“28 CLARKE”
“Hello,” exclaimed Harry, alias “Tubby” Jones. “Who do you want?”
The tone was decidedly uncivil and Dan would have resented it had
he been feeling less strange and lonesome. As it was he smiled
ingratiatingly as he set down his bag.
“They told me at the office,” he replied, “that I was to room in 28
Clarke. This is 28, isn’t it? And you’re Jones, aren’t you?”
Tubby gave a growl of disgust.
“Gee, I knew I’d draw a freak,” he muttered. Dan heard and flushed.
In momentary confusion he picked up his bag and deposited it on the
window-seat at the end of the room. Tubby watched him with no attempt
at concealing his disgust. Now, lest you gather the impression that our
hero is a most unprepossessing youth, I’ll explain that Tubby Jones
would have shown displeasure had his new room-mate been an Apollo in
appearance, a Chesterfield in manners, a Beau Brummel in attire and
a paragon of all virtues. Tubby, who, by the way, was none of these
things himself, was what might be inelegantly called a chronic kicker.
Tubby had a ceaseless quarrel with the world at large and things in
general. He was a stout youth of sixteen with a round, pasty face on
which there was habitually an expression of discontent and usually a
scowl of sulky wrath. Tubby always had a grievance; he would have been
dreadfully unhappy without one. Oddly enough, he was not unpopular
in school, although he had few friends. The fellows never took him
seriously--which was itself a grievance--and usually treated him with
good-natured tolerance, using him as a butt for their jokes. The fact
that Tubby couldn’t take a joke made it all the more fun.
When Tubby intimated that Dan was a freak he was more unflattering
than truthful. And Tubby was forced to acknowledge unwillingly that
this new room-mate of his was a mighty prepossessing chap; well-made,
pleasant-mannered and attractive of face. Which was quite sufficient
to make Tubby dislike him cordially. You see, Tubby wasn’t well-made,
nor pleasant-mannered, nor attractive to look upon. And envy was at the
bottom of many of Tubby’s grievances. Tubby stood with his hands in his
pockets and looked aggressively at Dan. What he saw was a boy rather
large for his age, fairly tall and “rangey,” with little superfluous
flesh on his bones and a quick, alert way of looking and moving. He
also saw a pair of steady, quiet brown eyes, a short, straight nose,
brown hair and a nice mouth which at the present moment was trying
bravely to smile. Perhaps Dan’s attire wasn’t quite the thing judged by
Tubby’s standard; the clothes had been bought in Dayton “ready-to-wear”
and didn’t fit very well; but the material was good and the color
unobtrusive.
“Where do you live?” asked Tubby, as Dan, having unstrapped his bag,
looked around for places in which to deposit the contents.
“Graystone, Ohio,” answered Dan. “Is that my bureau over there?”
“Yes, only it’s a chiffonier,” replied Tubby with a grin. “Say, do you
reckon I could get a hat like that if I sent the money?”
Dan glanced in surprise at his straw hat on the window-seat. Then he
looked doubtfully at Tubby.
“Sorry you don’t like it,” he said. “But I guess it’s pretty near time
to call it in, anyhow. Which is my bed?”
“Everything on that side of the room is yours. Who said I didn’t like
the hat? It’s a beaut! Did they give it to you when you bought the
clothes?”
“No,” answered Dan quietly, “I paid for it.”
“Well, they must be robbers out your way,” laughed Tubby.
Dan made no answer. He was feeling too dejected to even get angry;
besides Tubby’s ill-nature was so obvious that it lost its effect. Dan
cleared out his bag and put it on the top shelf of his closet. Then he
went back to the window-seat, took one knee in his hands and looked
about him. The room was on the corner of the building, was some twenty
feet long by twelve broad and was well if not luxuriously furnished.
There was an iron cot-bed against each of the side walls, a chiffonier
at the foot of each bed and a stationary washstand beside it. A broad
study table stood under the chandelier, flanked on each side by an
arm-chair. The floor was of hard wood and an ingrain “art-square”
covered all but a narrow border. Beside the arm-chairs there were two
straight-backed chairs, and the shallow bay window held a comfortable
window-seat. On the walls, which were painted a light gray, hung four
pictures, two on each side. These were part of the furnishings supplied
by the school and were all framed alike in neat, dark oak frames. There
was a photograph of the ruins of the Forum, an engraving of dogs,
after Landseer, one of Napoleon on the deck of the Bellerephon and a
cheerful colored print of the Christmas annual sort. There was a rule
that forbade the hanging or placing of any other objects on the walls,
but above each chiffonier a series of narrow shelves were built and on
these the students arranged their photographs and posters.
“It’s a real nice room,” observed Dan sincerely.
Tubby sniffed.
“Glad you think so,” he sneered. “I think the rooms here are the limit.
You nearly freeze in cold weather.”
“There’s steam heat, isn’t there?” asked Dan, with a glance at the
radiator.
“Supposed to be, but you’d never know it. You’ve got the warmest side
of the room.”
“On account of that side window there? I don’t mind the cold. I’ll
change if you’d rather.”
“What’s the use? You’re cold anyhow, wherever you are. Are you one of
those fresh-air cranks that want all the windows open at night?”
“No, one’s enough, I guess,” answered Dan.
“Well, you see that it’s the one nearest you, and don’t think you’re
going to have it open all the way, either. I’m susceptible to cold, I
am. I had the grippe last winter.”
“All right. When do we have supper?”
“Half-past six.” Tubby looked at his watch. “It’s twenty minutes
after. Say, have you got any kind of a clock?”
Dan shook his head.
“Well, we need one,” continued Tubby. “If you’re thinking of adding
anything to the furnishing of this palatial abode a clock’s the thing
to get.”
“I see. Are you allowed to have furniture of your own?”
“You can have an easy chair if you like,” said Tubby. “Maybe you’d
better get one. I usually use the window-seat and it only holds one
comfortably.”
Dan stifled a smile.
“I guess we can take turns at it,” he answered quietly. He began to
wash in preparation of supper. Tubby stared scowlingly at his back.
“What class are you in?” he asked presently.
“Don’t know yet; Third, I hope.”
“I’m in that. You’d better keep out. It’s an awful roast. They work you
to death.”
“You mean you are in the Third Class this year?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I thought you said, but I wondered how you knew so much
about it if you were just starting.”
“I know what fellows say,” answered Tubby crossly. “You’d better go in
for the Fourth.”
“Maybe I’ll have to,” responded Dan cheerfully. “I’ll tell you more
about it this time to-morrow.”
“Huh! You’re one of those smarties who think they know it all, aren’t
you?”
“I hope not. If you’re going to supper I wish you’d show me the way, if
you don’t mind.”
“All right. Come along. You won’t get much to eat, though, I can
tell you that. They simply try to starve you here. Wish I’d gone to
Broadwood, like I was going to.”
But Dan found that Tubby’s croakings about the supper were misleading.
The food was very good and there was no evident attempt on the part
of the waiters to force anyone to leave the table hungry. The dining
hall, or commons as it was called, occupied most of the first floor of
Whitson Hall, the unlovely granite structure which Dan had passed on
his way to his room. There were thirty tables, holding from eight to
ten boys each. Some of the tables were presided over by instructors,
while in one corner of the hall a small table was occupied by Dr.
Hewitt, the Principal; Mrs. Ponder, the Matron; Mr. Collins, the
Assistant Principal, and the Secretary, Mr. Forisher.
When Dan and his room-mate reached the hall they found it already well
filled and Tubby gazed disgustedly at his watch, comparing it with the
big clock over the fire-place. “Ten minutes slow!” he growled. Then he
ambled over to a nearby table, leaving Dan to fend for himself. But a
waiter came to his assistance, Dan gave his name, it was checked off
from a list, and he was conducted down the hall. It was a long trip,
for the table at which Dan finally found himself was quite at the
other end of the room from where he had entered, and he tried his best
neither to jostle the hurrying waiters or run into any of the occupants
of the tables. He succeeded in both attempts and sank thankfully into a
chair.
He might easily have thought himself in the dining room of a hotel,
save for the absence of color lent by women’s dresses. As his eyes
ranged about the hall they fell presently on a youth who was seated
across the table. It was the boy who had come to his assistance at the
station. As Dan’s eyes rested for a moment on him he wished that his
acquaintance of the afternoon would look up and speak to him. He was
an attractive, jolly looking chap, with brown hair that was slicked
down very carefully on either side of his well-shaped head, a slightly
aquiline nose, and dark eyes--probably brown, although Dan couldn’t be
certain of that--that were frank and merry. Dan liked his looks very
much and hoped they would become friends. After Tubby Jones the boy
across the table was decidedly refreshing. But Dan was forced at last
to withdraw his gaze without having secured a glance of recognition,
and turned his regard to the other fellows at the table.
They were of all sorts, it seemed; in age, from fourteen to eighteen;
attractive and unattractive, light and dark, sober and merry. But they
seemed to Dan to be all much alike in one thing, and that was their
air of absolute self-possession. For some reason he felt himself in
comparison awkward and rough. No one spoke to him save the fellow on
his left, who once asked for the pepper and once for the bread. Dan
ate his dinner with a good appetite, glancing now and then across the
table at his acquaintance of the afternoon and listening interestedly
to the conversation about him. Much of it was unintelligible, abounding
as it did in names and terms that were strange. But he learned in the
course of it that the boy who had shown him the way to the office was
named Alf Loring; for some of the fellows called him Alf and some
Loring. Alf, reasoned Dan, was probably short for Alfred. As in the
coach coming from the station, the subject of football claimed a good
deal of attention, and it was evident from the deference paid to his
opinions that Loring was to some extent an authority. By the time his
dessert came on many of the fellows had finished their dinners and left
the table, and Dan, for very loneliness, turned to his neighbor on the
left, who had not quite finished, and ventured an inquiry.
“Are we--” Then he corrected himself; perhaps he had no right to say
“we” yet. “Is the school going to have a good football team this year?”
he asked.
His neighbor glanced at him curiously, but with nothing of
unfriendliness, and shook his head.
“Pretty fair, I guess,” he answered. “We lost a lot of fellows last
Spring, though.”
“I see,” said Dan. He couldn’t think of anything more to say at the
moment and his informant paid no further attention to him. A chair
scraped at the other side of the table and Dan looked across in time
to see Loring arise. A moment later their glances met. Loring’s swept
by and then returned, while a little pucker of indecision creased his
forehead. Then recognition came and he nodded across, pausing with a
hand on the back of his chair.
“Hello,” he said. “How’d you get on? All right?”
“Yes, thanks,” answered Dan, feeling a little self-conscious as the
remaining boys turned their eyes to him. “They gave me a room in Clarke
Hall.”
“You might have done worse,” said Loring. “Who are you with?”
“With?” repeated Dan, puzzled.
“I mean who’s your room-mate?”
“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Dan. “A fellow named Jones.”
“Not Tubby Jones?”
“I think so. He was in the coach with us.”
“That’s Tubby,” answered Loring with a smile. Several of the others
laughed outright and a boy at the end of the table remarked as he
pushed back his chair: “I wish you joy!” It wasn’t intended for Dan’s
ears, but Dan heard it.
“Well, Clarke’s a pretty good dormitory,” said Loring. “You might have
had worse luck.” He smiled again in friendly fashion and took his
departure. Dan thought that the two or three fellows who remained at
the table seemed a trifle more interested in him than they had before,
but none of them spoke and presently he left the table himself.
Tubby Jones was not in the room when he got back to Clarke. His trunk
was there, however, and for the next hour Dan was too busy unpacking
to feel lonesome. But afterwards, when everything had been put away
he wished that someone would come in; even Tubby would have been
welcome. But no one came and so Dan glanced over the books on Tubby’s
side of the table, selected a battered copy of one of Henty’s stories
and settled himself in a chair. He made up his mind to get interested
in the story and keep his thoughts away from Graystone and the folks
there; he had thought at first of writing a letter, but he knew that
if he did he would be homesick in a minute. Luckily the book captured
his interest before a half-dozen pages had been turned and he was
thoroughly absorbed in the startling adventures of the hero when the
door flew open and Tubby entered. Behind came a second boy, a sharp
contrast to Tubby. He was about the same age, but there all likeness
ended, for the stranger was thin and sallow with untidy hair of a
nondescript shade of light brown, a mere apology for a nose and a wide,
loose mouth that was always smiling in a nervous, ingratiating way just
as Tubby’s was forever set in lines of displeasure. His eyes were quite
as indecisive as his hair in regard to color and had a shifty look that
Dan didn’t find prepossessing. The first thing that Tubby saw was the
book in Dan’s hand.
“Hello,” he said with a scowl, “isn’t that my Henty?”
“Why, yes, I guess so,” answered Dan. “I found it on the table!”
“Well, I don’t lend my books,” growled Tubby.
“Oh!” Dan looked at him rather blankly and then at the stranger.
The latter was grinning as though in appreciation of his friend’s
discourtesy, but tried to straighten his mouth when Dan looked at him.
“Sorry,” said Dan. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” He got up and put the
book back in its place. “I don’t think I’ve hurt it,” he added dryly.
“Well, if you’d asked me--” began Tubby a trifle more graciously.
“You weren’t here, you see,” said Dan. He picked up Tubby’s cap, which
the latter had just tossed on the desk, and placed it on top of the row
of books.
“What’s that for?” asked Tubby suspiciously.
“This is my side of the table,” answered Dan quietly, “and I don’t like
things put on it.”
Tubby scowled angrily and muttered to himself. Then he took up the
cap and tossed it onto a hook in his closet, closing the door with a
vindictive slam. The stranger had seated himself on the edge of Tubby’s
bed and was grinning like a catfish; the expression is Dan’s, not mine.
The possibility of a quarrel between the room-mates seemed to fill him
with the most pleasant anticipations. But, as before, when he caught
Dan’s gaze on him he strove to dissemble his enjoyment. Perhaps Dan’s
glance had in it something of the instinctive dislike which he felt for
the other, for the stranger seemed a little embarrassed and turned to
Tubby.
“I say, Tubby, you might introduce me, you know,” he challenged.
“I forgot,” muttered Tubby. “Mr. Hiltz, Mr. Vinton. Jake is in the
Third and he will tell you just what I did, it’s a mighty tough job.”
Dan shook hands with Jacob Hiltz, wondering as he did so how Tubby
had learned his name; for Tubby had not asked it and Dan had not
volunteered it. As a matter of fact, Tubby had paid a visit to the
Office after supper and asked Mr. Forisher, a course quite typical
of Tubby, who, as Dan learned later on, would much rather obtain his
information in a round-about way than ask a straightforward question.
Hiltz laughed nervously as he dropped Dan’s hand.
“Yes, it’s a tough class all right,” he corroborated. “They say the
Latin is fierce.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “We have Collins in Latin, and he’s a regular
slave-driver.”
“He’s the Assistant Principal, isn’t he?” Dan asked.
“Yes, that’s what they call him, but he really does most of the work.
Toby’s a figure-head. All he does is to interfere with things and spoil
our fun.”
“Toby?” repeated Dan vaguely.
“Doctor Hewitt,” Jake Hiltz explained. “His first name is Tobias, you
know. He’s not a bad old sort.”
“Oh, he makes me tired,” growled Tubby. “Doesn’t do a thing that’s any
good and draws a big salary for doing it.”
“How old is he?” Dan asked.
“Oh, pretty near seventy, I guess.”
“Does he teach?”
“Yes, some. You’ll have him in Greek when you get into the First Class.
He’s a cinch, though, the fellows say. Wish Collins was like him.”
“Are the exams very stiff?”
“You bet they are,” said Tubby. “That’s why you’d ought to try for the
Fourth instead of the Third. You’d be certain to make the Fourth, you
see.”
“Well, but if I miss the Third, there’s still the Fourth, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” Tubby shook his head dubiously. “But it’s a bad plan to start
out that way; Faculty doesn’t like it. Does it, Jake?”
“Dead against it,” answered Jake promptly and with conviction. “If I
were you I’d try the Fourth. Then, if you wanted to you could take two
extras next year and maybe skip the Third. Two or three fellows are
doing that.”
“Sounds a bit difficult,” mused Dan. “What class are you in?”
“Third,” answered Tubby.
“Oh, then you really don’t know very much about it from experience, do
you?” asked Dan carelessly. Jake was at a loss for a moment, but Tubby
came to his assistance.
“He’s heard plenty of fellows talk about it, I guess. Jake’s been here
two years.”
“I see. Still, maybe you fellows are more scared than you need be. I
shall try for the Third, anyway.”
“Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you,” said Tubby irritably.
“No, and I’m much obliged to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” answered Jake sweetly. But Dan didn’t like his
tone. They talked for awhile longer desultorily. Dan tried to learn
something about football at the school, for he meant to try for the
team, but neither Tubby nor Jake seemed to be the least bit interested
in the game.
“One thing’s sure, though,” said Tubby, “and that is that we will get
licked again this year just as we did last.”
“How’s that?” Dan inquired.
“Rotten coaching,” Tubby growled. “They’ve got a fellow named Payson
for Head Coach and he’s no good. A conceited chap who thinks he’s the
whole show. He doesn’t know enough about football to coach a girls’
school!”
“Do you play?” asked Dan suspiciously. Tubby shook his head.
“No, not on your life! I know how, all right, but there’s no use trying
to make the team here unless you’re a swell or a particular friend of
Payson’s.”
“Oh, then you don’t think there’s any use in my trying for the team?”
Dan asked.
“You!” Tubby and Jake viewed him derisively. “You’d have about as much
show as--as--”
“As I would,” Jake assisted.
Dan looked at Jake’s thin, flat-chested figure and tried not to smile.
But he wasn’t wholly successful and Jake flushed.
“Oh, you may have the build all right,” he said, “but it takes more
than that to get on the team here. Payson won’t pay any attention to a
fellow unless he’s had a lot of experience.”
“Well, I’ve had three or four years of it,” said Dan.
“Oh, Western football doesn’t count,” Tubby sneered. “You’ll find we
play a different game here.”
“That so? By the way, who is Loring?”
“Alf Loring?” asked Tubby quickly. “He’s quarter-back on the eleven and
he thinks he can play football. Do you know him?” Dan shook his head.
“I sat at table with him to-night,” he said.
“Huh! You ought to feel honored! He’s a cad, he is. There’s lots of
them here, and he’s the top-notcher of them all. He makes me sick.
Conceited fool! If you want to play football you’d better try for the
class team; you’ll be lucky if you make substitute on that!”
“Well, I’m going to bed,” said Jake. “Good night. Glad to have met you,
Vinton. I’m in Whitson; Number 7. Get Tubby to bring you over some
time. Hope you get through exams O.K. Good night.”
Tubby went off with his friend and Dan went to bed. He had just pulled
the covering over him when Tubby returned. Dan feigned sleep and Tubby,
after one attempt at conversation, let him alone. Soon the light went
out and Dan, lying with wide-open eyes, considered the day’s events.
On the whole he wasn’t very well satisfied. He had been at Yardley Hall
five hours and had been spoken to by exactly four of the two hundred
and seventy boys. And of the four two he already cordially disliked.
Of the others, one, his neighbor at table, had neither repelled nor
attracted him, while Loring, if he was to accept Tubby’s estimate,
was not promising. But he had a suspicion that Tubby’s estimates were
not always just, and what little he had seen of Loring he liked.
Unfortunately, Loring hadn’t shown any reciprocal sentiments. Dan
smiled ruefully as he recalled his father’s advice on the subject
of forming friendships. “Don’t make your friendship too cheap,” he
had counselled. “If a fellow wants it make him pay your price.” Dan
wondered now whether anyone was going to want his friendship at any
price whatever! Perhaps, after all, he would have done better to have
gone to a western school. At Brewer, for instance, he would have by
this time, he was certain, known half the school. Yes, there was
undoubtedly a difference between western ways and eastern. It wasn’t
that Yardley fellows don’t make friendships, for after supper he had
passed boys in Oxford Hall with their arms over each other’s shoulders
as chummy as you pleased. Perhaps it was merely that it was harder
here to make friends, more difficult to become acquainted. Perhaps
after you got to know the fellows you would like them immensely.
Only--well, Dan wondered whether he would ever get to know the right
sort, for certainly, with Tubby and Jake as examples, he hadn’t made a
very brilliant beginning! And still wondering, Dan fell dejectedly to
sleep.