of the week."
"I know a few that didn't," came from Benny Wilkins.
Nat silenced him with a gesture, and went on to explain that the
eccentric old gentleman who occupied the house on the hill did not go
to the school to register a "kick," but had actually offered to present
them the field and a grand stand in case they should have a winning
ball team the following year.
When Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton returned from a trip to
the East they had started things moving with a vengeance. Assisted by
Dick Travers and Sam Randall, two other members of the Rambler Club,
they got the student body to vote on the proposition to form a regular
athletic association. The boys, much impressed by the various exploits
of the Rambler Club, responded with an enthusiasm that not only brought
the project to a successful issue but placed in office all those
who were champions of Bob Somers and his crowd. Sam Randall became
president, Harry Spearman, vice president, Dick Travers, secretary,
and Jack Carr, treasurer. And all the representatives from the various
classes were hot "rooters" for the Ramblers.
Of course many candidates for the ball team appeared, the most
prominent being the big guard of the football eleven, Earl Roycroft.
Certain very strong rumors floating about, however, seemed to suggest
that while Earl wouldn't be given a chance, Charlie Blake, a lad who
had made a failure on the school team when Nat Wingate captained it,
was almost certain of being assigned a position by the coach, Roger
Steele.
With so much at stake, some of the boys began to feel that the Ramblers
were having altogether too much say in the matter. Tom Clifton's calm
assumption that he would be a member of the nine was particularly
annoying to some of his schoolmates.
"Crackers" insisted that a storm was brewing. In fact, his agitation
had already resulted in the formation of an opposition, whose murmuring
discontent, if things didn't go right, seemed liable to break out later
into a fierce roar of disapproval.
The great prize for which the school was about to strive had the effect
of putting this small minority into a belligerent state of mind even
before the make-up of the team was actually known.
When his various informers at length came to a stop, Owen Lawrence
drawled:
"A very interesting state of affairs. I don't like to say anything
against the crowd, fellows, but, honestly, it seems to me that Tom
Clifton is about the limit."
"Oh, you knocker!" snickered Benny Wilkins.
"A conceited specimen, if there ever was one," asserted "Crackers,"
nodding emphatically. "Have you heard the latest?"
"Wait till I get out my note-book," said Benny. "Let's see--five ten
P. M. A revelation by 'Crackers' Brown----"
"He's talking about the dieting racket for athletes. By Jove, he had a
crowd lined up in the gym this morning, talking bigger'n any M. D. you
ever listened to--fact."
A chorus of groans greeted this announcement.
"Pies and doughnuts barred out, I s'pose?" exclaimed Ted Pollock.
"I believe if he even saw one in a window he'd cross over to the other
side of the street."
"Ah! That's right, Terry." Nat Wingate was speaking. "Crickets--here
come the doughnuts!"
Mr. Guffin had placed before the captain of the Stars and Owen Lawrence
as fine specimens of pies as the "Retreat" had ever turned out. An
assistant deposited a big plateful of doughnuts in the center of the
table.
"We won't be able to eat much supper after this," ventured Owen.
"You only say that because you're not used to Guffin's," chuckled Nat.
"These are regular appetizers. What was I saying?"
"Nothing," said Benny. "How did you happen to think of it?"
"What kind of work are you doing, Nat?" asked Owen.
"I'm secretary to my uncle, Mr. Parsons Wingate," answered Nat. "I can
take dictation in shorthand and bang on the typewriter with all ten
fingers."
"And find time to play ball besides?"
"You bet! I get practice enough to keep on edge. The Stars can trim a
lot of would-be big leaguers."
"You're going to play the school team, aren't you?"
"Yes! And we expect to give 'em an awful drubbing, too."
"Get out your note-book, Wilkins. I'm going to ask a question," said
Brown, banging the table sharply.
"All right," assented Benny. "Five fifteen P. M. 'Crackers'
asks a question."
"It is this," said Brown, staring solemnly over the rim of his glasses:
"he who dares to venture within this 'Retreat' must be more than
a Pie-eater; he must have the--the--how does that go? Oh, yes--the
courage of his convictions--it has to be perfectly straight talk."
"The question--the question!" demanded Benny. "You must excuse him,
Lawrence. When he starts out to ask anything he generally forgets what
it is before he reaches the point."
"You have been at the Kingswood High one week," said "Crackers," with
a stern glare at the grinning Wilkins, "and in that time have seen and
heard a lot. Where do you stand on this baseball situation?"
Owen Lawrence pondered a moment. The tongues of the boys were silent.
"Well," he said, slowly, "I'm not one of those chaps who is afraid to
tell what he thinks." He beat a tattoo on the plate with his fork. "No,
sir. I don't mind saying that from what I've seen of the Somers crowd
my sympathies are beginning to be with the opposition."
"Hooray!" cried John Hackett. "We are all for the good of the school.
Do you play ball?"
"Of course. I was on a scrub team for two years." He paused. "Fellows,
I'm going to try for the Kingswood team myself."
"Great--great!" cried Benny, gleefully. "I'll make an entry of that."
"Think you stand any show of getting on?" inquired Nat.
"Yes. Why not? Hasn't any chap who can make good a chance?"
"That's something we have to find out," growled John Hackett. "But our
crowd's afraid Bob Somers will manage to get most of his own chums on
the team, besides having the biggest say about the others."
"If that's his scheme we'll nip it," declared the new student,
emphatically. "I'm going to have something to say--don't you forget it."
"And just to make sure we won't, I'll make a note of it," chuckled
Benny Wilkins.