THE FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
Dan’s train rolled into the station at Wissining, Connecticut, at a few
minutes before five. All the way from New York, and more especially
since the Sound had suddenly flashed into view, he had been vividly
interested in the view from the window of the parlor car, so palpably
eager, in fact, to see this new country through which he was traveling
that a kind-hearted, middle-aged gentleman whose seat was on the
shoreward side of the car and across the aisle from Dan had insisted on
changing chairs with him. Dan had at first politely refused the offer,
but the gentleman had insisted with a little tone of authority in his
voice and in the end Dan had accepted the coveted seat.
“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” he explained with a deprecating
smile as he moved his bag across.
The gentleman smiled and nodded as though to say “I surmised as much,
my young friend.” Then he settled down in his new chair and half hid
his face behind a magazine. But a few moments later, when Dan happened
to glance across, he encountered the gaze of the other fixed upon him
speculatively. At once the eyes dropped to the pages of the magazine
once more. Dan read the name on the cover, “The Atlantic Monthly,” and
wondered whether the magazine was devoted to news of the fascinating
ocean upon which he had been eagerly gazing. Then the absurdity of the
idea struck him and he turned back to his window smiling.
Not only had Dan never seen an ocean before, but he had never looked on
a body of water broader than the Ohio River. This doesn’t necessarily
imply that he had spent his entire life in Graystone, for as a
matter of fact the family spent an occasional summer away from home,
usually in the Cumberland Mountains, and, besides this, Dan had made
short trips now and then with his father to Cincinnati, Columbus,
Springfield, and once as far South as Memphis. But Lake Erie, which
was the nearest approach to an ocean in Dan’s part of the world, was
two hundred miles north by rail and it happened that he had never
reached it. And not only the ocean interested Dan to-day. The country
itself engaged his pleased attention, for, although he had been born
in Graystone, yet Connecticut had been the home of his father’s people
for many generations and it seemed to him that the smilingly rugged,
bay-indented country was holding out a welcome to him.
He had armed himself with a railroad map and had located his father’s
old home some eighty miles north. The map even showed Russellville,
and the tiny word there seemed a veritable welcome in itself! And so
the time went quickly enough for him and almost before he knew it
the porter was brushing his clothes and the train had slowed down
at Greenburg, which, as he knew, was just across the river from his
destination. As he tipped the porter and sank into his chair again
he saw that the platform outside was thronged with boys who had left
the train from the day-coaches ahead. They must be Yardley Hall boys,
he thought; perhaps the train didn’t stop at Wissining and he should
get off here! He looked around for someone whom he could ask and his
gaze encountered that of the gentleman across the aisle, who, the
magazine stowed away in his bag, had donned his light overcoat and was
also apparently ready to leave the train. He noticed Dan’s anxious
countenance and leaned across.
“Are you for Broadwood?” he asked.
“No, sir; that is, I’m going to Yardley Hall. Should I get off here?”
“No, your station is Wissining, the next stop. This is Greenburg and
those boys are going to Broadwood Academy.”
Dan thanked him as the train started again. Suddenly the buildings
dropped away from beside the track and in a flash he was looking along
the estuary of a little river which wound away between low meadows
for a short distance and then opened into the Sound. The sun had gone
behind the clouds and a gray evening was succeeding a sunshiny day.
Miles away across the quiet water the eastern end of Long Island lay
like a purplish smudge against the horizon. He had time to see this,
and time to catch a glimpse of a hamlet of scattered houses as the
train crossed the little bridge and slowed down beside the station.
“Wissining,” announced the porter as he took up Dan’s bag. “This is
your station, sir.”
He took the bag of the gentleman across the aisle also and for the
first time it occurred to Dan, as he followed his cursory acquaintance
toward the door, that perhaps the other was for Yardley Hall, too;
that perhaps he was one of the teachers. But out on the platform he
abandoned that theory, for a smart man in automobile livery took the
gentleman’s bag and led the way to a big chocolate-brown touring car,
and almost before Dan had had time to look about him the car was
whisking itself off down the road. Some thirty other boys of various
ages had left the train, and Dan, uncertain of his directions, followed
them down the platform to where a number of carriages were drawn up,
the drivers vieing merrily and loudly for custom. Dan hesitated. He had
had in the back of his head an idea that when he left the train there
would be someone looking for him. The idea had not been sufficiently
concrete for him to know now whether he had expected the Principal
himself or merely the school janitor. While he hesitated the other
arrivals rushed for the carriages and tumbled themselves in after
their luggage and in a twinkling the conveyances were all filled to
overflowing and Dan alone remained on the platform, bag in hand,
looking somewhat blankly about him. Several of the carriages--tiny
affairs they were, holding not more than seven fellows no matter how
you packed them in--had already started away when a voice hailed him
from one of the remaining vehicles and a boy’s head was thrust out of
the door.
“Hi, there, you chap! Coming up?”
Dan supposed that “up” meant to Yardley Hall; and of course he was
coming up if he could get up, but--
“Come on in here,” called the boy. “Lot’s of room! Hold your horses,
Mike!”
The driver, seated on a pile of bags and suit-cases where his seat
had once been, had chirped encouragingly to his horse, but at the
command he called “Whoa!” and the horse obeyed instantly, one might say
almost with enthusiasm. A chorus of loud and long drawn-out “Whoas!”
supplemented the driver’s injunction. Dan strode across and looked
doubtfully into the interior of the carriage. At first glance there
seemed dozens of occupants, but--
“Climb in,” said his rescuer merrily. “Give me your bag. Here, Tubby,
hold the gentleman’s bag.” The bag was passed forward by eager
hands until it was deposited unceremoniously in the lap of a stout,
round-faced youth who showed no pleasure at the honor conferred upon
him.
“Hold the old bag yourself,” he growled.
“Why, Tubby,” cried an outraged voice. “Such manners! I _am_ surprised!
Hold it nicely; be a gentleman, Tubby, even if it hurts you.”
“I--I’ll stand up,” said Dan as he pushed his way between the almost
touching knees of the occupants. But that was out of the question, for
the roof was too low to permit of it.
“Sit down,” said the boy who had hailed him, a youth of about seventeen
with a good-looking, merry face. He gave a sudden tug at Dan’s coat and
Dan went over backward on to his knees. “That’s the ticket. You’ve got
an upper. Sit still.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find it uncomfortable,” said Dan anxiously.
“Not a bit of it! All right, Mike! Go ahead, but do drive carefully!”
This remark caused an appreciative howl from the others, during which
progress began again. Dan felt a trifle embarrassed at first, but
everyone seemed to forget all about him on the instant, even the boy
on whose knees he sat paying no more attention to him. Once as the
carriage rattled and shook its way along, Dan had a brief glimpse of a
cluster of stone and brick buildings crowning a low hill to the left
of the road and felt comforted to know that the school catalogue had
not lied either as to the number and attractiveness of the buildings or
the commanding situation of them. Then he did his best to maintain his
seat and listened to the chatter of the fellows around him. The talk
was loud and merry and incessant, but Dan couldn’t make very much of it
until the word “football” reached him. There followed a confused and
animated discussion of the Yardley Hall eleven, its probable make-up,
its chances of success against Broadwood and the date of arrival of a
Mr. Colton, whom Dan guessed to be the head coach. The discussion was
at its height when the vehicle stopped.
“All out!” was the cry and Dan struggled to his feet and stumbled down
on to a stone pavement and found himself in front of a flight of broad
granite steps leading to a deep, arched entrance. Rescuing his bag, he
looked about him indecisively. The other boys were scattering in all
directions, some few entering the doorway before him. The boy who had
rescued him at the station was taking his departure with the others.
Dan hurried after him and touched him on the arm.
“Where do I go, please?” he asked.
The other boy, Alfred Loring, turned and gazed at Dan in mild surprise.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean where shall I go to--to find someone?”
“Oh, are you just entering?” asked Loring. “I thought you knew the
ropes. Well, come on and I’ll show you the office.”
He led the way up the steps and into the building. A broad hall
traversed the building from front to rear and was intersected by a
narrower passage running lengthwise. The woodwork was dark, and the
plaster statues standing at intervals upon their high pedestals gleamed
ghost-like against it. Loring turned to the right and led the way down
the ill-lighted corridor, past the partly-open doors of recitation
rooms, until a door with a ground-glass light in it blocked their
further passage. On the glass was printed the legend: “Office of the
Principal.” Loring opened the door and nodded his head.
“There you are,” he said. “Tell the chap at the right-hand that you
want to register. He will give you a room and look after you.”
“Thanks,” answered Dan gratefully. The other nodded again carelessly.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Glad to help you. See you again, I
hope.” He took his departure, whistling softly and swinging his
suit-case gayly along the corridor. Dan entered the office and closed
the ground-glass door behind him. The room was large and less like
an office than a library. A thick carpet covered the floor. On two
sides shelves ran from floor to ceiling and were filled with books,
filing-cases and wooden boxes lettered mysteriously. There were two
low, broad-topped desks, one at each side of the room, and between
them, opposite the door from the corridor, was a second door marked
“Private.” There were three boys ahead of him and so Dan dropped
into one of the four high-backed, uncomfortable chairs near the door
and waited. Two deeply-recessed windows at his left admitted a flood
of white light, and through them he could see an expanse of turf,
traversed by red brick walks which converged in the center of the space
where an ancient-looking marble sun-dial stood. Across the grass the
end of a modern brick and limestone building, three stories in height,
met his gaze. Beyond that again were woods. The picture was framed in
the green leaves of the English ivy which surrounded the big windows.
In the gray failing light of early evening, the quiet vista gave Dan
an impression of age and venerability which thrilled him pleasantly
and which was quite out of proportion with the real facts, for Yardley
Hall School, as Dan well knew, was less than forty years old. Even the
glimpse of Dudley Hall, a dormitory erected but three years before,
failed to disturb the impression of ancientness.
“Now, if you please.”
Dan aroused himself and approached the desk where a keen-eyed man was
regarding him a trifle impatiently over the tops of his glasses.
“What name?”
“Daniel Morse Vinton.”
The gentleman, who was the school secretary, ran his finger down the
pages of a book beside him until it stopped at an entry. Then he took a
filing card from a drawer and wrote on it.
“Residence?”
“Graystone, Ohio.”
“Age?”
“Fifteen.”
“Class?”
“I don’t quite know, sir. I hope to get into the Third.”
“Father’s name and business?”
“John W. Vinton, manufacturer.”
“Mother’s name, if living?”
“Mary Vinton.”
“Street address?”
“Seventy-four Washington Avenue.”
“Religious denomination?”
“Baptist.”
“Bills to be sent to father or mother?”
“Father, please.”
“That’s all. Examinations in Room N to-morrow at nine-thirty. Your room
is Number 28 Clarke Hall. Your room-mate is Henry Jones, a Third Class
boy. I hope you will pass your examinations and enjoy your stay here.
You have a check for your baggage? Thank you. It will be delivered this
evening, probably. When you go out turn to your left, please; Clarke
is the second dormitory. Dr. Hewitt receives the new students to-morrow
evening from eight to nine in the Assembly Hall. I hope you will
attend. If any question as to dormitory accommodation arises please see
the matron, Mrs. Ponder, Room 2, Merle Hall. If there is anything else
you want to know about you will find someone here from nine until six
every day. Good evening.”
“Good evening,” answered Dan. “Thank you, sir.”
But the secretary was already absorbed again, and Dan lifted his bag
and went out. To the left was a second building of granite, a very
plain, unlovely structure which the ivy had charitably striven to
cover. Beyond this a handsome, modern building of brick came into
sight. There were two entrances and Dan went in at the first. A sign
at the foot of the stairs announced “Clarke Hall; Rooms 1 to 36.” Dan
climbed two flights and sought his number. He found it at length on the
last door in the entry and knocked.
“Come in!” called a voice.
Dan entered. Before him, scowling interrogatively at the intruder, was
the boy who had held his bag in the carriage.