NED TOOKER
Kendall, striving to hide his surprise, replied that he would be very
glad to have Tooker come up.
“Thank you,” replied Ned, leading the way. “You’re in 21, aren’t you? I
used to be in 17 myself last year.”
“What made you leave?” asked Kendall politely.
“Custom, Burtis, custom. We’re all slaves to it. In your senior year
you have the inestimable privilege of rooming in Dudley. It’s always
done and so I did it. Left a perfectly comfortable, well-heated
room and went over there to freeze in a little two-by-twice
hole-in-the-wall. Here we are! Sure you don’t mind my sticking around
awhile?”
“Glad to have you,” replied Kendall, observing with satisfaction that
Harold was out. “That big chair’s the most comfortable.”
But Tooker chose a straight-backed chair, explaining gravely that he
believed in mortifying the flesh whenever possible. He took up a book,
glanced at the title and laid it down again:
“Mayne Reid. I never read him. Is he good?”
“That’s not mine; it’s Towne’s.”
“Towne? Harold Towne?”
Kendall nodded. Ned reached a hand across the table to him. Kendall, at
a loss, took it, and Ned gave him a long, hard pressure.
“My poor boy,” he sobbed, “my poor, poor boy!”
Then he dropped Kendall’s hand, placed his own hands behind his head,
leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room.
“Quite chaste,” he murmured. “I recognize some of the works of art.
That chromo effect over there used to belong to Steve Woods when I was
a boy here. And, yes, methinks yon cast-steel engraving was once in
my own abode. I sold it to Gus Cooke for fifty cents. We were never
friends afterwards. I suspect Gus changed quarters to get away from it.”
“I don’t think it’s so bad,” said Kendall.
“You don’t――at first. It’s a peculiar picture, that one. I recall
that I really liked it myself at first. Then it became a――a sort of
nightmare. Well, never mind the picture. Tell me, what are you doing
here, Burtis?”
“Doing here?” repeated Kendall puzzledly.
“Yes, what is your Great Object? Some of us, you know, come to study
our way into college, some of us come to meet fellows who will be
useful to us in later life, some of us come to play football or
baseball and some of us――some few of us, Burtis,――come to Uplift and
Better our Fellow Beings.”
“I guess I just came to learn things,” answered Kendall with a smile.
“What did you come for?”
“To Uplift and Better,” responded Ned sadly. “It has been a hard task,
however. Still, I have done some good, I have had my victories, Burtis.
You should have known Teller Sanford before I took him in hand. It was
pitiful, absolutely pitiful.”
“Why?” asked Kendall, not knowing whether the other was in jest or
earnest.
“No sense of humor at all,” replied Ned confidentially. “Intense!
Serious! Heavy! Oh, I don’t pretend that he is completely reclaimed
yet, but there’s a big improvement. Everyone says so. It takes time.”
“Do you room with him?” asked Kendall.
“Yes. It was the only way. Constant association, you know.”
“I see,” said Kendall soberly. Ned smiled. Then,
“Do you know, Burtis, I like you,” he exclaimed approvingly. “You
have a sense of humor. One wouldn’t suspect it, though. You’re such
a serious-looking chap until that smile gets in its work around your
mouth. I daresay that’s the New England of it. New Englanders hate to
smile if they can get out of it any way, don’t they?”
“Do they?” asked Kendall. “I never thought that. Where do you live?”
“Me? Oh, I’m one of ’em; that’s how I know. I live in a little town
called Boston. Some of my folks founded the place, I believe. You come
from Maine, I think Mr. Collins said. How do you like our school?”
“Very much, only――”
“Only?” prompted Ned.
Afterwards Kendall was very much surprised at himself, but now there
was something about the caller that loosed Kendall’s tongue, and almost
before he knew it he had confided the fact that he was on probation.
Ned Tooker whistled softly. Then he smiled.
“Burtis――by the way, what did you say your first name was when you
asked me to call you by it?”
“Kendall,” laughed the other.
“Great!” exclaimed Ned. “Why don’t you do it oftener?”
“Do what?”
“Laugh. It’s very becoming.”
“Why, I――I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do; it’s because you’re a New Englander. You ought to
practice laughing. I had to. Now I can do it almost without an effort.
Where were we? Oh, yes, you said your name was Kendall. That’s a good
name, Bendall Kurtis. Mine’s Ted Nook――no, I mean Ned Tooker. Call me
Ned. I foresee that we’re going to be pals, Curt.”
Kendall tried to think of something to say, and Ned came to his rescue:
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m too blamed
friendly. Oh, yes, you are! But don’t let it worry you. I used to be
like you before I threw off the shackles of New England reserve. If I
liked a fellow I threw bricks at him. Now if I like him I say so right
out in my engaging manner and it saves time. But you haven’t told me
yet what you did to get the Office down on you.”
“I――I don’t believe I can,” said Kendall. “It isn’t my secret alone,
you see.”
“Dine and fandy!” cried Ned. “Curt, I love you! You not only have a
sense of humor, but you possess a Great Secret. I’m positively daffy
about secrets. Keep it to yourself as long as you can, but I give you
fair warning that I’ll have it out of you sooner or later. I shall
live for nothing else, Curt!”
“Why do you call me Curt?” asked Kendall.
“Why not? Your name is Bendall Kurtis――”
“It’s Kendall Burtis,” answered the other with a smile.
“I can’t say that. To me you are Bendall Kurtis; Curt for short; short
and curt. What’s that I see? A football?”
Kendall acknowledged that it was.
“Oh, do you play?”
“I was trying to when――”
“When the sword fell. Football’s a good game. I’ve sometimes thought I
had the making of a good player.”
“Have you never tried?”
“Oh, yes, many times, but the coaches didn’t share my estimate of my
ability. Nowadays I’m reduced to golf――and a little tennis.”
“I’ve never seen anyone play golf,” admitted Kendall.
“You shall. Not only that, Curt, but I’ll make a golfer of you. I’ll
teach you the game. What are you doing to-morrow? No, there’s a
football game to-morrow. Then Monday?”
“Why――why, nothing.”
“First lesson at four promptly. You have no clubs, I suppose. Naturally
you wouldn’t have. Very stupid of you, Ned. I’ll supply those
necessary utensils.”
“I don’t think I could ever learn,” said Kendall doubtfully. “You hit a
ball around with a stick, don’t you?”
“Poetically put, my boy! You hit a ball around with a stick! You shall
see for yourself.” He drew out a handsome gold watch, looked at it and
raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I must run along home. Have you a
clean collar?”
“Why, why, yes,” faltered Kendall.
“Let’s see it. Thank you.” Ned accepted it, drew a pencil from his
pocket and wrote on the immaculate linen, “2 Dudley.” Then he hung the
collar over a corner of the mirror. “There, that’s my address, Curt.
Come often. I want you to know Teller better. Besides, I believe you
can be of help to me in his education. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Kendall. “Thank you.”
Ned slammed the door behind him, and then, opening it again, he stuck
his head back into the room.
“Enjoyed hearing you talk so much,” he said with a grin.
Kendall heard Ned go down the stairs whistling loudly. Then he turned,
looked at the collar hanging on the mirror and sat down on the edge of
his bed and dazedly tried to think it all out.