TOWNE PLAYS A JOKE
To one at least of the audience the mass meeting had been an event
of momentous interest. Kendall Burtis, squeezed into a seat in the
very last row of settees, had followed the course of events with rapt
attention. To Kendall it was wonderful, even miraculous, for of all the
sixty-odd boys who had entered Yardley Hall School that day none, I
think, was as proud and happy as he. Kendall was a boy whose dream had
come true.
There had been a time, only four years ago, when Kendall’s ambition,
so far as schooling was concerned, extended no further than graduation
at the Roanoke High School. Even that had seemed a good deal to hope
for, for Kendall’s folks were not very well off and there were times
in the spring and fall when his services on the farm were badly needed
and when tramping into Roanoke to school savored of desertion. Had
it not been for his mother Kendall would have missed far more school
than he did. Mrs. Burtis wanted him to have what she called “a real
education,” and many a time Kendall would have remained at home to drop
potatoes or swing along behind a cultivator had she not interfered.
Then had come a year when all through the Aroostook Country of Maine
the potato crop had been an almost total failure. That failure had
spelled ruin to more than one grower, and while Farmer Burtis had
been in shape to weather the storm, it had proved a hard blow to him
financially, and when Mrs. Burtis, casting about for some way in which
to add to the slender account at the Roanoke Bank, had suggested taking
summer boarders, Kendall’s father had, after a good deal of hesitation,
acquiesced. The result was a small advertisement in a Boston paper, an
advertisement that bore fruit in the shape of four healthy, hungry,
brown-skinned college boys. That had been a wonderful summer for
Kendall. He had been only “going on twelve” then, but he was large for
his age, and old, too, and the collegians had made a good deal of him
and he had had the best time of his life. He had acted as guide on
fishing and tramping excursions, had driven them to and from Roanoke,
two miles away, and had listened in wondering and delighted awe to
their happy-go-lucky talk and banter.
“Where are you going to school, kid?” they had asked him one day. And
Kendall had told them that he hoped to finish at the high school if he
wasn’t wanted too badly on the farm.
“High school!” they had scoffed. “That will never do! Go to a boarding
school, Kid; that’s what you want to do.”
But when it came to a question of which boarding school, they couldn’t
agree. Two of them said Yardley Hall and two of them said Hillton. But
when it came to college they were quite agreed. There was nothing to it
but Yale.
“No matter where you go to school,” declared the biggest one, whose
name was Dana, “come to Yale. There may be more than one prep school,
kid, but there’s only one college, and Yale’s it!”
“I――I thought there was Dartmouth and Harvard,” Kendall had replied
hesitatingly, and Dana had knitted his brows and shaken his head.
“Never heard of ’em,” he had answered. And his three companions had
agreed, chuckling. Finally Kendall had guessed that they were having
fun with him, something they were in the habit of having. But before
they had left Dana had spoken quite seriously to Kendall.
“Kid,” he had said, “you work for a prep school and college. Make
your folks send you to Yardley and then to Yale. It isn’t altogether
what you learn out of books; it’s the friends you make and the
self-reliance you get. When the time comes you let me know; just tell
me you’re ready for Yardley and I’ll help you along. You’re a bright
kid, and nobody’s fool, and you’re the sort of fellow Yardley wants.”
They were all of them, it seemed, on the football team, and all in
strict summer training. The amount of eggs and steak and milk that they
devoured during the eight weeks of their stay was something amazing.
Every afternoon they produced two oval, brown leather balls and went
through remarkable proceedings in the meadow behind the barn. Strange
as it may seem, Kendall had never seen a football before, although
he had indistinct recollections of having heard or read somewhere of
the game. He looked on absorbedly and was as proud as a peacock when,
one day, he was allowed to kick one of the illusive objects. They got
a good deal of fun out of his attempts at first, but it wasn’t long
before he had discovered the knack, and they professed themselves
impressed with his ability.
“The kid’s cut out for a kicker,” declared Dana. “Those long legs of
his were just made for football. Kid, you keep it up, do you hear? Some
day you’ll be a crackerjack kicker if you do.”
The four took their departure early in September to join the rest of
the football squad at New Haven. But when they went they left one of
the battered balls behind, and during a month of loneliness Kendall
made a friend of it. Day after day he went down to the old place in the
meadow and kicked and chased the shabby pigskin oval, and dreamed of
a time when he should be a Yardley Hall man and play on the football
team! But the four left behind them something even better than the old
football, and that was a seed that grew and ripened and ultimately
bore fruit. They had talked with Kendall’s father and mother, the
latter especially since she had proved the more receptive, about the
boy’s future schooling, and Mrs. Burtis had hearkened willingly and
remembered. And in the course of time she had won her husband to the
plan of sending Kendall away to a good preparatory school when the time
came, and, later, to college. But when the time did come money was
lacking, and at fourteen, instead of going to Yardley Hall, Kendall
went to the high school in Roanoke. Then came a bumper year for the
Maine potato growers, and, with it――wonder of wonders!――a shortage
over the rest of the country and correspondingly high prices. Potatoes
reached a dollar and four cents a bushel that winter and Farmer Burtis
fared well. And Kendall’s best Christmas present was the promise that
the following September he should, if he could pass the examinations,
enter Yardley!
Pass the examinations indeed! Kendall never had a doubt of it. That
only meant study, and he would have studied twenty hours a day
if necessary! It wasn’t necessary. He had passed the Third Class
examinations with flying colors. And now, behold him a Yardlian, a boy
whose dream had come true!
He had listened to the speeches and watched the proceedings with eager
curiosity. And when they had sung “The Years Roll On” he had stood
up with the others and had tried, very softly, to follow the tune,
while, somewhere inside of him, something was stirring that was neither
pleasure nor pain, but seemed made of each. After the meeting was over
he followed the others out of the building and, since he knew no one
yet, set off alone along the walk to his room in Clarke Hall. He was
one of the last out of Oxford, and by the time he had reached the first
entrance of Whitson, which stands between Oxford and Clarke, most of
the gathering had disappeared. In front of him, however, three boys
were walking and as they passed a lighted window Kendall recognized
one of them as the football captain. As the trio occupied the width
of the path and as Kendall didn’t like to crowd past them, he was
obliged to suit his pace to theirs, and so couldn’t help hearing their
conversation.
“How do you like your new room, Tom?” asked Dan Vinton.
“Fine,” was the answer from the larger of the other two boys.
“It seems funny, though, not to see Alf and Tom,” continued the first
speaker. “We’re going to miss them, aren’t we?”
“Awfully,” agreed the third boy. “I’m so used to dropping in at Number
7, Tom, that you mustn’t be surprised if it takes me a while to get
over the habit.”
“Don’t get over it,” responded Tom Roeder heartily. “Make yourself at
home. I suppose Loring and Dyer are feeling pretty big about now.”
“Well, Yale got two mighty fine chaps when she got those fellows,” said
Dan Vinton. “Alf’s one of the best there is; and so is Tom.”
They turned into Clarke Hall and climbed the stairs, Tom Roeder
consenting to “come on up and chin awhile.”
“I ought not to, though,” he declared. “Wallace is waiting for me to
help him hang pictures. I’ll get a hard look when I get back.”
“How is he?” asked Dan. “Has he taken care of himself this summer?”
“Looks pretty fit. Maybe a few pounds heavy, but it won’t take him long
to drop that. He’s just back from a cruise in his brother’s boat, and
you can’t help getting fat lying around on deck. You don’t seem to have
put on much fat, Gerald.”
“I haven’t,” was the reply. “I’ve been playing tennis most all summer,
and doing a little running.”
“He’s grown like the dickens, though,” said Dan. “Look at his
shoulders. Remember him when he first came, Tom? Doesn’t look now much
like he did then, eh? Oh, we’ll make a man of you yet, Gerald!”
“Thank you,” laughed Gerald Pennimore. “That’s very kind of you.”
The three turned to the left at the head of the stairs and Kendall,
pushing open the door of Number 24, saw them enter the corner room at
the front of the building. Kendall’s own room, which he shared with a
classmate named Harold Towne, was Number 21, and was on the rear of
the building, its two windows looking out past the back of Dudley to
the edge of the grove. Towne was in the room when Kendall entered. He
was arranging a row of books on the study table which, placed in the
center of the room, equidistant between the two single beds, was common
property.
“I’ve taken this side of the room,” announced Towne. “I knew you
wouldn’t care. Anyhow, as I was here first I had a right to change, you
know.”
“All right,” said Kendall. “I don’t care which side I have. I suppose
there isn’t much difference.”
“No. Only I was on that side last year and I thought I’d like a
change,” replied the other. “Did you bring anything to fix up with,
Burtis?”
“N-no, I don’t think so.”
Towne frowned and looked about the walls. “We’ll have to get some
pictures, I guess. Cooke, who roomed with me last year, had a lot of
stuff, but of course he took it off with him.”
“Did he graduate?” asked Kendall.
“No, he’s moved into Whitson. A chap named Guild wanted him to room
with him. Cooke didn’t want to do it much, I guess, but Guild insisted.
We’d ought to have about three good pictures over there around the
windows. I’d have thought you’d have brought something along with you.”
“Well, I didn’t think of it,” answered Kendall. “Besides, I don’t
believe I had anything to bring.”
“You live in the country, don’t you?” asked Towne.
“Yes, near Roanoke. It isn’t exactly country, though. I mean there’s a
good many houses out our way. We’re only two miles from town.”
Towne laughed. “Two miles! That sounds like country to me, all right.
What do you call country, Burtis? I suppose Roanoke is just a village,
isn’t it?”
“N-no, not exactly. It’s got twenty-seven hundred inhabitants.”
“Think of that! A regular metropolis, isn’t it? Ever been to Bangor?”
“Yes, once; just for a day. It’s a nice city, I think.”
“You bet it is. That’s where I live. Know where the high school is?”
“N-no, I don’t think so. I wasn’t there long, you see. Why?”
“I was going to tell you where I live. Our house is pretty nearly as
big as this whole building.”
“Gosh, it must take a lot to heat it!” exclaimed Kendall.
“It’s heated with hot water,” said Towne.
“Like this is?”
“No, this is steam here. Hot water’s better. I guess you haven’t been
around much, have you?”
“Around the country you mean? No, I haven’t. Have you?”
“Er――some. I’m going to California and down through Old Mexico some day
soon. That’s a trip for you!”
“Quite, some ways,” agreed Kendall. “This is as far as I’ve been yet.
It doesn’t seem much different from Maine, either. You’d think, being
as it’s so much farther south, that it would be sort of――of different.”
“You talk as though Connecticut was down south,” laughed Towne. “It
gets just as cold here in winter as it does up home. I suppose they put
you in here with me because we’re both from Maine.”
“I guess so. And we’re in the same class, too. Maybe that had something
to do with it. Those books all yours?”
“Yes. I’ve got twenty times that many at home.”
“Honest?” exclaimed Kendall. “Gosh, you must have a regular library.
I’m awfully fond of books, but I haven’t got many.”
“What kind of books do you like?” asked Towne.
“Any kind; just books,” replied Kendall simply.
“Well, there’s one kind I haven’t any love for, and that’s text-books,”
said Towne, frowning at the array before him. “You could have a mighty
good time here at Yardley if you didn’t have to study so blamed hard.”
“Y-yes, but of course a fellow expects to have to study,” answered
Kendall. “I don’t mind that. I guess I sort of like it. Still, I want
to have time enough to play football.”
“Say, are you one of those athletic cranks?” demanded Towne
distastefully.
“I don’t believe so. I don’t know anything about athletics. I’d like to
play football, though. Do you play?”
“Me? Well, I guess not! You don’t catch me wearing my young life away
doing those stunts. A good game of tennis now and then is all right,
but this thing of working like a slave for a couple of hours every
afternoon and getting your bones cracked isn’t my way, let me tell you!
I don’t mind seeing a good game sometimes, but I’m no martyr. Besides,
if you make the team you have to go to training table and be just about
half starved. Not for mine, thank you!”
“That so? I guess I could stand it if they’d let me play. What do you
do to get on the team? Just go to the captain and tell him you want to
play?”
Towne grinned delightedly at the new boy’s simplicity for an instant,
and then, banishing his smile quickly, nodded. “Yes,” he replied
carelessly, “just see the captain and tell him. And, by the way, it’s
a good plan to see him pretty soon; so many fellows want places, you
know; they might be all gone by the time you get there. See?”
“Yes, thank you. I guess I’d better find him the first thing in the
morning. I wasn’t sure whether that was the way you did it. At the
meeting to-night they said something about reporting on the field, and
I thought maybe――”
“What’s the good of waiting until morning?” asked Towne, hiding his
pleasure under a grave face. “Vinton rooms just down the corridor;
Number 28; why don’t you run down there now and put in your
application?”
“Would it be all right?” asked Kendall doubtfully. “I don’t want to
seem fresh, you know.”
“Of course it’s all right! Didn’t you hear them saying to-night that
they wanted all the fellows they could get? Ever played the game?”
“No, not yet. Maybe he won’t want me.”
“Never fear! It’s new――er――new material they’re always looking for.
Take my advice, Burtis, and get in your application early. Have you got
a blank?”
“A blank? What kind of a blank?”
“Why, an application blank, of course; to write down your name and age
and so on, and what position on the team you’d like to have.”
“No, could I get one to-night?”
Towne looked doubtful, and finally shook his head. “Not to-night, I’m
afraid. Unless――unless Vinton has one he’ll let you have. You could
ask him, you know. And anyhow it won’t matter, I guess. The main thing
is to let him know as soon as possible. You could fill out your blank
to-morrow.”
“Yes, I could do that,” responded Kendall eagerly. “You don’t think
he’d mind my seeing him now, as late as this?”
“Late! Why, it’s only a little after nine. That isn’t late. Don’t you
worry about his minding, Burtis; he will be tickled to find another
fellow for the team. You see there’s a good deal of difficulty here in
getting candidates enough. I daresay he will sleep better for knowing
that you’re going to help him out.”
Kendall looked at Towne a bit doubtfully, but the latter’s countenance
was so innocent that his misgivings passed and he pulled his jacket
down and smoothed his hair.
“I――I guess I will, then,” he murmured. “What did you say his name was?
Winton?”
“No, Vinton; most of the fellows call him Dan, but you can do as you
like about that.”
“Gosh, I couldn’t do that!” exclaimed Kendall.
“All right. Twenty-eight’s the number. Down the hall to the right; last
room on the other side.”
“Thanks,” said Kendall, giving a last tug at his sleeves. “I hope he
won’t think I’m――fresh.”
“Never fear, old chap; he will be tickled to death,” Towne assured him
gravely. But after the door had closed and Kendall’s footsteps died
away along the hall Towne’s gravity left him, and he threw himself on
the bed, buried his face against the pillow and laughed until his sides
ached.