A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE
"Not what you'd call a very good beginning," thought Ira, ruefully,
as, followed by the somewhat puzzled looks of the group in front of
the gymnasium, he made his way across the campus. "It was his fault,
though. There wasn't any call for me to stand around idle and get
jabbed in the nose. Just the same, it would have been better if I'd
gone on about my business instead of trying to get a rise out of them.
Guess what you need to do, son, is keep your hands in your pockets and
your mouth shut!"
For the following hour he was very busy. Mrs. Anstruther regretfully
informed him that all her rooms were engaged, and the same announcement
awaited him at Baker's. It was at the latter house that the mysterious
symbols were satisfactorily explained. "R," he was told, meant that the
house offered rooms only, while "R & B" stood for room and board. Ira
mentally called himself an idiot for not having guessed as much. At a
little past one he gave up the search long enough to perch himself at a
counter in a lunch-room on School Street. A sign over the doorway held
the inscription "The Eggery," and, judging from the fact that fully
half the patrons in sight were boys of ages from fourteen to twenty,
it was the favourite resort for hungry Parkinsonians. There were many
small tables at the back, but all were occupied, and Ira finally found
an empty stool in front of the long counter. The school colours,
brown and white, were lavishly displayed, and there were many framed
photographs of school teams and numerous unframed posters on the walls.
These, however, interested Ira less than the neat sign which proclaimed
the restaurant's offerings, for he had eaten his breakfast on alighting
from the Portland train in Boston, and that had been quite early, and
he was now extremely hungry in spite of the warmth of the day.
While the electric fans overhead spun dizzily and the clatter of
crockery and the babel of a hundred voices made a cheerful pandemonium,
he thoughtfully contemplated the signs. One thing he knew he was going
to have, and that was iced tea, but beyond that he was open-minded.
Corn-beef hash sounded too warm. The same was true of roast beef and
lamb stew with dumplings. Eggs didn't sound appealing, although they
were offered in more styles than he had ever heard of. He was still
undecided when a voice said: "Try the cold ham and potato salad. It
isn't bad."
Ira looked around to find the boy with whom he had collided at the door
of the Administration Building sitting beside him.
"All right," said Ira. "I guess I will. It looks good."
"It's too hot to eat today," went on his neighbour, "but you sort of
get the habit. This iced coffee is the best thing I've found. Do you
like it?"
"I never tried it. I thought I'd have some iced tea."
"No one can blame you. I saw you over at Ad, didn't I?"
"'Ad'?"
"Administration. What's your class?"
"Third."
"Mine, too. Here's Alphonse. Tell him what you're risking."
"Alphonse" proved to be a sandy-haired waiter who grinned at the
speaker as he ran a towel over the counter. "Sure, take a chance," he
said cheerfully. "What's it going to be, sir?"
"Some of the cold ham and potato salad and a glass of iced tea,"
replied Ira. "Got any lemon?"
"I don't know. I'll see," was the sober response. "We did have one last
week." Then, applying his mouth to a tube: "One-cold-ham-potato-salad!"
he called. "Ice-tea-with-lemon!"
"Do you eat here regularly?" asked Ira of his neighbour.
"Dear, no! I eat in hall, but they don't start until supper tonight.
Lots of the fellows don't come until afternoon, you see. Them as does
has to eat where they can, and this is as good a joint as any. How do
you like the place, as far as you've got?"
"All right. I haven't seen much of it, though. I've been tramping
around looking for a room most of the time."
"Any luck?"
Ira shook his head. "There was one at--" he refreshed his memory by
glancing at the slip--"at Parent's, but it was pretty small and awfully
hot."
"Keep away from that dive," advised the other. "You'd freeze to death
in Winter there. Besides, we come to school to get away from them."
"To get away from----"
"Parents," chuckled the other. "Asterisk. See footnote. Joke intended.
Have you tried Maggy's?"
"No. I don't think it's on my list."
"Let's see. Yes, here it is: 'D. A. Magoon, 200 Main Street.'"
"Oh! I thought you said----"
"Maggy's? Yes, they call her that for short. She's got some good rooms,
but you have to more than half furnish them. About all Maggy gives you
is a carpet and a bed. If you like I'll go around there with you when
you're through."
"Why, thanks, that's very kind, but I don't want to trouble you."
"You don't. I haven't a thing to do until the boat comes in."
"Boat?" ejaculated Ira.
"Figure of speech, meaning that the afternoon stretches before me
devoid of--of--Say, what do I call you?"
"Rowland's my name."
"Mine's Johnston. There's a t in it to make it harder to say. Here's
your grub. Guess I'll have a piece of pie, Jimmy."
"What kind?" asked the waiter as he slid Ira's repast before him.
"Why the airs? You know you've only got apple."
Jimmy grinned. "Got you this time, Johnston! There's cream and
cocoanut, too."
"Make it cream, Jimmy, and tell the Pie Specialist downstairs to let
his hand slip a little."
"Do they give board at this place you spoke of?" asked Ira when he had
sampled his dinner.
"No, they don't. You can eat in hall, though, or you can get your meals
around. There are four or five places like this and a lot of boarding
houses. The way I did my first year was live at the restaurants and
quick-lunch joints for the first term and then, when I was sick to
death of them, go to a regular boarding house. Smith's is pretty fair.
A lot of fellows eat there."
"They give you pretty good meals at the school dining hall, don't they?"
"Y-yes, but they charge for them." Johnston shot a swift, appraising
glance over Ira. "If you can stand six dollars a week, all right. Some
fellows can't." Jimmy presented his slice of pie at that moment and
Johnston observed it gloomily. "That fellow's got perfect control,
hasn't he, Jimmy?"
"Oh, they cut the pies with a machine," replied the waiter airily.
"Want some more coffee?"
"Walk around! Think I'm a millionaire? Make it a glass of water
instead." Then, addressing Ira again: "What are you going in for?" he
asked.
"Going in where?"
"My fault! I mean what are you going to do with your spare time?
Football? Tennis? Golf? What's your line?"
"Oh! I don't know. I've never played anything except a little baseball.
I guess I won't try any of those things yet."
"You look as though you'd make a football player," said Johnston. "If
you don't intend to try it you'd better keep out of sight. If Driscoll
sees you he will get you sure."
"Is he the captain?" asked Ira.
"Coach. Ever played it?"
"Football? No." Ira shook his head. "I never thought I'd care to. I saw
a game once at Lewiston."
"Where's that?"
"Maine. I live in Cheney Falls."
"No one can blame you. How's the grub?"
"Fine, thanks. Who is Goodloe?"
"Gene Goodloe? Track Team captain. Know him?"
"Not very well. I--I sort of met him awhile back."
"You'll like him, I guess. Most of us do. He's a corking runner. Good
fellow to know, Rowland. Better cultivate him. Meet all the fellows you
can, old man. The more the merrier. You can't know too many at school,
especially if you're a new boy. I had a perfectly miserable time of it
here my first year. I was horribly shy, you see. Yes, I got over it!"
He laughed as he caught Ira's quick glance of surprise. "Had to. I used
to get red clear around to the back of my face if anyone spoke to me.
The second year I realised that it wouldn't do and I made up my mind
to get cured. How do you think I did it? I got up one morning and went
out and spoke to every fellow I met, whether I'd ever seen him before
or not. It nearly killed me at first and I got all sorts of snubs and
funny looks, but it cured me. Now I--I'd slap Jud himself on the back
if it would do me any good."
"Jud?" asked Ira.
"Otherwise Doctor Judson Lane, principal of this here school. All
through? Going to have desert? No? Come along then. There's your
check. Might as well pay it if you've got the money. They have a nasty
way of going out on the street after you and bringing you back if you
get absent-minded."
They slid off their stools and made their way to the cashier's desk,
Johnston hailing many acquaintances on the way and once pausing in
response to the invitation of one. Ira had an uncomfortable suspicion
that he was the subject of the short, whispered dialogue that ensued.
"It's probably these clothes," he thought. "They _are_ different from
other fellows'. I'll have to get some new ones, I guess."
Outside, Johnston chatted merrily as he conducted his companion around
the corner of Main Street and finally brought up before a three-story
house set close to the sidewalk. It showed evidences of past grandeur,
but the buff paint was peeling away from the narrow porch and stores
had been built close to it on either side. The first floor was
occupied by a tailor's establishment on the right and by the agency
of a spring-water company on the left. Johnston gaily pointed out the
convenience of having your trousers pressed on the premises as they
waited in the hallway. Presently, in response to the tinkling of a
faraway bell, footsteps creaked on the stairs and a tall and angular
woman came into sight.
"Good afternoon and everything," greeted Johnston. "You don't remember
me, Mrs. Magoon, but we were very dear friends once. I used to come
here to call on Dan Phillips a couple of years ago."
"I remember you very well," was the reply in a dry voice. "You're the
young man that broke the newel post one time when you was sliding down
the----"
"My fault! I see you do remember me, after all. I feared you didn't.
Now----"
"It wasn't ever paid for, either, although you said time and again----"
"You're perfectly right, ma'am. It just somehow slipped my memory. I'm
glad you mentioned it. Everybody ought to pay his just debts, I should
think. I've brought you a lodger, Mrs. Magoon. This is Mr. Rowland, Mr.
Thomas Chesterfield Rowland, of Cheerup Falls, Maine, a very personal
friend of mine. He was about to take a room over on Linden Street, but
I prevailed on him to come to you. I told him that you had just the
room for him. You have, haven't you?" Johnston beamed ingratiatingly.
"Well, I dunno," said Mrs. Magoon, folding her hands in a blue checked
apron and looking doubtfully from one boy to the other. "Everything's
pretty well taken now. There was a young man in here not ten minutes
ago to look at the only room I've got left. I dunno will he be back,
though. He said he would, but they always say that. If you'd care to
look at it, sir----"
"He would," declared Johnston. "He would indeed. After you, Rowland.
One flight and turn to your left."
"Two flights and turn to your right, if you please," corrected the
landlady. "All the second floor rooms are taken." She toiled upstairs
at their heels and directed the way to a large, scantily furnished
room at the back of the house. "It's a nice, cheerful room," she said
pantingly. "Two good windows and a fine view. There's a washstand goes
in here yet."
The fine view consisted of several backyards, the roof of a shed and
a high board fence in the immediate foreground, but beyond the fence
lay the trim, green lawn of a residence on Washington Avenue, while,
by stretching his neck a little, Ira could see a few gravestones in
the cemetery around the corner of the next-door building. Just now the
foliage hid the school, but Mrs. Magoon predicted that in the Winter
he would have a fine view of it. There were two big windows on the back
of the room, a sizable closet, a fireplace with a dingy, white-marble
mantel and a rusted grate and a few oddments of furniture all much the
worse for wear. Ira tested the bed and shuddered inwardly. It was like
a board. There was a green plush rocking-chair, a battered walnut table
with an ink-stained top, a bureau of similar material and condition,
two straight-backed chairs and an ornate black walnut bookcase with one
glass door missing. A faded, brown ingrain carpet covered the centre of
the floor, the wide expanse of boards surrounding it having at some far
distant time been painted slate-grey.
Johnston expatiated warmly, even with enthusiasm, on the room's
attractions. "How's that for a fireplace, old man?" he asked. "It's
real, mind you. No stage fireplace, with a red lantern in it, but the
genuine thing. Lots of room here, too. Must be twenty feet each way,
eh? Of course, you'll need a few more things. A window seat would
help. And another easy-chair, maybe. Then, with the family portraits
on the walls and a fire crackling cheerily--what ho! 'Blow, wintry
winds! What care we?' Or words to that general effect. You say there's
a washstand, too, Mrs. Magoon? Fine! Imagine a washstand over there
in the corner, Rowland. Sort of--sort of finishes it off, eh? Useful
little affairs, washstands. No home should be-- How about the bathroom,
Mrs. Magoon? Adjacent or thereabouts, I presume?"
"One flight below, sir. It's a very nice bathroom, with an enamelled
tub, sir. If you'd care to look at it----"
"By all means, ma'am, as we descend. You said the rent was----"
"Four a week, sir."
"Oh, no, indeed! For the school year, Mrs. Magoon."
"I said four a week, sir."
"And I said--Oh, I see! Four dollars a week! You will have your joke,
eh? The lady has a sense of humour, Rowland. You can't deny it."
"It doesn't seem to me that it's worth that much," said Ira dubiously.
"Bless us, no!" said Johnston. "That was only her joke. Now, Mrs.
Magoon, seriously, what do you ask by the month for this palatial
apartment?"
"It's four dollars a week, young man, whether you pay weekly or
monthly; although I have to insist on the bills not running no longer
than a month."
"No one can blame you. But you'll find my friend here very prompt,
ma'am, in such matters. I have never known him to let a bill run longer
than a month. You might almost call him finicky in money matters.
Considering that, now, suppose we say three dollars a week, with--" he
shot a questioning glance at Ira--"two weeks paid in advance?"
"I couldn't do it, sir," replied the landlady firmly, arms akimbo.
"Three-seventy-five is my lowest figure, and nothing you could say----"
"I don't think I want the room, thanks," interrupted Ira. "I'd have to
buy a good many things for it to make it comfortable. Much obliged,
ma'am."
"Don't be hasty, old man. Think well. Rooms are scarce, as Mrs. Magoon
will tell you, and at three and a half----"
"Three-seventy-five," corrected the landlady.
"You couldn't do better. I'll take you to a place where you can get
anything you need for half of nothing and pay when you like. With
another chair and a couch and a few pictures--why, you wouldn't know
the place! He wouldn't know the place, would he, ma'am?"
"'Twould look better, no doubt. There's the washstand yet, sir, and it
helps to fill up, so to speak."
"We-ell," began Ira, doubtfully.
"That's decided, then!" exclaimed Johnston gaily. "Have the room all
ready in an hour, Mrs. Magoon. If you've got seven dollars where you
can put your hand on it, Rowland, you might bind the bargain, eh?"
"If the lady wants to let me have it at three dollars and a half----"
"She does! Hasn't she said so? You said three and a half, didn't you,
Mrs. Magoon?"
"I did not!"
"No? My fault! But you're going to, eh? Rather than lose a tenant?"
Mrs. Magoon wavered. "Here it is the last day, ma'am. School begins
tomorrow. I guess everyone's settled by this time. You wouldn't want
the room to stay empty, now would you? Of course not! A bird in the
hand, and all that, eh? Well, that's settled, what?"
Mrs. Magoon nodded without enthusiasm. "It's less than I ever took
for it before," she said sadly. Then, brightening: "Maybe the young
man would want his breakfasts in?" she asked hopefully. "Many of them
does."
Johnston was shaking his head violently, but neither the landlady nor
Ira saw it.
"Why, thanks, I--How much are breakfasts?" said Ira.
"Twenty-five cents, sir. Coffee and toast and two eggs or a bit of
meat."
"Perhaps it would be more convenient than going out," mused Ira. "All
right, ma'am, I'll take breakfasts."
"Fine! Come along, Rowland. Remember that Doctor Lane was very
particular about having you let him know what you decided on. He will
be anxious. Back in an hour, Mrs. Magoon."
"If you'd care to see the bathroom--" began Mrs. Magoon as they
descended.
"Not now," said Johnston, shoving Ira along toward the next flight.
"I'm sure it's absolutely perfect, ma'am." When they were once more
on the street he turned sorrowfully to Ira. "You shouldn't have let
yourself in for the breakfasts, old man," he said. "They're fierce. I
tried to give you the sign, but you wouldn't look. Still, you can cut
them out after a week or so. They all do."
"I dare say the room will look better when there's more in it," said
Ira.
"Rather! You'll be crazy about it, old man."
"Or in it," said Ira drily. Johnston preferred not to notice the remark.
"And three-fifty isn't bad these days, either."
"I guess I'd rather pay her what she asked, Johnston. She says she
never let it for so little, and----"
"Yes, but her memory's failing her. Johnny Grew had that room two years
ago, and I happen to remember that he paid exactly three and a half for
it. Besides, she'll make it up on the breakfasts. Now let's run around
to Jacobs' and see what we can pick up. Better leave the buying to me,
old man, for in spite of being a Maine Yankee, you're a mighty poor
bargainer!"
"I'm taking up a lot of your time," Ira demurred.
"I like it. Besides, I've got nothing on until the five-twelve gets
in." He was silent for a full minute, something so unusual that Ira
viewed him in surprise. Then, with an odd lack of assurance, he said:
"About that newel post now, Rowland. I--you see----"
"All right," said Ira. "I understand."
"Eh?" asked the other startledly. "Hold on, though! No, you don't, old
man."
"All right. I don't care, anyway."
"But you mustn't think I took you around there on that account. Fact
is, I'd quite forgotten about it." Johnston chuckled. "Guess if I'd
remembered it I'd have stayed away. But when she sprang it on me,
why--why, then I thought I might as well square myself." He looked
uncertainly at Ira. "See what I mean?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well--well--Oh, hang it, Rowland! Now, look here. You don't need to
take that room if you'd rather not. I guess I did sort of force your
hand. We'll go back now and get the money and tell her it's off. Come
on! I'd feel a lot better. Then we'll look somewhere else. Hang it, it
was only a dollar, and I'm switched if I want to look like a piker for
just a little old dollar! Come on back!"
But Ira shook his head. "When you know me better, Johnston," he said
with a smile, "you'll find that it's awfully hard to make me do
anything I don't want to. If I hadn't thought the room would answer
I'd never have taken it, no matter what you might have said. I don't
think it's palatial, but I do think it will do well enough, and if Mrs.
Magoon lets you off about the newel post on my account I'm glad of it.
I owe you that much, anyhow, for all your trouble. Just the same, I'm
glad you didn't--didn't take me around there on purpose."
"I didn't, honestly, old man. I'd forgotten all about it. But you're
quite sure it's all right, eh? Sure you really want to take the room?"
"Certain sure."
"Well, you're a brick. I guess I'll drop around and pay Maggy her
money, just the same. Any fellow ought to, I should think. I'll do it
this afternoon while I've got it. Well, that's settled. And here's the
emporium of our friend Jacobs.
"'Open the door and tinkle the bell:
You want to buy and I want to sell!'"