"GOOD-BYE, TIMMY!"
TIM found a dejected and most unsatisfactory chum when he got back to
the room after the Chambers game that Saturday afternoon. All of Tim's
demands for an explanation of the whole puzzling affair met only with
evasion. Don was not only uncommunicative, but a trifle short-tempered,
a condition quite unusual for him. All Tim could get from him was that
he "felt perfectly punk" and wasn't going to try to change Mr. Robey's
decision.
"I'm through," he said. "I don't blame Robey a bit. I'm no use on the
team as I am. He'd be foolish to bother with me."
"Well, all I can say," returned Tim, with a sigh of exasperation, "is
that the whole thing is mighty funny. I guess there's more to it than
you're telling. You look like thirty cents, all right enough, but I'll
wager anything you like that you could go out there and play just as
good a game as ever on Monday if Robey would let you and you cared to
try. Now couldn't you!"
"I don't know. What does it matter, anyhow? I tell you I'm all through,
and so there's no use chewing it over."
"Oh, all right. Nuff said." Tim walked to the window, his hands thrust
deep in his pockets, and, after a minute's contemplation of the
darkening prospect without, observed haltingly: "Look here, Don. If you
hear things you don't like, don't get up on your ear, eh?"
"What sort of things?" demanded the other.
Tim hesitated a long moment before he took the plunge. Then: "Well, some
of the fellows don't understand, Don. You can't altogether blame them, I
suppose. I shut two or three of them up, but there's bound to be some
talk, you know. Some fellows always manage to think of the meanest
things possible. But what fellows like that say isn't worth bothering
about. So just you sit snug, old man. They've already found that they
can't say that sort of thing when I'm around."
"Thanks," said Don quietly. "What sort of things do you mean?"
"Oh, anything."
"You mean that they're calling me a quitter?"
"Well, some of them heard Robey get that off and they're repeating it
like a lot of silly parrots. I called Holt down good and hard. Told him
I'd punch his ugly face if he talked that way again."
"Don't bother," said Don listlessly. "I guess I do look like a quitter,
all right."
"Piffle! And, hang it all, Robey had no business saying that, Don! He
couldn't really believe it."
"Why couldn't he? On the face of it, Tim, I'd say that I looked a whole
lot like a quitter."
"But that's nonsense! Why would you or any fellow want to quit just
before the Claflin game? Why, all the hard work's done with, man! Only a
little signal practice to go through with now. Why would you want to
quit? It's poppycock!"
"Well, some fellows do get cold feet just before the big game. We've
both known cases of it. Look at----"
"Yes, I know what you're going to say, but that was different. He never
had any spunk, anyway. Nobody believed in him but Robey, and Robey was
wrong, just as he is about you. Anyway, all I'm trying to say is that
there's no use getting waxy if some idiot shoots off his mouth. The
fellows who really count don't believe you a--a quitter. And the whole
business will blow over in a couple of days. Look how they talked about
Tom at first!"
"They didn't call him a quitter, though. They were just mad because he'd
done a fool thing and lost the team. I wouldn't blame anyone for
thinking me a--a coward, and I can't resent it if they say it."
"Can't, eh? Well, I can!"
Don smile wanly. "Thought you were telling me not to, Tim."
Tim muttered. There was silence for a minute in the twilit room. Then
Tim switched on the lights and rolled up his sleeves preparatory to
washing. "The whole thing's perfectly rotten," he growled, "but we'll
just have to make the best of it. Ten years from now----"
"Yes, but it isn't ten years from now that troubles me," interrupted Don
thoughtfully. "It--it's right this minute. And tomorrow and the next
day. And the day after that. I've a good mind to----"
"To what?" demanded Tim from behind his sponge.
"Nothing. I was just--thinking."
"Well, stop it, then. You weren't intended to think. You always do
something silly when you get to thinking. Wash up and come on to
supper."
"I'm not going over tonight," answered Don. "I'm not hungry. And,
anyway, I don't feel quite like facing it yet."
"Now, look here," began Tim severely, "if you're going to take it like
that----"
"I'm not, I guess. Only I'd rather not go to supper tonight. I am
through at the training-table and I funk going back to the other table
just now. Besides, I'm not the least bit hungry. You run along."
Tim observed him frowningly. "Well, all right. Only if it was me I'd
take the bull by the horns and see it through. Fellows will talk more if
you let them see that you give a hang."
"They'll talk enough anyway, I dare say. A little more won't matter."
"I just hope Holt gets gay again," said Tim venomously, shying the towel
in the general direction of the rack and missing it by a foot. "Want me
to bring something over to you?"
"No, thanks. I don't want a thing."
"We-ell, I guess I'll beat it then." Tim loitered uncertainly at the
door. "I say, Donald, old scout, buck up, eh?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be all right, Timmy. Don't you worry about me. And--and
thanks, you know, for--for calling Holt down."
"Oh, that!" Tim chuckled. "Holt wasn't the only one I called down
either." Then, realising that he had not helped the situation any by the
remark, he tried to squirm out of it. "Of course, Holt was _the_ one,
you know. The others didn't really _say_ anything, or--or mean
anything----"
Don laughed. "That'll do, Tim. Beat it!"
And Tim, red-faced and confused, "beat it."
For the next five minutes doors in the corridor opened and shut and
footfalls sounded as the fellows hurried off to Wendell. But I doubt if
Don heard the sounds, for he was sunk very low in the chair and his eyes
were fixed intently on space. Presently he drew in his legs, sat up and
pulled his watch from his pocket. A moment of speculation followed. Then
he jumped from the chair as one whose mind is at last made up and went
to his closet. From the recesses he dragged forth his bag and laid it
open on his bed. From the closet hooks he took down a few garments and
tossed them beside the bag and then crossed to his dresser and pulled
open the drawers. Don had decided to accept Coach Robey's title. He was
going to quit!
There was a train at six-thirty-four and another at seven-one for New
York. With luck, he could get the first. If he missed that he was
certain of the second. The dormitory was empty, it was quite dark
outside by now and there was scarcely a chance of anyone's seeing him.
If he hurried he could be at the station before Tim could return from
supper. Or, even if he didn't get away until the seven-one train, he
would be clear of the hall before Tim could discover his absence and
surmise the reason for it. To elude Tim was the all-important thing, for
Tim would never approve and would put all sorts of obstacles in his way.
In fact, it would be a lot like Tim to hold him back by main force!
Don's heart sank for a moment. It was going to be frightfully hard to
leave old Timmy. Perhaps they might meet again at college in a couple of
years, but they would not be likely to see each other before that time,
and even that depended on so many things that it couldn't be confidently
counted on.
Don paused in his hurried selection of articles from the dresser drawers
and dropped into a chair at the table. But, with the pad before him and
pen in hand, he shook his head. A note would put Tim wise to what was
happening and perhaps allow him to get to the station in time to make a
fuss. No, it would be better to write to him later; perhaps from New
York tonight, for Don was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to get a
through train before morning. So, with another glance at his watch, he
began to pack again, throwing things in every which-way in his feverish
desire to complete the task and leave the building before Tim got back.
He came across a scarf that Tim had admired and laid it back in the top
drawer. It had never been worn and Tim should have it. And as he hurried
back and forth he thought of other things he would like Tim to have.
There was his tennis racket, the one Tim always borrowed when Don wasn't
using it, and a scarf-pin made of a queer, rough nugget of opal matrix.
He would tell Tim he was to have those and not to pack them with the
other things. The thought of making the gifts almost cheered him for
awhile, and, together with the excitement of running away, caused him to
hum a little tune under his breath as he jammed the last articles in the
bag and snapped it shut.
It was sixteen minutes past now. He would, he acknowledged, never be
able to make the six-thirty-four, with that burden to carry. But the
seven-one would do quite as well, and he wouldn't have to hurry so. In
that case, then, why not leave just a few words of good-bye for Tim? He
could put the note somewhere where Tim wouldn't find it until later;
tuck it, for instance, under the bed-clothes so that he would find it
when he pulled them down. He hesitated a moment and then set his bag
down by the door, dropped his overcoat and umbrella on the bed and
seated himself again at the table. Tim was never known to take less than
a half-hour for supper and he still had a good ten minutes' leeway:
"Dear Timmy [he wrote hurriedly], I'm off. It's no
use sticking around any longer. Fellows aren't
going to forget as soon as you said and I can't
stay on here and be thought a quitter. So I'm
taking the seven-one to New York and will be home
day after tomorrow. I wish you would pack my
things up for me when you get time. There isn't
any great hurry. I've got enough for awhile.
You're to keep the racket and the blue and white
tie and the opal matrix pin and anything else you
like to remember me by. Please do this, Tim. I'll
write from home and tell you about sending the
trunk. I'm awfully sorry, Tim, and I'm going to
miss you like anything, but I shan't ever come
back here. Maybe we will get together again at
college. I hope so. You try, will you? Good-bye,
Tim, old pal. We've had some dandy times together,
haven't we? And you've been an A1 chum to me and I
wish I wasn't going off without saying good-bye to
you decently. But I've got to. So good-bye, Timmy,
old man. Think of me now and then like I will of
you. Good-bye.
"Your friend always,
"DON."
That note took longer to write than he had counted on, and when he got
up from the table and looked at his watch he was alarmed to find that it
was almost half-past six. He folded the paper and tucked it just under
the clothes at the head of Tim's bed, took a last glance about the room,
picked up coat and umbrella and turned out the light. Then he strode
toward the door, groping for his bag.