FRIENDSHIPS
David learned that the handicap track meet held every autumn by the
Pythians and Corinthians would take place in the latter part of
October. He entered his name for the quarter-mile as a representative
of the Pythians.
He found that he had outgrown the running shoes that he had worn in the
spring when he had been the “crack” quarter-miler of the high school.
So he put on his tennis “sneakers” and practiced daily on the track
in those. Most of the candidates for the track meet proved to be very
casual in their training; they were nearly all out trying for a place
on one of the Pythian or Corinthian football elevens, and that meant
that they had to do their track work in the half-hour recess before
luncheon or on occasions when they were excused from football. There
was no regular coaching for them; Bartlett, the Pythian captain, and
Carson, the Corinthian, were alike devoting their chief energies to
football, but occasionally found time to supervise the work of their
candidates, and more often Mr. Dean, though superannuated so far as
active participation in athletics was concerned, gave hints and advice
out of a historic past.
Among those who were playing football on the Corinthian eleven
was Wallace. He told David, however, that he meant to enter the
quarter-mile, too, and that he was coming out a couple of days before
the meet to see if he could get back his speed; he had finished third
in the championship meet of the preceding spring. When he made his
appearance in running clothes two days before the race he asked David
to time him and was much pleased because he ran the distance in only
one second more than at the spring meet. “And if I’d had to, I could
have pushed myself a little. Now I’ll time you, Ives. You haven’t got
on your running shoes――spikes hurt your feet?”
“Yes, the old shoes are too small. But these will do.”
David started off, and while he was circling the track Bartlett came
over from the football practice and watched him.
“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace in excitement when David stopped,
panting, in front of him. “As nearly as I can make it your time is the
same as mine to a fraction!”
“Then I guess I shall have to push myself a little, too,” David said.
“Both Johnson and Adams, who licked me last year, have left the school,
and I thought I had a cinch,” Wallace complained. “And now you turn up,
running like a deer!”
Bartlett put in a word of praise. “You’re going pretty well, Ives.
To-morrow be sure to come out in running shoes.”
“I haven’t any,” David replied.
“You can get them at the store in the basement of the study.” [see Tr.
Notes]
“I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to buy them.”
“You needn’t pay cash. You can have them charged on your term bill.”
“I can’t afford it, anyway.”
Bartlett looked at him perplexed, unable to see why a fellow could not
afford to have a thing charged on his term bill――for his father to pay.
Wallace spoke up. “Maybe you could wear an old pair of mine,” he said.
“What’s your size?”
“Eight, I think.”
“So is mine. I’ll see if I can’t fit you out.”
“Thanks. I guess, though, I can run in these.”
“No, you can’t,” Bartlett said. “It will be mighty decent of you to
lend him your extra pair, Wallace.”
Half an hour later David entered the basement of the study and went to
the locker room to hang up his sweater. Returning, he passed the open
door of the room in which athletic supplies were kept for sale and saw
Wallace trying on a pair of shoes; a second glance showed David that
they were running shoes. He flushed with instant understanding, and
without letting Wallace know of his presence he went upstairs.
Before dinner that evening Wallace came to his room, bearing a pair of
spiked shoes.
“Yes, I found I had an extra pair,” he said carelessly. “Here you are.
I hope they fit.”
David gravely tried them on. “Yes they’re a perfect fit,” he said. “I
hope your new ones fit you as well.”
“My new ones?”
“Yes. You’ve been running in these right along, and you’ve just bought
yourself a new pair in order to give these to me.”
“Oh, you’re dreaming.”
“It was no dream when I saw you trying them on in the store. You
oughtn’t to have done it, Wallace. It was awfully good of you.”
“Oh,” Wallace said, trying to conceal his embarrassment, “I didn’t
want to have you run in sneakers and lick me. That would be too much.
Besides, old top, we’ve got to stand by each other; we come from the
same town.”
If David could not express his appreciation fully to Wallace, he could
at least tell some one who would appreciate Wallace’s act, and it
came into his mind to tell Mr. Dean. Not only would Mr. Dean, who had
followed his practice, be interested, but he might be moved to look
more leniently on Wallace, who was giving very casual attention to his
Latin.
A good opportunity presented itself the next afternoon. Mr. Dean
watched him while he made his trial and after it congratulated him on
his speed and commented on the improvement produced by the aid of the
running shoes.
“I owe them to Wallace,” David said, and then he described the manner
in which Wallace had relieved his need.
“Very thoughtful and tactful as well as very sportsmanlike,” commented
Mr. Dean. “That’s the kind of thing I like to hear of a fellow’s doing.
I’m almost tempted to raise his Latin marks.”
“I hoped you might be.”
“Even if I were, it wouldn’t help his prospects for passing his
college entrance examinations. The trouble with Wallace is he has
never yet learned how to study.” Mr. Dean paused for a moment; then he
said, “Come up to my rooms after you’ve dressed, and we’ll talk over
Wallace’s case.”
So in half an hour they were holding a conference.
“I suppose that you’d like to help Wallace if you could,” Mr. Dean
began, and David assented earnestly.
“It may be possible――just a moment till I change my seat; my eyes are
bothering me; the light troubles them. Now! As I said, Wallace hasn’t
learned how to study. Would you be willing to teach him?”
“Of course, if I could.”
“Now suppose that you and Wallace were excused from the schoolroom
for an hour each day and given a room to yourselves in which to work
out the Latin together, without interference or supervision from
anybody――just put on your honor to study Latin every minute of that
hour――couldn’t you be of some use to Wallace?”
“I might be,” said David thoughtfully. “I should try.”
“The trouble with him is, sitting at his desk in the schoolroom he
doesn’t concentrate his thoughts. He studies, or thinks he studies,
for a few minutes; then he changes to another book, then his eyes
wander and with them his thoughts, then he takes up a pen and begins
to practice writing his signature; it’s really wonderful, the variety
of flourishes and the decorative illegibility that he has managed to
impart to it through such frequent idle practice. Of course when he’s
detected wasting time he’s brought to book for it, but the master in
charge of the schoolroom can’t ever compel him to give more than the
appearance of studiousness. And that, I am afraid, is the most that he
ever does give. But he’s an honorable fellow; and I believe that, put
on his honor to study where there was no watchful eye to challenge his
sporting spirit and with you to guide him, he might achieve results. On
the other hand, for a while, anyway, such an arrangement would probably
slow you up.”
“I should try not to let it. Even if it did, it wouldn’t be a serious
matter.”
“No more serious probably than slipping from first place to second or
third.”
“That wouldn’t be important.”
“If it happened as a consequence, I should write to your father and
explain. I hope, by the way, that you have good news of him?”
David’s face clouded. “Not very. He doesn’t say anything himself, but
mother writes that his vacation seems to have done him no good. She
says he looks bad and seems played out. But he goes on working.”
“That’s a habit of good doctors. Remember me to him when you write.
I will have a talk with the rector and see what arrangements we can
make for you and Wallace. Good luck to you in your race to-morrow. The
handicapping committee are putting you and Wallace together at scratch.”
David expressed his satisfaction at that news.
The event justified the handicapping committee’s arrangement. Besides
David and Wallace there were only two contestants in the quarter-mile,
a fourth-former named Silsbee, who was given twenty yards, and a
sixth-former named Heard, who was given ten. It was a chill and windy
day, a fact that reduced the number of spectators to a small group who
stood near the finish line with their hands in their pockets and their
overcoat collars turned up; on the turf encircled by the track the
football squads continued to practice, more or less oblivious of the
races that were being run; what chiefly marked the day as different
from one of trial tests and dashes was the table placed on the grass
near the athletic house and bearing an assortment of shining pewter
mugs and medals.
It was toward the end of the afternoon that the quarter-mile was
called. David and Wallace started together at the crack of the pistol
and held together, shoulder to shoulder, halfway round the course.
There they passed Heard, and a little farther on they passed Silsbee,
and then Wallace forged a little ahead of David. But David had planned
out his race; he was not going to be drawn into a spurt until he was
a hundred yards from home. So he let Wallace lengthen the distance
between them from one yard to five, and from five to ten; and then he
set about closing up the gap. It closed slowly but surely――one yard,
two yards, three yards gained; then four and then five. For a moment
Wallace, who heard David coming up, held that lead, but for a moment
only; then David put on all his speed and the five yards’ difference
vanished in as many seconds. Twenty yards from the finish the two were
racing neck and neck, but David crossed the line a good three feet
ahead.
In the athletic house Wallace panted out his congratulations, and David
gasped his thanks.
“Handicapped by new shoes, I guess,” David suggested.
“No; you’d have won in stocking feet. Best quarter-miler in school,”
Wallace answered. “You wait, though. Lay for you next spring.”
They finished dressing and got outdoors just in time to see the last
event on the programme――the finals of the hundred-yard dash, which was
won by a sixth-former named Tewksbury. Then the spectators moved over
in a body to the table that bore the prizes. David saw Ruth Davenport
take her stand next to Mr. Dean, who waited beside the table, ready to
speak.
“I am here merely as master of ceremonies,” said Mr. Dean, “and my
chief duty and privilege is to introduce to you Miss Ruth Davenport,
to whom, of course, you need no introduction. She will hand to each
prize-winner the mug or medal to which his efforts have entitled him.
As I call off the names each fellow will please come forward. First in
the mile run, W. F. Burton; time, six minutes and fifty-one seconds.
Second, H. A. Morton.”
Burton and Morton advanced amidst clapping of hands. David saw the
smile that Ruth had for each of them as she presented the trophy, and
when in his turn he faced her and took from her hand the cup he was
aware of a shining eagerness in her eyes; she bent toward him and said,
“Oh, I saw you win! It was splendid!”
He went back to his place in the crowd, feeling incredibly happy.
That evening Mr. Dean said to him as he passed him in the dining-room:
“It’s all right, David――the matter about which we had our talk.
I’m going to have an interview with Wallace to-night, and I hope
that he will recognize at once the benefit he is to derive from the
arrangement. You and he can have room number nine to yourselves between
eleven and twelve each day.”
The thought of the trust placed in him, of the freedom implied, and of
the closer association with Wallace was pleasant to David. He hoped
that Wallace would not be unfavorably disposed toward the plan. On that
point Wallace himself a couple of hours later reassured him. David was
getting ready for bed when there was a knock on his door and Wallace
entered.
“Mr. Dean tells me that you have me on your back, Dave,” he said.
“Pretty hard luck: I don’t see what there is in it for you.”
“Never mind about that,” David answered. “I hope you are going to like
the arrangement, Lester.”
“Oh, it’s fine for me. All I can say is, I’ll try not to be any more
trouble to you than is necessary.”
In spite of that excellent resolution, in the succeeding weeks Wallace
was a good deal of trouble to David. Not only was he naturally dull
at Latin, so that even the simplest matters had to be explained over
and over to him, but he was restless and impatient. David would get
absorbed in his own work and would suddenly remember that he had a duty
to Wallace to perform. And a glance would show him Wallace sprawling on
a bench with his eyes fixed vaguely on the opposite wall, or fiddling
with his pencil or twirling his key ring on his finger, or scribbling
the dates of such coins as he found in his pockets. Then it would be
David’s part to say: “Buck up, Lester. What’s the matter? Need some
help?” Usually Wallace thought that he did, and it would take David
five or ten minutes to get him started and prove to him that he really
did not.
“You wouldn’t quit at football just because tackling was hard to
learn,” David said. “You oughtn’t to be any more willing to quit at
Latin or anything else that you have to try.”
“Why aren’t you out playing football, Dave?” Wallace seemed not at all
interested in taking the moral to heart.
“Oh, I’m no good at it. I’ve never played very much. Here, start in
now.”
“You ought to make a good end or back, with your speed. Why don’t you
come out and try?”
“Why don’t you settle down to your job? We’re not here to talk
football.”
As a matter of fact, it was David rather than Wallace whose thoughts
went straying after that conversation. In view of the episode of the
spiked shoes, how was he to tell Wallace that he could not come out
for football simply because he had no clothes? Wallace would probably
at once play the fairy godmother again and furnish him with an outfit.
David was eager to play; he had gained in weight and strength in this
last year; there was nothing he would like better than to test his
ability and skill, nothing that he hated worse than to be thought soft
and timorous. And that, of course, was what most fellows would think.
But his mother’s letters stiffened his self-denial. She wrote that
his father seemed preoccupied and worried, and that patients were not
paying their bills, and that, though she knew it was selfish, she
could not help wishing every minute that David were at home. So he said
to himself that he did not care what people thought; he was not going
to cost the family a penny more than was absolutely necessary.
Three days after the track meet he was invited to the rectory for
supper.
“You’ll get awfully good food,” said Wallace enviously. “I was there at
a blow-out last week.”
The rectory was a hospitable house, and on this occasion there were
eight other guests besides David, all fifth-formers, who sat down
to supper with the family. The food justified Wallace’s prediction;
David blushed under congratulations from both Dr. and Mrs. Davenport,
and still more under Ruth’s statement from across the table――“It
was a corking race.” After supper the rector walked with him out of
the dining-room and said a pleasant word, complimenting him on the
assistance he was giving to Wallace.
Then they all sat in the library while Dr. Davenport read them a story
from Kipling, after which he excused himself and, departing to his
study, left the further entertainment of the guests to his wife and
daughter. With charades and “Consequences” and “Up Jenkins,” they
beguiled the time hilariously. David, when it was possible, followed
Ruth with his eyes; she was so nimble, so joyous, so radiant, that she
quite fascinated him; in watching her and in waiting for her voice he
sometimes lost the thread of the action and bungled the part that he
had to play. But he did not mind, for her laughter seemed to him even
kinder and sweeter than her applause.
The guests prepared to take their departure; in schoolboy habit they
formed in line to shake hands with their hostesses and say good-night.
David happened to be the last in the line, and Ruth detained him a
moment while she said:
“You know I’m a Pythian, David, so I was glad you won. Aren’t you going
to play football, too?”
“No, I don’t play football much,” David answered.
“You could if you tried――anybody that can run like that!”
David blushed and laughed and departed from the house feeling very much
as if he had been knighted.
And wonderfully enough, three days later he was out playing football
on the Pythian scrub, with Ruth, the most consistent of all partisans,
looking on. A letter had come from his father enclosing ten dollars――a
cheerful letter very different from those that his mother had been
writing and one that caused David’s spirits to soar. Dr. Ives wrote that
“business” had been very slow but that it was picking up a bit; that he
realized that David was probably in need of cash and that he was the
kind of fellow who would never ask for it; and that he was sending him a
little money, which he must spend for whatever he most wanted. As for
himself, Dr. Ives declared that he was feeling like a fighting-cock, now
that cool weather had come.
It did not take David long after receiving that letter to get what
he most wanted. For the rest of the football season he reported for
practice every day. He displayed no striking ability, but he won a
place as half back on the second Pythian eleven; and in the game with
the second Corinthians he made one of the three Pythian touchdowns and
later tackled a runner in the open field and got a wrenched ankle,
which necessitated his being assisted to the side lines.
[Illustration: TACKLED A RUNNER IN THE OPEN FIELD AND GOT A WRENCHED
ANKLE]
While he lay there wearing the stoical expression expected of the
injured, Ruth Davenport came up and said, “Oh, I hope you’re not much
hurt, David!”
“Oh, no; it’s nothing.” He was immensely pleased by her interest.
“You were playing so well, too. What a shame!”
He mumbled inarticulately and squirmed, but not in pain. He knew that
if he had played all through and made touchdown after touchdown he
could never have got quite such a soft look from her eyes.
And then there was a shout and a long Pythian run, and the exultant
Pythian crowd went streaming down the field, with Ruth fluttering and
dancing behind.