A DISAPPOINTING HERO
Dick was a hero. Every one said so; and “every one” certainly ought to
have known. His advent at chapel the morning following the fire was
the signal for an outburst of applause, a token of approval the like
of which had not occurred at Hillton since that far-famed half-back,
Joel March, was a student there and had rescued a lad from drowning in
the river. Yes, Dick was a hero. Professor Wheeler sent for him and
said all kinds of nice things, and the resident instructor, Professor
Tompkins, waylaid him in the lower hall of Masters and beamed on him
over his glasses, and other members of the Faculty shook hands with
him warmly and quoted appropriate things in Greek and Latin, and the
students played the part of a monotonous chorus and whispered when he
passed.
But if Dick was a hero, his conception of the role was all wrong,
judged by the accepted standard. Instead of wearing an expression of
modest pride, instead of receiving the tributes of an admiring public
with blushes and murmured expostulations as, of course, every hero has
done since the time of Adam, he mooned around out-of-the-way corners
like a bear with a sore head, while his most gracious response to the
admiring public was a muttered “Oh, dry up, will you?” delivered in
something between a growl and a groan.
“You’re absolutely the most disappointing hero I ever heard of!” said
Trevor in disgust. “Why, if I’d done a thing like that I’d be strutting
around the yard with my head back and my thumbs in my waistcoat
pockets! A chap would think you were grouchy about it!” Whereupon Dick
turned angrily:
“Trevor, if you don’t shut up I’ll pound you good and hard! Now, I mean
what I say!”
“Some are born to greatness,” murmured Trevor, “some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon them--and are exceeding wroth. I
have spoken!” And having spoken, he bolted out the door a fraction
of a second ahead of a German dictionary thrown with much vigor and
precision.
But, despite Dick’s displeasure, there was both truth and justice
in Trevor’s charge. Dick was disappointing. And the school at large
marveled, and finding that their admiration for the plucky rescue was
not wanted, thereafter refrained from further mention of the matter in
Dick’s presence. And that youth kept to his room a good deal, where,
instead of delving in his books, he sat glowering into space, or walked
restlessly around like a caged lion. He became extremely taciturn, and
even rowing affairs failed to arouse any but the most indifferent
replies. Trevor wondered and grew alarmed.
By the burning of Coolidge’s house--due to the upsetting and subsequent
explosion of a patent non-explosive lamp--seven boys found themselves
homeless and less about everything save the scanty wardrobes in which
they had made their escapes. Coolidge’s was a mere pile of ashes and
charred timbers. For the family charity was unnecessary, since the
house and contents had been well insured, but for the boys who had lost
almost everything a scheme was speedily set on foot. A meeting was
held in Society House, and the president of the senior class, Wallace
Osgood, made a stirring address, which every one applauded, and then
asked for suggestions as to a means of raising money to reimburse, to
some extent at least, the victims of the fire. There was no response
until Malcolm Kirk, who, with several members of the Faculty, presided
on the stage, moved that an amateur performance, the exact character
of which was to be later decided upon, be given in the Town Hall.
He was sure, he said, that there was enough talent in the school to
afford an interesting program, and believed that enough tickets could
be sold at the academy and in the village to more than fill the hall.
The plan met with instant favor; Professor Wheeler indorsed it, and
moved that Mr. Kirk be asked to assume charge of it; Mr. Kirk assented
and moved, in turn, that committees to work with him be appointed from
the four classes; the classes made their appointments on the spot; a
Saturday night some two weeks distant was chosen as the date of the
entertainment, and the meeting broke up with great enthusiasm.
Boys hurried to their rooms, and brought down dusty banjos, guitars,
and mandolins, and for nights afterward the dormitories were made
hideous with chromatic scales and strange, weird chords. Dick found
himself one of the senior committee, and throwing aside some of his
lethargy worked busily with the rest. The first meeting of the joint
committee of arrangements was held in Kirk’s room the following
evening, and he outlined his plan. There was not, he thought,
sufficient time before the date agreed upon in which to find performers
for and rehearse anything in the way of a play. Instead, he would
suggest that scenes from some well-known book be presented, each
carrying only enough dialogue to make themselves clear. For instance,
there was Tom Brown at Rugby; that afforded numerous opportunities
for interesting stage pictures; there was Tom’s leave-taking with his
father at the inn, in which the father’s excellent advice would, he
thought, appeal to the risibilities of the audience. And then there
was the fight with “Slogger” Williams, the hazing scene before the
fireplace, and so on through the book. For the first part of the
entertainment he suggested that the musical talent of the school could
be levied upon; some of the fellows could undoubtedly sing; many
could perform on some instrument or other; perhaps some could give
recitations; and no doubt the band would do its share. For a further
attraction, to constitute a third part of the program, Kirk suggested
a series of representations of various sports, each to be pictured
by a single person in appropriate costume--as Football, Baseball,
Bowing, Lacrosse, Cricket, Hockey, Basketball, Skating, Tobogganing,
Snow-shoeing, Tennis, and so on, all to be grouped together on the
stage afterward for a final tableau.
The plan was adopted, and for the next two weeks every one was very
busy, Kirk and Dick especially, since rowing affairs claimed more and
more of their attention every day. May had brought fine, clear weather
and sunny skies, under which it was a pleasure to work. The little
chilling breezes that had been ruffling the blue waters of the Hudson
had crept away in the track of winter, and the valley was green with
fresh verdure and warm with the spring sunshine. Each day brought fresh
hope to those who were interested in the success of the crew. The eight
members of the varsity worked together with something approaching
accord, and even Taylor’s continued absence from the boat was no
longer a reason for constant dismay; for Jones, by dint of eternal
vigilance and much tongue-lashing, had at last made of himself a fairly
acceptable Number 7. Taylor was still laid up, for the fire and his
efforts to fight his way from the building before Dick’s arrival had
set back his recovery at least a fortnight.
Many times Waters had brought word to Dick that Taylor had asked to
see him, and Dick had as many times answered that he would go over to
Waters’s room as soon as he found time. But he took good care never to
allow himself opportunity. Trevor told him he was a brute. Dick growled.
On the Saturday afternoon preceding the entertainment the varsity and
second crews met for their first tussle on the water, and the result
was surprising even to the varsity. The two boats raced from the
down-stream end of Long Isle up the river for a half mile, and the
varsity’s victory was too decisive to allow of its being explained by
crediting the second with unusually slow work. In fact, even the second
made favorable time for the course, while the varsity, which finished
twelve lengths to the good, came within a few seconds of equaling the
best record. But this was a fact known only to Kirk, Dick, and Keene,
for the former pointed out dryly that it wouldn’t do them any harm if
their rivals at Marshall continued to believe them in poor shape. “It
may lead to overconfidence on St. Eustace’s part,” said Kirk, “and
overconfidence is usually a winning card--for the other side.”
But, despite the brightening prospects, Dick was not happy. In fact,
he didn’t remember of ever having been so utterly miserable and out
of humor with himself. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand the cause;
he was, he told himself savagely, at least honest with Dick Hope, no
matter how much of a scoundrel he was in reality. He knew that if he
went to Roy Taylor like a man and absolved him from the promise so
villainously extorted, he would, in a measure at least, recover his
self-respect. He tried at first to justify his conduct to himself by
craftily pointing out the fact that he had used Taylor’s own weapons;
that if Taylor had not acted like a thief there would have been no
call for Dick to act like one; and that, when the matter was observed
dispassionately, he had only taken advantage of his opportunity to work
for the good of the crew and the school. But the pose of disinterested
public benefactor didn’t satisfy him, and, although he ground his teeth
and knit his brows and doggedly determined to hold on to the vantage
he had gained, he was not happy, but, on the contrary, loathed himself
heartily, hated Trevor because that youth insisted upon thinking him a
high-minded hero, detested Taylor because the latter was primarily to
blame for it all, and lost his appetite, didn’t half know his lessons,
and was, in short, at odds with the whole world.
And then came the night of the benefit performance in the Town Hall.
St. Eustace had subscribed for fifty tickets at a dollar apiece, and
had then returned them to the committee to be resold. As a result
of this, and of the activity of the class ticket-sellers, the hall
on the night of the entertainment was altogether too small for the
purpose. The villagers had responded generously to the appeal, and
had bought seats until it had begun to look as though there would be
no places left for the students. But every one in the end managed to
squeeze in somehow; and as every member of the audience, whether he
saw the performance from a comfortable seat in the front of the hall
or only caught an occasional glimpse of it from behind a wall of less
fortunate persons, paid a dollar for the privilege; and as the expenses
were almost nil, the exchequer when the curtain went up held the very
satisfactory total of $354, a fraction over $50 for each of the fire
victims.
There is not space enough here to do justice to the excellency of
the program. It will serve to say that some twenty boys sang, played
on a marvelous variety of instruments, from accordion to piano, and
recited. Williams gave operatic selections on a zither, and for encore
rendered Way Down Upon the Suwanee River; a youth named Billings sang
Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground, not so much because it was intensely
musical as because it was about the only thing that accommodated itself
to his voice; Todd sat down in a straight-backed chair at the front
of the stage and did all kinds of stunts on a banjo, which pleased
his audience vastly; Osgood sang The New Bully in a manner that sent
the younger boys into spasms of laughter; Trevor, attired in hastily
improvised costume, sang a number of coster songs in a sweet tenor,
and gained much applause; Jones recited the tragic termination of the
baseball career of one named Casey; and so it went. And when Part First
had come to an end the stage was set for the first of the Scenes from
Tom Brown at Rugby, and it fell to Dick, as his contribution to the
evening’s entertainment, to go before the curtain and explain what
was to follow. His appearance was greeted with the heartiest applause
that had thus far fallen to the lot of any. The audience was in good
humor, Dick was a hero, and here was an opportunity to show approval
of the gallant rescuer. The boys cheered, the villagers clapped and
stamped applause, the less polite members of the community that
fringed the gathering yelled vociferously, and Dick--well, he did a
most unaccountable thing: he grew pale, faltered, and even turned
toward the wing as though meditating escape. “Such modesty!” breathed
a kind-hearted lady in the second row. But after the first impulse
toward flight Dick waited for silence, white-faced, unsmiling, and when
it came made his speech calmly, in well-modulated but unenthusiastic
voice, bowing himself off finally under a second bombardment of
applause. Then the curtain arose on Tom Brown and his father in the
tap-room of the inn. Mr. Brown, Sr., impersonated by Crocker of the
varsity crew, was a hale and hearty country squire in wig, long coat,
and top-boots; while a small junior, in ridiculous long trousers and
chimney-pot hat, made up excellently as a rather nervous Tom. Crocker
delivered his speech of advice in a manner that captured the audience,
Boots appeared at the door to announce that the stage-coach was waiting
and the curtain descended amid applause.
Dick, however, saw nothing of this. Having gained the wings he seized
his hat from a chair, and, unobserved, made his way out of the door
into the rear hall, clattered down the stairs and into the darkness.
From the brightly lighted building came the sound of clapping hands
and laughter; ahead the village street stretched in semidarkness. A
yellow gaslight flared at each corner of the little triangle known as
The Park. Dick almost ran. As he passed Watson’s stables a challenging
bark told him that Muggins had heard his footsteps. On the next corner
stood Bradford’s boarding-house. Dick found the front door unlocked,
and after a moment’s hesitation climbed the stairs. On the landing
above five portals confronted him, but from under only one of them did
any light shine. He knocked. A voice bade him enter. Obeying, he found
himself in a long, low-studded room, handsomely, almost luxuriously
furnished. On a broad couch under the strong light of a big bronze
lamp, a book in his hand and his listless eyes turned inquiringly
toward the door, lay Roy Taylor.