"Here comes J. P. Whittington, Junior, Esquire, in his new Norman! Some
speed--what?"
The three Graffam Academy seniors, Jim Spurling, Roger Lane, and
Winthrop Stevens, who were sitting on the low, wooden fence before the
campus, earnestly discussing the one thing that had engrossed their
minds for the past two weeks, stopped talking and leaned forward.
On the broad, elm-lined street beyond the Mall suddenly appeared a cloud
of dust, out of which shot a gray automobile. Its high speed soon
brought it to the academy grounds, and it came to an abrupt stop before
the fence.
"Pile in, fellows!" shouted the driver, a bareheaded youth in white
flannels, "and I'll take you on a little spin."
He was a slim, sallow lad of seventeen, with a straw-colored pompadour
crowning his freckled forehead. The sleeves of his outing shirt were
rolled up above his elbows, revealing his bony, sunburnt arms. He wore a
gay red tie, and a tennis blazer, striped black and white, lay on the
seat beside him.
"No, thanks, Percy," replied Lane. "Sorry we can't go; but we're too
busy."
Spurling and Stevens nodded as Whittington's light-blue eyes traveled
inquiringly from one to the other.
"Ah, come on!" he invited. "Be sports! Let's celebrate the end of the
course. Just to show how good I feel, I'm going to scorch a three-mile
hole through the atmosphere between here and Mount Barlow faster than it
was ever done before. Tumble aboard and help hold this barouche down on
the pike while I burn the top off it for the last time."
Pulling out a book of tissue wrappers and a sack of tobacco, he began to
roll a cigarette with twitching, yellowed fingers.
"Anybody got a match? No? Then I'll have to dig one up myself."
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a lucifer. Soon he was inhaling
the smoke and talking rapidly.
"I'm so glad this is my last week here I feel like kicking my head off.
Once I shake the dust of this dump off my tires, you can bet you'll
never catch me here again. Say, do you know what this Main Street
reminds me of? An avenue in Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans, with a row
of white tombs on each side. I saw it last Christmas. They bury 'em
aboveground there, too. The Rubes in this burg are just as dead, only
they don't know it."
Drawing a final, long, luxurious whiff, he tossed the half-smoked
cigarette away.
"Well, so long! My dad's coming on the five-ten to see his only son
graduate _cum laude_. And me loaded down with conditions a truck-horse
couldn't haul! Wouldn't that jar you? Guess I'll have to do my
road-burning before he gets here. Hold a watch on me, will you? I'm out
for the record."
"Careful, or you'll get pinched for over-speeding," cautioned Stevens.
Whittington spat contemptuously.
"Pinch your grandmother!" he jeered. "I've been pinched too many times
to mind a little thing like that."
Off darted the gray car. The three gazed after it in silence. Then
Spurling spoke.
"Must seem rather pleasant to have a bank-account you can't touch the
bottom of, mustn't it? They say his father's all sorts of a millionaire.
Hope he doesn't get smashed up or run over somebody."
"He's a good-natured fool," commented Lane. "But you can't help liking
him, after all. Now let's get back to business."
It was Commencement week in mid-June at the old country academy nestled
among the New England hills. The lawns before the substantial white
houses were emerald with the fresh, unrivaled green of spring. Fragrant
lilacs sweetened the soft air. The walks under the thick-leafed elms
were thronged with talking, laughing groups. Bright-colored dresses
dotted the campus before the dingy brick buildings. Tennis-courts and
ball-field were alive with active figures. A few days more and students
and strangers would be gone, and the old town would sink into the drowsy
quiet of the long summer vacation.
Lounging on the notched, whittled fence, Lane, Spurling, and Stevens
fell once more into earnest conversation.
Spurling came from a Maine coast town. He was nineteen, tall,
broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned, deliberate in speech and movements.
Physically very strong, he had caught on the academy ball team and
played guard in football. Mentally he was a trifle slow; but in the
whole school there was no squarer, more solid fellow. So far as finances
went, he was dependent on his own resources; whatever education he got
he must earn himself.
Lane afforded in many respects a decided contrast to Spurling. Reared on
a New Hampshire farm in the shadow of the White Mountains, he was of
medium build, wiry and active, a practical joker, full of life and
spirit. He had red hair and the quick temper that goes with it. Though
not much of a student, he had at eighteen a keen, clear business head.
Like Spurling, he had been obliged to make his own way; and, like
Spurling, he was abundantly able to make it.
Winthrop Stevens, or "Throppy," as his friends nicknamed him, claimed a
small Massachusetts city as his home. He was the best scholar of the
three, dark, quiet, studious, with a decided trend toward mechanics and
electricity. Though not obliged to work for his schooling, he had always
chummed with the other two, and with them had been a waiter at a shore
hotel the previous season.
The trio were endeavoring to decide what they should do the coming
summer.
"Well," said Lane, "what shall it be? Juggling food again at the
Beachmont?"
"Not for me," answered Spurling, decidedly. "I'm sick of hanging round a
table, pretending to do as many unnecessary things as you can, wondering
whether the man you've waited on is going to give up a half-dollar or a
nickel, knowing that the more uncomfortable you can make him feel the
bigger fee you'll pull down. No more tipping for me! I'd rather earn my
money, even if I don't get so much."
"Hits me, Jim," assented Stevens. "What do you say, Budge?"
"Same here," agreed Roger.
The long-drawn shriek of a locomotive rose from the valley-bottom.
"There's the five-ten!" ejaculated Lane. "I pity Whittington when his
dad finds how things have gone."
"Percy isn't the only one who needs sympathy," said Spurling, soberly.
"What about his father?"
"I'm sorry for 'em both," was Lane's comment. "But the Whittington
family'll have to handle its own troubles. Now, fellow-members, to the
question before the house! Unless I raise at least two hundred dollars
in the next three months, it's no college for me in September."
A short silence followed. Spurling took out his knife and deliberately
slithered a long, splintery shaving off the fence-top.
"I've an idea," he said, slowly. "Give me till evening and I'll tell
you about it. What d'you say to a last game of tennis?"
The others agreed and slipped off the fence. Lane glanced up the road.
"Here comes Whittington, scorching like a blue streak! And there's Bill
Sanders's old auto crawling up May Street hill from the railroad
station! If Percy should hit him--good-night!"
The gray machine rapidly grew larger. The people on the sidewalks stood
still and watched.
May Street crossed Main at right angles, and a high cedar hedge before
the corner house made it impossible for the two drivers to see each
other until they were close together. On sped the gray car.
"Isn't he humming!"
Suddenly Whittington thrust out his left arm.
"He's going to turn down May Street!" shouted Lane. "Bound to the
station after his father. He'll hit Sanders, sure as fate! Hi! Hi there,
Percy!"
Heedless of the warning, Whittington whirled round into May Street and
plunged full tilt into the hotel bus, striking it a glancing blow back
of its front wheel. There was a tremendous crash.
"Come on, fellows!" cried Lane.
They ran at top speed toward the wreck. Through the clearing dust three
figures were visible, extricating themselves from the ruins. Sanders,
the hotel chauffeur, was groaning and rubbing his ankle. His only
passenger, a bald, thick-set man, with smooth face and bulldog jaw, had
a bleeding scratch down his right cheek and a badly torn coat.
Whittington, apparently unharmed, was chalky and stuttering from
fright.
Spurling, for all his slowness, was the first to reach the wreck. He
helped the stout stranger to his feet, and the man turned angrily toward
Whittington. An exclamation of surprise burst from both.
"Dad!"
"Percy!"
Understanding struggled with indignation on the older man's face.
"Well," he growled, "so you've done it again!"
For a moment the lad stood in shamefaced alarm, shaking from head to
foot.
"Are you much hurt, Dad?" he stammered.
"Only a scratch," returned Whittington, senior. "But it's no thanks to
you that I wasn't killed."
He turned to Sanders, who was still chafing his ankle.
"Anything broken?"
"No, sir; only a sprain."
"I'm glad it's no worse. Have this mess cleared away and I'll fix up
with you later at the hotel; and get my suit-case over to my room, will
you?"
To his son he said:
"We'll go to your dormitory."
He limped grimly ahead; Percy followed. As he passed the three seniors
he pulled a face of mock repentance. The boys resumed their way to the
tennis-court.
"Pretty poor stick, isn't he?" commented Lane, disgustedly. "Almost
kills his father, and then laughs at it. Throws away in a few seconds
more than enough to put the three of us half-way through our freshman
year in college. No, I've no use for Whittington."
"If he'd had to earn his own money," remarked Spurling, "he'd look on
things differently. He's got a good streak in him."
"Maybe so; but it'll take mighty hard work to bring it out. Well, here's
the court. How'll we play?"
In Whittington's room father and son silently removed the traces of the
disaster. Then the father pointed to a chair.
"Sit there! I've something to say to you."
Percy took the indicated seat. Whittington, senior's, jaw stiffened.
"Well!" he snapped. "Seems to me excuses are in order. You've smashed a
thousand-dollar machine, ruined a five-hundred-dollar one, and just
missed killing yourself and me in the bargain. Pretty afternoon's work,
isn't it?"
Percy looked injured, almost defiant.
"You must know I'm mighty sorry to have dragged you into this scrape. I
was half frightened to death when I thought you were hurt. But what odds
does it make about the cars?"
A twinkle appeared in his eye.
"You've got the cash, Dad. Who'll spend it, if I don't?"
Taking out his book, he began rolling a cigarette.
"Stop that!" exclaimed his father, angrily, "and listen to me. It isn't
the money I mind so much as it is the fool style in which you've thrown
it away. Where's the thing going to end? That's what I want to know. If
you'd only get mad when I talk to you, there'd be some hope for you. But
you haven't backbone enough left to get mad. You've smoked it all away."
"Oh, come now, Dad!"
"You ask who'll spend the money. I know mighty well who won't, unless he
strikes a new gait. There's plenty of colleges and hospitals to endow,
and enough other ways of putting all I've got where it'll do some good.
I've worked too hard and too long for my fortune to have a fool scatter
it to the winds. You can come down to the hotel with me for supper.
After that I'll foot the bills for your little excursion, and then go
over alone to see Principal Blodgett. And let me say right now that
it'll be a pretty important interview for you."
Lane, Spurling, and Stevens, their tennis over, were starting for their
boarding-house. Crossing the campus, they met Percy and his father. The
former nodded soberly. Whittington, senior, a cross of court-plaster on
his right cheek, passed them without a glance.
"Percy doesn't look very happy," remarked Stevens, when they were at a
safe distance.
"Just a passing cloud," grinned Lane. "It takes more than a little thing
like junking a thousand-dollar auto to bother Percy. He'll forget all
about it before to-morrow."
"See that dreadnought jaw on his father? If I was Percy I'd be kind of
scary of that jaw. John P. Whittington isn't a man to stand much
monkeying, or I miss my guess."
"Well, we've got troubles of our own, and no dad with a fat
bank-account to foot the bills. Why so still, Jim? Something on your
mind, eh?"
Jim's forehead was wrinkled.
"Wait!" was all he deigned.
Back in his room, after supper, he unbosomed himself: "A week ago I had
a letter from Uncle Tom Sprowl. He lives in Stonington, on Deer Isle,
east of Penobscot Bay; but most of the time he fishes and lobsters from
Tarpaulin Island, ten miles south of Isle au Haut. Last month, just
after he had started the season in good shape, he was taken down with
rheumatism, and the doctor has ordered him to keep off the water for
three months. Now that island is one of the best stands for fish and
lobsters on the Maine coast. Somebody's going to use it this summer. Why
shouldn't we? If we have reasonably good luck, we can clear up two
hundred and fifty dollars apiece for the season's work. I've talked the
thing over with Mr. Blodgett, and he thinks it's all right. Of course
we'd be in for a lot of good hard work; but it's healthy, and we're all
in first-class trim. We'd soon get hardened to it. Now, boys, it's up to
you."
Lane hesitated.
"Do you think that two such farmers as Throppy and I could make much of
a fist at fishing?"
"Sure thing! I can show you how. I've fished since I was ten years old."
"Where did you say the island is?" asked Stevens.
"Right out in the Atlantic Ocean, a good twenty-five miles from the
mainland. It's about a half-mile long and a quarter broad, partly
covered with scrub evergreen, and has fifty acres of pasture. Uncle
Tom's got some sheep there, too. He's afraid they'll be stolen; so he
wants somebody there the earliest minute possible. He'll furnish all the
gear and go halves with us on the season's catch. What do you say,
Budge?"
"I'm with you, if Throppy is."
"It's a go," was Stevens's verdict.
Somebody knocked on the door.
"Come in!" called Spurling.
To their great surprise, in came Mr. Whittington.
Removing his Panama, he took the chair Spurling offered him. An
unlighted cigar was gripped between his short, stubby fingers. There
were dark circles under his steel-gray eyes, and his jaw had, if
possible, more of a bulldog set than ever. His square, sturdy build,
without fat or softness, suggested a freight locomotive with a driving
power to go through anything. He was not a handsome man, but he was
undeniably a strong one.
He plunged at once into the purpose of his visit.
"I guess you know I'm Whittington's father. I've just been over to
Principal Blodgett's, having a talk about Percy. I don't need to tell
you how he's spent his year here, so I'll come right to the point."
He leaned forward and fastened his keen eyes on Spurling.
"The principal says you plan to spend the summer fishing from an island
on the Maine coast. I want Percy to go with you."
The three exchanged glances of amazement. Lane swallowed a grin. Nobody
spoke for a half-minute; then Spurling broke the silence.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Whittington, but, honestly, the
thing isn't possible. That island is ten miles from the nearest other
land. We're not out for a pleasure junket, but for three months of the
hardest kind of hard work. There'll be no automobiling, no pool or cards
or moving pictures. It means being up at midnight, and not getting to
bed until the fish have been taken care of. It means sore fingers and
lame backs and aching joints. It means standing wind and cold and fog
and rain until you're tired and wet and chilled to the bone. It's a
dead-earnest business out there, one hundred days of it, and every day
has got to count. A college year for the three of us hangs on this
summer, and we can't risk having it spoiled. You'll have to think up
some other place for Percy."
Mr. Whittington's chin set a trifle more firmly. He pulled out his
cigar-case and proffered it to each of the boys in turn.
"Have a perfecto? No? Guess it's as well for you not to, after all. Wish
Percy was taken that way. Excuse me if I light up. I can talk better."
Soon he was smoking hard.
"I want to have a little talk with you about my boy. Come, now, just
between ourselves, what kind of a fellow is he? You probably know him
better than I do. I've had my business; and he's been under tutors and
away at school so long that I haven't seen much of him since his mother
died, eight years ago."
The boys glanced at one another and hesitated. Young Whittington was a
hard topic to discuss before his father. The millionaire misunderstood
their silence. His face grew gloomy.
"Oh, well, if he's as bad as all that, no matter! I hoped he might have
_some_ good points."
"Don't misunderstand us, Mr. Whittington," said Spurling, quietly.
"Percy isn't a bad fellow. He isn't dishonest. He doesn't cheat or crib.
He's flunked honestly, and that counts for something. He's a good
sprinter, and plays a rattling game of tennis, and he'd be a very fair
baseball-player if he'd only let cigarettes alone. But he's soft and
he's lazy. He's had too much money and taken things too easy. He's
probably never earned a single cent or done a stroke of real work in his
life. He's been in the habit of letting his pocketbook take the place of
his brain and muscles; and he's got the idea that a check, if it's only
large enough, can buy anything on earth. That's why he wouldn't be any
good to himself or anybody else out on Tarpaulin Island. He'd simply be
underfoot. It'd be cruel to take him there. Excuse me if I hurt your
feelings. You've asked a straight question, and I've tried to give you a
straight answer."
The man chewed the butt of his cigar for a few seconds. Then he removed
it from his mouth and blew a smoke-ring.
"I don't believe," he said, reflectively, "that either of you three had
any tougher time than I had when I was a boy. No school after fourteen.
No college. Just work, work, work, and then some more work. But it
hardened me up, made a man of me; perhaps it hardened me too much.
Guess some of the men I've done business with have thought so. After I
made my first million--"
He broke off abruptly.
"But let's get back to Percy. I've done everything in the world for that
boy, and now I'm at the end of my rope. Tutors, private schools, summer
camps, trainers, travel, automobiles--and what have they all amounted
to?"
He talked rapidly and nervously, emphasizing with his cigar.
"It's no use to offer him any prize; he's had everything already. I
found he was hitting too rapid a pace in the bigger schools, so I sent
him down here. Thought he might do better in a quiet place. But his
reports didn't show it, and the talk I've just had with the principal
has pretty near discouraged me. I've bucked up against a good many tough
propositions, but I'm free to say that he's the toughest. I don't see
where he ever got that cigarette habit. I never smoked one in my life."
Again he began puffing furiously.
"He ought to have the stuff in him somewhere; and I believe a summer
with you fellows'd bring it out. If it didn't, I don't know what would.
Come, boys! Strain a point to oblige me! I'll pay you anything in
reason. How large a check shall I write?"
He reached for his inside pocket. Spurling flushed and held up his hand.
"No, Mr. Whittington," said he, decidedly, "we can't do business that
way. We're not running any reform school and we're not asking anybody to
give us a cent. We're going out there to earn money for our first year
in college, and we're going to take it out of the sea, every last
copper! I don't say it to boast, but since I was ten I've had to shift
for myself. I know where every cent in my pocket and every ounce of
muscle on my body has come from. If Percy should go with us he'd have to
take his medicine with the rest of us and pay his own way by working.
Give us a little time alone to talk the matter over, and we'll soon tell
you whether he can go or not."
Whittington heaved his square bulk erect and crushed on his hat.
"I'll be back in ten minutes."
Almost to the second he was at the door again. Stepping inside, he
awaited their verdict, not trying to conceal his anxiety. A great relief
overspread his face at Spurling's first words.
"All right, Mr. Whittington! Percy can come--on trial. He can stop with
us a month. Then if we don't hitch together he'll have to leave. But if
he likes it, and we like him, he can stay the rest of the summer. If the
bunch earns anything over and above what it would have gotten if he
hadn't been with us, he'll get it. If it doesn't, he won't."
Five minutes later the millionaire entered Percy's room. The latter was
smoking a cigarette and playing solitaire. He glanced up expectantly, a
couple of cards in his hand. As he sat down opposite his son, John
Whittington had never looked grimmer. The vein swelled blue on his
flushed temples, and the lines on his face were deeply drawn.
"Now, Percy, you and I are going to talk business. Put down those cards
and chuck that coffin-nail into the stove. Why can't you use a man's
smoke if you're going to smoke at all? I've been talking with Mr.
Blodgett, and I find it's the same old story. You've wound up your
preparatory course with a worse smash than you had this afternoon. You
haven't made good. I'm beginning to doubt if you _can_ make good. You've
done worse every year. You're nothing now, and if you keep on like this
you'll soon be worse than nothing. You can put down one thing good and
solid--I won't stand for your going the pace like Chauncey Pike or
George Brimmer's son. I'd give half my money--yes, the whole of it, if
you had the stuff in you that young Spurling has. I mean it."
He stopped, then began again:
"I'm going to give you one chance more, and only one. It's quicksilver,
kill or cure, and a stiff dose at that. I've just been talking with
Spurling and his two friends. They're to spend the summer fishing from
an island off the Maine coast, to earn money to start their college
course. And you're going with them!"
"What! Me! I rather guess not! Nailed to the mast three months out on a
rock like that? Not for a minute! Besides, I'm booked for Bar Harbor day
after to-morrow. Got my ticket already."
"Let's look at it!"
Percy pulled out the slip of pasteboard and passed it over.
His father thrust it into his pocket.
"I can get the money on it. The agent'll take it back."
"But I don't want him to take it back."
"_I_ do."
The bulldog jaws clamped together.
"Oh, I say, Dad! Come, now! That isn't using me right!"
"Isn't using you right? Why not? Don't be a fool, Percy! Whose money
bought that ticket?"
"Mi-- Why--er--yours, of course!"
"Well, will you go to the island?"
"No, I will not."
"Then you don't get a cent more from me. You've overdrawn your
bank-account already."
"How do you know? You haven't been down to the bank."
"You don't suppose I'd have a monthly check deposited to your account
without arranging to know something about it, do you? Mighty poor
business man if I did! Now, Percy, use what little brain you have!
You've no money, and you can't earn any. Nobody would be fool enough to
hire you. There's nothing on earth you can do. I'm going to give you one
last chance to make a man of yourself. You've three months to make good
in and I expect you to do it. You've got to make up those conditions and
earn your salt to show there's some excuse for your being alive. Your
whole life hangs on the way you spend the next hundred days. I start for
the West Coast to-morrow, and won't be back till fall. I want you to
write me--if you feel like it. Will you go?"
The strains of a violin came floating in through the open window. The
academy bell struck ten long, lingering strokes.
"Well, what do you say? I'm waiting."
Percy swallowed hard.
"I'll go."