THE TRIUMVIRATE
As though realizing that, with the end of the hockey schedule, his
services were no longer needed, King Frost retired three days after
the Wolcott game. Wyndham awoke to find a warm sun in full command and
the earth exceedingly moist and squishy. Little rills flowed along the
edges of the paths, water dripped from the roofs, and from all sides,
if one listened, came the chuckling murmur of awakening spring. That
evening, after supper, the Triumvirate assembled in a first floor room
of East Hall. There was nothing unusual in this, however, since the
Triumvirate did the same thing almost every evening. There was a full
attendance, not a member being absent. Had the secretary――supposing
there was one――called the roll it would have gone like this:
“Clifton Cobb Bingham.”
“Here!”
“Loring Deane.”
“Here!”
“Thomas Ackerman Kemble.”
“Uh-huh!”
But there wasn’t any secretary. Nor any other officers. Nor, for that
matter, any organization. One evening shortly after the holidays, Tom,
commenting on the unfailing regularity with which he and Clif adjourned
from Dining Hall to Loring’s room, added: “Anybody would think this was
a sewing circle or a club or something.”
“Let’s have it a club,” suggested Clif. “The East Hall Literary and
Recreation Club.”
“I’d like to know what’s literary about it,” Tom objected.
“I am. You and Loring play chess and I read his books. Well, if you
don’t like that, how about making it a secret organization? Call it the
D. K. B.”
“What’s that stand for?” asked Tom suspiciously. “Don’t Kome Back or――”
“Those are our initials, dumb-bell.”
“Oh! Well, that sounds all right, but――”
“We might call it the Club of Three,” offered Loring. “Or――wait a
minute! What’s the word for three? Trio? No, tri――triumvirate! The
Triumvirate! What’s wrong with that?”
“Great! It sounds important,” said Tom. “Only, before I accept
membership I want to ask one simple question. Are there any dues?”
“No dues, no initiation fee! A strictly fraternal, non-partisan,
offensive and defensive alliance! ‘One for all and all for one!’”
“That’s in _The Three Muskeneers_,” said Tom.
“The Three――_what_?” asked Clif.
Tom repeated the information. “You know, the story about the three
guys――only there were four of ’em――who――”
“_The Three Guardsmen_,” interrupted Loring gravely.
“Well, I’ve always heard it called _The Three Muskeneers_. A fellow
named Dumas wrote it. That the same one?”
“Quite,” said Loring, and Clif said: “I like your title better, though,
Tom.”
“What’s the matter with it? If you’re so smart I can show you the book
in the library. I’ve got it at home, too. I guess I know!”
“Sure it isn’t ‘_Musketeers_’ instead of ‘_Muskeneers_’?”
“Huh? Is it? Heck, I always did wonder what a muskeneer was! Well――”
Tom leaned back, grinning――“I never was much on literature! If you
don’t believe me, ask Mr. Wyatt!”
So that is how the Triumvirate started. It was a sonorous, mouth-filling
word, and they liked it. Of course, it was only a joke, yet after a week
or two they began to sort of believe in it and lost the habit of smiling
when they spoke of it. In some manner it came to be accepted that the
borrowed slogan of “One for all, all for one!” meant what it said,
and while no opportunity had yet presented that called on them
metaphorically to draw swords from scabbards and stand shoulder to
shoulder against a common enemy, still the spirit was there.
This evening, which, to be quite exact, was the evening of the
twenty-sixth day of February, Tom, noting that the chessboard had not
been set out, looked an inquiry and Loring smiled apologetically.
“Let’s not play to-night, Tom,” he said, “if you don’t mind. Wattles
beat me just before supper, and now I’d rather do something I’ve got
a show at; such as talk. You know they say that conversation is fast
becoming a lost art.”
“Heck,” said Tom, “I haven’t noticed it. And you wouldn’t think so
if you’d heard ‘Alick’ chewing the rag to me this afternoon. Gosh,
I’ll bet that guy invented conversation! He knows more words than the
dictionary, and he sure can string them together!”
“What,” inquired Clif, smiling, “was the subject of Mr. Wyatt’s talk?”
“Aw, shut up,” growled Tom. “Say, honest, fellows, what’s the good of
learning about a lot of queers that died a hundred years ago? This
Washington Irving, for one. What did he ever do for the Republican
Party?”
“Don’t you like his stuff?” asked Clif maliciously. “Why, I’m getting
an awful kick out of it!”
Tom said “Humph!” disgustedly and Loring chuckled. “Tom’s what you
might call a Modernist,” said the latter. “He prefers his literature
fresh, like his rolls. He finds no pleasure in stale bread.”
“I’ll say I don’t,” concurred Tom heartily. “Of course some of
the old-timers weren’t so punk. That guy Dumas, for instance. And
Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s stuff has a lot of punch generally, but
you’ve got to buckle down to it. Gosh, they must have had a heap of
time in those days, the way they spread the words around!”
“Probably got paid by the word,” suggested Clif.
“Some of them must have made a pile of dough, then! Alick would have
been rich, too, if he’d lived in Shakespeare’s time. I’ll bet that, at
five cents a word, he touched me for a hundred dollars this afternoon!”
“Why don’t you study your English Lit,” asked Clif, “and not have to
listen to Mr. Wyatt’s homilies?”
“Study! Heck, I do study! I read all the stuff he tells us to, but it
doesn’t _mean_ anything. I had a hunch the first time I set eyes on
that chap that I wasn’t going to like him.”
“That’s a whopper,” said Clif. “You do like him, Tom. What you don’t
like is his line.”
“Same thing,” grumbled Tom. “I wish I’d been born a Frenchman or a
Slovak or――or something so I wouldn’t have to dig through all this rot.”
“Well, you take my advice, Tom, and get cozy with Alick before you try
baseball. Remember what happened last November!”
“I’m not likely to forget,” answered the other moodily. “That doddering
Ancient Mariner almost queered me for football. If it hadn’t been
for you fellows――” Tom stopped and shook his head eloquently. “That
experience absolutely soured me on sailors, and I’ve never been able to
cheer for the president since.”
“The president?” asked Loring, puzzled.
“He’s got the name wrong,” laughed Clif. “Coleridge, Tom, and not
Coolidge wrote _The Ancient Mariner_.”
“Coleridge? Well, I guess it’s the same name, only spelled differently.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Clif, “is how you manage to get good
marks in your other courses and fall down flat in English.”
“Because there’s some sense to the other stuff, you poor prune! Any one
can see that he’s got to know math and history and――well, yes, even
Latin, although I’m not strong for it. But, man to man, Loring, what’s
it going to get me to know about a loony old guy like that ‘Ancient
Mariner’ or read this _Sketch Book_ twaddle by Irving? Why didn’t he
stick to acting instead of――”
“Tom, you’ll be the death of me yet!” gasped Clif.
“What did I say then?” demanded Tom indignantly. “You give me a pain,
both of you!” But he grinned as though to signify that the pain wasn’t
acute.
When he had stopped laughing Loring said: “Speaking of baseball,
doesn’t practice start this week?”
“Thursday,” agreed Clif.
“Are you going out?”
“Yes. So is Tom.”
“I don’t know yet if I am or not,” said Tom. “What’s the good of it
if I get in wrong with Alick and have to quit when the season’s half
through?”
“Don’t get in wrong,” advised Clif cheerfully.
“Huh, that’s easy enough to say!”
“You’d better,” said Loring. “Clif can’t be the whole team, you know.”
“I’ll be lucky if I get a place,” said Clif; “any sort of a place. I’ve
played some, but I’m not really much good, and I guess I’m likely to
find myself in fast company here.”
“Heck,” said Tom, “I guess the bunch isn’t so wonderful. I notice that
they got a lot of wallopings last spring. I may not try for their old
team, but if I do try you can bet I’ll make it.”
“Modest, shrinking little violet, isn’t he?” asked Clif of Loring.
“Hates himself to death, eh?”
“That’s all right,” said Tom, “but I’ve seen some of the guys who
made the nine last year, and if I can’t play as good ball as they can
I’ll――I’ll――”
“Quit?” suggested Clif. “Well, I haven’t your confidence, old son, and
if Mr. Connover lets me stick around on the second I’ll say ‘Thank
you.’”
“I’ve heard,” remarked Loring, “that ‘Steve’ is a pretty good coach.”
“I guess he is,” said Tom. “Anyway, he made a mighty good football
coach last fall when ‘Cocky’ went to the first. If he can coach
the nine as well as he coached the old Fighting Scrub he will be a
humdinger. Steve didn’t know an awful lot of football, but you wouldn’t
have suspected it, eh, Clif?”
“He knew enough,” answered Clif. “If I had my way I’d wait a couple of
weeks before reporting for practice; cut out the gym stuff; swinging
clubs and all that; but they say he doesn’t like you to report late.”
“I guess the gym stuff’s good for you,” said Tom. “Loosens up the old
muscles, you know. Me, I’ll be there for the whole awful program.”
“Thought you said you didn’t know,” Clif chuckled.
“Well,” answered Tom with entire composure, “I make up my mind quick.
I’ve decided to play since I said that. I’m going to try for second
base.”
“I shall like that,” remarked Clif. “You’ll be where I can look out for
you while I’m pitching. I’d hate to have you in the outfield, Tom. No
telling what awful things you’d do.”
“But you’re not going to try――” began Loring incredulously.
“Him?” jeered Tom. “He couldn’t pitch down Oak Street without breaking
a window!”
“Exaggerated, Tom, but containing a modicum of truth,” acknowledged
Clif. “But let me tell you, old son, that I’ve got as good a show to
pitch for Wyndham as you have to play second base!”
“Is that so? Well, you just wait and see. Listen――”
And while they listen let’s look them over, since for the next
four months we are going to see a good deal of them. Clifton
Bingham――introductions demand formality――was sixteen years of age――an
age which, by the way, was that of the other two occupants of the room,
although Tom was close to seventeen and Loring was Clif’s senior by
three months. Clif was tall for sixteen――sixteen and a half, to be more
exact――and rather slender. You wouldn’t have called him thin, though.
He had the appearance of being well-conditioned and looked as though he
might be fast; which he was. Good-looking without calling for the word
handsome――a word which fellows of his age detest when applied to one of
their sex――he owed his attractiveness more to expression than features.
The latter were clean-cut but a critical eye could have found fault
with them. He looked alert and he had a smile that you would have liked
immensely. He had made right end on the school team late in the season.
Like the other members of the Triumvirate, he had entered Wyndham last
September and was in the third class.
Mr. Thomas Ackerman Kemble was also a football player and had captained
last fall’s scrub before he had been elevated, like Clif at the last
moment, to a half-back’s position on the big team. He was very good
looking; I had almost said handsome before I had thought; with the
sort of skin from which the tan never quite goes, very dark gray
eyes and brown hair that verged closely on the copper. In height he
was half an inch, perhaps, shorter than Clif, and he was perceptibly
heavier without being large. That half inch was not apparent since he
was extraordinarily straight of body and carried himself so that he
could have spared another half inch and still seemed as tall as the
other. Tom’s chin was rather assertive, but in spite of that he was
as good-natured and big-hearted as a mastiff; and, like a good many
good-natured fellows, he could be extremely stubborn.
I have left Loring Deane to the last, which, since he happens to be the
host, is scarcely polite. But Loring requires rather more description
than his friends, and one is likely to postpone the larger task. It
seems almost necessary at last to make use of that proscribed word,
but I shan’t do it. I shall avoid it by saying that Loring was awfully
good looking, with the sort of features one associates with the Greek
heroes. He had hair that barely escaped being black and he brushed
it straight back from a high, broad forehead. His eyes were just as
dark as his hair, and they always had a sparkle in them. His skin was
fairer than that of his companions but it showed plenty of healthy
color. In fact, perfect health was perhaps the first thing you thought
of in connection with Loring, and perfect health is the one thing he
possessed to a lesser extent than any of the three.
Health means bodily soundness, and Loring’s body was not sound. Under
the light rug which covered him from the waist down was a pair of legs
that just couldn’t be depended on to perform the ordinary functions
of legs. They looked all right, too, except that the muscles were
not as well developed as they should have been in a boy of his age.
The trouble was in the bones which, instead of building themselves
up as bones normally do, had gone in too heavily for lime. In short,
Loring’s legs suffered from calcification, which is the scientific way
of saying that the bones held too much chalk. Different doctors――and
Loring’s father, who was a very wealthy man, had employed many――had
different names for the boy’s trouble, names varying in spelling and
length but all meaning about the same thing. Loring spent his days
in a wheel chair, and, while the physician who at present had him in
charge and who once every two or three months journeyed to Freeburg in
an eight thousand dollar car spoke hopefully of ultimate betterment
or even complete recovery, the probabilities were that Loring would
never get beyond crutches. The fact that he had always been as he
was now undoubtedly helped him to accept his fate with cheerfulness.
Perhaps at night, after the faithful Wattles had finished his careful
massaging of the refractory members and the lights were out, Loring
may have been visited by dark and rebellious thoughts, but if so, none
would have surmised it. To Clif and Tom, as well as to all others who
were intimate with him, his good spirits and patience were things to
marvel at. Wyndham was proud of Loring Deane. Proud because, as the son
of Sanford Deane, one of the country’s wealthiest and most prominent
citizens, he lent a certain cachet to the school, but prouder because
he had so many qualities that boys whole-heartedly admire wherever
found; pluck in adversity, cheerfulness, determination to accept no
favors based on his disability and, finally, a keen mind.
To obviate the difficulty of stairs Loring had been given a room on
the first corridor of East Hall, next to the office of Mr. Clendennin,
Head of the Junior School. Because it would have been awkward for him
to sit at the table in Dining Hall his meals were served to him in his
room by his attendant, the aforementioned Wattles. Save in these two
particulars, however, Loring received no favors, nor sought any. In
studies he was brilliant, although he spent no more time in preparation
than did Tom. He was an ardent football lover and, in fact, an
enthusiast on every sort of sport. And as for chess――well, Wattles
had finally progressed to a point where he could occasionally win,
but when Loring really put his mind on the game he could beat any one
in school. He had even bested “The Turk” recently, and “The Turk,” by
which impolite name Mr. Way, the mathematics instructor, was known, was
an old, old hand at the game!
Having proved at some length, and conclusively in his own opinion,
why it was imperative for the nine to give him the position of second
baseman, Tom brought his remarks to a triumphant end. Whereupon two
things happened almost simultaneously. The gong out in the corridor
clanged, giving notice that study hour in assembly hall was imminent,
and the door of Loring’s room opened and Wattles appeared.