AMY HOLDS FORTH
BRIMFIELD ACADEMY is at Brimfield, and Brimfield is a scant thirty miles
out of New York City and some two or three miles from the Sound. It is
more than possible that these facts are already known to you; if you
live in the vicinity of New York they certainly are. But at the risk of
being tiresome I must explain a little about the school for the benefit
of those readers who are unacquainted with it. Brimfield was this Fall
entering on its twenty-fifth year, a fact destined to be appropriately
celebrated later on. The enrollment was one hundred and eighty students
and the faculty consisted of twenty members inclusive of the principal,
Mr. Joshua L. Fernald, A.M., more familiarly known as "Josh." The course
covers six years, and boys may enter the First Form at the age of
twelve. Being an endowed institution and well supplied with money under
the terms of the will of its founder, Brimfield boasts of its fine
buildings. There are four dormitories, Wendell, Torrence, Hensey and
Billings, all modern, and, between Torrence and Hensey, the original
Academy Building now known as Main Hall and containing the class rooms,
school offices, assembly room and library. The dining hall is in
Wendell, the last building on the right. Behind Wendell is the
gymnasium. Occupying almost if not quite as retiring a situation at the
other end of the Row, is the Cottage, Mr. Fernald's residence. Each
dormitory is ruled over by a master. In Billings Mr. Daley, the
instructor in modern languages, was in charge at the period of this
story, and since it was necessary to receive permission before leaving
the school grounds after supper, Don and Tim paused at Mr. Daley's study
on the way out. Don's knock on the portal of Number 8 elicited an
instant invitation to enter and a moment later he was shaking hands with
the hall master, a youngish man with a pleasant countenance and a manner
at once eager and embarrassed. Mr. Daley was usually referred to as
Horace, which was his first name, and, as he shook hands, Don very
nearly committed the awful mistake of calling him that! After greetings
had been exchanged Don explained somewhat vaguely the reason for his
tardy arrival and then requested permission to visit Coach Robey in the
village after supper.
"Yes, Gilbert, but--er--be back by eight, please. I'm not sure that Mr.
Robey isn't about school, however. Have you inquired?"
"No, sir, but Tim says he isn't eating in hall yet, and so----"
"Ah, in that case perhaps not. Well, be back for study hour. If you're
going to supper I'll walk along with you, fellows." Mr. Daley closed his
study door and they went out together and, as they trod the flags of the
long walk that passed the fronts of the buildings, Mr. Daley discoursed
on football with Tim while Don replied to the greetings of friends. They
parted from the instructor at the dining hall door and sought their
places at table, Don's arrival being greeted with acclaim by the other
half-dozen occupants of the board. Once more he was obliged to give an
account of himself, but this time his narrative was considered to be
sadly lacking in detail and it was not until Tim had come to his
assistance with a highly coloured if not exactly authentic history of
the train-wreck that the audience was satisfied. Don told him he was an
idiot. Tim, declining to argue the point, revenged himself by stealing a
slice of Don's bread when the latter's attention was challenged by Harry
Westcott at the farther end of the table.
Westcott, who was one of the editors of the school monthly, _The
Review_, had developed the journalistic instinct to a high degree of
late and had visions of a thrilling story in the November issue. But Don
utterly refused to pose as a hero of any sort. The best Harry could get
out of him was the acknowledgment that he had seen several persons
removed from the wreck and had helped carry one to the relief train
later. That wasn't much to go on, and, subsequently, Harry regretfully
abandoned his plan.
After supper Don and Tim walked down to the village and Don had a few
minutes of talk with the coach. Mr. Robey was sympathetic but annoyed.
Although he didn't say so in so many words he gave Don to understand
that he had failed in his duty to the school and the team in allowing
himself to become concerned in a train-wreck. He didn't explain just how
Don could have avoided it, and Don didn't think it worth while to
inquire.
"You have that hand looked after properly and regularly, Gilbert," he
said, "and watch practice until you can put on togs. Losing a week or so
is going to handicap you. No doubt about that. And I'm not making any
promises. But you keep your eyes open and maybe there'll be a place for
you when you're ready to work. It's awfully hard luck, old chap. See you
tomorrow."
Don went back to school through the warm dusk slightly cast down,
although he had previously realised that football would be beyond him
for at least a week. It is sometimes one thing to acknowledge a fact
oneself and another to hear the same fact stated by a second person.
There's a certain finality about the latter that is convincing. But if
Don was downcast he didn't show it to his companion. Don had a way of
concealing his emotions that Tim at once admired and resented. When Tim
felt blue--which was mighty seldom--he let it be known to the whole
world, and when he felt gay he was just as confiding. But Don--well, as
Tim often said, he was "worse than an Indian!"
After study they sallied forth again, arm in arm, and went down the Row
to Torrence and climbed the stairs to Number 14. As the door was half
open knocking was a needless formality--especially as the noise within
would have prevented its being heard--and so Tim pushed the portal
further ajar and entered, followed by Don, on a most animated scene.
Eight boys were sprawled or seated around the room, while another, a
thin, tall, unkempt youth with a shock of very black hair which was
always falling over his eyes and being brushed aside, was standing in a
small clearing between table and windows balancing a baseball bat,
surmounted by two books and a glass of water, on his chin. So interested
was the audience in this startling feat that the presence of the new
arrivals passed unnoted until the juggler, suddenly stepping back,
allowed the law of gravity to have its way for an instant. Then his
right hand caught the falling bat, the two books crashed unheeded to the
floor and his left hand seized the descending tumbler. Simultaneously
there was a disgruntled yelp from Jim Morton and a howl of laughter from
the rest of the audience. For the juggler, while he had miraculously
caught the tumbler in mid-air, had not been deft enough to keep the
contents intact and about half of it had gone into the football
manager's face. However, everyone there except Morton applauded
enthusiastically and hilariously, and Larry Jones, sweeping his
offending locks aside with the careless and impatient grace of a violin
virtuoso, bowed repeatedly.
"Great stuff," approved Amory Byrd, rescuing his books from the floor.
"Do it again and stand nearer Jim."
"If he does it again I'm going into the hall," said Morton disgustedly,
wiping his damp countenance on the edge of Clint Thayer's bedspread.
"You're a punk juggler, Larry."
"All right, you do it," was the reply. Larry proffered the bat and
tumbler, but Morton waved them indignantly aside.
"I don't do monkey-tricks, thanks. Gee, my collar's sopping wet!"
"Oh, that's all right," called someone. "You'll be going to bed soon.
Say, Larry, do that one with the three tennis balls."
"Isn't room enough. I know a good trick with coins, though. Any fellow
got two halves?"
Groans of derision were heard and at that moment someone discovered the
presence of Don and Tim and Larry's audience deserted him. When the
new-comers had found accommodations, such as they were, conversation
switched to the all-absorbing subject of football. Most of the fellows
assembled were members of the first or second teams: Larry Jones was a
substitute half; Clint Thayer was first-choice left tackle; Steve
Edwards, sprawled on Clint's bed, was left end and this year's captain;
the short, sturdy youth in the Morris chair was Thursby, the centre; Tom
Hall, broad of shoulders, was right guard; Harry Walton, slimmer and
rangier, with a rather saturnine countenance, was a substitute for that
position. Jim Morton was, as we know, manager, and only Amory--or
"Amy"--Byrd and Leroy Draper, the tow-headed, tip-nosed youth sharing
the Morris chair with Thursby, were, in a manner of speaking,
non-combatants.
But being a non-combatant didn't prevent Amy Byrd from airing his views
and opinions on the subject of football, and that he was now doing.
"Every year," he protested, "I have to hear the same line of talk from
you chaps. It's wearying, woesomely wearying. Now, as a matter of fact,
every one of you knows that we've got the average material and that
we'll go ahead and turn out an average team and beat Claflin as per
usual. The only chance for argument is what the score will be. You
fellows like to grouse and pretend every fall that the team's shot full
of holes and that the world is a dark, dreary, dismal place and that
winning from Claflin is only a hectic dream. For the love of lemons,
fellows, chuck the undertaker stuff and cheer up. Talk about something
interesting, or, if you must talk your everlasting football, cut out the
sobs!"
"Oh, dry up, Amy," said Tom Hall. "You oughtn't to be allowed to talk.
Someone stuff a pillow in his mouth. No one has said we were shot full
of holes, but you can't get around the fact that we've lost a lot of
good players and----"
"Oh, gee, he's at it again!" wailed Amy. "Yes, Thomas darling, you've
lost two fellows out of the line and two out of the backfield and
there's nothing to live for and we'd better poison ourselves off before
defeat and disgrace come upon us. All is lost save honour! Ah, woe is
me!"
"Cut it out, Amy," begged Edwards. "You don't know anything about
football, you idiot."
"Two in the line and two in the backfield is good," jeered Tim. "We've
lost Blaisdell and Innes and Tyler----"
"Never was any good," interpolated Amy.
"And Roberts and Marvin----"
"Carmine's better!"
"And Kendall and Harris!" concluded Tim triumphantly.
"Never mind, Timmy, you've still got me!" replied Amy sweetly. "Gee, to
hear you rave you'd think the whole team had graduated!"
"So it has, practically!"
"Ah, yes, and I heard the same dope this time last year. We'd lost
Miller and Sawyer and Williams and--and Milton and a dozen or two more
and there wasn't any hope for us! And all we did was to go ahead and
dodder along and beat Claflin seven to nothing! Not so bad for a
lifeless corpse, what?"
Steve Edwards laughed. "Well, maybe we do talk trouble a good deal about
this time of year. It's natural, I guess. You lose fellows who played
fine ball last year and you can't see just at first how anyone can fill
their places. Someone always does, though. That's the bully part of it.
I dare say we'll manage to dodder along, as Amy calls it, and rub it
into old Claflin as we've been doing."
"First sensible word I've heard tonight," said Amy approvingly. "I
wouldn't kick so much if I only had to hear this sort of stuff
occasionally, but I'm rooming with the original crepe-hanger! Clint sobs
himself to sleep at night thinking how terribly the dear old team's shot
to pieces. If I remark in my optimistic, gladsome way, 'Clint, list how
sweetly the birdies sing, and observe, I prithee, the sunlight gilding
yon mountain peak,' Clint turns his mournful countenance on me and
chokes out something about a weak backfield! Say, I'm gladder every day
of my life that I stayed sane and----"
"Stayed _what_?" exclaimed Jim Morton incredulously.
"And didn't become obsessed with football mania!"
"Where do you get the words, Amy?" sighed Clint Thayer admiringly.
"Amy's the original phonograph," commented Tim. "Only he's an
improvement on anything Edison ever invented. You don't have to wind Amy
up!"
"No, he's got a self-starting attachment," chuckled Draper.
"Returning to the--the original contention," continued Amy in superb
disdain of the low jests, "I'll bet any one of you or the whole kit and
caboodle of you that we beat Claflin again this year. Now make a noise
like some money!"
"Amy, we don't bet," remarked Tom Hall. "At least, not with money.
Betting money is very wrong. (Amy sniffed sarcastically.) But I'll wager
a good feed for the crowd that we have a harder time beating Claflin
this year than we had last. And I'll----"
"Oh, piffle! I don't care whether you have to work harder to do it or
not. I say you'll do it! Hard work wouldn't hurt you, anyway. You're a
lot of loafers. All any of you do is go out to the field and strike an
attitude like a hero. Why----"
Cries of expostulation and threats of physical violence failed to
disturb the irrepressible Amy.
"Tell you what I'll do, you piffling Greeks, I'll blow you all off to a
top-hole dinner at the Inn if Claflin beats us. There's a sporting
proposition for you, you undertakers' assistants!"
"Yah! What do we do if she doesn't?" exclaimed Walton.
Amy surveyed him coldly. He didn't like Harry Walton and never attempted
to disguise the fact. "Why, Harry, old dear, you'll just keep right on
squandering your money as usual, I suppose. But I don't want you to
waste any on me. This is a one-man wager."
"No, it isn't," said Leroy Draper, "I'm in on it, Amy. I'll take half of
it."
"All right, Roy. But our money's safe as safe! This bunch of grousers
won't get fat off us, old chap!"
"Say," said Walton, who had been trying to get Amy's attention for a
minute, "what's the story about my squandering my money? Anybody seen
you being careless with yours, Amy?"
"Not that I know of. I'm not careless with it; I'm careful. But being
careful with money is different from having it glued to your skin so you
have to have a surgical operation before----"
"Oh, cut it, Amy," said Tim.
"I spend my money just as freely as you do," returned Walton hotly.
"You talk so much with your face----"
"Let it go at that, Harry," advised Tom Hall soothingly. "Amy's just
talking."
"That's all," agreed Amy sweetly. "Just talking. You're the original
little spendthrift, Harry. I'm going to write home to your folks some
time and warn 'em. Hold on, you chaps, don't hurry off. The night is
still in its infancy. Wait and watch it grow up. Steve! _Sit down!_"
"Thanks, I've got to be moseying along," replied Captain Edwards. "It's
pretty near ten. I think it would be a rather good idea if we had a rule
that football men were to be in their rooms at a quarter to ten all
during the season."
"I can see that you're going to be one of these here martinets you read
about," said Tim with a sigh. "Steve, remember you were young once
yourself."
"He never was!" declared Amy with decision. "Steve was grown-up when he
was quite young and he's never got over it. Thank the Fates _I_ don't
have to be bossed by him! Are you all leaving? Clint, count the spoons
and forks! Come again, everyone. I've got lots more to say. Good-night,
Don. Glad to see you back again, old sober-sides. Sorry about that fin
of yours. Be careful with him, Tim. You know how it is with the dear
old team. We need every man we can get. Hold on, Harry! Did you drop
that quarter? Oh, I beg pardon, it's only a button. That's right, Thurs,
kick the chair over if it's in your way. We don't care a bit about our
furniture. For the love of lemons, Larry, don't grin like that! Think of
the team, man! Remember your sorrows! Good-_night_!"
Half-way to Billings Don broke the silence.
"Fellows are funny, aren't they?" he murmured.
"Funny? How do you mean?" asked Tim.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Don after a thoughtful moment.
"They're--they're so different, I guess."
"Who's different from who?"
"Everyone," answered Don, smothering a yawn.
Tim viewed him in the radiance of the light over the doorway with
profound admiration. "Don, you're a brilliant chap! Honest, sometimes I
wonder how you do it! Doesn't it hurt?"
Don only smiled.