HE ACHIEVES A NAME FOR HIMSELF
At the foot of the staircase Irving hesitated until the sound of the
voices and footsteps had ceased. The three boys had not seen him when he
had entered; he was wondering whether he had better be courageous, go
right up after them, and introduce himself,--just as if they had not
caught him off his guard and put him into a ridiculous position,--or
delay a little while in the hope that their memory of it would be less
keen.
He decided that he had better be courageous. When he reached the top
floor, he went into his room; he was feeling nervous over the prospect
of confronting his charges, and he wished to be sure that his hair and
his necktie looked right. While he was examining himself in the mirror,
he heard a door open on the corridor and a boy call, "Lou! Did you know
that Mr. Williams won't be back this term?"
Farther down the corridor a voice answered, "No! What's the matter?"
"Typhoid. Mr. Randolph told me."
"Who's taken his place?" It was another voice that asked this question.
"A new man--named Upton. I haven't laid eyes on him yet."
"Wouldn't it be a joke--!" The speaker paused to laugh. "Suppose it
should turn out to be the new kid!"
"'I am not a new kid; I am a master.'"
The mimicry was so accurate that Irving winced and then flushed to the
temples. In the laughter that it produced he closed his door quietly and
sat down to think. He couldn't be courageous now; he felt that he could
not step out and face those fellows who were laughing at him. Of course
they were the ones who ought to be embarrassed by his appearance, not
he; but Irving felt they would lend one another support and brazen it
through, and that he would be the one to exhibit weakness. He decided
that he must wait and try to make himself known to each one of them
separately--that only by such a beginning would he be likely to engage
their respect.
It was the first time that he had been brought face to face with his
pitiable diffidence. He was ashamed; he thought of how differently
Lawrence would have met the situation--how much more directly he would
have dealt with it. Irving resolved that hereafter he would not be
afraid of any multitude of boys. But he refrained from making his
presence known in the dormitory that afternoon.
At half past five o'clock he went downstairs to the rooms of Mr.
Randolph, who had charge of the Upper School. Mr. Marcy, the Fifth Form
dormitory master, and Mr. Wythe, the Fourth Form dormitory master, were
also there. They were veterans, comparatively, and it was to meet them
and benefit by what they could tell him that Irving had been invited.
All three congratulated him on his good fortune in obtaining the Sixth
Form dormitory.
"The older they are, the less trouble they are," said Wythe. "My first
year I was over at the Lower School, looking after the little kids. Half
the time they're sick and whimpering and have to be coddled, and the
rest of the time they have to be spanked."
"It hardly matters what age they are," lamented Marcy, pessimistically.
"There's bound to be a dormitory disorder once in so often."
"What do you do in that case?" asked Irving.
"Jump hard on some one," answered Wythe. "Try to get the leader of it,
but if you can't get him, get somebody. Report him,--give him three
sheets."
"That means writing Latin lines for three hours on half-holidays?"
"Yes, and six marks off in Decorum for the week. Of course they'll come
wheedling round you, wanting to be excused; you have to use your own
discretion about that."
"Do you have any Sixth Form classes?" asked Marcy.
"Yes," Irving answered. "In Geometry."
"That means you'll have to take the upper hand and hold it, right from
the start. If you have one crowd in dormitory to look after and another
crowd in class, you can afford to relax a little now and then; but when
it's the same boys in both--they watch for any sign of weakening."
"There will be only two of them at your table, any way, Mr. Upton," said
Randolph. He passed over a list. "The others are all Fourth and Fifth
Formers--only Westby and Carroll from the Sixth!"
"Westby!" Wythe sighed. "Maybe we were premature in congratulating you.
I'd forgotten about Westby."
"What is the matter with him?" asked Irving.
"His cleverness, and his attractiveness. He smiles and smiles and is a
villain still. He was in my dormitory year before last and kept it in a
constant turmoil. And yet if you have any sense of humor at all you
can't help being amused by him--even sympathizing with him--though it's
apt to be at your own expense."
"He's perfectly conscienceless," declared Marcy.
"And yet there's no real harm in him," said Randolph.
"He seems to be something of a puzzle." Irving spoke uneasily. "And he's
to be at my table--I'm to have a table?"
"Oh, yes. In fact, one or two of the Sixth Formers--Scarborough, for
instance--have tables. But we don't let all the Sixth Formers eat
together; we try to scatter them. And Westby and Carroll have fallen to
your lot."
"If you happen to see either of them before supper, I should like to
meet them," Irving said.
He felt that if he could make their acquaintance separately and without
witnesses, he could produce a better impression than if he waited and
confronted them before a whole table of strange faces.
But as it happened, that was just the way that he did meet Westby and
Carroll. When the supper bell sounded, the hallway of the Upper School
was crowded with boys, examining the schedule which had been posted and
which assigned them to their seats in the dining-room. Irving, after
waiting nervously until more than half the number had entered the
dining-room and deriving no help from any of the other masters, went in
and stood at the head of the third table, as he had been instructed to
do. Four or five boys were already standing there at their places; they
looked at him with curiosity and bowed to him politely. The crowd as it
entered thinned; Irving was beginning to hope that Westby and Carroll
had gone elsewhere,--and then, just as Mr. Randolph was mounting to the
head table on the dais, two boys slipped in and stood at the seats at
Irving's right. He recognized them as having been two of the three who
had laughed when he had proclaimed himself a master. One was the slim,
tall fellow who had called him "new kid."
For a moment at Irving's table, after the boys had rattled into their
seats, there was silence. In front of Irving were a platter of cold
tongue and a dish of beans, and he began to put portions of each on the
plates piled before him. Then as he passed the first plate along the
line he looked up and said, "I think we'd better find out who everybody
is. So each fellow, as he gets his plate, will please sing out his
name."
That was not such a bad beginning; there was a general grin which
broadened into a laugh when the first boy blushingly owned to the name
of Walnut. Then came Lacy and Norris, and then Westby.
"Oh," said Irving. "I think you're to be in my dormitory, aren't you?"
"I believe so." Westby looked at him quizzically, as if expecting him to
make some reference to their encounter; but Irving passed on to his next
neighbor, Carroll, and then began with the other side of the table.
He liked the appearance of the boys; they were quiet-looking and
respectful, and they had been responsive enough to his suggestion about
announcing their names. A happy inspiration told him that so long as he
could keep on taking the initiative with boys, he would have no serious
trouble. But it was one thing to recognize an effective mode of conduct,
and another to have the resourcefulness for carrying it out. Irving was
just thinking what next he should say, when Westby fell upon him.
"Mr. Upton,"--Westby's voice was curiously distinct, in spite of its
quietness,--"wasn't it funny, our taking you for a new kid this
afternoon?"
Because the question was so obviously asked in a lull to embarrass him,
Irving was embarrassed. The interest of all the boys at the table had
been skillfully excited, and Westby leaned forward in front of Carroll,
with mischievous eyes and smile. Irving felt his color rising; he felt
both abashed and annoyed.
"Why, yes," he said hesitatingly. "I--I was a little startled."
"Did they take you for a new kid, Mr. Upton?" asked Blake, the Fifth
Former, who sat on Irving's left.
"For a moment, yes," admitted Irving, anxious not to pursue the subject.
But Westby proceeded to explain with gusto, while the whole table
listened. "Lou Collingwood and Carrie here and I were in front of the
Study, and out came Mr. Upton. And Lou wanted to nail him for the
Pythians, so we all pranced up to him, and I said, 'Hello, new kid; what
name, please?'--just like that; didn't I, Mr. Upton?"
"Yes," said Irving grudgingly. He had an uneasy feeling that he was
being made an object of general entertainment; certainly the eyes of all
the boys at the table were fixed upon him smilingly.
"What happened then?" asked the blunt Blake.
"Why, then," continued Westby, "Mr. Upton told us that he wasn't a new
kid at all, but a new master. You may imagine we were surprised--weren't
we, Mr. Upton?"
"Oh, I could hardly tell--"
"The joke was certainly on us. As the French say, it was a
_contretemps_. To think that after all the years we'd been here, we
couldn't tell a new kid from a new master!"
Irving was mildly bewildered. He could not quite determine whether
Westby was telling the story more as a joke on himself or on him.
Anyway, in spite of the temporary embarrassment which they had caused
him, there seemed to be nothing offensive in the remarks. He liked
Westby's face; it was alert and good-humored, and the cajoling quality
in the boy's voice and the twinkle in his eyes were quite attractive. In
fact, his manner during supper was so agreeable that Irving quite forgot
it was this youth whom he had overheard mimicking him: "I am not a new
kid; I am a master."
After supper there were prayers in the Common Room; then all the boys
except the Sixth Formers went to the Study building to sit for an hour
under the eyes of a master, to read or write letters. On subsequent
evenings they would have to employ this period in studying, but as yet
no lessons had been assigned; the classroom work had not begun. The
Sixth Form were exempt from the necessity of attending Study, and had
the privilege of preparing their lessons in their own rooms. Irving
found, on going up to his dormitory, that the boys were visiting one
another, helping one another unpack, darting up and down the corridor
and carrying on loud conversations. He decided, as there were no lessons
for them to prepare, not to interfere; their sociability seemed harmless
enough.
So, leaving the door of his room open that he might hear and suppress
any incipient disorder, he began a letter to Lawrence. He thought at
first that he would confide to his brother the little troubles which
were annoying him. But when he set about it, they seemed really too
petty to transcribe; surely he was man enough to bear such worries
without appealing to a younger brother for advice.
There was a loud burst of laughter from a room in which several boys had
gathered. It was followed by the remark in Westby's pleasant,
persuasive voice,--
"Look out, fellows, or we'll have Kiddy Upton down on us."
"Kiddy Upton!" another voice exclaimed in delight, and there was more
laughter.
Kiddy Upton! So that was to be his name. Of course boys gave nicknames
to their teachers,--Irving remembered some appellations that had
prevailed even at college. But none of them seemed so slighting or so
jeering as this of Kiddy; and Irving flushed as he had done when he had
been taken for a "new kid." But now his sensitiveness was even more
hurt; it wounded him that Westby, that pleasant, humorous person, should
have been the one to apply the epithet.
Westby began singing "The Wearing of the Green," to an accompaniment on
a banjo. Presently four or five voices, with extravagant brogues, were
uplifted in the chorus:--
"'Tis the most disthressful counthry
That ever there was seen;
For they're hanging men and women too
For wearin' of the green."
There was much applause; boys from other rooms went hurrying down the
corridor. The banjo-player struck up "The Road to Mandalay;" again
Irving recognized Westby's voice.
Irving decided that he must not be thin-skinned; it was his part to step
up, be genial, make himself known to all these boys who were to be under
his care, and show them that he wished to be friendly. He did not wait
to debate with himself the wisdom of this resolve or to consider how he
should proceed; he acted on the impulse. He walked down the corridor to
the third room on the left--the door of Westby's room, from which the
sounds of joviality proceeded. He knocked; some one called "Come in;"
and Irving opened the door.
Three boys sat in chairs, three sat on the bed; Westby himself was
squatting cross-legged on the window seat, with the banjo across his
knees. They all rose politely when Irving entered.
"I thought I would drop in and make your acquaintance," said Irving.
"We're bound to know one another some time."
"My name's Collingwood," said the boy nearest him, offering his hand. He
was a healthy, light-haired, solidly put together youth, with a genial
smile. "This is Scarborough, Mr. Upton."
The biggest of them all came forward at that and shook hands. Irving
thought that his deep-set dark eyes were disconcertingly direct in their
gaze; and a lock of black hair overhung his brow in a far from
propitiating manner. Yet his bearing was dignified and manly; Irving
felt that he might be trusted to show magnanimity.
"Here's Carroll," continued Collingwood; and Irving said, "Oh, I know
Carroll; we sat together at supper." Carroll said nothing, merely smiled
in an agreeable, non-committal manner; so far it was all that Irving had
discovered he could do.
"That fellow with the angel face is Morrill," Collingwood went on, "and
the one next to him, with the aristocratic features, is Baldersnaith,
and this red-head here is Dennison,--and that's Westby."
Irving, shaking hands round the circle, said, "Oh, I know Westby."
"Sit down, won't you, Mr. Upton?" Westby pushed his armchair forward.
"Thank you; don't let me interrupt the singing."
"Maybe you'll join us?"
Irving shook his head. "I wish I could. But please go on."
Westby squatted again on the window-seat and plucked undecidedly at the
banjo-strings. Then he cleared his throat and launched upon a negro
melody; he sang it with the unctuous abandon of the darkey, and Irving
listened and looked on enviously, admiring the display of talent. Westby
sang another song, and then turned and pushed up the window.
"Awfully hot for this time of year, isn't it?" he said. "Fine moonlight
night; wouldn't it be great to go for a swim?"
"Um!" said Morrill, appreciatively.
"Will you let us go, Mr. Upton?" Westby asked the question pleadingly.
"Won't you please let us go? It's such a fine warm moonlight night--and
it isn't as if school had really begun, you know."
"But I think the rules don't permit your being out at this time of
night, do they?" said Irving.
"Well, but as I say, school hasn't really begun yet. And besides, Scabby
here is almost as good as a master--and so is Lou Collingwood; I'm the
only really irresponsible one in the bunch--"
"Where do you go to swim?"
"In the pond, just beyond the isthmus--only about a quarter of a mile
from here. Come on, fellows, Mr. Upton's going to let us go."
Irving laughed uneasily. "Oh, I didn't say that. If Mr. Randolph is
willing that you should go, I wouldn't object."
"You're in charge of this dormitory," argued Westby. "And if you gave us
permission, Mr. Randolph wouldn't say anything."
"I don't feel that I can make an exception to the rules," said Irving.
"But school hasn't really begun yet," persisted Westby.
"I think it really has, so far as observing the rules is concerned,"
replied Irving.
"You might go with us, sir--and that would make it all right."
"But I don't believe I want to go in swimming this evening."
"I'm awfully afraid you're going to be just like granite, Mr. Upton,"
sighed Westby,--"the man with the iron jaw." He turned on the others a
humorous look; they all were smiling. Irving felt uncomfortable again,
suspecting that Westby was making game of him, yet not knowing in what
way to meet it--except by silence.
"I'll tell you what I will do with you to-morrow, Wes," said
Collingwood. "I'll challenge you to that water duel that we were to have
pulled off last June."
"All right, Lou," said Westby. "Carrie here will be my trusty squire and
will paddle my canoe."
Carroll grinned his assent.
"I'll pick Ned Morrill for my second," said Collingwood. "And Scabby can
be referee."
"What's a water duel?" asked Irving.
"They go out in canoes, two in each canoe," answered Scarborough. "One
fellow paddles, and the other stands up in the bow with a long pole and
a big fat sponge tied to the end of it. Then the two canoes manoeuvre,
and try to get within striking distance, and the fellow or canoe that
gets upset first loses. We had a tournament last spring, and these two
pairs came through to the finals, but never fought it out--baseball or
tennis or something always interfered."
"It must be quite an amusing game," said Irving.
"Come up to the swimming hole to-morrow afternoon if you want to see
it," said Collingwood, hospitably. "I'll just about drown Westby. It
will be a good show."
"Thank you; I'd like to--"
"But don't you think, Mr. Upton,"--again it was Westby, with his cajoling
voice and his wheedling smile,--"that I might have just one evening's
moonlight practice for it?"
"Oh, I don't believe you need any practice."
"But you said I might if Mr. Randolph would consent. I don't see why you
shouldn't be independent, as well as liberal."
There was a veiled insinuation in this, for all the good-natured,
teasing tone, and Irving did not like it.
"No," he said. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't let you go swimming
to-night.--I'm glad to have met you all." And so he took his departure,
and presently the sound of banjo and singing rose again from Westby's
room.
Irving proceeded to visit the other rooms of the dormitory and to make
the acquaintance of the occupants--boys engaged mostly in arranging
bureau drawers or hanging pictures. They were all friendly enough; it
seemed to him that he could get on with boys individually; it was when
they faced him in numbers that they alarmed him and caused his manner
to be hesitating and embarrassed. One big fellow named Allison was
trying to hang a picture when Irving entered; it was a large and heavy
picture, and Irving held it straight while Allison stood on a chair and
set the hook on the moulding. Allison thanked Irving with the gratitude
of one unaccustomed to receiving such consideration; indeed, his
uncouthness and unkemptness made him one of those unfortunate boys who
suffered now and then from persecution. Irving learned afterwards that
the crowd he had met in Westby's room hung together and were the leaders
not merely in the affairs of the dormitory, but of the school.
At half past nine the big bell on the Study building rang twice--the
signal for the boys to go to their respective rooms. Irving had been
informed of the little ceremony which was the custom; he stepped out in
front of his door at the end of the corridor, and one after another the
boys came up, shook hands with him, and bade him good-night. Westby came
to him with the engaging and yet somewhat disquieting smile which
recalled to Irving Mr. Wythe's words, "He smiles and smiles, but is a
villain still." It was a smile which seemed to suggest the discernment
and enjoyment of all one's weak spots.
"_Good_-night, Mr. Upton," said Westby, and his voice was excessively
urbane. It made Irving look forward to a better acquaintance with both
expectancy and apprehension.
The first morning of actual school work went well enough; Irving met his
classes, which were altogether in mathematics, assigned them lessons,
and managed to keep them and himself busy. From one of them he brought
away some algebra exercises, which he spent part of the afternoon in
correcting. When he had finished this work, the invitation to witness
the water duel occurred to his mind.
He found no other master to bear him company, so he set off by himself
through the woods which bordered the pond behind the Gymnasium. He came
at last to the "isthmus"--a narrow dyke of stones which cut off a long
inlet and bridged the way over to a wooded peninsula that jutted out
into the pond. On the farther side of this peninsula, secluded behind
trees and bushes, was the swimming hole.
As Irving approached, he heard voices; he drew nearer and saw the bare
backs of boys undressing and heard then the defiances which they were
hurling at one another--phrased in the language of Ivanhoe.
"Nay, by my halidome, but I shall this day do my devoir right worthily
upon the body of yon false knight," quoth Westby, as he carefully turned
his shirt right side out.
"A murrain on thee! Beshrew me if I do not spit thee upon my trusty
lance," replied Collingwood, as he drew on his swimming tights.
Then some one trotted out upon the spring-board, gave a bounce and a
leap, and went into the water with a splash.
"How is it, Ned?" called Westby; and Irving came up as Morrill, reaching
out for a long side stroke, shouted, "Oh, fine--warm and fine."
"Hello, Mr. Upton." It was Baldersnaith who first saw him; Baldersnaith,
Dennison, and Smythe were fully dressed and were sitting under a tree
looking on.
"You're just in time," said Collingwood.
Scarborough, stripped like Westby and Carroll and Morrill and
Collingwood, was out on the pond, paddling round in a canoe. He was
crouched on one knee in the middle, and the canoe careened over with his
weight, so that the gunwale was only an inch or two above the surface.
He was evidently an expert paddler, swinging the craft round, this way
and that, without ever taking the paddle out of the water.
Two other canoes were hauled up near the spring-board; Carroll was
bending over one of them.
"Bring me my lethal weapon, Carrie," Westby commanded. "I want to show
Mr. Upton.--Is the button on tight?"
Carroll produced from the canoe a long pole with an enormous sponge
fastened to one end; he pulled at the sponge and announced, "Yes, the
button's on tight," and passed the pole over to Westby.
Westby made one or two experimental lunges with it and remarked
musingly, "When I catch him square above the bread line with this--!"
"Come on, then!" said Collingwood. "Come here, Ned!"
Morrill swam ashore and pushed off in one of the canoes with
Collingwood--taking the stern seat and the paddle. Collingwood knelt in
the bow, with his spear laid across the gun-wales in front of him. In
like manner Westby and Carroll took to the water.
"This is the best two bouts out of three," called Scarborough, as he
circled round. "Don't you want to come aboard, Mr. Upton, and help
judge?"
"Why, yes, thank you," said Irving.
So Scarborough called, "Wait a moment, fellows," and paddling ashore,
took on his passenger. Then he sped out to the middle of the bay; the
two other canoes were separated by about fifty feet.
"Charge!" cried Scarborough, and Morrill and Carroll began paddling
towards each other, while in the bows Collingwood and Westby rose to
their feet and held their spears in front of them. They advanced
cautiously and then swung apart, evading the collision--each trying to
tempt the other to stab and overreach.
"Oh, you're both scared!" jeered Baldersnaith from the shore.
The canoes swung about and made for each other again; and this time
passed within striking distance. Westby's aim missed, his sponge-tipped
lance slid past Collingwood's shoulder, and the next instant
Collingwood's sponge--well weighted with water--smote Westby full in the
chest and hove him overboard. For one moment Carroll struggled to keep
the canoe right side up, but in vain; it tipped and filled, and with a
shout he plunged in head foremost after his comrade.
They came up and began to push their canoe ashore; the two other canoes
drew alongside and assisted, Scarborough and Morrill paddling, while
Irving and Collingwood laid hold of the thwarts.
"That's all right; I'll get you this time," spluttered Westby. "We're
going to use strategy now."
They emptied the water out of the canoe and proceeded again to the
battleground. Then, when Scarborough gave the word, Carroll began
paddling madly; he and Westby bore down upon their antagonists at a most
threatening speed. Morrill swung to the right to get out of their path;
and then suddenly Carroll swung in the opposite direction--with what
strategic purpose neither Irving nor Scarborough had time to conjecture.
For they were loitering close on that side, not expecting any such
manoeuvre; the sharp turn drove the bow of Carroll's canoe straight for
the waist of Scarborough's, and Westby with an excited laugh undertook
to fend off with his pole, lost his balance, and trying to recover it,
upset both canoes together.
Irving felt himself going, heard Westby's laughing shout, "Look out, Mr.
Upton!" and then went under.
[Illustration: THE CANOES SWUNG ABOUT AND MADE FOR EACH OTHER]