THE JOKE ON MR. MOLLER
AMY BYRD started it.
Or, perhaps, in the last analysis, Mr. Moller began it himself. Mr.
Moller's first name was Caleb, a fact which the school was quick to
seize on. At first he was just "Caleb," then "Caleb the Conqueror," and,
finally, "The Conqueror." The "Conqueror" part of it was added in
recognition of Mr. Moller's habit of attiring himself for the class room
as for an afternoon tea. He was a new member of the faculty that fall
and Brimfield required more than the few weeks which had elapsed since
his advent to grow accustomed to his grandeur of apparel. Mr. Caleb
Moller was a good-looking, in fact quite a handsome young man of
twenty-five or six, well-built, tall and the proud possessor of a
carefully trimmed moustache and Vandyke beard, the latter probably
cultivated in the endeavour to add to his apparent age. He affected
light grey trousers, fancy waistcoats of inoffensive shades, a frock
coat, grey gaiters and patent leather shoes. His scarf was always
pierced with a small black pearl pin. There's no denying that Mr. Moller
knew how to dress or that the effect was pleasing. But Brimfield wasn't
educated to such magnificence and Brimfield gasped loudly the first time
Mr. Moller burst on its sight. Afterward it laughed until the novelty
began to wear off. Mr. Moller was a capable instructor and a likeable
man, although it took Brimfield all of the first term to discover the
latter fact owing to the master's dignified aloofness. Being but a scant
eight years the senior of some of his pupils, he perhaps felt it
necessary to emphasise his dignity a little. By the last of October,
however, the school had accepted Mr. Moller and was, possibly, secretly
a little proud to have for a member of its faculty one who possessed
such excellent taste in the matter of attire. He was universally voted
"a swell dresser," and not a few of the older fellows set themselves to
a modest emulation of his style. There remained, however, many
unregenerate youths who continued to poke fun at "The Conqueror," and of
these was Amy Byrd.
It isn't beyond the bounds of reason that jealousy may have had
something to do with Amy's attitude, for Amy was "a swell dresser"
himself and had a fine eye for effects of colour. Amy's combinations of
lavender or dull rose or pearl-grey shirts, socks and ties were
recognised masterpieces of sartorial achievement. The trouble with Amy
was that when the tennis season was over he had nothing to interest
himself in aside from maintaining a fairly satisfactory standing in
class, and I'm sorry to say that Amy didn't find the latter undertaking
wildly exciting. He was, therefore, an excellent subject for the
mischief microbe, and the mischief microbe had long since discovered the
fact. Usually Amy's escapades were harmless enough; for that matter, the
present one was never intended to lead to any such unfortunate results
as actually attended it; and in justice to Amy it should be distinctly
stated that he would never have gone into the affair had he foreseen the
end of it. But he couldn't see any further into the future than you or
I, and so--yes, on the whole, I think it may be fairly said that Amy
Byrd started it.
It was on a Tuesday, what time Amy should have been deep in study, that
Clint Thayer, across the table, had his attention wrested from his book
by the sound of deep, mirthful chuckles. He glanced over questioningly.
Amy continued to chuckle until, being bidden to share the joke or shut
up, he took Clint into his confidence. Clint was forced to chuckle some
himself when he had heard Amy through, but the chuckles were followed by
earnest efforts to dissuade his friend from his proposed scheme.
"He won't stand for it, Amy," Clint protested. "He will report the lot
of you to Josh and you'll be in a peck of trouble. It would be terribly
funny, all right, but you'd better not try it."
"Funny! My friend, it would be excruciating! And I certainly am going to
have a stab at it. Let's see who will go into it. Steve Edwards--no,
Steve wouldn't, of course. Tom Hall will, I'll bet. And Roy Draper and
Harry Wescott, probably. We ought to get as many of the fellows as we
can. I wish you were in that class, Clint."
"I don't. You're a chump to try such a trick, Amy. You'll get pro for
sure. Maybe worse. I don't believe Moller can take a joke; he's too
haughty."
"Oh, rot! He will take it all right. Anyway, what kick can he have? We
fellows have just as much right to----"
"You'll wish you hadn't," said Clint. "See if you don't!"
Clint's prophecy proved true, and Amy did wish he hadn't, but that was
some days later, and just now he was far too absorbed in planning his
little joke to trouble himself about what might happen as a result. As
soon as study hour was over he departed precipitately from Number 14.
Torrence and Clint saw no more of him until bedtime. Then his questions
met only with more chuckles and evasion.
The result did not appear until two days later, which brings our tale to
the forenoon of that unlucky Thursday preceeding the Southby contest.
Mr. Moller's class in Physics 2 met at eleven o'clock that morning.
Physics was an elective course with the Fifth Form and a popular one,
many of the fellows taking it only to fill out their necessary eighteen
hours a week. Mr. Moller, attired as usual with artistic nicety, sat in
his swivel chair, facing the windows, and drummed softly on the top of
the desk with immaculate finger-tips and waited for the class to
assemble.
Had he been observing the arriving students instead of the tree-tops
outside he might have noticed the peculiar fact that this morning, as
though by common consent, the students were avoiding the first two rows
of seats nearest the platform. But he didn't notice it. In fact, he
didn't turn his head until the gong in the lower hall struck and,
simultaneously, there sounded in the room the carefully-timed tread of
many feet. Then "The Conqueror" swung around in his chair, felt for the
black ribbon which held his tortoise shell glasses and, in the act of
lifting the glasses to his well-shaped nose, paused and stared.
Down the side aisle of the room, keeping step, grave of mien, walked
nine boys led by the sober-countenanced Amy Byrd. Each was attired in as
near an approach to Mr. Moller's style as had been possible with the
wardrobes at command. Not all--in fact, only two--wore frock coats, and
not all had been able to supply themselves with light grey trousers, but
the substitutions were very effective, and in no case was a fancy
waistcoat wanting. Wing collars encircled every throat, grey silk
scarves were tied with careful precision, stick-pins were at the proper
careless tilt, spats, some grey, some tan, some black, covered each
ankle, a handkerchief protruded a virgin corner from every right sleeve
and over every vest dangled a black silk ribbon. That only a few of them
ended in glasses was merely because the supply of those aids to vision
had proved inadequate to the demand. Soberly and amidst an appalling
silence the nine exquisites paced to the front of the room and disposed
themselves in the first two rows.
Mr. Moller, his face extremely red, watched without word or motion. The
rest of the class, their countenances too showing an unnatural
ruddiness, likewise maintained silence and immobility until the last of
the nine had shuffled his feet into place. Then there burst upon the
stillness a snigger which, faint as it was, sounded startlingly loud.
Whereupon pent up emotions broke loose and a burst of laughter went up
that shook the windows.
It seemed for a minute that that laughter would never stop. Fellows
rolled in their seats and beat futilely on the arms of their chairs,
gasping for breath and sobriety. And through it all Mr. Moller stared in
a sort of dazed amazement. And then, when the laughter had somewhat
abated, he arose, one hand on the desk and the other agitatedly
fingering his black ribbon, and the colour poured out of his cheeks,
leaving them strangely pallid. And Amy, furtively studying him, knew
that Clint had been right, that Mr. Moller couldn't take a joke, or, in
any event, had no intention of taking this one. Amy wasn't frightened
for himself, in fact he wasn't frightened at all, but he did experience
a twinge of regret for the others whom he had led into the affair. Then
Mr. Moller was speaking and Amy forgot regrets and listened.
"I am going to give you young gentlemen"--was it imagination on Amy's
part or had the instructor placed the least bit of emphasis on the last
word--"two minutes more in which to recover from your merriment. At the
end of that time I shall expect you to be quiet and orderly and ready to
begin this recitation." He drew his watch from his pocket and laid it on
the desk. "So that you may enjoy this--this brilliant jest to the full,
I'll ask the nine young gentleman in the front rows to stand up and face
you. If you please, Hall, Stearns, Draper, Fanning, Byrd----"
It was several seconds before this request was responded to. Then Amy
arose and, one by one, the others followed and faced the room. Amy
managed to retain his expression of calm innocence, but the others were
ill at ease and many faces looked very sheepish.
"Now, then," announced Mr. Moller quietly. "Begin, please. You have two
minutes."
A dismal silence ensued, a silence broken at intervals by a nervous
cough or the embarrassed shuffling of feet. Mr. Moller calmly divided
his attention between the class and the watch. Surely never had one
hundred and twenty seconds ticked themselves away so slowly. There was a
noticeable disinclination on the part of the students to meet the gaze
of the instructor, nor did they seem any more eager to view the various
and generally painful emotions expressed on the countenances of the
nine. At last Mr. Moller took up his watch and returned it with its
dangling fob to his pocket, and as he did so some thirty sighs of relief
sounded in the stillness.
"Time's up," announced the instructor. "Be seated, young gentlemen.
Thank you very much." The nine sank gratefully into their chairs. "I am
sure that we have all enjoyed your joke vastly. You must pardon me if,
just at first, I seemed to miss the humour of it. I can assure you that
I am now quite--quite _sympathique_. We are told that imitation is the
sincerest flattery, and I accept the compliment in the spirit in which
you have tendered it. Again I thank you."
Mr. Moller bowed gravely and sat down.
Glances, furtive and incredulous, passed from boy to boy. Amy heaved a
sigh of relief. After all, then, Mr. Moller could take a joke! And for
the first time since the inception of the brilliant idea Amy felt an
emotion very much like regret! And then the recitation began.
That would have ended the episode had not Chance taken a hand in
affairs. Mr. Fernald very seldom visited a class room during
recitations. One could count such occurrences on one hand and the result
would have sufficed for the school year. And yet today, for some reason
never apparent to the boys, Mr. Fernald happened in.
Harry Westcott was holding forth when the principal's tread caught his
attention. Westcott turned his head, saw and instantly stopped.
"Proceed, Westcott," said Mr. Fernald.
Westcott continued, stammeringly and much at random. Mr. Fernald quietly
walked up the aisle to the platform. Mr. Moller arose and for a moment
the two spoke in low tones. Then the principal nodded, smiled and turned
to retrace his steps. As he did so his smiling regard fell upon the
occupants of the two front rows. A look of puzzlement banished the
smile. Bewilderment followed that. Westcott faltered and stopped
altogether. A horrible silence ensued. Then Mr. Fernald turned an
inquiring look upon the instructor.
"May I ask," he said coldly, "what this--this quaint exhibition is
intended to convey?"
Mr. Moller hesitated an instant. Then: "I think I can explain it better,
sir, later on," he replied.
Mr. Fernald bowed, again swept the offenders with a glance of withering
contempt and took his departure. Mr. Moller looked troubledly after him
before he turned to Westcott and said kindly: "Now, Westcott, we will
go on, if you please."
What passed between principal and instructor later that day was not
known, but the result of the interview appeared the next morning when
Mr. Fernald announced in chapel that because they had seen fit to
publicly insult a member of the faculty he considered it only just to
publicly inform the following students that they were placed on
probation until further notice. Then followed the names of Hall,
Westcott, Byrd, Draper and five others. Mr. Fernald added that but for
the intercession of the faculty member whom they had so vilely affronted
the punishment would have been far heavier.
Nine very depressed youths took their departure from chapel that
morning. To Tom Hall, since the edict meant that he could not play any
more football that season, unless, which was scarcely probable, faculty
relented within a week or so, the blow was far heavier than to any of
the others. Being on probation was never a state to be sought for, but
when one was in his last year at school and had looked forward to ending
his football career in a blaze of glory, probation was just about as bad
as being expelled. In fact, for a day or two Tom almost wished that Mr.
Fernald had selected the latter punishment. What made things harder to
bear was the attitude of coaches and players and the school at large.
After the first shock of surprise and dismay, they had agreed with
remarkable unanimity that Tom had not only played the fool, but had
proved himself a traitor, and they didn't fail to let Tom know their
verdict. For several days he was as nearly ostracised as it was possible
to be, and those days were very unhappy ones for him.
Of course Tom was not utterly deserted. Steve Edwards stood by him
firmly, fought public opinion, narrowly escaped a pitched battle with
the president of the Sixth Form, worried Coach Robey to death with his
demands that that gentler man intercede for Tom at the office and tried
his best all the time to keep Tom's spirits up. Clint and Don and Tim
and a few others remained steadfast, as did Amy, who, blaming himself
bitterly for Tom's fix, had done everything he could do to atone.
Following that edict in chapel, Amy had sought audience with Mr. Fernald
and begged clemency for the others.
"You see, sir," Amy had pleaded earnestly, "I was the one who started
it. The others would never have gone into it if I hadn't just simply
made them. Why----"
Mr. Fernald smiled faintly. "You're trying to convince me, Byrd, that
boys like Draper and Hall and Stearns and Westcott are so weak-willed
that they allowed you to drag them into this thing against their better
judgment and inclinations?"
"Yes, sir! At least--perhaps not exactly that, Mr. Fernald, but I--I
nagged them and dared them, you see, sir, and they didn't like to be
dared and they just did it to shut me up."
"It's decent of you, Byrd, to try to assume all the blame, but your
story doesn't carry conviction. Even if it did, I should be sorely
tempted to let the verdict stand, for I should consider boys who were so
easily dragged into mischief badly in need of discipline. I do wish
you'd tell me one thing, Byrd. How could a fellow, a manly, decent
fellow like you, think up such a caddish trick? Wounding another man's
feelings, Byrd, isn't really funny, if you stop to consider it."
"I didn't mean to hurt Mr. Moller's feelings, sir," replied Amy
earnestly. "We--I thought it would just be a--a sort of a good joke to
dress like him, sir, and--and get a laugh from the class. I'm sorry. I
guess it was a pretty rotten thing to do, sir. Only I didn't think about
it that way."
"I believe that. Since you've been here, Byrd, you've been into more or
less mischief, but I've never known you to be guilty before of anything
in such utterly bad taste. Unfortunately, however, I can't excuse you
because you didn't think. You should have thought."
"Yes, sir," agreed Amy eagerly, "and I don't expect to be excused, sir.
I only thought that maybe you'd let up on the others if you knew how it
all happened. I thought maybe it would do just as well if you expelled
me, sir, and let the other fellows off easy. Tom Hall----"
"I see. It's Hall who's worrying you, is it? You're afraid Hall's
absence from the team may result disastrously! Possibly it will. If it
does I shall be sorry, but Hall will have to take his medicine just like
the rest of you. Perhaps this will teach you all to think a little
before you act. No, Byrd, I shall have to refuse your offer. Expelling
you would not be disciplining the rest, nor would it be an equitable
division of punishment. The verdict must stand, my boy."
Amy went sorrowfully forth and announced the result to Clint. "I think
he might have done what I wanted," he complained a trifle resentfully.
"You're an utter ass," said Clint with unflattering conviction. "What
good would it do you to get fired in your last year?"
"None, but if he'd have let the others off----"
"Do you suppose that the others would have agreed to any such bargain?
They're not kids, even if you try to make them out so. They went into
the thing with their eyes open and are just as much to blame as you are.
They wouldn't let you be the goat, you idiot!"
"They needn't have known anything about it, Clint. Oh, well, I suppose
there's no use fussing. I don't care about the others. It's Tom I'm
sorry for. And the team, too. Pryme can't fill Tom's shoes, and we'll
get everlastingly walloped, and it'll be my fault, and----"
"Piffle! Tom's a good player, one of the best, but he isn't the whole
team. Pryme will play the position nearly as well. I'm sorry for Tom,
too, but he's the one who will have to do the worrying, I guess. Now you
buck up and quit looking like a kicked cur."
"If only the fellows didn't have it in for him the way they have,"
mourned Amy. "Everyone's down on him and he knows it and he's worried to
death about it. They're a lot of rotters! After the way Tom's worked on
that team ever since he got on it! Why, he's done enough for the school
if he never played another lick at anything! And I'll tell you another
thing. Someone's going to get licked if I hear any more of this
knocking!"
"You'll have to lick most of the school then," replied Clint calmly.
"Try not to be a bigger chump than nature made you, Amy. You can't blame
the fellows for being a bit sore at Tom. I am myself. Only I realise
that he didn't mean to get into trouble with the office, and the rest of
them don't, I reckon. It'll all blow over in a few days. Cheer up. A
month from now you won't care a whoop."
"If we're beaten by Claflin I'll get out of school," answered Amy
dolefully.
"All right, son, but don't begin to pack your trunk yet. We won't be."