RODNEY ENCOUNTERS WATSON
School began on Wednesday, and by Friday Rodney was pretty well settled
down in his groove. Finding his place at Westcott’s was easy enough.
As it happened he was the only First Form boy there, although Tad
Mudge, Warren Hoyt and Tom Trainor were of his age. Phineas Kittson and
Pete Greenough were sixteen; Eustace Trowbridge――called Stacey――and
Jack Billings were seventeen. On the whole they were a nice lot of
fellows, Rodney thought, although they were rather different from the
boys he knew at home. He liked Jack Billings immensely; everyone did,
he found; and he liked Tad Mudge and Pete Greenough and Tom Trainor.
Warren Hoyt he thought disagreeable. Warren put on airs and pretended
to be bored by everything. Stacey Trowbridge was a quiet fellow who
kept to himself a good deal and was hard to know. Rodney thought
that he would probably like Stacey if he ever got really acquainted
with him. As for Phineas――well, Rodney realized that he would have to
make the best of that strange roommate of his. Not that Kitty caused
any trouble. He didn’t. Let Kitty alone and Kitty let you alone. He
seemed to live in a different altitude from the others, on some higher
and finer plane. He studied a good deal, had a wonderful memory for
lessons, and stood well in class. When he was not poring over his
lessons he was either exercising or reading books on physiology,
hygiene and kindred subjects, of which he possessed a veritable
library. When Kitty exercised he hung a pedometer from his belt, took
a stop-watch in hand, and walked violently about the country for hours
at a time. Kitty’s theory, as Rodney soon learned, was that if a fellow
developed his lungs properly his other organs would look out for
themselves. He talked a good deal about something he called “glame,”
and inhalation and expansion and contraction, and Rodney got rather
tired after a while of those subjects. But, on the whole, Phineas was
a well-meaning, good-humored chap who bothered no one and who was quite
contented to be left to his own devices.
The entering class that year numbered twenty-seven. Rodney had a chance
to look them over Thursday evening when the new First Form held a
meeting in the Assembly Hall and organized. A fellow named Sanderson
was elected president, and a youth named White was chosen for secretary
and treasurer. Rodney took small part in the proceedings, but met,
after the business meeting was over, quite a number of his classmates.
They seemed a decent lot, he thought. They ranged in age from twelve to
fifteen and hailed from seven States, most of them living within a half
day’s journey. Rodney was the only Nebraska representative and came
from farther away than any of them, except one boy whose home was in
Colorado.
So far he had not again encountered Guy Watson, and was rather glad of
it. Not that he was physically afraid of Watson, but he anticipated
trouble sooner or later, and, being a sensible chap, preferred to avoid
it as long as possible. One thing that amused Rodney was the fact that
no one had as yet connected him with his brother, who had graduated
from Maple Hill four years previous. Sooner or later fellows would
discover that the famous Ginger Merrill and the unknown Rodney were
brothers. Until they did Rodney was satisfied to remain in obscurity,
having no desire to shine in reflected glory. He hadn’t been there
twenty-four hours before he heard Stanley’s name mentioned――they
didn’t call him Stanley, however; he was Ginger to fame. At Maple Hill
they compared every promising football player with Ginger Merrill,
and each year’s team to the team that Ginger had captained four years
before. Of course, Rodney knew that that remarkable brother of his had
been something unusual on the football field, but he didn’t realize
Stanley’s real greatness until he reached Maple Hill and heard fellows
hold forth. They spoke of Ginger almost with bated breath, at least
with a pride and reverence that warmed Rodney’s heart and made him
wonder if fellows would ever speak like that of him after he had been
gone four years. If they ever did, he reflected, it would not be
because of his prowess on the gridiron, for football had no place in
Rodney’s scheme. He liked to watch the game and could get as excited
and partisan as anyone over it, but as for playing――well, one football
hero was enough in a family, and Rodney had confined his athletic
interests to baseball and tennis. Of those he was fond, especially
tennis. He rather prided himself on his tennis. He had tried football,
had even played a whole season on a team composed of grammar school
youngsters in Orleans, but he had never become an enthusiast, nor ever
made a name for himself. If someone, ball in arm, ran the length of
the field and fell triumphant over the goal line, it was never Rodney.
Rodney played in the line, took his medicine unflinchingly, did his
best to give as good as he got, and was always somewhat relieved when
the final whistle sounded. No, it wouldn’t be for his football prowess
that posterity would remember him.
Rodney had an interest in life, however. He liked to learn things, all
sorts of things; mathematics even. History had no terrors for him. He
could even find reasons to remember dates. Latin he liked immensely,
and Greek he found absolutely romantic, although, what Greek he knew
he had picked up almost unaided. Modern languages――well, a fellow had
to know French and German, of course, but Rodney was less enthusiastic
about them. Geography, physics, even botany――all was grist that came
to his mill. This love of learning he had inherited from his father.
Mr. Merrill had started in life as a farmer’s boy, and by sheer passion
for learning things had climbed up and up until to-day at forty-five
he was the actual if not yet the official head of one of the biggest
railroad systems of the country. Of Mr. Merrill’s five children, two
boys and three daughters, only Rodney had succeeded to his father’s
thirst for knowledge. Stanley was smart enough and had managed to do
fairly well at his studies both at school and at college, but, to use
his own expression, “he was no shark.” Stanley was far more contented
in the Omaha office of the railroad than he had been in the classrooms.
Perhaps Rodney’s youngest sister, Eleanor, was more like Mr. Merrill
than any of the children save Rodney; although aged thirteen, her
thirst for knowledge took the form of ceaseless questioning.
At grammar school, back at home, Rodney’s friends and companions had
viewed his studiousness with surprise, and for awhile with disapproval.
Finding eventually, however, that aside from his strange love for
lessons he was very much the same as they were, they forgave him his
peculiarity. But at Maple Hill scholarship was not regarded askance.
In fact, Maple Hill rather went in for learning, and Rodney found
himself in congenial surroundings. Maple Hill had its own local idiom,
and in its language to study was to nose, and one who was of professed
studiousness was a noser. Doubtless the word was suggested by the
expression “with his nose in his book.” At all events, Rodney became a
noser, and settled down quite happily and contentedly.
Of course, just at first there were some lonesome hours. In fact there
was one whole day of homesickness. That was Thursday. On Thursday
Orleans, Nebraska, seemed a terribly long way off and the trees sort
of smothered him, and the cool, crisp breeze that blew along Maple
Ridge brought an ache with it. But somehow on Friday morning it was
all different. He awoke to find Kitty lying on his back in the middle
of the floor, chastely attired in a suit of white and pink pajamas,
going through his first exercises. He had different ones for almost
every period of the day. Just now he was stretched at length, inflating
and deflating his lungs and making strange, hoarse noises in his
throat. Rodney looked on for a moment in amusement, and then suddenly
discovering that the sunlight streaming across the foot of his bed
was very bright, that the morning air held an invitation, and that he
was most terribly hungry, he made a bound that just cleared Kitty’s
prostrate form and was ready for anything that fate had in store. And
fate, as it happened, had quite a number of things up its sleeve.
After breakfast――and, oh, how he did enjoy that meal――he had only to
cross the road, enter through a little revolving stile in the fence,
and follow a path for a short distance across the campus to reach the
classrooms in Main Hall. He went alone because none of the other Vests
were ready. It was the custom to wait on the porch of the cottage
until the morning bell began to ring and then make a wild dash for the
hall, arriving there just as the last clang sounded; you say ‘Good
morning, sir,’ and be quick about ten minutes before the hour, but they
were not deserted. Main Hall entrance was a sort of general meeting
place for the boys, a forum where all sorts of matters were discussed
before, between, and after recitations. This morning the wide stones
held some twenty youths when Rodney approached. Two First Formers,
sticking close together for companionship, nodded to Rodney eagerly. He
had met them last evening, and now he would have joined them if fate
hadn’t sprung its first trick just then.
“Hello, little brighteyes!” greeted a voice. The appellation was novel
to Rodney, but the voice had a familiar sound and so he turned. The
speaker was Guy Watson. He was grinning, but Rodney didn’t like the
expression back of the grin.
“Hello,” he answered quietly, and crossed over to join his classmates.
“Not quite so airy, please,” continued Watson. “A little more respect,
sonny. Now, then, try it again.”
He lolled over in front of Rodney, a frown replacing the grin.
Rodney was puzzled. “What is it you want?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you what I don’t want, you fresh young kid. I don’t want any
of your cheek. Get that?”
“I haven’t cheeked anyone,” protested the other. “You said ‘Hello,’ and
I answered you.”
The boy next him was nudging him meaningly, but Rodney was still at a
loss. Watson sneered.
“Innocent, aren’t you?” he demanded. “Don’t they teach you manners
where you live? Where is that, anyway?”
“I live in Nebraska,” answered Rodney.
“Nebraska, eh! Out with the Indians. Well, of course you wouldn’t know
any better. So I’ll explain to you, Mr. Wild West, that here at Maple
Hill a First Former says ‘Sir’ to Third and Fourth Form fellows. Get
that?”
“Yes, thanks. How was I to know you were a Fourth Former, though?”
There was a ripple of amusement at that and Watson flushed. “You’re
supposed to know, kid. It’s your place to find out. Now, then, let’s
try it again.”
“Try what again?”
“You know what I’m talking about! Now you say ‘Good morning, sir,’ and
be quick about it.”
“Oh! That’s it? Why, good morning, sir. How do you do?”
“Cut the flip talk, now!” warned the older boy angrily. “You’re too
smart for this place, anyway. You need taking down, you do, and I
wouldn’t be surprised if you got what you need; I wouldn’t be at all
surprised.”
“Oh, let him alone, Guy,” protested another boy. “He’s new yet.”
“And he’s fresh, too,” answered Watson. “He can’t get off any of his
funny pranks with me, though.”
“That’s just his breezy Western way,” laughed the boy who had spoken.
“He’ll get over it.”
“You bet he will! And let me tell you something, kid, whatever your
name is. You owe Doolittle for four ice-cream sodas and you’d better
trot down and settle. First Formers aren’t allowed to have tick.”
“I don’t owe Doolittle a cent,” replied Rodney firmly. “And if he waits
for me to pay him he will wait a powerful long time.”
“Oh, you’ll pay all right,” laughed Watson. “You thought you’d played a
funny trick, didn’t you? Well, you got stung, kid.”
Rodney shrugged his shoulders. Watson, he decided, was getting tiresome.
“Don’t do that!” exclaimed the other sharply.
“Do what?”
“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me! You pay Doolittle what you owe or
I’ll pay you what _I_ owe. Understand?”
“What’s the row, Guy?” asked a quiet voice. Jack Billings suddenly
appeared at Watson’s elbow.
“Hello,” grumbled the latter. “It’s none of your affair, Jack. This
kid’s been getting fresh, that’s all.”
“Merrill’s in my house,” responded Jack, gravely. “What’s wrong,
Merrill?”
“You’d better ask him,” answered Rodney resentfully. “He’s been
nagging me for five minutes.”
“Oh, drop it,” advised another youth. “Let up, Guy, and forget it.”
“Don’t you get fresh, too, Billy,” warned Watson, turning to the
speaker. Billy laughed.
“All right, Mister Grouch. Want me to say ‘Good morning, sir?’”
“I want you to mind your own business.” Then, turning to Jack, “If
this kid’s in your house you’d better teach him a few things, such as
respect to upper form fellows, Jack. If he opens his mouth to me again
I’ll punch his fresh young head for him!”
“Then I’ll punch yours,” said a deep voice.
Watson swung around, looked, grunted, and grinned. Phineas Kittson,
blinking hard behind his goggles, viewed him calmly.
“Merrill’s a friend of mine,” went on Kitty. “Good fellow. Roommate,
fellow Vest, and all that, Watson. Mustn’t thump him, you know. I’d
make trouble.”
The assemblage, which had been increasing every moment, burst into a
shout of laughter. “Good old Kitty!” “Don’t hurt him, Kitty!” “How are
the lungs this morning, Kitty?”
“I’ll punch you, too, if you get gay, Kittson,” Watson informed him.
Then he swept the laughing throng with his gaze. “And if any of you
other fellows are looking for trouble――――”
But at that moment the bell in the tower overhead began to clang, and
Watson’s belligerent voice was drowned. The boys swarmed up the steps
and into the hall, still laughing and joking. Rodney, following, found
Jack Billings beside him in the press. Jack put an arm over the younger
boy’s shoulders.
“Keep away from Watson, Merrill,” he said kindly. “He’s got a mean
temper. And don’t answer back. And never act fresh, Merrill.”
“I didn’t! At least, I didn’t mean to. He came up and――――”
“All right. You can tell me about it some time,” interrupted Jack.
“Scoot along now. If he tries to make more trouble for you, get away
from him and come to me.”
And, with a smiling and reassuring nod, Jack pushed Rodney toward the
stairway.