I
Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., sauntered along the aisle, his trim young
body accommodating itself gracefully to the erratic swaying of the
day coach. I speak of Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., as being trim, but
you are not to picture him as slender. On the contrary, without being
fat, he had in his fourteen years and some months of existence managed
to cushion his frame with enough flesh to give him a comfortably
well-rounded appearance. It seemed probable that later on the cushion
would increase in depth and that the term trim would no longer be
applicable. In fact, Daniel Webster Jones’s father――you saw his
likeness on the cartoons holding his justly celebrated Creamette
Biscuits――was quite abundantly upholstered. But at present, what with
an easy and graceful carriage and a careful attention to the niceties
of attire, Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., presented a most pleasing
appearance. Under a straw hat which was absolutely the latest cry in
masculine fashions, the boy’s copper-brown hair was brushed sleekly
back from a well-shaped forehead. Grayish blue eyes, a nose rather
too button-like to be called classical, a cherubic mouth, a nice,
firm chin with a dimple in it, all these features set in a round,
healthy, rosy-cheeked face combined to make Daniel Webster Jones, Jr.,
thoroughly attractive. Yet it was, I think, the qualities of mind
and character illumining the ingenuous countenance that won folks to
him. The gray-blue eyes seemed veritable pools of truthfulness, the
button-like nose proclaimed uncompromising integrity, the cherub lips
appeared formed for the utterance of pure and beautiful thoughts, and
when Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., smiled, one felt oh, so glad that such
innocence and candor existed in a deceitful world!
The boy’s progress through the car was neither unnoticed nor
unheralded. Small and admiring juniors looked appealingly upward
and sought recognition with a wistful “How d’ye do, Jones,” while
upper-class fellows, rousing from the lethargy induced by a two-hour
journey on a hot September afternoon, observed his advent with
something of the same relief with which a traveler on the desert might
catch sight of an oasis and hailed him hopefully with a “Hi, Jonesie!”
But Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., merely nodded with just the correct
amount of superciliousness to the juniors――one had to keep the kids in
their place――and returned the greetings of the others with preoccupied
gravity. Oddly enough this had the effect of causing smirks and winks
and nudges amongst the older fellows and one felt glad that Daniel
Webster Jones, Jr., was unconscious of the levity. One felt certain
that it would have wounded him.
The car was filled almost to its capacity, yet here and there a seat
held but one occupant. At such a seat, near the front of the coach,
Jonesie――for after all why should we accord him the dignity of his
full title when no one else did?――Jonesie, then, paused indecisively
and caught the shy upward glance of the seat’s only occupant, a boy of
perhaps thirteen years of age.
“Mind if I sit here?” asked Jonesie most politely. “Sorry to bother
you, but everything’s pretty well filled up.”
“Not――not at all!” stammered the other boy. He tugged frantically at a
fat suitcase bearing the inscription “J. A. W.” on the end and squeezed
toward the window. Jonesie murmured his thanks and seated himself with
a sigh, folding his arms and staring ahead of him with a thoughtful
frown. The train swayed onward in a cloud of gray dust. After a moment
the original occupant of the seat took courage and studied his neighbor
out of the corners of his eyes. He liked what he saw and wondered
sympathetically what weighty care was clouding the brow under the
stunning straw. At that moment Jonesie unclasped his arms and began to
study a purple blister at the base of the second finger on his right
palm. The other boy, interested, looked, too. It was a most promising
blister. He speculated as to the cause of it and considered its future
treatment rather enviously. And at that moment the proud possessor of
the blister looked up and caught his glance embarrassingly.
“Played thirty-six holes yesterday,” said Jonesie. “Hadn’t golfed
before all summer.” He frowned at the blister, wiggling his finger
experimentally. “Beastly bother,” he added disgustedly.
“Yes,” agreed the other, almost with enthusiasm. The sympathy seemed
to draw Jonesie’s attention to his companion for the first time and he
turned and shot a brief and speculative glance at him. Then,
“Randall’s?” he inquired.
“Yes, I――I’m just entering.”
“Ah!” Jonesie beamed with a sudden friendly interest. “That’s fine.
Lower Middle, I suppose?”
“N-no, just Junior,” returned the other apologetically.
Jonesie nodded. “Should have thought you’d enter Lower Middle. You look
it.” The new boy flushed with pleasure at the implied tribute to his
age, wisdom and experience. “I’m in the Lower Middle myself,” continued
Jonesie, crossing one smartly clad leg over the other and assuming an
attitude promising confidential discourse. “Hope you will like the
school.”
“I――I think so, thank you,” murmured the other. “I don’t know much
about boarding schools, though. I suppose it will be――be sort of
strange at first.”
“Probably,” replied Jonesie sympathetically. “Of course a new boy has
quite a lot to learn, but you’ll get on to things after a bit. It isn’t
a bad school, Randall’s. I dare say you know some of the fellows?”
“No.” The other shook his head a trifle dejectedly. “I guess I don’t
know a soul there.”
Jonesie frowned. “That makes it harder,” he acknowledged. “But you’ll
find friends after a bit,” he added hopefully. “Sooner the better,
too, for there’s nothing like having an older fellow to――er――sort of
give you a hand over the rough places.” Jonesie regulated carefully
the expanse of violet and gray cuff showing beyond his coat sleeve.
“At least, that was my experience. Take the matter of athletics, for
instance―――― But perhaps you don’t go in for that sort of thing?”
“Oh, yes!” replied the other eagerly, “that is, I hope to. I――I’m very
fond of football.”
“Fine game, football,” commended Jonesie. “And that’s a――er――a case
in point. Of course you’ll want to make the School Team; every fellow
does.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t expect to do that! Not the――the first year!”
“Why not? Fellows have done it. Don’t know why you shouldn’t if you
buckle down to it. I dare say I had a close shave from getting on the
School myself the first year. Unfortunately illness――er”――Jonesie’s
gaze wandered along the bell rope――“illness prevented. Quite a blow to
the Coach.”
“You――you are on the Team now?” asked the other eagerly.
Jonesie shook his head regretfully. “No, I never got into football
after that. Doctor’s orders. Perhaps next year――I’m so much better――――”
He sighed and then smiled brightly, bravely. “Well, it doesn’t matter,
I guess.”
“Oh, but if you’re really fond of the game,” exclaimed the other boy
feelingly, “it must be――be an awful disappointment! I――I’m sorry!”
“Thanks. Yes, of course it _is_ a disappointment, but”――Jonesie
shrugged his shoulders――“life is full of disappointments and one soon
learns to――er――accept them philosophically. Now take your case――er――――
You didn’t tell me your name, did you?”
“No. It’s Wigman.”
“Mine’s Jones, D. W. Jones. Well, as I was saying, Wigman, take your
case. You may have to――to accept disappointment, too. You see, there’ll
be piles of fellows trying for the Team, and some of them may show up
as well as you will, although I will say”――and here Jonesie turned to
scrutinize Wigman carefully and approvingly――“that from your looks
you ought to have the making of a dandy player.” Wigman flushed under
the compliment. “But there you are! Merit isn’t everything. You might
play as well as another chap and yet he’d get the call just because he
had――er――friends to speak for him. Do you see?”
“But――but that’s hardly fair, is it?” asked Wigman. “I thought
Randall’s was a school where you――where every fellow had the same
chance as every other fellow. I――I’ve heard so.”
“Sure! That’s so, to a certain extent. Still, you know yourself,
Wigman, that if you were captain of the Team――as you will be some day,
or I miss my guess!――you couldn’t help favoring the fellow you knew,
supposing he played as well as the other fellow, whom you didn’t know.
It’s human nature, isn’t it?”
Wigman allowed that it was.
“Of course! There you are, then! So what you want to do is to make
friends, Wigman; get acquainted right away and, if you can do it, find
a fellow who’s close to Bing.”
“Bing?” faltered Wigman.
“Yes, Carey Bingham. He’s captain this year. His chums call him
Bing for short. Nice chap, Bing. I’ve just been having a chat
with him in the smoker. Bing has a queer idea that I’m a judge of
football material. Maybe he isn’t so far wrong, either; I’ve picked
more than one green player and seen him develop into a wonder. And
I don’t believe I’ve picked a bad ’un yet. We were talking over
this year’s prospects. Bing’s inclined to be a bit discouraged
and――er――pessimistic, but I told him that to my mind we had as good an
outlook as ever we’d had. Quite cheered up, he was, when I left him.
Wanted me to stay and go over the schedule with him, but I couldn’t
stand the smoke any longer. Well, here’s the bridge. We’ll be at
Chester Hill in five minutes. I must get my things together. Awfully
glad to have met you, Wigman, and if there’s anything I can do for you
just let me know, will you?”
“Th――thank you,” said the other boy gratefully. “But I wouldn’t think
of bothering you.”
“No bother at all. Tell you what I’ll do, Wigman.” Jonesie drew forth a
silver card case, abstracted an oblong slip of thin cardboard bearing
his name and home address in ornate Old English letters and scrawled
a line on it with a silver pencil. “There’s where I hang out――18
Hawthorne. Look me up as soon as you get settled or let me know where
to find you and I’ll drop in. Maybe I can put you on to the ropes a
bit, eh? Very glad to do anything I can for a new fellow. Know what it
means to be dumped down here with a couple of hundred strangers. Makes
you feel sort of lost and all that for a bit. I know! Glad to have met
you, Wigman. See you again soon, I hope.”
Jonesie smiled his best and sweetest smile, shook hands and sauntered
off, leaving James Andrew Wigman filled with gratitude and admiration.
Halfway along the aisle an imperious hand shot out and seized on
Jonesie. Jonesie, after a vain attempt to elude his captor, faced him
innocently.
“Hello, Carpenter,” he said sweetly. “How’s the boy?”
“What have you been up to, Jonesie?” inquired Carpenter, a big Senior,
sternly.
“Me?” Jonesie’s candid countenance expressed surprise. “Why, nothing!”
“What kind of a yarn have you been stringing to that poor Fresh down
there?” persisted Carpenter.
“You make me tired! Can’t a fellow be decent to a new boy, I’d like to
know? I’ve been cheering him up a bit, that’s all. Found him terribly
down in the dumps, poor chap. You Upper Class fellows never think of
trying to make things a bit easier for new boys.” Jonesie mingled
regret with indignation. Carpenter blinked. “Seems to me you fellows
ought to remember how you felt yourselves when you struck school and
didn’t know anyone! It――it’s mighty lonesome business, Carpenter!”
“Is that so, Jonesie? Well, you’d better write to the _Weekly_ about
it. A fat lot of comforting you were doing, I’ll bet!” But after
Jonesie had gone on, Carpenter glanced inquiringly at Gus Peasley, who
occupied the seat with him. “Maybe Jonesie is right about it, too,”
said Carpenter. “I dare say it would be a decent thing if some of us
Upper Classmen sort of looked after the new boys a little. I remember
myself――――”
“Piffle!” This was Peasley, grinning. “Jonesie doesn’t care a hang
whether a new boy is homesick! Bet you a dollar, Billy, he’s been up to
some more of his deviltry!”
“Think so?” asked Carpenter doubtfully. “Maybe. I wouldn’t trust him.
Just the same, Gus, there’s something in what he said.”
Peasley yawned as he got up to rescue his suitcase from the rack above.
“Jonesie could talk tears out of a brick, Billy,” he replied. “He’s the
biggest little faker in school. Some day, if he doesn’t get hung first,
he’ll be President!”