VACATION VISITS
Across the diamond, Clif and Jack Cooper stood together in a group of
five fellows waiting to bat, and Clif, turning his gaze away from a
moment’s contemplation of Loring and Mr. Cooper conversing together,
remarked: “Your father seems to like to watch practice, Jack.”
The catcher turned an unapprehending face. “What did you say?” he
asked. Clif repeated the observation and indicated the reason for it by
a nod toward the first base stand. Jack’s gaze followed the direction
of the nod, but still he seemed unable to grasp the significance of the
remark. “My father?” he asked rather blankly.
“Yes.” Clif was patient with him. “He’s over there talking to Loring
Deane. Can’t you see him?”
“Oh!” Jack looked again. Then he turned a puzzled regard on Clif.
“That’s my father over there, is it?”
“Well, isn’t it?” asked Clif in surprise.
“Don’t recognize him, Clif.” Jack was grinning broadly. “But then
he’s gone and lost about sixty pounds, if it is he, and it’s made a
terrible difference in him!”
“You mean Mr. Cooper isn’t――isn’t your father?”
“Sure, Mr. Cooper’s my father, but I never saw that wampus before in my
life! Go on and bat.”
A few minutes later Jack sought Clif to ask: “Say, how’d you get it
into your bean that that guy was my father?”
Clif had to think a moment before he replied. Then: “I thought some one
told me he was, but maybe I just faked it myself. You see, his name’s
Cooper, and he’s staying at the Inn, and I thought of course――”
“I’d like you to see my old man,” laughed Jack. “Just for the fun of
it. He weighs close to two hundred, Clif.”
“That’s mighty funny,” muttered the other. He was thinking of his
mistake, but Jack misunderstood.
“I don’t see anything very funny in it,” he answered. “He takes after
me.”
Meanwhile Mr. Cooper and Loring were getting quite well acquainted over
there. Mr. Cooper’s introductory remark had been a question revealing
his colossal ignorance of the intricacies of the national pastime,
and Loring had secretly thought it strange that Cooper had allowed
his father to remain so unenlightened. But he was glad to supply the
desired information, and explained not only the point then puzzling
Mr. Cooper but several others which arose later. Mr. Cooper moved
nearer and leaned his arms on the railing. In doing so he brought
Wattles into direct range and included him in the friendly smile which
accompanied his next remark. Watching, Loring was then and there
convinced of one thing. If Wattles recognized Mr. Cooper as some one he
had seen before, Mr. Cooper certainly had no recollection of Wattles.
He had a rather deep voice which, however, encompassed several tones.
The end of a remark might and frequently did end half a dozen notes
higher than where it had begun, a feature that Loring found both odd
and interesting. He spoke somewhat deliberately but without any drawl;
in fact, although uttered slowly, his words were distinct and crisp. He
was, Loring presently decided, undoubtedly an American, but an American
who had traveled much and whose speech and manner of speaking had been
borrowed from many lands.
The conversation ranged from baseball to the school, and about the
latter Mr. Cooper was frankly curious. He had not, it appeared, seen
any of the buildings save from the outside. “Why,” exclaimed Loring,
“haven’t you even been up to Cooper’s――I mean your son’s room, sir?”
“My son’s room?” repeated the other, almost startedly.
“Yes, sir,” said Loring uncertainly. “I thought――some one said――
Aren’t you Jack Cooper’s father, sir?”
The gentleman shook his head. “Really, no,” he answered. “Who, if you
don’t mind, is Jack Cooper?”
Loring, in some confusion, pointed him out――Jack’s face at the moment
was pretty well hidden behind the catcher’s mask――and the man who
wasn’t his father looked at him for several moments. Then: “Fine
looking chap,” he said, “but we’re not related. Sorry.”
“But you are Mr. Cooper, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but apparently not the right one.” He smiled deprecatingly while
Loring said hastily: “I guess it was Clif Bingham who told me you were
Cooper’s father. That was Saturday. I――we passed you on the street,
sir.”
“I remember. Bingham is the boy who was at the helm that day?”
“The helm? Oh, no, sir, that was Tom Kemble. Clif was the other.”
“I thought I recognized them both here a bit ago. Isn’t that Kemble
standing by the cage thing?”
“Yes, sir, and Clif Bingham’s playing out in the field; the middle one
of the three.”
“Playing center field, I believe.” The statement was made questioningly,
and Mr. Cooper looked quite pleased when Loring’s nod indicated that he
had named the position correctly. “I’m rather a duffer about this game,”
he went on. “Haven’t seen much of it, you know.” His tone was
apologetic, and Loring, smiling, answered: “I’ll just bet, though, you
know plenty of other games, Mr. Cooper.”
“Not so many. Golf, of course, and polo. I’ve played that a goodish
bit.”
“Really?” exclaimed Loring. “I say, that must be corking! I’m going to
get dad to take me to the games next summer. You know, when the English
team comes across. Are you――do you play on one of our teams, sir?”
“Oh, no. Most of my playing has been over in India and around there.
I’m really not much good at it.”
“I’ll bet you are, just the same,” declared Loring, sweeping the lean
figure with his gaze. “And I guess you play a corking game of golf,
sir!”
Mr. Cooper appeared pleased and somewhat embarrassed. “Why, thanks,”
he replied. “But corking’s hardly the word for the sort of game I
play nowadays. I dare say you, now, could give me――” Then he stopped
abruptly, with a sudden contraction of his brows, and: “By Jove, that
was stupid of me!” he added remorsefully. “Look here, I’m beastly
sorry, my boy!”
But Loring was chuckling. “Please don’t apologize, sir! Why, I like
being――I like folks to forget. It’s almost as if I really could do
things like――other fellows, sir. You see, Mr. Cooper, if I was able
to I’d do everything of that sort. I mean play golf and baseball and
football and――I think, though, I’d rather play football than anything
else. Do you like football, sir? Did you use to play it?”
“No, I never played football, Deane. Your name is Deane, I think?”
“Yes, sir, but――I’m generally called Loring by my friends,” said the
boy a little shyly.
“Thank you,” said the other gravely. “I see that you really have
forgiven me. I was going to say that I do like to watch a good football
game, but I’ve been knocking about a goodish bit and I don’t recall
when I saw the last one. I think it was in France, though; and that was
nine――no, say eight years ago.”
“During the War?” asked Loring.
“Yes, the Tommies played quite a bit, and so did the Yanks. Not the
same game, though.”
“You were in the War, weren’t you, sir?”
Mr. Cooper nodded. “Yes,” he said. Loring waited for more, but no more
came; and something in the man’s expression told him that another
subject would be preferred. A silence followed in which Mr. Cooper
watched the players, and Loring, appearing to do the same, really saw
very little of what was going on. He was thinking about the stranger,
reviewing the conversation and wondering if it would be permissible to
invite the other to his room. Although Loring had yielded thoroughly
to Mr. Cooper’s attractions he was aware that one member of the
trio had accepted that gentleman with reservations. Loring couldn’t
see Wattles without turning his head, and he hadn’t turned his head
once since Mr. Cooper had broken the ice, but he knew without seeing
that Wattles was not wholly approving. Perhaps that knowledge would
eventually have strengthened his determination to issue the invitation,
but just at the moment it caused hesitation, and before the hesitation
had ended the second team took its bats and traipsed away to the other
diamond and Mr. Cooper arose, said: “Good afternoon,” smiled and went
away, too.
Loring rather unjustly blamed Wattles. “Look here,” he charged, “you
were beastly uncivil, Wattles, and I don’t like it.”
“But I never said a word, Mr. Loring,” Wattles protested.
“And I never said you did. But I’ll bet you looked as sour as a lime.
Don’t think I don’t know that――that frozen face of yours by this time!
Look here, what have you got against Mr. Cooper, anyway? You know
perfectly well that stuff about having seen him before is absolute
piffle!”
“No, sir,” replied Wattles firmly. “Asking your pardon, Mr. Loring, I
am perfectly certain that I have encountered the gentleman previously.”
“Where, then? And what of it? It wasn’t in prison, was it?”
“I have never been in prison, Mr. Loring,” stated Wattles with hurt
dignity.
“Oh, well, hang it, I didn’t say you had. Don’t be an ass, Wattles. If
you don’t remember where you met him, you can’t have anything against
him. And I could tell that he had never seen you in his life; at
least, doesn’t remember it if he has! I’m going to ask him to call the
next time I meet him, and I won’t have you looking the way you looked
to-day.”
“Very good, sir.”
Presently, trundling across the grass, Loring said: “Sorry I spoke
crossly, Wattles.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Wattles. “I regret having given offense, Mr.
Loring.”
“You didn’t, really,” laughed the boy. “It was just my rotten temper.”
Wednesday, however, Mr. Cooper was not at the field, and on Thursday
it rained, and as a consequence Loring didn’t meet Mr. Cooper again
for almost a fortnight. There was no practice for the second nine on
Friday, for Spring Recess commenced that day after the last recitation.
Only those living a considerable distance from school were permitted
to leave before Saturday morning, however, and the Triumvirate spent
Friday evening discussing their plans for vacation. Tom was to be
Clif’s guest until the following Saturday. Then he and Clif were to go
to Tom’s home in New Jersey, stopping in New York on the way to take
luncheon and go to a theater with Loring. Tom declared that he was
mighty glad he hadn’t made the first team, after all, since if he had
done so he would have had to remain at school. The first played four
games during recess, the first one at home and the others away. Clif
said he thought taking the spring trip with the nine would be more fun
than going home. Loring agreed with him, and so, perhaps, did Tom,
although he refused to acknowledge it. Loring introduced Mr. Cooper
again as a subject of discourse, but the others were rather fed up on
that gentleman and side-stepped.
Loring went off soon after breakfast in a big, shining limousine, a car
of the make that Tom called a “Rolled Rice,” with a liveried chauffeur
in front and Wattles, immaculate in a silk-faced black overcoat and his
famous black derby, sitting beside the boy, an impressive picture of
Respectability. Wattles unbent for an instant as the automobile rolled
away and lifted his hat to the group on the steps of East Hall while
Loring waved his farewell. Wattles’ lapse from his standard of decorum
was induced by Tom’s parting hail of “Toodle-oo, Wattles, old top!”
Mr. Bingham arrived an hour later, and Clif and Tom piled their bags
into the back of the old blue car and then crowded into the front with
the driver. The blue car wasn’t a “Rolled Rice,” but it refused to
take any one’s dust――not that there was any dust to-day, however――and
slipped across country to Hartford, the luncheon stop, and then on to
Providence quite as expeditiously and probably just as comfortably as
the other could have done. Clif took the wheel after lunch and Mr.
Bingham retired to the rear seat to smoke several long cigars.
The week simply whisked itself away, and on Saturday the two boys
said good-by to Mr. Bingham and boarded the train for New York. There
Loring and Wattles awaited them at the station, and they were borne
away to a big house uptown and a cordial welcome from Loring’s father
and mother. Mr. Deane was a pink-cheeked, military-looking gentleman
who, in spite of his great wealth, seemed to have very little to do
and enjoyed doing it hugely. He and the visitors were already good
friends and shared a number of small jokes between them. Mrs. Deane
was, according to Tom’s frequently expressed judgment, a “pippin’.”
Clif, for his part, had more than half fallen in love with her at first
meeting, and still adored her shyly. That was a wonderful luncheon
partly because it consisted of just the beautiful indigestible things
that boys crave after a strict régime of school and partly because they
were tremendously hungry. After luncheon there was a quick drive down
the asphalt surface of the avenue, a breath-taking lurch into a side
street and a hurried alighting before the theater. And they just made
it! Loring, borne by Wattles, had scarcely been seated in his chair
in the front of the box when the curtain rolled up and the darkened
house became a glow of golden radiance. After that, save for brief
interludes, Clif forgot that he was in New York and that the time was
the humdrum twentieth century. He was in Old France where a gallant
gentleman with a stupendous nose made Romance real at last and defeated
his enemies――all save one!――with flashing blade or nimble wit. Clif was
half-way to Morristown in the train before he finally emerged from the
glamour cast upon him by the play.
Tom’s guardian, Mr. Winslow, lived in a modest frame house fronted by a
few square yards of greening turf and two leafless, contorted mulberry
trees. After the Deane mansion, Tom’s home was a come-down, a thought
occurring to both boys but uttered only by Tom. “Rather a hovel,” he
said as they alighted from a taxi, “but I warned you of that, Clif.”
Tom had a big room, sparingly furnished, at the top of the house, and
Clif was to share it with him. It was chill and damp up there, for
spring had not yet ousted winter from the walls of the old structure.
Clif declared that the room was very jolly and that everything was
perfectly corking, but secretly he was pleased that there were but two
nights to spend there. Mr. Winslow, who appeared at supper time, proved
to be a square-set gentleman of some fifty years, with an outward
affability that didn’t survive Tom’s first night at home. The evening
proved rather a dull one, and, since Clif was thoroughly tired, he
suggested bed quite early. Tom seconded the motion, but his guardian
expressed a desire to talk with him and Clif ascended the stairs alone.
Afterward, although he tightly closed the chamber door, the voices of
Mr. Winslow and Tom floated up to him for the better part of an hour,
and it was evident to the listener that all was not peace and amity
below stairs. Tom finally appeared, sullenly angry, bitter of speech.
Clif learned that Mr. Winslow was not pleased with the reports received
from Wyndham, especially those having to do with Tom’s work in his
English course, and had been particularly nasty about it. “Says if I
don’t do better,” growled Tom, casting a shoe noisily to the floor,
“he’s going to take me out of school! All right, let him! If he does
I’ll beat it away from here mighty quick. _He_ won’t see me, that’s a
cinch! I’ll go right from Freeburg to New York and get into the Navy!”
“The Navy won’t take you without his assent, Tom. You’re only sixteen.”
“I’ll be seventeen next month, won’t I? Well, then! And whose money
is it, anyhow? You’d think, the way he goes on, he was paying for my
schooling and everything! I’ll bet he gets his share, the old grafter!”
“Don’t call names,” said Clif quietly. “As Cocky used to tell us last
fall, ‘Fight, but keep your mouth closed!’”
Tom eventually calmed down and retired for the night in fair temper,
but the incident didn’t increase Clif’s pleasure in the visit.
Mr. Winslow retained an elderly woman of good family and former
affluence, who had lost husband and affluence――with Mr. Winslow’s
assistance, Tom stoutly declared――at the same time, to keep house
for him. She was no addition to domestic cheerfulness, although she
did make an excellent dried-apple pie, her meager conversation being
confined to what Tom called “post mortems.” Recollection of the years
before poverty had come to her invariably induced sniffles. Clif was
rather sorry for her, but he did wish she would use a handkerchief more
often!
On Sunday morning Mr. Winslow, Mrs. Pelton――the housekeeper――Clif and
Tom seated themselves in a small automobile of a rare vintage and
rolled decorously to an ivy-covered church. Clif had Mrs. Pelton on his
left and suffered a good deal when, he having found the hymn for her,
she lifted her voice in song. He was heartily relieved when the sermon
began. Sunday dinner was a somewhat solemn meal and certainly none
too appetizing. Clif never had liked roast lamb much, anyway, and this
particular roast had a “wooly” flavor which did nothing to increase his
liking. The dinner accomplished one beneficent end, though; it sent
Mr. Winslow to sleep in the parlor. With sighs of relief the boys let
themselves out of the house and sallied forth in quest of adventure.
They didn’t find adventure, but they had a good walk and returned to
supper in better spirits. Tom rebelled against church in the evening,
and his guardian, although disapproving, forebore to press the point
and went off alone. Eventually bedtime came.
Very early in the morning they started back to Freeburg. Clif wondered
if he would ever again be so glad to return to school as he was to-day!