FRIENDS FALL OUT
TIM didn't enjoy supper very much that evening. The game had left him
pretty weary of body and mind, and on top of that was Don and his
trouble, and try as he might he couldn't get them out of his thoughts.
Mr. Robey was not at table; someone said he had gone to New York for
over Sunday; and so Tim didn't have to make a pretence of eating more
than he wanted. And he wanted very little. A slice of cold roast beef,
rather too rare to please him, about an eighth of one of the inevitable
baked potatoes, a few sips of milk and a corner of a slice of toast as
hard as a shingle, and Tim was more than satisfied. Tonight he was not
especially interested in the talk, which, as usual after a game, was all
football, and didn't see any good reason for sitting there after he had
finished and listening to it. All during his brief meal he was on the
alert for any mention of Don's name, and more than once he glared,
almost encouragingly, at Holt. But Holt had already learned his lesson
and was doing very little talking, and none at all about Don. Nor was
the absent player's name mentioned by anyone at that table, although
what might be being said of him at the other Tim had no way of knowing.
He stayed on a few minutes after he had finished, eyeing the apple-sauce
and graham crackers coldly, and then asked Steve Edwards to excuse him.
"Off his feed," remarked Carmine as Tim passed down the dining hall on
his way out. "First time I ever saw old Tim have nerves."
"It's Don Gilbert, probably," said Clint Thayer. "They're great pals.
Tim's worried about him, I guess."
"What do you make of it, Steve?" asked Crewe, helping himself to a third
slice of meat.
"What is there to make of it?" asked Steve carelessly. "The chap's all
out of shape, I suppose. I don't know what his trouble is, but I guess
he's a goner for this year."
"It's awfully funny, isn't it?" asked Rollins. "Gilbert always struck me
as an awfully plucky player."
"Has anyone said he isn't?" inquired Clint quietly.
"N-no, no, of course not!" Rollins flushed. "I didn't mean anything like
that, Clint. Only I don't see----"
"He hasn't been looking very fit lately," offered Harry Walton. "I
noticed it two or three days ago. Too bad!"
"Yes, you're feeling perfectly wretched about it, I guess," said big
Thursby drily, causing a smile around the table. Walton shrugged and
rewarded the speaker with one of his smiles that were always
unfortunately like leers.
"Oh, I can feel sorry for him," said Walton, "even if I do get his
place. Gilbert gave me an awfully good fight for it."
"Oh, was there a fight?" asked Thursby innocently. "I didn't notice
any."
Thursby got a real laugh this time and Harry Walton joined in to save
his face, but with no very good grace.
"If anyone has an idea that Don Gilbert is scared and quit for that
reason," observed St. Clair, "he'd better keep it to himself. Or,
anyhow, he'd better not air it when Tim is about. He nearly bit my head
off in the gym because I said that Don was a chump to give up like this
a week before the Claflin game. Tim flared up like--like a gasoline
torch and wanted to fight! I didn't mean a thing by my innocent remark,
but I had the dickens of a time trying to prove it to Tim! And he almost
jumped into you, too, didn't he, Holt?"
"Yes, he did, the touchy beggar! You all heard what Robey said, and----"
"I didn't hear," interrupted Steve, "and----"
"Why, he said----"
"And, as I was about to remark, Holt, I don't want to. And it will be
just as decent for those who did hear to forget. Robey says lots of
things he doesn't mean or believe. Perhaps that was one of them. I'm for
Don. If he says he's sick, he is sick. You've all seen him play for two
years and you ought to know that there isn't a bit of yellow anywhere in
his make-up."
"That's so," agreed several, and others nodded, Holt amongst them.
"I didn't say he was a quitter, Steve. I was only repeating what Robey
said, and Tim happened to hear me. Gee, I like Don as well as any of
you. Gee, didn't I play a whole year with him on the second?"
"Gee, you did indeed!" replied Crewe, and, laughing, the fellows pushed
back their chairs and left the table.
Tim didn't hurry on his way along the walk to Billings, for he was
earnestly trying to think of some scheme that would take Don's mind off
his trouble that evening. Perhaps he could get Don to take a good, long
walk. Walking always worked wonders in his own case when, as very
infrequently happened, he had a fit of the blues. Yes, he would propose
a walk, he told himself. And then he groaned at the thought of it, for
he was very tired and he ached in a large number of places!
Only a few windows were lighted in Billings as he approached it, for
most of the fellows were still in dining hall and the rule requiring the
turning out of lights during absence from rooms was strictly enforced.
Only the masters were exempted, and Tim noticed as he passed Mr. Daley's
study that the droplight was turned low by one of those cunning dimming
attachments which Tim had always envied the instructor the possession
of. Tim would have had one of those long ago could he have put it to any
practical use. He passed through the doorway and down the dimly lighted
corridor, the rubber-soled shoes which he affected in all seasons making
little sound. He was surprised to see that no light showed through the
transom of Number 6, and he paused outside the door a moment. Perhaps
Don was asleep. In that case, it would be just as well to not disturb
him. But, on the other hand, he might be just sitting there in the dark
being miserable. Tim turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The light from the corridor and the fact that Don had stopped startledly
at the sound of the turning knob prevented an actual collision between
them. Tim, pushing the door slowly shut behind him, viewed Don
questioningly. "Hello," he said, "where are you going?"
"For a walk," replied Don.
"Why the coat and umbrella? And--oh, I see!" Tim's glance took in the
bag and comprehension dawned. "So that's it, eh?"
There was an instant of silence during which Tim closed the door and
leaned against it, hands in pockets and a thoughtful scowl on his face.
Finally:
"Yes, that's it," said Don defiantly. "I'm off for home."
"What's the big idea?"
"You know well enough, Tim. I--I'm not going to stay here and be--be
pointed out as a quitter. I'm----"
"Wait a sec! What are you doing now but quitting, you several sorts of a
blind mule? Think you're helping things any by--by running away? Don't
be a chump, Donald."
"That's all well enough for you. It isn't your funeral. I don't care
what they say about me if I don't have to hear it. I'm sorry, Tim,
but--but I've just got to do it. I--there's a note for you in your bed.
I didn't expect you'd be back before I left."
"I'll bet you didn't, son!" said Tim grimly. "Now let me tell you
something, Don. You're acting like a baby, that's what you're doing!
It's all fine enough to say that you don't care what fellows say as long
as you don't hear it, but you don't mean it, Don. You would care. And so
would I. If you don't want them to think you a quitter, for the love of
mud don't run away like--like one!"
"I've thought of all that, Tim, but it's the only thing to do."
"The only thing to do, your grandmother! The thing to do is to stick
around and show folks that you're _not_ a quitter. Don't you see that
getting out is the one thing that'll make them believe Robey was right?"
"Oh, I dare say, but I've made up my mind, Tim. I'm going to get that
seven-one train, old man, and I'll have to beat it. If you want to walk
along to the station with me----"
"And carry your bag?" asked Tim sweetly. He turned the key in the lock
and then dropped it in his pocket. Don took a stride forward, but was
met by Tim's challenging frown. "There's no seven-one train for you
tonight, Donald," said Tim quietly, "nor any other night. Put your bag
down, old dear, and hang your overcoat back in the closet."
[Illustration: "Will you unlock that door?" Demanded Don angrily]
"Don't act like a silly ass," begged Don. "Put that key back and let me
out, Tim!"
"Yes, I will--like fun! The only way you'll get that key will be by
taking it out of my pocket, and by the time you do that the seven-one
train will be half-way to the city."
"Please, Tim! You're not acting like a good chum! Just you think----"
"That's just what I am acting like," returned Tim, stepping past the
other and switching on the lights. "And you'll acknowledge it tomorrow.
Just now you're sort of crazy in the head. I'll humour you as much as
possible, Donald, but not to the extent of letting you make a perfect
chump of yourself. Sit down and behave."
"Tim, I want that key," said Don sternly.
Tim shrugged. "Can't have it, Don, unless you fight for it. And I'm not
sure you'd get it then. Now look here----"
"You've no right to keep me here!"
"I don't give a hang whether I've got the right or not. You're going to
stay here."
"There are other trains," said Don coldly. "You can't keep that door
locked forever."
"I don't intend to try, but it'll stay locked until the last train
tonight has whistled for the crossing back there. Make up your mind to
that, son!"
Don looked irresolutely from Tim to the door and back again. He didn't
want to fight Tim the least bit in the world. He wasn't so sure now that
he wanted to get that train, either. But, having stated his purpose, he
felt it encumbent on him to carry it out. Then his gaze fell on the
windows and he darted toward them.
But Tim had already thought of that way of escape and before Don had
traversed half the distance from door to windows Tim had planted himself
resolutely in the way. "No you don't, Donald," he said calmly. "You'll
have to lick me first, boy, and I'm feeling quite some scrappy!"
"I don't want to lick you," said Don irritably, "but I mean to get that
train. You'd better either give up that key or stand out of my way,
Tim."
"Neither, thanks. And, look here, if we get to scrapping Horace will
hear us and then you won't get away in any case. Be sensible, Don, and
give it up. It can't be done, old man."
"Will you unlock that door?" demanded Don angrily.
"No, confound you, I won't!"
"Then I'm going out by the window!"
"And I say you're not." Tim swiftly peeled off his coat. "Anyway, not in
time to get that train."
Don dropped his bag to the floor and tossed overcoat and umbrella on his
bed. "I've given you fair warning, Tim," he said in a low voice. "I
don't want to hurt you, but you'd better stand aside."
"I don't want to get hurt, Don," replied the other quietly, "but if you
insist, all right. I'm doing what I'd want you to do, Don, if I went
crazy in the head. You may not like it now, but some day you'll tell me
I did right."
"You're acting like a fool," answered Don hotly. "It's no business of
yours if I want to get out of here. Now you let me pass, or it'll be the
worse for you!"
"Don, will you listen to reason? Sit down calmly for five minutes and
let's talk this thing over. Will you do that?"
"No! And I won't be dictated to by you, Tim Otis! Now get out of the
way!"
"You'll have to put me out," answered Tim with set jaw. "And you're
going to find that hard work, Donald. We're both going to get horribly
mussed up, and----"
But Tim didn't finish his remark, for at that instant Don rushed him.
Tim met the onslaught squarely and in a second they were struggling
silently. No blows were struck. Don was bent only on getting the other
out of the way and making his escape through the open window there,
while Tim was equally resolved that he should do nothing of the sort. In
spite of Don's superior weight, the two boys were fairly equally
matched, and for a minute or two they strained and tussled without
advantage to either. Then Tim, his arms wrapped around Don's body like
iron bands, forced the latter back a step and against a chair which went
crashing to the floor. Don tore at the encircling arms, panting.
"I don't--want to--hurt you," he muttered, "but--I will--if you
don't--let go!"
There was no answer from Tim, but the grip didn't relax. Don worked a
hand under the other's chin and tried to force his head back. Tim gave a
little and they collided with the window-seat, stumbled and slid
together to the floor, Don on top. For a moment they writhed and
thrashed and then Don worked his right arm loose, slowly tore Tim's
left hand away and held it down to the floor.
"Let go or I'll punch you, Tim," he panted.
"Punch--ahead!"
Don strained until he felt Tim's other hand giving, and then, with a
sudden fling of his body, rolled clear and jumped to his feet. But Tim
was only an instant behind him and, panting and dishevelled, the two
boys confronted each other, silent.
"I'm going out there," said Don after a moment.
Tim only shook his head and smiled crookedly.
"I am, Tim, and--and you mustn't try to stop me this time!"
"I've--got to, Don!"
"I'm giving you fair warning!"
"I know."
Don took a deeper breath and stepped forward. "Don't touch me!" he
warned. But Tim was once more in his path, hands stretched to clutch and
hold. "Out of my way, Tim! Fair warning!" Don's face was white and his
eyes blazing.
"No!" whispered Tim, and crouched.
Then Don went on again. Tim threw himself in the way, a fist shot out
and Tim, with a grunt, went back against the pillows and slipped
heavily to the floor.
Don's hands fell to his sides and he stared bewilderedly. Then, with a
groan, he dropped to his knees and raised Tim's head from the floor.
"Gee, but I'm sorry, Timmy!" he stammered. "I didn't mean to do it,
honest! I was crazy, I guess! Timmy, are you all right!"
Tim's eyes, half-closed, fluttered, he drew a deep breath and his head
rolled over against Don's arm.
"Timmy!" cried Don anxiously. "_Timmy!_ Don't you hear me! I didn't hit
you awfully hard, Timmy!"
Tim sighed. "What--time is it?" he murmured.
"Time? Never mind the time. Are you all right, Tim?"
Tim opened his eyes and grinned weakly. "Hear the birdies sing, Don! It
was a lovely punch! Help me up, will you?"
Don lifted him to the window-seat. "I'm horribly sorry, Tim," he said
abjectedly. "I--I didn't know what I was doing, chum! I wish--I wish
you'd hand me one, Tim! Go on, will you?"
Tim laughed weakly. "It's all right, Donald. Just give me a minute to
get my breath. Gee, things certainly spun around there for a second!"
"Where'd I hit you?"
"Right on the point of the jaw." Tim felt of the place gingerly. "No
harm done, though. It just sort of--jarred me a bit. What time is it?"
Don glanced at the tin alarm clock on his dresser. "Ten of seven," he
answered. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Well, you can't make the seven-one now, Donald, unless you fly all the
way, can you?"
"Oh!" said Don, rather blankly. "I--I'd forgotten!"
"Good thing," muttered Tim. "Wish you'd forgotten before! If anyone ever
tells you you're a nice good-natured, even-tempered chap, Don, don't you
believe him. You send 'em to me!"
"I didn't know I could lose my temper like that," replied the other
shamefacedly. "Timmy, I'm most awfully sorry about it. You believe that,
don't you?"
"Sure!" Tim laughed. "But I'll bet you're not half as sorry as you would
have been tomorrow if I'd let you go! Don, you're an awful ass, now
aren't you?"
Don nodded. "I guess I am, Timmy. And you're a--a brick, old man!"
"Huh! Any more trains to New York tonight?"
"There's one at twelve-something," answered Don, with a grin.
"Thinking of catching it?"
"Not a bit!"
"All right then." Tim dug in his pocket and then tossed the door-key
beside him on the cushion. "Better unpack your bag, you silly ass. Then
we'll go out and get some air. I sort of need it!"
Some three hours later Tim, tossing back his bed-clothes, exclaimed:
"Hello! What have we here?"
"That's just a note I wrote you," said Don hurriedly. "Hand it here,
Tim."
"I should say not! I'm going to read it!"
"No, please, Tim! It's just about two or three things I was going to
leave you! Hand it over, like a good chap!"
"Something you were going to leave me?" said Tim as he let Don wrest the
sheet of paper from him. "Oh, I see. Well,"--he felt carefully of the
lump on his chin--"I guess you left me enough as it is, dearie!"