MR. FINDLAY SETTLES THE QUESTION
Nearly a week later the conversation bore fruit.
“Son,” asked Mr. Vinton, “do you still want to go to boarding-school?”
Dan’s heart leaped.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“Well, your mother and I have been talking it over and we’ve about
concluded that a change of scene for the next three or four years won’t
do you any harm. What do you say to the Brewer School?”
Dan hesitated. The Brewer School was in the southern part of the state
and had quite a local reputation, but Dan was certain that it wasn’t
the school he wanted. So he took his courage in hand.
“I’d rather go East, sir,” he said.
“Would, eh? Well, maybe you might as well. I tell your mother that as
long as you have to go away it don’t make much difference how far it
is. Takes all day to go to Brewer, anyway; put a night on top of that
and you’re pretty well East. Any special school you’ve got in mind?”
“N-no, sir. I didn’t think you’d let me go, and so I haven’t thought
about any special place.”
“Hm! Well, I dare say the old Academy is still running back in
Russellville, but--I don’t know, son, that it would just suit you. What
do you think?”
“If you don’t mind I’d like to go to one of the big schools, sir,”
answered Dan.
“All right, all right, son,” said Mr. Vinton cordially. “You put your
thinking cap on and study up on schools. When you find one you think
you’d like you tell me and I’ll get particulars.”
For the next fortnight Dan perused the advertisements of eastern
preparatory schools, sent for catalogues, read them, made up his mind
and changed it at least once a day. It seemed that just as soon as he
had settled upon one school as being the very place for him the postman
tossed another catalogue in at the gate and Dan speedily discovered
his mistake. He discovered several other things during that period,
one of which was that you can’t always safely judge an article by
its advertisement. There was one school in particular which won his
admiration early. It was advertised in a magazine all across the top of
a page. The picture gave a panoramic view of the grounds and buildings
and Dan held his breath as he looked. At first glance there seemed to
be at least a quarter of a mile of study halls and dormitories; by
actual count the buildings in the picture numbered eleven; and, as
Dan pointed out to his father, they were all of them “jim-dandies.”
Mr. Vinton allowed that they were. He appeared rather aghast at the
magnificence of the place; perhaps he was silently contrasting it with
Russellville Academy as he remembered the latter institution. But when
the forty-page catalogue came and Dan set out to identify the different
buildings in the picture by means of the explanatory text he found to
his dismay that only three of them were mentioned. This puzzled him
until he came across a casual paragraph stating that “the grounds of
the State Normal School adjoined the Academy on the east.” After that
Dan viewed with suspicion all pictures until the text of the catalogues
made good the pictorial claims.
In the evenings he showed his day’s “finds” to his father; Mrs. Vinton
was practically exempt from the evening conferences, since she was
called upon at all hours of the day for her opinions; and under the
study lamp Mr. Vinton and Dan looked at pictures, read descriptions and
weighed the merits of the different institutions under consideration.
Of course Dan started out with a pronounced leaning toward the
military schools; most every boy will own to the fascination exerted
by stirring pictures of long lines of youths in trim uniforms drawn up
in battalions on an immaculate parade ground, or dashing recklessly
over four-rail gates on splendid white horses, or grouped with stern
authority about a field-gun from whose muzzle a puff of white smoke
hints stirringly of the aspect of war. But Dan’s father was very
discouraging on the subject of military schools.
“If you want to be a real soldier, son,” he said, “I’ve no objection if
you can get your mother’s permission. I guess I could get you appointed
to West Point in the next year or two. But if you don’t want the real
thing I wouldn’t monkey with the imitation. From what I can learn about
most of these military academies they’re either play schools or else
they’re reform schools in disguise. Of course there may be some very
excellent ones, but I don’t believe you stand in need of a military
training, son.”
After all Dan was going to school to prepare for college, probably
Yale, and, recollecting that, he dropped the military schools and
a good many others from consideration. What, he asked himself,
was the good of learning to jump a horse over a four-rail fence
or make pontoon bridges? He had never heard that equestrianism or
bridge-building was required at Yale. And if it was merely a matter
of physical exercise he guessed he could get all he needed of that
from baseball, football and tennis. He was an enthusiastic lover of
athletics; played a fair game of tennis, was an excellent baseman and
had captained last year’s football team at the grammar school. And
so, naturally enough, he was looking for a school where athletics
flourished. But nevertheless one school, which advertised that “Blank
Academy has turned out five victorious football teams in the last
six years” earned only his contempt. For he shrewdly argued that
a school which sought to attract students on the strength of its
athletic success must be sadly deficient in other and more important
departments. Football and baseball and things like that, thought Dan,
were important adjuncts to education, but they weren’t what a fellow
went to school for.
In the end, and that was along towards the third week in August, the
choice, by an exhaustive process of elimination, was narrowed down to
two schools, one in New Hampshire and one in Connecticut. I think all
the other members of the family were heartily glad when the end was
reached, but Dan had enjoyed it all hugely. He would have felt sorry
for the boy whose school is selected by his parents. “Why, just think
of all the fun he has missed!” Dan would have exclaimed. It was hard
work making the final decision. The New Hampshire school, Phillips
Exeter, appealed to him strongly. In Graystone a building thirty years
old was considered venerable; one fifty years old--and there was only
one such--was absolutely archaic. And Phillips Exeter Academy was a
century and a quarter old; was turning out students years before the
State of Ohio entered the Union! That appealed to Dan’s imagination.
And Dan liked what the catalogue said about the school’s purpose: “The
object of the Academy is to furnish the elements of a solid education.
The discipline is not adapted to boys who require severe restrictions,
and the method of instruction assumes that the pupils have some power
of application and a will to work. The purpose of the instructors
is to lead pupils to cultivate self-control, truthfulness, a right
sense of honor, and an interest in the purity of the moral atmosphere
of the school.” I think Dan’s final choice would have fallen on the
New Hampshire school had not Congressman Findlay happened in one day
to dinner while the decision was still in abeyance. The Congressman
was very large and very deliberative, and when in the course of the
conversation the subject of Dan’s choice of schools was brought up and
his advice requested he demolished two of Mrs. Vinton’s excellent lemon
tarts before he replied. Then:
“Both fine schools,” he said. “Not much to choose, Mr. Vinton. Don’t
know as I ought to advise you, sir. I’m prejudiced.”
“Eh?” inquired Mr. Vinton. “How’s that?”
“Yardley man myself, sir,” replied Mr. Findlay.
Well, that settled it. Mr. Findlay was one of the State’s best
citizens, a man admired by all, even his political enemies. Dan, who
was always somewhat in awe of him, liked him thoroughly, and was
convinced that a school which could turn out men like the Congressman
was all right. After dinner some of Dan’s awe wore off, for Mr. Findlay
told about Yardley Hall School and indulged in reminiscences of his
own four years there and he and Dan became very chummy. When Dan went
up to his room that night he had the Yardley Hall School catalogue in
his hand and before he went to sleep he had read it through from front
cover to back, word by word, three times.
The following month had been an exciting period in his life. There were
so many jolly things to attend to. Of course the first of all was to
apply for admission to Yardley Hall, and until the reply was received
Dan was on tenter-hooks of suspense. For the catalogue plainly stated
that the enlistment was restricted to two hundred and seventy students,
and Dan feared that he was too late. But fortune was with him and he
learned later that his application was the last but one to be accepted
that year. Then came a brushing up on one or two studies in which he
felt doubtful of satisfying the examiners. And after that there were
clothes to buy, and to this task Mrs. Vinton lent herself with an ardor
and enjoyment that for the while soothed her sorrow over her son’s
prospective departure. And then, quite before anyone realized it, it
was the Day Before, and Dan was listening to a few words of advice from
his father.
“I don’t know that I’ve got much to say to you, son,” said Mr. Vinton.
“We’ve let you choose your school and after you get there you’ll
find that you’ve got to choose lots of other things for yourself.
We’ve started out by letting you have your own say, pretty much, and
I guess we’ll keep it up. So far you’ve shown pretty fair sense for
a youngster. If you want advice about anything, why, you know where
to come for it, but unless you ask for it neither your ma nor I will
interfere with you. You’re getting along towards sixteen now, and
at that age every boy ought to have a mind of his own. You’ll make
mistakes; bound to; everyone makes mistakes except a fool. Just so
long as you don’t make the same mistake twice you’ll do well enough.
You’re going to a pretty expensive school, son. I don’t object to the
cost of it, but I want you to see that you get your money’s worth.
The extravagant man isn’t the man who pays a big price for a thing;
he’s the man who doesn’t get what he pays for. So you’ll have to work.
You’ll find all sorts and kinds of boys there, I guess, and I want you
to use good sense in picking out your friends. A whole lot depends on
that. A fellow can know other fellows that will be good for him if he
goes about it right. Don’t make your friendship too cheap; if a fellow
wants it let him pay your price; if he has the making of a real friend
he will do it. Of course I expect you to behave yourself; but I’m not
worried much about that. I’ve never seen anything vicious about you,
son, and if you choose your friends right I don’t ever expect to. I
might tell you not to do this and not to do that, but I guess if you’ll
just make up your mind not to do anything you wouldn’t be afraid of
telling your ma or me about you’ll keep a pretty clean slate.”
Next day had come the final frenzied excitement of packing, succeeded
by an interminable wait for the moment of departure. Dinner that
evening had been an uncomfortable meal, with only Mae looking cheerful
or eating anything to speak of. And afterwards how the hours had
crawled until it was time to get into the surrey and drive to the
station! Dan had felt pretty miserable several times before the
carriage came around and his mother spent much of the time out of the
room, returning always with suspiciously moist eyes and smiling lips.
Then had succeeded the drive to the train through the silent streets,
past the darkened houses--for Graystone retires early to bed--with
everyone by turns unnaturally animated or depressingly silent. And now
here he was whizzing away through the moonlight, leaving Graystone
farther and farther behind, the great adventure really and truly begun!
Of course he wasn’t really sleepy; there was too much to think about to
waste time in slumber; but the silver and purple world rolled past his
eyes with hypnotic effect, the _clickety-click_ of the wheels sounded
soothingly, and--and presently he was sound asleep with the moonlight
smiling in upon him through the car window.