NO THOROUGHFARE
That same afternoon Marchmont and Whitely were amusing themselves in
Stone’s room; that is, Whitely and Stone were pretending to study, while
Marchmont, who was above such pretences, was twirling Stone’s geometry
on the point of a pencil.
“Did you fellows know that Rogers isn’t coming back?”
Stone looked up from his work. “Let that book alone, can’t you!” he
exclaimed, as he snatched the geometry from Marchmont’s pencil. “Drill
holes in your own books!—How do you know that?”
“Jack Butler had a letter from him this morning. He’s gone abroad with
his family.”
“Too bad,” said Whitely. “Ted was a blamed nice fellow. There’ll have to
be a new class president elected to take his place. I suppose they’ll
just move up the vice.”
“That’s Laughlin,” observed Stone.
“Laughlin!” sneered Marchmont. “Is that jay always going to carry us
round in his pocket? I think it’s about time we struck for a decent
man!”
“Butler would make a good president, wouldn’t he?” remarked Stone. “I
wish he had some one to back him.”
“Why shouldn’t he have some one to back him?” demanded Whitely, starting
up. “And why shouldn’t we have some voice in naming the officers of the
class? Laughlin got the football captaincy away from Butler; it’s right
that But should be president. Let’s put him in!”
“Can we?” asked Stone.
The trio made a hasty count of the forces to be relied on. “How about
Poole?” asked Whitely.
“Oh, he’s for Laughlin, sure,” answered Stone.
“Then Eddy’s gone, too. And Benson?”
“We might get him,” said Stone, “if he’s worked right.”
“And that new fellow, Lindsay,” continued Whitely, turning to Marchmont.
“You’ve got him well in hand, haven’t you?”
“I guess so,” returned Marchmont, smiling. “He’s rather green and
innocent, and has some kindergarten notions which he’ll have to get rid
of, but he’ll come round in time. I think I can deliver the goods there
all right.”
So they ran over the catalogue of their intimates. It appeared that
about a dozen could be counted on at the outset.
“Let’s pledge these and gradually build up a party,” said Whitely, when
the list of sure men was at last complete. “I believe we can get such a
start before the election that they can’t get near us.”
“It would be great to give that fellow a good, hard fall,” declared
Marchmont, with enthusiasm. “He certainly needs it.”
In the evening Wolcott dropped in, as happened frequently nowadays, for
a half hour with Marchmont.
“Kind of all-round man, Laughlin is, isn’t he?” commented Marchmont, as
Lindsay sprawled on the couch before the open fire and recounted some of
his experiences of the day. “Football captain, scholar, musician, pillar
of the church, butler, furnace tender, dish-washer—it isn’t every fellow
from the woods who has a record like that. I don’t think I should want
him to handle my china.”
“What I don’t understand is why the fellows generally seem to have such
a high opinion of him,” said Lindsay.
“It’s the fashion to be democratic here,” answered Marchmont, wisely.
“And then he’s a football player, and that makes up for almost
everything. He oughtn’t to have been captain; there’s where the mistake
was made. Of course you’ve got to encourage such fellows, and it’s very
creditable in them to try to make something of themselves and all that;
but when you come to the important offices, they ought to go to fellows
of a better class, who could represent the school decently.”
“Perhaps he was the only candidate.”
“No, there was Butler, who played guard on the other side. He’s an
awfully nice fellow, though perhaps not so good a player as that big
bruiser. The choice lay between the two, and Laughlin got it.”
“He certainly thinks he’s all right,” remarked Lindsay, a little
spitefully. “He’s given me advice, on several occasions, about what I
ought to do and not to do here in school.”
“And whom you ought to know, and where you ought to go, and how you
ought to amuse yourself, and so on. He’s probably advised you against
smoking, and told you always to tell the truth when you report.”
“That’s about it,” confessed Lindsay.
“That reminds me: have I ever shown you my postern gate?”
Lindsay stared blankly. “Postern gate!”
“Yes, my secret entrance. Come here.”
Lindsay followed his companion into a closet, where Marchmont lifted the
oilcloth and showed a rectangular outline on the floor where several
boards had been sawed through. These boards, which had been fastened
together underneath to form a trap door, he lifted, disclosing a square
opening between the floor timbers into the closet below.
“That shelf under there takes out, so as to give room to get through,”
explained Marchmont, proudly; “and the box on the shelf prevents the old
lady from getting on to the game.”
Wolcott gazed into the dark, mysterious hole in amazement. The job was
cleverly done, and yet of what use could the hole be?
“Who rooms underneath,” he asked; “Salter?”
Marchmont nodded.
“I didn’t know you were so thick with him.”
“I’m not. I don’t care a rap for him. This isn’t meant for his benefit,
it’s for my own. Salter’s a virtuous chump, who’s always in at ten
o’clock, and always tells the truth when he reports. He’s a good little
boy, but not good enough to volunteer information. If I come down into
his closet and go out his window, he isn’t bound to tell of it, and of
course nobody asks him whether his ceiling’s tight.”
“I still don’t see much use for it,” said Wolcott, slowly. “If I am out
after ten, I simply say so, and tell why; I don’t mind that.”
“Supposing you don’t want to tell why,” replied Marchmont, dryly, as he
replaced the oil-cloth and led the way back into his room. “Supposing
you’re on probation or study hours or something of that sort, and want
to be out. All you have to do is to say good night to Mrs. Winter, lock
your door, and you have your evening.”
“You’ll have a chance to use the thing pretty soon, if you’re only
waiting for probation,” said Wolcott, laughing. “You’re getting below my
level in some studies, and that’s mighty close to the danger line.”
“If I never get below your level, I shan’t care,” returned Marchmont.
“I’m tutoring now with Haynes White. He’ll probably pull me up before
probation comes. If he doesn’t, let it come. I’ve been there before.”
Wolcott gathered up his hat and gloves. A full evening’s work lay before
him, and fortunately he was ambitious enough or proud enough or loyal
enough to his father to resist the influence of Marchmont’s easy-going
indifference to school duties.
And Marchmont never insisted that his friends should follow his
practices. He was always self-possessed, always indolent, always
enjoying the sense of his superiority, and, to those whom he favored,
always extremely agreeable. There was no room in school which to Wolcott
seemed as attractive as Marchmont’s. The hodge-podge of little pictures,
photographs, emblems, signs, posters, German favors, pipes, mementos,
athletic trophies, inharmonious furniture, staring carpets, which in
various forms and degrees filled the rooms of other classmates, was not
to be found here. Marchmont’s rugs were few but fine in quality—soft old
Persians which he had brought from home. A big leather sofa stretched
before the generous old-fashioned fireplace. The substantial bookcase
was crowded with volumes, though hardly such as would help a schoolboy
in his daily tasks. The cheap desk which his landlady furnished was
glorified by a quaint set of writing tools bought at the Nijni-Novgorod
fair. The scattered ornaments on the walls and mantel were unique and
striking, picked up in odd corners of Europe and the West. Altogether
this room and the easy hospitality with which it was opened to him were
strong elements in the attraction which drew our hero to Marchmont.
“You’ll stand pat with us on the election, won’t you?” said Marchmont,
between pulls of his pipe. “We want to put an end to this flannel-shirt
rule. Butler is just the man to be president of the class.”
“I’ll help you all I can,” replied Lindsay. “I’ll vote right, of course;
but I’m afraid I can’t do much else.”
“Try Poole and Benson. They’re our worst enemies, because they really
ought to be on our side. Benson’s got some grouch against Butler; and as
for Poole, that man Melvin who was here last year spoiled him.”
Lindsay’s eye fell on a copy of the _Literary Monthly_ lying on a table.
“Oh, I read your poem on ‘The Unknown Ship at Sea’ in the last _Lit_,”
he said with eager cordiality. “It’s fine!”
“Much obliged,” returned Marchmont, apparently flattered. “I don’t think
it’s much, myself, but they seemed to like it.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever known them to have,” exclaimed Wolcott.
“How did you get hold of the idea?”
Marchmont, who appeared unexpectedly embarrassed by his friend’s praise,
hesitated. “Oh, something that happened the last time we went over put
it into my head. I jotted down some lines at the time, and the other day
it occurred to me to fix them up and send them in.”
“You had something in it last month, too,” continued Lindsay. “I guess
you’ll make the board all right. I’ve sent in two things to the
_Seatonian_, but they didn’t print either of them.”
“I suppose there’s more competition for the _Seatonian_,” said the poet.
Lindsay opened the door and turned for a last word.
“I’m going to send my _Lit_ home to my family to show them what we can
do here,” he said. “My aunt is stuck on poetry, and she’s got a notion
that we don’t do anything here but play ball. This will set her right.
Good night.”
“Oh, don’t bother them with it,” called Marchmont; but Lindsay was
already out of hearing.