From center field the grand stands are very far away. Ned was glad of
it. He felt particularly happy and wanted to have a good comfortable
grin all to himself. He had won his E. Nothing else mattered very
much now. So grin he did to his heart’s content, and even jumped up
and down on his toes a few times; he would have liked to sing or
whistle, but that was out of the question. And then suddenly he began
to wonder whether he had not, after all, secured the coveted symbol
under false pretense; would he be able to do any better than Stilson
had done? Robinson’s clever pitcher had fooled man after man; was it
likely that he would succeed where the best batsmen of the varsity
nine had virtually failed? Or, worse, supposing he showed up no better
here in the outfield than had Stilson! The sun was low in the west
and the atmosphere was filled with a golden haze; it seemed to him
that it might be very easy to misjudge a ball in that queer glow. Of
a sudden his heart began to hammer at his ribs sickeningly. He was
afraid--afraid that he would fail, when the trial came, there with
the whole college looking on! Little shivers ran up his back, and he
clenched his hands till they hurt. He wished, oh, how he wished it was
over! Then there came the sharp sound of bat against ball, and in an
instant he was racing in toward second, his thoughts intent upon the
brown speck that sailed high in air, his fears all forgotten.
Back sped second-baseman, and on went Ned. “My ball!” he shouted.
Milford hesitated an instant, then gave up the attempt. “All yours,
Brewster!” he shouted back. “Steady!” Ned finished his run and glanced
up, stepped a little to the left, put up his hands, and felt the ball
thud against his glove. Then he fielded it to second and trotted back;
and as he went he heard the applause, loud and hearty, from the stands.
After that there was no more fear. Robinson failed to get a man past
first, and presently he was trotting in to the bench side by side with
Kesner.
“Brewster at bat!” called Hovey, and, with a sudden throb at his heart,
Ned selected a stick and went to the plate. He stood there swinging
his bat easily, confidently, as one who is not to be fooled by the
ordinary wiles of the pitcher, a well-built, curly-haired youngster
with blue eyes, and cheeks in which the red showed through the liberal
coating of tan.
“The best batter the freshmen had,” fellows whispered one to another.
“Looks as though he knew how, too, eh? Just you watch him, now!”
And the red-faced senior once more demanded three long Erskines, three
times three, and three long Erskines for Brewster! And Ned heard
them--he couldn’t very well have helped it!--and felt very grateful
and proud. And five minutes later he was back on the bench, frowning
miserably at his knuckles, having been struck out without the least
difficulty by the long-legged Dithman. The pride was all gone. “But,”
he repeated, silently, “wait until next time! Just wait until next
time!”
Billings found the Robinson pitcher for a two-bagger, stole third, and
came home on a hit by Greene. Erskine’s spirits rose another notch.
Three more runs to tie the score in this inning, and then--why, it
would be strange indeed if the purple couldn’t win out! Captain Milford
went to bat in a veritable tempest of cheers. He looked determined; but
so did his adversary, the redoubtable Dithman.
“We’ve got to tie it this inning,” said Levett, anxiously. “We’ll never
do it next, when the tail-enders come up.”
“There’s one tail-ender who’s going to hit that chap in the box next
time,” answered Ned.
“Lady” looked amused.
“You’ll be in luck if it comes around to you,” he said. “We all will.
Oh, thunder! Another strike!”
A moment later they were on their feet, and the ball was arching
into left field; and “Big Jim” was plowing his way around first.
But the eighth inning ended right there, for the ball plumped into
left-fielder’s hands. “Lady” groaned, picked up his big mitt, and
ambled to first, and the ninth inning began with the score 12 to 9.
Greene was determined that Robinson should not increase his tally, even
to the extent of making it a baker’s dozen. And he pitched wonderful
ball, striking out the first two batsmen, allowing the next to make
first on a hit past short-stop, and then bringing the half to an end
by sending three glorious balls over the corner of the plate one after
another, amid the frantic cheers of the Erskine contingent and the
dismay of the puzzled batsman. Then the rival nines changed places for
the last time, and Robinson set grimly and determinedly about the task
of keeping Erskine’s players from crossing the plate again.
And Milford, leaning above Hovey’s shoulder, viewed the list of batting
candidates and ruefully concluded that she would not have much trouble
doing it.
The stands were emptying and the spectators were ranging themselves
along the base-lines. The Robinson band had broken out afresh, and the
Robinson cheerers were confident. The sun was low in the west, and the
shadows of the stands stretched far across the diamond. Kesner, who
had taken Lester’s place in the batting list, stepped to the plate and
faced Dithman, and the final struggle was on.
Dithman looked as calmly confident as at any time during the game,
and yet, after pitching eight innings of excellent ball, it scarcely
seemed likely that he could still command perfect form. Kesner proved
a foeman worthy of his steel; the most seductive drops and shoots
failed to entice him, and with three balls against him Dithman was
forced to put the ball over the plate. The second time he did it,
Kesner found it and went to first on a clean hit into the outfield past
third, and the purple banners flaunted exultantly. Milford’s face took
on an expression of hopefulness as he dashed to first and whispered
his instructions in Kesner’s ear. Then he retired to the coaches’
box and put every effort into getting the runner down to second. But
Fate came to his assistance and saved him some breath. Dithman lost
command of the dirty brown sphere for one little moment, and it went
wild, striking Greene on the thigh. And when he limped to first Kesner
went on to second, and there were two on bases, and Erskine was mad
with joy. Milford and Billings were coaching from opposite corners,
Milford’s bellowing being plainly heard a quarter of a mile away; he
had a good, hearty voice, and for the first time that day it bothered
the Robinson pitcher. For Housel, waiting for a chance to make a bunt,
was kept busy getting out of the way of the balls, and after four of
them was given his base.
Erskine’s delight was now of the sort best expressed by turning
somersaults. As somersaults were out of the question, owing to the
density of the throng, her supporters were forced to content themselves
with jumping up and down and shouting the last breaths from their
bodies. Bases full and none out! Three runs would tie the score! Four
runs would win! And they’d get them, of course; there was no doubt
about that--at least, not until McLimmont had struck out and had turned
back to the bench with miserable face. Then it was Robinson’s turn
to cheer. Erskine looked doubtful for a moment, then began her husky
shouting again; after all, there was only one out. But Dithman, rather
pale of face, had himself in hand once more. To the knowing ones,
Levett, who followed McLimmont, was already as good as out; the way
in which he stood, the manner in which he “went down” for the balls,
proved him nervous and overanxious. With two strikes and three balls
called on him, he swung at a wretched out-shoot. A low groan ran along
the bench. Levett himself didn’t groan; he placed his bat carefully on
the ground, kicked it ten yards away, and said “Confound the luck!”
very forcibly.
“You’re up, Brewster,” called Hovey.
“Two gone! Last man, fellows!” shouted the Robinson catcher, as Ned
tapped the plate.
“Last man!” echoed the second-baseman. “He’s easy!”
“Make him pitch ’em, Brewster!” called Milford. The rest was drowned
in the sudden surge of cheers from the Robinson side. Ned faced the
pitcher with an uncomfortable empty feeling inside of him. He meant to
hit that ball, but he greatly feared he wouldn’t; he scarcely dared
think what a hit meant. For a moment he wished himself well out of
it--wished that he was back on the bench and that another had his place
and his chance to win or lose the game. Then the first delivery sped
toward him, and much of his nervousness vanished.
“Ball!” droned the umpire.
Milford and Levett were coaching again; it was hard to say whose voice
was the loudest. Down at first Housel was dancing back and forth on his
toes, and back of him Milford, kneeling on the turf, was roaring: “Two
gone, Jack, remember! Run on anything! Look out for a passed ball! Now
you’re off! Hi, hi, hi! _Look out!_ He won’t throw! Take a lead--go on!
Watch his arm; go down with his arm! Now you’re off! _Now, now, now!_”
But if this was meant to rattle the pitcher it failed of its effect.
Dithman swung his arm out, danced forward on his left foot, and shot
the ball away.
“Strike!” said the umpire.
Ned wondered why he had let that ball go by; he had been sure that it
was going to cut the plate, and yet he had stood by undecided until
it was too late. Well! He gripped his bat a little tighter, shifted
his feet a few inches, and waited again. Dithman’s expression of calm
unconcern aroused his ire; just let him get one whack at that ball and
he would show that long-legged pitcher something to surprise him! A
palpable in-shoot followed, and Ned staggered out of its way. Then
came what was so undoubtedly a ball that Ned merely smiled at it.
Unfortunately at the last instant it dropped down below his shoulder,
and he waited anxiously for the verdict.
“Strike two!” called the umpire.
Two and two! Ned’s heart sank. He shot a glance toward first. Milford
was staring over at him imploringly. Ned gave a gasp and set his jaws
together firmly. The pitcher had the ball again, and was signaling
to the catcher. Then out shot his arm, the little one-legged hop
followed, and the ball sped toward the boy at the plate. And his
heart gave a leap, for the delivery was a straight ball, swift, to be
sure, but straight and true for the plate. Ned took one step forward,
and ball and bat met with a sound like a pistol-shot, and a pair of
purple-stockinged legs were flashing toward first.
Up, up against the gray-blue sky went the sphere, and then it seemed
to hang for a moment there, neither rising nor falling. And all the
time the bases were emptying themselves. Kesner was in ere the ball was
well away, Greene was close behind him, and now Housel, slower because
of his size, was swinging by third; and from second sped a smaller,
lithe figure with down-bent head and legs fairly flying. Coaches were
shouting wild, useless words, and none but themselves heard them; for
four thousand voices were shrieking frenziedly, and four thousand pairs
of eyes were either watching the flight of the far-off ball, or were
fixed anxiously upon the figure of left-fielder, who, away up near the
fence and the row of trees, was running desperately back.
Ned reached second, and, for the first time since he had started
around, looked for the ball, and, as he did so, afar off across the
turf a figure stooped and picked something from the ground and threw
it to center-fielder, and center-fielder threw it to third-baseman,
and meanwhile Ned trotted over the plate into the arms of “Big Jim”
Milford, and Hovey made four big black tallies in the score-book.
Three minutes later and it was all over, Billings flying out to center
field, and the final score stood 13-12. Erskine owned the field,
and Ned, swaying and slipping dizzily about on the shoulders of
three temporary lunatics, looked down upon a surging sea of shouting,
distorted faces, and tried his hardest to appear unconcerned--and was
secretly very, very happy. He had his E; best of all, he had honestly
earned it.
[Illustration: Ned trotted over the plate into the arms of “Big Jim”
Milford.]
“MITTENS”
There was a loud and imperative knock at the study door. Stowell
growled to himself at the interruption, took a deep breath and
bellowed, “Come in!”
Then his eyes went back to the book on his knees. The knock was
unmistakably that of “Chick” Reeves, and with “Chick” Stowell never
stood on ceremony. But when a full minute had passed after the door
had closed, without any of “Chick’s” customary demonstrations, such as
the overturning of chairs, the wafting of pillows across the room, or
the emitting of blood-curdling whoops, Stowell became alarmed for his
fellow freshman’s health, and so, after many groans and much exertion,
he sat up and put his head around the corner of the big armchair. What
he saw surprised him.
The visitor was a stranger; a tall, raw-boned youth of about seventeen,
with a homely, freckled face surmounted by a good deal of tousled,
hemp-colored hair. His eyes were ridiculously blue and his cheeks held
the remains of what had apparently been a generous tan. Altogether
the face was attractive, if not handsome; the blue eyes looked candid
and honest; the nose was straight and well-made; the mouth suggested
good nature and strength of purpose. But it is not to be supposed that
Jimmie Stowell reached these numerous conclusions on this occasion.
On the contrary, the impression he received was of an awkward,
illy-clothed boy holding a small paper parcel.
“Hello!” said Stowell.
The visitor had evidently been at a loss, for the back of the armchair
had hidden his host from sight, and he had turned irresolutely toward
the door again. Now he faced Stowell, observing him calmly.
“Hello!” he answered. He crossed the study deliberately, unwrapping his
parcel as he went.
“Er--want to see me?” asked Stowell, puzzled.
“If you please.” There was no evidence of diffidence in the caller’s
manner, and yet Stowell found it hard to reconcile his appearance
with that commanding knock at the portal. The blue-eyed youth threw
back the wrapping from his bundle and held it forth. Stowell took it
wonderingly. Five pairs of coarse blue woolen mittens met his gaze. He
frowned and viewed the caller suspiciously.
“What is it,” he growled, “a joke?”
“Mittens,” answered the other imperturbably. “I’m selling them.”
“Oh, I see.” He handed them back. “Well, I never wear them.” He turned
toward his chair. “Hang these peddlers!” he said to himself.
“They’re very warm,” suggested the other.
“They look it,” answered Stowell, grimly. “But I wear gloves.”
“Oh, excuse me.” The visitor began to wrap them carefully up again.
“That’s what everybody says. I wish I’d known it before.”
“But, Great Scott!” exclaimed Stowell, “you didn’t really think that
any one wore that sort of thing nowadays? Why they look like--like
socks!”
“Yes, I suppose they do. But up our way we generally wear them. You
see, they’re warmer than gloves.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Michigan.”
“Michigan! Well, what are you doing here, then?”
“Studying.” He looked surprised at the question.
“Do you mean that you’re in college?” asked Stowell, in amazement. The
other nodded.
“I’m a freshman.” Stowell’s perplexity increased. “I thought,” the
other went on, “that I could sell some of these around college. I
didn’t know about you all wearing gloves. I--I guess I’ll have to give
it up.” There was disappointment in his voice.
“Are you doing this to make money?” Stowell asked.
“Yes, I’m only asking sixty cents. Does that seem too much?”
Stowell thought it was a good deal too much, but he didn’t say so, and
the other went on.
“They’re regular lumberman’s mittens, you know, made of best woolen
yarn and mighty warm. Of course, they don’t cost me that much, but I
have to make something on them.”
“Oh, that’s reasonable enough,” said Stowell, hurriedly, “and, I tell
you what you do. I’m dead broke this morning, but you come in later in
the week and bring me a couple of pairs and I’ll have the money for
you.”
But to his surprise the other shook his head smilingly.
“You just want to help me,” he said. “You wouldn’t wear them, I guess.
But I’m thankful to you.” He placed his parcel under his arm and moved
toward the door.
“Well, but hold on,” cried Stowell. “Don’t be an ass! Look here-- By
the way, what’s your name?”
“Shult.”
“Well, now you bring those along and I’ll wear them. You say they’re
warm; that’s what I want, something warm. And--look here, have you got
them in any other color?”
“No, they’re always blue, you know.”
“Oh!” Stowell felt that he had displayed unpardonable ignorance. “Yes,
of course. Well, you bring a couple of pairs, say, Wednesday, will you?”
“All right,” answered Shult. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” murmured Stowell. The door closed behind his visitor
and he went grinning back to his chair.
Half an hour later when “Chick” Reeves did come in, playfully tipping
Stowell and the armchair on to the hearth-rug by way of greeting,
Stowell told him about the Michigan freshie who was peddling blue
woolen mitts, and told it so well that “Chick” sat on the floor and
howled with delight.
“And you are going to wear them?” he gurgled.
“Why, I’ll have to,” answered Stowell, ruefully. “I wanted to help the
beggar, and he wouldn’t sell them to me unless I wore them.”
“Then I’ll have to have a pair, too.”
“Oh, you’ll need a couple of pairs,” laughed Stowell, “one for
week-days and one for Sundays.”
“Of course I will. A chap needs something nice for the theater. Where
does ‘Mittens’ hang out?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure. His name’s Shoot or Shult; you can find him in
the catalogue.”
“I will. And, say, maybe he sells blue socks, too, eh? If the
cooperative hears of it they’ll have the law on him. Did you ask him if
he had a license?”
“No.” Stowell looked down at Reeves thoughtfully.
Then he said slowly, “Now, look here, ‘Mittens,’ as you call him, is
all right. So don’t go to having fun with him, hear?”
“Not me,” grinned “Chick.”
“Oh, no, you naturally wouldn’t,” growled Stowell. “But if you do I’ll
break your head for you.”
Stowell had quite forgotten his strange visitor of the day before when,
on Tuesday morning, he met him on the steps of University. Shult’s
clothes looked more ill fitting than before, and it cost Stowell, who
was accompanied by two extremely select members of his class, somewhat
of an effort to stop and speak to him.
“Hello, Shult,” he said, “how are you getting along?”
The dealer in blue mittens flushed, whether with embarrassment or
pleasure Stowell couldn’t tell, and paused on his way down the granite
steps.
“Not very well,” he answered. “I--I’ve sold three pairs so far.”
“Hard luck,” answered Stowell. “Don’t forget mine, will you?”
“Oh, no; I’m--I’ll bring them to-morrow. Do you want them long or
short?”
“Er--well, what would you suggest?” asked Stowell gravely.
“The long ones keep your wrists warmer, of course,” said Shult.
“Of course, I’ll take that kind,” Stowell decided. “I’ve a friend, by
the way, fellow named Reeves, who said he’d take a couple of pairs. He
was going to look you up. Seen him yet?”
“No, I haven’t. I could--I could call on him if you think he’d like me
to?”
“No, it wouldn’t pay; you’d never find him in. I’ll tell him to look
you up. Where’s your joint?”
“Joint?”
“Yes, your room, you know.”
“Oh,” said Shult. He gave an address that Stowell had never heard of.
“I’m usually in at night,” he added.
They parted, and Stowell joined the two grinning freshmen inside. Their
names were Clinton and Hazlett.
“Who’s your handsome friend?” asked one.
“Looks like a genius,” laughed the other. “What’s his line?”
“Mittens,” answered Stowell, gravely.
“What?”
“Mittens.”
Then the green door swung behind him.
At four o’clock the next afternoon Clinton, Hazlett and Stowell were
sitting in the latter’s study. The fire roared in the grate and a
northwest wind roared outside the curtained windows. There came a
resounding thump on the door, and, without waiting a response, “Chick”
Reeves bounded in. Standing just inside, he closed the portal, shook
imaginary snowflakes from his cap, shivered and blew on his hands.
“Br-r-r,” he muttered, “’tis bitter cold! The river is caked with
chokes of ice! I can not cross the river to-night! Hark, how the wind
howls round the turret!”
Then, with sudden abandonment of melodrama, he made his way to the
grate, spread his legs apart, and, with his back to the flames, grinned
broadly upon Stowell. Gradually his grin grew into a laugh.
“You’re an awful idiot,” said Stowell.
“I know, I know,” chuckled Reeves. “But I’ve got the biggest joke you
ever heard! It’s--it’s like a story. Listen, my children.” He turned to
Stowell. “You remember ‘Mittens’?” Stowell nodded.
“I’ve been to see him, and----”
“Did you buy some mittens?” asked Hazlett, who, with Clinton, had at
last heard of Stowell’s _protégé_.
“Yes, but listen. He lives in the queerest place you ever heard tell
of; it’s down on one of those side streets toward the bridge; a regular
tenement-house with brats all over the front steps and an eloquent,
appealing odor of boiled cabbage and onions in the air. Well, I asked
a woman in a calico wrapper where Mr. Shult lived and she directed me
up two flights of stairs; told me to knock on the ‘sicond door to me
roight.’ I knocked, a voice called, ‘Come in, Mrs. Brannigan,’ and I
went in, politely explaining that, despite certain similarities of
appearance, I was not Mrs. Brannigan. Well”--“Chick’s” risibilities
threatened to master him again; he choked and went on. “Well, there was
‘Mittens.’ He was sitting in a sort of kitchen rocker with a Latin book
on his knee and--and-- Say, _what_ do you think he was doing?”
“Grinding,” said Clinton.
“Sawing wood,” said Hazlett.
Stowell shook his head.
“You’d never guess,” howled Reeves, “never in a thousand years! He
was--was--oh, golly!--he was _knitting_!”
“_Knitting!_” It was a chorus of three incredulous voices.
“Yes, knitting! Knitting blue-woolen mittens!”
“By Jove!” muttered Stowell.
Clinton and Hazlett burst into peals of laughter.
“You--you ought to have seen his expression when he saw that I wasn’t
Mrs. Brannigan,” went on “Chick,” wiping the tears from his eyes. “He
stared and got as red as a beet; then he tried to get the thing out of
sight. Of course, I apologized for intruding when he was busy, and he
said it didn’t matter. And after a while he told me all about it. Seems
he lives up in the backwoods--or whatever you call ’em--in Michigan;
up among the lumber-camps, you know. His father’s dead, he told me,
and his mother keeps a sort of hotel or boarding-house or something.
Of course,” added “Chick,” with a note of apology in his voice, “that
isn’t funny. But it seems that when he was a kid they taught him to
knit, and made him do socks and mittens and things. I’ve forgotten a
lot of it, but he wanted to go to college and hadn’t any money to speak
of, and so they borrowed a little somewhere--enough for tuition--and
now he’s trying to make enough on mittens to pay his board. He gets his
room free for teaching some of the little Brannigans, I believe. He’s
spunky, isn’t he? But I thought I’d keel over on the floor when I saw
him sitting there for all the world like an old granny in the Christmas
pictures, just making those needles fly. Maybe he can’t knit!”
“And then what?” asked Stowell, quietly.
“Chick’s” grin faded out a little.
“Why--er--that’s all, I guess. I ordered two pairs of the funny things
and came away.”
Clinton and Hazlett were still chuckling. “Chick” looked from them to
Stowell doubtfully and began to wonder what ailed the latter’s sense of
humor.
“Knitting!” murmured Clinton, “think of it!”
“Yes,” said Stowell, suddenly, “that’s awfully funny, ‘Chick.’ Funniest
thing I’ve heard for a long while. Do you know--” the tone made his
friend stare in surprise--“I think you’ve got one of the most delicate
humorous perceptions I’ve ever met up with. You have, indeed. Only
you, ‘Chick,’ could have seen all the exquisite humor in the situation
you’ve described. You ought to be proud of yourself.”
Clinton and Hazlett had ceased their chuckles and were looking over at
their host, their faces reflecting the surprise and uneasiness upon
“Chick’s.”
“Here’s a poor duffer,” went on Stowell, “without money; father dead;
mother takes boarders to make a living; wants to go to college and
learn to be something a little better than a backwoods lumberman. He
gets enough money together somehow--I think you said they borrowed it,
‘Chick’?”
That youth nodded silently.
“Yes, borrowed enough to pay the tuition fee. And then he’s thrown
on his own resources to make enough to buy himself things to eat. I
suppose even these backwoods beggars have to eat once in a while,
Clint? And having learned how to knit blue-woolen mittens--awfully
funny looking things, they are--he just goes ahead and knits them,
rather than starve to death, and tries to sell them to a lot of
superior beings like you and me here, not knowing in his backwoods
ignorance that we only wear Fownes’s or Dent’s, and that we naturally
look down on fellows who----”
“Oh, dry up, old man,” growled “Chick.” “I haven’t been saying anything
against the duffer. Of course he’s plucky and all that. You needn’t
jump on a fellow so.”
“Yes, he has got grit, and that’s a fact,” Clinton allowed. “Only, of
course, knitting--well, it’s a bit out of the ordinary, eh?”
“I suppose it is,” answered Stowell. “In fact ‘Mittens’ is a bit out of
the ordinary himself. He’s----”
There was a knock at the door, and, in response to Stowell’s
invitation, Shult, tall, ungainly, tow-haired, freckle-faced, entered
and paused in momentary embarrassment as his blue eyes lighted on
Reeves.
“Hello, Shult; come in,” called Stowell. “Have you brought those
mittens?”
Shult had, and he undid them carefully, and crossing the study, handed
them to their purchaser.
“Ah,” continued Stowell, drawing one of the heavy blue things on to
his hand, “long wrists, I see. That’s fine. Like to see them, Bob?”
Hazlett said that he would. Every one was very silent and grave.
Reeves, after nodding to Shult, had busied himself with a magazine. Now
he leaned over Hazlett’s shoulder and examined the mittens with almost
breathless interest. Clinton craned his head forward and Stowell handed
the other pair to him for inspection. Shult stood silently by, his
embarrassment gone.
“Look as though they’d be very warm,” said Hazlett, in the voice of
one hazarding an opinion on a matter of national importance. He looked
inquiringly, deferentially, up at Shult.
“Warm as toast,” said the latter.
“Seem well made, too,” said Clinton. Then he colored and glanced
apologetically at Stowell. Stowell turned his head.
“Do you get these hereabouts, Shult?” he asked. There was a moment’s
hesitation. Then,
“I--I knit them myself,” said the freshman, quietly.
“Not really!” exclaimed Stowell, in much surprise. “Did you hear that,
Clint? He makes them himself. It must be quite a knack, eh?”
“I should say so!” Clinton exclaimed, enthusiastically. “It--it’s an
accomplishment!”
“By Jove!” said Hazlett. They all stared admiringly at Shult.
“But, I say, don’t stand up,” exclaimed Stowell. “‘Chick,’ push that
chair over.”
Shult sat down. He was very grateful to Reeves for not telling what he
had seen during his call, and grateful to the others for not laughing
at his confession. It had taken quite a deal of courage to make
that confession, for he had anticipated ridicule. But instead these
immaculately dressed fellows almost appeared to envy him his knowledge
of the art of knitting woolen mittens. He was very pleased.
“I wonder--” began Clinton. He glanced doubtfully at his host. “I think
I’d like to have some of these myself. Have you--er--any more, Mr.
Shult?”
“Oh, yes; I can make a pair an evening, anyhow. I--I didn’t suppose you
fellows would care for them.”
“Nonsense,” said Stowell. “They’re just what a chap needs around here.
I--I used to wear them when I was a boy; after all, there’s nothing
like old-fashioned mitts to keep your hands warm.”
“Nothing!” said Clinton.
“Nothing!” echoed Hazlett.
“Nothing!” murmured Reeves.
“If you could let me have--ah--about two pairs----”
Clinton’s request was firmly interrupted by his host.
“Nonsense, Clint, you’ll need at least four. I’m going to have a couple
more myself.”
“I dare say you’re right. If you could let me have _four_ pairs, Mr.
Shult, I--ah--should be very much obliged.”
“And me the same,” said Hazlett.
“Yes, certainly,” answered Shult, flustered and vastly pleased. “You
shall have them right off.”
“And let me see, ‘Chick,’” said Stowell, “didn’t I hear you say you
wanted a couple more pairs?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” Reeves replied explosively. “Er--two pairs, please.”
Shult looked surprised. Fortune was favoring him beyond his wildest
hopes. He muttered an incoherent answer. Then Stowell gravely paid
him for the two pairs of intensely blue and shapeless objects in his
lap and Shult made the exact change after repeated searches in three
different pockets. At the door he turned.
“You are all very kind to me,” he said, gravely and earnestly.
“I’m--I’m thankful to you.”
Stowell murmured politely.
After the door had closed there followed several moments of silence.
Then a smile crept over Stowell’s face and was reflected on the faces
of the others. But nobody laughed.
* * * * *
Possibly the reader recalls the epidemic of blue-woolen mittens that
raged in college that winter. One saw them everywhere. The fashion
started, they say, among a certain coterie of correct dressers in the
freshman class and spread until it enveloped the entire undergraduate
body. None could explain it, and none tried to; blue-woolen mitts were
the proper thing; that was sufficient. At first the demand could not
be supplied, but before the Midyears were over the Cooperative Society
secured a quantity, and the furnishing stores followed its example
as soon as possible. But blue-woolen mitts in sufficient quantities
to fill the orders were difficult to find, and long before the shops
had secured the trade in that commodity, one Shult, out of Michigan,
had reaped a very respectable harvest and found a nickname which,
despite the lapse of years and the accumulation of honors, still
sticks--“Mittens.”