The Fall Term was three days old when James Andrew Wigman availed
himself of Jonesie’s invitation. Jonesie returned to his room that
afternoon in a condition of utter boredom. It had rained all day, there
was no promise of clearing, and Jonesie, unfortunately susceptible
to weather conditions, was as near having a case of the blues as is
possible for a healthy boy of fourteen. After slamming the door and
skimming his wet cap across the study in the general direction of the
window seat he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and stared
disgustedly at his roommate. “Sparrow” Bowles, deep in the pages of a
paper-covered romance, never even turned his head. Sparrow was fifteen,
long, lank, dark-complexioned and lazy. Fate had thrown them together
at the commencement of their Junior Year and Jonesie had never yet
quite forgiven Fate. Finally, discovering that his scowling regard was
having no impression, he observed challengingly:
“Crazy old bookworm!”
Sparrow looked up and blinked.
“What’s eating you?” he inquired.
Jonesie grunted and sank into a chair. “Find out,” he said affably.
Sparrow shrugged his narrow shoulders and turned back to his book.
Jonesie continued to glower upon him. At length:
“You’ll turn into a book some day,” he sneered.
“You’ll turn into a jug of vinegar some day,” replied the other,
without looking up. But the cleverness of the retort brought a smirk
to his face. Seeing it, Jonesie reached a foot forward and dexterously
sent the paper-covered volume hurtling across the room.
“Fresh!” he muttered.
Sparrow viewed him angrily through the round lenses of his rubber-rimmed
spectacles.
“You pick that up!” he demanded.
Jonesie smiled cheerfully. “Yes, I will!” he responded. But the tone of
voice rather contradicted the statement. Sparrow glared indecisively
from his companion to the book. Sparrow was not afraid of Jonesie, but
he was far too lazy to engage in combat unless absolutely driven to it.
Finally, with a shrug:
“It’ll stay there, then,” he said.
“For all of me,” agreed Jonesie.
Followed a silence. Sparrow blinked at the falling rain and the
dripping trees on the campus. Jonesie gazed speculatively at Sparrow.
But the scrap, as brief as it had been, had in a measure relieved his
feelings, and at the end of five minutes he asked:
“What do you know?”
Sparrow scowled and shrugged his shoulders again.
“I know you make me sick,” he answered ungraciously.
“You make me a heap sicker,” responded Jonesie. “Anyone been in?”
“No――yes, there was a fellow in here half an hour ago asking for you.”
“Who was he?”
“Search me.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much. Left a note on the table, I think.”
“You _think_! Don’t you ever _know_ anything?” Jonesie got up and found
the note. “It wouldn’t have hurt you a whole lot to have said something
about this when I came in, you lazy chump!” He glanced at it and thrust
it into a pocket. “It’s important, too,” he added severely. “You’re a
wonder, Sparrow!”
“I forgot it,” said Sparrow untroubledly. “What’s it about?”
“None of your business.” Jonesie rescued his cap from the floor,
borrowed Sparrow’s umbrella from the closet and hurried out.
“Come back with that brulla!” shouted Sparrow.
As this produced no result, he shrugged his shoulders, picked up his
book and started reading again.
The note was signed “James A. Wigman,” and informed Jonesie that he
was rooming at Mrs. Sproule’s on Center Street, adding that if Jonesie
had time to drop around he’d take it as a great favor. Now Jonesie was
not the least bit in the world interested in young Mr. Wigman. He had
scraped acquaintance with him on the train for no other reason than
he had exhausted all other means of entertainment. It had amused him
to impose upon the new boy with an assumption of influence which he
by no means possessed, and, once started, it was Jonesie’s artistic
temperament which had led him to round off the incident with the
presentation of a visiting card and an avowal of friendly interest.
To-day, had there been anything else to occupy Jonesie’s talents,
young Mr. Wigman’s appeal would probably have gone forever unanswered.
But Jonesie was bored and a call on the new boy offered at least some
slight variation of the monotony of life.
Wigman had a room to himself at Sproule’s, a dormer-windowed cell on
the third floor. Pictures, rugs, pillows and knick-knacks had, however,
lent an air of comfort to the white-walled apartment, and Jonesie,
having been gratefully welcomed by Wigman and escorted to the only
comfortable chair, affably commended the quarters.
“It isn’t bad, is it?” asked Wigman. “I brought quite a lot of truck
from home.”
“One has to,” replied Jonesie. “Well, how’s it going, Wigman?”
“Very well so far, thank you. I haven’t got my courses quite
straightened out yet. I find I’ve got to take French or German, and I
didn’t expect that.”
“Yes, one of ’em’s required. You won’t mind ’em, though. Better take
French. I did. It’s more use to you. I discovered that abroad. If you
know French you can get around anywhere, even in Germany. How are you
getting on with football?”
“Why――why, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Wigman. “I
went out Wednesday, of course. I suppose I got along all right. They
put me in D Squad. But I heard to-day that Mr. Cutler is going to let
some of the fellows go Monday.”
Jonesie nodded. “He would, you know.”
“Yes, and――I wondered――――” Wigman hesitated and sought for the right
words. “I thought that perhaps, after what you said on the train the
other day, Jones, that perhaps you wouldn’t mind――that is――wouldn’t
mind――saying a word for me!”
“Hm,” mused Jonesie.
“Of course,” Wigman hastened to add, “I don’t want any favors, you
understand! And――and I don’t want you to do it if you’d rather not,
Jones. Only I thought――that if you just said a word to the Captain he
might give me a chance, you see; let me stay on a little longer. I’m
pretty sure I can make good, but I’m stale and I’m afraid they’ll let
me go Monday.”
“I see.” Jonesie considered thoughtfully. “Of course,” he went on
presently, “there’s always the Class Team to fall back on. You’d make
that, I guess, without much trouble.”
Wigman’s face fell. “Y-yes, but――but after what you said the other
day, Jones, I――I sort of want to make the School Team――or the Second,
anyway! You know you said first-year fellows had done it.”
“Did I? Yes, of course I did! Quite right, too. By the way, what
position are you trying for?”
“Quarter.”
“Gee!” murmured Jonesie. “That――er――complicates it, doesn’t it?” In
response to Wigman’s unspoken question he went on. “I mean that
there’s only one quarterback position to fill and so, of course, it’s
harder. You see that, eh? Now, if you were trying for end or tackle or
guard or half you’d stand just twice the chance. Still――――”
“I’ve always played quarter,” said Wigman. “I suppose I might try for
half, though.”
“Well, there’s no hurry about that,” replied Jonesie. “I’ll speak to
Bing about you. Of course I can’t promise anything. Bing’s a most
conscientious chap and, while, of course, he’d do anything in reason
for me, he might――er――there might be some reason why he couldn’t do
this. There’s Cutler, for instance. Awfully opinionated cuss, that
Coach. Hard to work with. Bing says so himself. Still, you sit tight,
Wigman, and I’ll see what can be done.”
“Oh, thank you a thousand times, Jones!”
“Better not thank me until we see how it turns out,” warned Jonesie. “I
may fall down, you see.”
“Even if you do I――I’ll feel mighty grateful to you, just the same.
And――and I hope you don’t mind my asking you?”
“Not a bit! Glad to do anything I can, Wigman. What’s the good of
having influence if you don’t make use of it for your friends? I say,
that’s a peach of a racket you have!”
“Yes, it isn’t bad. I have another one over there.” Wigman took down
the Smith Special and handed it across for Jonesie’s examination. “I
haven’t used it but once or twice. It’s a little too heavy for me, I
find. I do better with the other one. Do you play?”
“Not very much. I’m fond of the game, though. Used to do fairly well
before the doctors butted in.”
“I forgot about that,” murmured Wigman sympathetically.
Jonesie weighed the racket in his hand, felt the grip of it, swung it
experimentally to and fro and tapped the mesh approvingly.
“Some racket that, Wigman. Don’t know when I’ve run across one I liked
as well. Thanks.” He handed it back. Wigman accepted it, but did not
return it to its place over the narrow mantel. Instead, he swung it
nervously back and forth behind him, opened his mouth, closed it and
exhibited all the signs of embarrassment. If Jonesie saw he pretended
not to. He picked his cap up and lounged across to the bureau, bending
over the row of photographs displayed.
“This your father, Wigman? Fine-looking chap, by Jove! You take after
him a lot, don’t you?”
“Do you think so?” asked Wigman in permissible surprise. “Folks usually
think I look a good deal more like my mother. That’s her picture at the
end there.”
Jonesie observed it critically, shot a look at Wigman and shook his
head.
“N-no, I don’t think so. Of course there’s a strong likeness there,
too, but it’s your dad you resemble most, I’d say. Well, I must be
getting along. Sorry I wasn’t in when you called, Wigman. Try again,
will you? I’d like you to meet my chum, Bowles. Fine fellow, Bowles. A
bit studious for a lazy duffer like me”――Jonesie’s smile made a joke of
that!――“but we get on first chop. Come over soon, Wigman. I wish you
would.”
“Thanks, I――I’d like to. And I’m ever so much obliged about this――this
other business. It’s frightfully decent of you, Jones!”
“Piffle,” answered Jonesie deprecatingly.
“It is, though,” Wigman went on earnestly. “And――and about this thing.”
He brought the racket back into view. “I never use it, Jones, and I
have another one, anyway; and it’s a lot too heavy for me, besides.
And so――so”――Wigman was making hard work of it, stammering and
blushing――“so I wish you’d take it, Jones!”
“Take it?” echoed Jonesie uncomprehendingly.
“As a gift, you know. I suppose it’s cheeky on my part, but――――”
“My dear fellow!” Jonesie smiled sweetly, protestingly. “It’s certainly
fine and dandy of you, but I couldn’t think of it! Positively I
couldn’t, Wigman!”
“Well――of course――――” The hand holding the racket fell limply. “I wish
you might, though.”
“It’s fine of you, but――er――hang it, Wigman, it looks almost like a
bribe!”
Wigman colored furiously. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. Honest I
didn’t, Jones! You――you believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! I know better, but others might think――well, you know
what fellows are!”
“Yes, but they needn’t know, need they? I wouldn’t tell. You――you’ve
been so awfully kind to me, Jones, and I don’t know any fellows yet,
and――and I’d just like you to have it! It would be awfully good of you
if you would!”
Jonesie was affected by this appeal. He hesitated on the very verge of
another refusal. Wigman, seeing it, renewed his appeal.
“It isn’t as though I didn’t have another perfectly good one, Jones,
because I have. I do wish you would!”
“Why――why, if you put it that way,” murmured Jonesie, vacillating.
“But, I say, Wigman, it’s worth five or six dollars, you know!”
“Seven,” answered Wigman, “but that’s got nothing to do with it. I――I’d
just like you to have it. Won’t you, please?”
“Well, if you really want me to――――” Jonesie hesitated still, but
Wigman thrust the racket into his hand. Jonesie, discovering it there,
viewed it with surprise. Then, “Thanks, Wigman, it’s awfully decent
of you, old man. I really haven’t done anything to deserve this, you
know, but I’ll accept it in――er――the spirit it is offered in. And, I
say, let’s have a set some day, will you?”
“I’d love to!” exclaimed Wigman.
“Good!” Jonesie changed the racket to the other hand and offered the
first to Wigman. “We’ll do it. Good luck, Wigman. Sit tight and leave
everything to me! So long!”
Swinging the racket appreciatively as he entered the campus, Jonesie
almost collided with a tall, broad-shouldered Upper Classman.
“Hi, kid, look where you’re going,” ejaculated the latter
good-naturedly. Jonesie stepped out of the way into a puddle.
“Beg pardon, Bingham,” he said humbly.