respect.
The Doctor took it, glanced curiously at Hickey, and then began to
read. Presently his face relaxed, and despite a struggle a smile
appeared. Then he handed the document to Mr. Tapping, who read as
follows:
* * * * *
I, John J. Goodsell, representing the firm of White, Brown and Bangs,
jewellers of Trenton, New Jersey, take oath that I have this day
engaged to manufacture for William Orville Hicks of the Lawrenceville
school 250 small clappers, design submitted, of iron plated with
silver, and that the iron which forms the foundation comes from
scrap-iron entirely furnished by us.
Sworn to in the presence of notary.
JOHN J. GOODSELL.
Attached to the document was a bill as follows:
William Orville Hicks, Dr.,
To White, Brown and Bangs.
250 silver gilt clappers, at 11c apiece $27.50
Received payment.
[Illustration: chapter title dec.--MAKING FRIENDS]
MAKING FRIENDS
"That was just before I licked Whitey Brown," said Lazelle, _alias_
Gazelle, _alias_ the Rocky Mountain Goat and the Gutter Pup. "Cracky,
that was a fight!"
"How many rounds?" asked Lovely Mead, disrobing for the night.
"Eleven and a half. Knocked him to the count in the middle of
the twelfth with a left jab to the bellows," said the Gutter Pup
professionally. "He weighed ten pounds more than me. Ever do any
fighting?"
"Sure," said the new arrival instantly.
"How many times?"
"Oh, I can't remember."
"You don't look it."
"Why not?"
"Your complexion's too lovely; and you're only a shaver, you know."
"I'm fifteen, almost sixteen," said Lovely, bridling up and surveying
his new roommate with a calculating glance. "How old are you?"
"I've been three years at Lawrenceville, freshman," said the Gutter Pup
severely. "That's the difference. What's your longest fight?"
"Twenty-one rounds," said Lovely, promptly.
"Oh," said the Gutter Pup in profound disappointment. "He licked you?"
"No."
"You licked him?"
"No."
"What then?"
"They stopped us."
"Huh!"
"We had to let it go over to the next day."
"And then?"
"Then I put him out in the thirteenth."
"Yes, you did!"
"Yes, I did."
The two fiery-haired champions stood measuring each other with their
glances. Lovely Mead ran his eye over the wiry arms and chest opposite
him and wondered. The Gutter Pup in veteran disdain was about to remark
that Lovely was a cheerful liar when the tolling of the gym bell broke
in on a dangerous situation. The Gutter Pup dove into bed and, reaching
for a slipper, hurled it across the room, striking the candle fair and
square and plunging the room into darkness.
"I learned that trick," he said, "the year I put the Welsh Rarebit to
sleep in six." He stopped and ruminated over Lovely's story of his
two-day fight, and then spoke scornfully from the dark: "I never fought
anybody over eleven rounds. I never _had_ to."
Lovely heard and possessed his soul in patience. He was on his second
day at the school, his spirit not a whit subdued, though considerably
awed, by the sacred dignities of the old boys. He liked the Gutter
Pup, with one reservation, and that was an instinctive antagonism
for which there was no logical explanation. But at the first fistic
reminiscence of the Gutter Pup he had sought in his soul anxiously and
asked himself, "Can I lick him?" Each time the question repeated itself
he felt an overwhelming impulse to throw down the gage and settle the
awful doubt then and there. It was pure instinct, nothing more. The
Gutter Pup was really a good sort and had adopted him in quite a decent
way without taking an undue advantage. In fact, Lovely was certain
that in his roommate he had met the congenial soul, the chum, the best
friend among all friends for whom he had waited and yearned. His heart
went out to the joyous, friendly Gazelle, but his fingers contracted
convulsively. Theirs was to be an enduring friendship, a sacred, Three
Musketeer sort of friendship--after one small detail was settled.
The next morning Lovely Mead bounded up with the rising bell and
started nervously to dress. There was a lazy commotion in the opposite
bed, and then, after a few languid movements of the covers, the Gutter
Pup's reddish head appeared in surprise.
"Why, Lovely, what are you doing?
"Dressing. Didn't you hear the bell?"
"Jimminy crickets, what a waste, what an awful waste of time," said the
Gutter Pup, luxuriously, stretching his arms and yawning. "Say, Lovely,
I like you. You're a good sort and that was a rattlin' plucky tackle
you made yesterday. Say, we're going to get on famously together, only,
Lovely, you _are_ green, you know."
"I suppose I am."
"You are. Of course, you can't help it, you know. Every one starts that
way. Lordy, Lovely, you remind me of the first time I hit this old
place, three weeks after I fought Mucker Dennis, of the Seventy-second
Street gang."
Lovely Mead's gorge swelled up with indignation. To hide his emotion,
he plunged his head into the basin and emerged dripping.
"I say, Lovely, I must give you some pointers," said the Gutter Pup
affably. "Everything depends, you know, on the start. You want to stand
in with the masters, you know. Study hard the first week and get your
lessons down fine, and work up their weak points, and you'll slide
through the term with ease and pleasure."
"What are these weak points?" inquired Lovely from the depths of a
clean shirt.
"Oh, I mean the side they're most approachable. Now the Roman, you
know, when he makes a joke you always want to laugh as though you were
going to die."
"Does he make many jokes?" asked Lovely.
"Cracky, yes. Then there's one very important one he makes around
Thanksgiving that every one watches for. I'll put you on, but you must
be very careful."
"What? The same joke every year?" said Lovely.
"Regular. It's about Volturcius in Cæsar--the 'c' is soft, you know,
but you have to pronounce it--Vol-turk-ious."
"Why so?"
"So the Roman can say, 'No-o, no-o, not even the near approach of
Thanksgiving will justify such a pronunciation.' See? That's the cue to
laugh until the tears wet the page. It's most important."
"What about the Doctor?"
"Easy, dead easy; just ask questions, side-path questions that'll
lead him away from the lesson and give him a chance to discourse.
Say--another thing, Lovely, don't go and buy anything in the village;
let me do that for you."
"Thanks."
"I'm on to their games, you know; I'm wise. Oh, say, another
pointer--about the jigger-shop. You want to build up your credit with
Al, you know."
"How d'you mean?"
"The best way is to get trusted right off while you've got the chink
and then pay up promptly at the end of a week, and repeat the operation
a couple of times. Then Al thinks you're conscientious about debts and
that sort of thing, and when the hard-up months come he'll let you go
the limit."
"I say, Lazelle," said Lovely, admiringly, "you've got it down pretty
fine, haven't you? It's real white of you to look after me this way."
"You're all right," said the Gutter Pup, still lolling in bed. "All you
want is to lay low for a month or so and no one'll bother you. Besides,
I'll see to that."
"Thank you."
"You see, Lovely, I've taken a fancy to you: a real, live, fat, young
fancy. You remind me of Bozy Walker that was fired for introducing
geese into the Muffin Head's bedroom; dear old Bozy, he stood up to me
for seven rounds."
Lovely Mead dropped the hairbrush in his agitation and drew a long
breath. How much longer could his weak human nature hold out?
Downstairs the gong began to call them to breakfast. With the first
sound the Gutter Pup was in the middle of the floor, out of his pajamas
and into his clothes before the gong had ceased to ring. He plunged his
head into the basin already filled with water, dried himself, parted
the moist hair with one sweeping stroke of his comb, snapped a dickey
about his neck and struggled into his coat while Lovely was still
staring with amazement.
"That's the way it's done," said the Gutter Pup, triumphantly. "There's
only one fellow in the school can beat me out, and that's that old
Hickey, over in the Dickinson; but I'll beat him yet. Are you ready?
Come on!"
The trouble was that the Gutter Pup was absolutely unaware of the
disturbance in Lovely's mind, or that his reminiscences provoked such
thoughts of combat. He took Lovely to the village and fitted him out,
hectoring the tradesmen and smashing prices with debonair impudence
that Lovely sneakingly envied. Certainly the Gutter Pup was unusually
cordial and did not in the least make him feel the indignities of his
position of newcomer, as he had a right to do.
After supper they worked on the arrangement of their room. The Gutter
Pup grew ecstatic as Lovely produced his treasures from the bottom of
the trunk.
"My aunt's cat's kittens!" he ejaculated as Lovely produced a set of
pennants in gaudy arrangement. "Will we have the boss room, though!
Lovely, you are a treasure! This will make the Waladoo Bird turn pale
and weep for sorrow. Supposin' we ruminate."
They ranged their accumulated possessions on the floor, and sat back to
consider.
"Well," said the Gutter Pup, "let's begin by putting the cushions on
the window-seat and the rugs on the floor. Now the question is--what's
to have the place of honour?"
"What have you got?" asked Lovely, considering.
"I've got a signed photograph of John L. Sullivan," said the Gutter
Pup, proudly producing it. "It used to be cleaner, but Butsey White
blew up with a root-beer bottle and spattered it."
"Is it his own signature?" inquired Lovely, gazing in awe.
"Sure. Dear old John L. He _was_ a fighter. Now, what have _you_ got?"
"I've got a picture of an actress."
"Honest?"
"Sure."
"Who is it?"
"Maude Adams."
"You don't say so!"
"Fact."
"It isn't signed, Lovely--it can't be?"
"It is."
"Cracky! That _is_ a prize. Maude Adams! Think of it! What will the
Waladoo Bird say?"
The Gutter Pup gazed reverently at the priceless photograph and said in
a breath:
"Maude Adams and John L.; think of it, Lovely!" He paused and added in
a burst of gratitude: "Say, you can call me Gazelle or Razzle-dazzle
now, if you want; afterward we'll see about Gutter Pup."
Lovely was too overcome by this advance to voice his feelings, but his
heart went out to his new friend, all irritation forgotten. After long
discussion it was decided that the two photographs, being of unique
and equal value, should be hung side by side on the background of an
American flag. The pennants were strung as a border around the walls,
but were speedily hidden under an imposing procession of light-weight
and middle-weight champions, sporting prints, posters and lithographic
reproductions of comic opera favourites, boxing gloves, fencing masks,
lacrosse sticks, Japanese swords, bird nests, stolen signs, photographs
of athletic teams, cotillon favours and emblems of the school and the
Woodhull. They stopped and gazed in awe and admiration, and falling
gleefully into each other's arms, executed a dance about the room. Then
Lovely Mead, in an unthinking moment, standing before the photograph
of the mighty John L., exclaimed: "Say, Gazelle, isn't he a wonder,
though! How long have you had it?"
"I got it," said the Gutter Pup, putting his head on one side and
reflecting, "right after I fought Whitey Brown--just before my mill
with Doggie Shephard--a year and a half ago, I should say."
All the joy of the home-building left Lovely. He sat down on the bed
and pulled at his shoe-strings so viciously that they broke off in his
hand.
"What's the matter?" said the Gutter Pup in surprise.
"Nothing."
"You look sort of put out."
"Oh, no."
"Whitey was a tough one," resumed the Gutter Pup, lolling on the
window-seat, "but Doggie was no great shakes. Too fat and overgrown. He
did look big, but he had no footwork and his wind was bad--very bad."
Lovely Mead listened with averted eyes.
If he had only been an old boy he would have thrown down the gauntlet
then and there; but he was a freshman and must check the tugging
within. Besides, there must be some excuse. He could not openly, out of
clear sky, provoke an old boy who had taken him under his protection
and had done everything to make him feel at home. Such an act would be
fresh, and would bring down on him the condemnation of the whole school.
"Why the deuce should I care, after all?" he asked himself gloomily
that night. "What difference does it make how many fellows he's licked.
I suppose it's because I'm a coward. That's it; it's because I'm afraid
that he would lick me that it rankles so. Am I a coward, after all, I
wonder?"
This internal questioning became an obsession. It clouded his days and
took the edges from the keen joy of romping over the football field and
earning the good word of Tough McCarthy for his neat diving tackles.
Could the Gutter Pup lick him, after all? He wondered, he debated,
he doubted. He began to brood over it until he became perfectly
unapproachable, and the Gutter Pup, without a suspicion of the real
cause, began to assure Hasbrouck that Lovely was being overtrained.
Meanwhile, matters were approaching a crisis with Lovely. Each morning
he calculated the strength of the Gutter Pup's chest and arms, and
wondered what was the staying power of his legs. Sometimes he admitted
to himself that he wouldn't last three rounds. At others he figured out
a whole plan of campaign that must wear down the Gutter Pup and send
him to a crashing defeat. Waking, he went through imaginary rounds,
received without wincing tremendous, imaginary blows, and sent in
sledge-hammer replies that inevitably landed the champion prone on his
back. At night his dreams were a long conglomeration of tussling and
battle in the most unexpected places. He fought the Gutter Pup at the
top of the water-tower and saw him vanish over the edge as the result
of a smashing blow on the point of the jaw; he fought him on the
football field and in the classroom, while the Roman held the watch and
the head master insisted on refereeing.
The worst of it was, he knew he was going to pieces and moping in a way
to render himself a nuisance to all his associates; and yet he couldn't
help it. Try as he would to skip the mention of any subject that could
be tagged to a date, every now and then an opening would come, and the
Gutter Pup would begin: "Let me see; that must have been just after I
fought----"
At last, one night, unable to bear the strain longer, Lovely went to
his room resolved to end it. He bided his opportunity, gazing with
unseeing eyes at the pages of the divine Virgil. Finally he raised
his head and said, abruptly: "Say, Lazelle, what do you think of our
chances for the football championship?"
"Fair, only fair," said the Gutter, glad for any excuse to stop
studying. "The Davis and the Dickinson look better to me."
"How long has it been since we won?" said Lovely, scarcely breathing.
"Let me see," said the Gutter Pup, unsuspecting. "We won the fall I
fought Legs Brownell behind the Davis house."
"Lazelle," said Lovely, rising desperately, "I can lick you!"
"What?"
"I can lick you!"
"Hello," said the Gutter Pup, considering him in amazement; "what does
this mean?"
"It means I can lick you," repeated Lovely doggedly, advancing and
clenching his fists.
"You want a fight?"
"I do."
"Why, bully for you!"
The Gutter Pup considered, joyfully, with a glance at the clock.
"It's too late now to pull it off. We'll let it go until to-morrow
night. Besides, you'll be in better condition then, and you can watch
your food, which is important. I'll notify Hickey. You don't mind
fighting by lamplight?"
"Huh!"
"Of course, we'll fight under the auspices of the Sporting Club,
with a ring and sponges and that sort of thing," said the Gutter Pup
cheerfully. "You'll like it. It's a secret organisation and it's a
great honour to belong. Hickey, at the Dickinson, got it up. He's
president, and referees. I'm the official timekeeper, but that don't
matter. They'll arrange for seconds and all that sort of thing, and
Doc Macnooder is always there for medical assistance. You're sure the
lights won't bother you?"
"No."
"It's a queer effect, though. First time I fought Snapper Bell----"
"Lazelle," said Lovely, choking with rage, "I can lick you, right
now--here--and I don't believe you ever licked anyone in your life!"
"Look here, freshman," said the Gutter Pup, at once on his dignity;
"I've stood enough of your impertinence. You'll do just as I say, and
you'll act like a gentleman and a sport and not like a member of the
Seventy-second Street gang. We'll fight like sportsmen, to-morrow, at
midnight, under the auspices of the Sporting Club, in the baseball
cage, and until then I'll dispense with your conversation! Do you hear
me?"
Lovely Mead felt the justice of the reproof. Yes, he _had_ acted like
a member of the Seventy-second Street gang! He glanced up at the
photograph (slightly spotted) of John L., and he thought of Ivanhoe
and the Three Musketeers, and Sir Nigel of the White Company, and
presently he said, tentatively:
"I say----"
No answer.
"Lazelle----"
Still no answer.
"Say, I want to--to apologise. You're right about the Seventy-second
Street gang. I'm sorry."
"All right," said the Gutter Pup, not quite appeased. "I'm glad you
apologised."
"But we fight to-morrow--to the end--to the limit!"
"You're on!"
They spoke no more that night, undressing in silence, each covertly
swelling his muscles and glancing with stolen looks at his opponent's
knotted torso. By morning the Gutter Pup's serenity had returned.
"Well, how're you feeling? How did you sleep?" he asked, poking his
nose over the coverlets.
"Like a log," returned Lovely, lying gloriously.
"Good. Better take a nap in the afternoon, though, if you're not used
to midnight scrapping."
"Thanks."
"Mind the food--no hot biscuits, and that sort of thing. A dish of
popovers almost put me to the bad the first time I met Bull Dunham.
Fact, and he didn't know enough to counter."
Lovely dressed and hurriedly left the room.
At two o'clock, to his amazement, Charley De Soto, the great
quarterback, in person, waited on him in company with the gigantic
Turkey Reiter, tackle on the eleven, and informed him that they had
been appointed his seconds and anxiously inquired after his welfare.
"I--oh, I'm doing pretty well, thank you, sir," said Lovely, overcome
with embarrassment and pride.
"Say, Charley," said Turkey, after an approving examination, "I kind
of hanker to the looks of this here bantam. He's got the proper colour
hair and the protruding jaw. Danged if I don't believe he'll give the
Gutter Pup the fight of his life."
"Can you lick him?" said De Soto, looking Lovely tensely in the eyes.
"I'll do it or die," said Lovely, with a lump in his throat.
"Good, but mind this, youngster: no funking. I don't stand second to
any quitter. If I'm behind you, you've _got_ to win."
Lovely thought at that moment that death on the rack would be a delight
if it only could win a nod of approbation from Charley De Soto.
"How's your muscles?" asked Turkey. He ran his fingers over him,
slapped his chest and punched his hips, saying:
"Hard as a rock, Charley."
"How's your wind?" said De Soto.
"Pretty well, thank you, sir," said Lovely, quite overcome by the
august presence.
"Now keep your mind off things. Don't let the Gutter Pup bluff you.
Slip over to the Upper, right after lights, and I'll take charge of the
rest. By the way, Turk, who's in the corner with the Gutter Pup?"
"Billy Condit and the Triumphant Egghead."
"Good. We'll just saunter over and lay a little bet. So-long,
youngster. No jiggers or éclairs. See you later."
"So-long, old Sporting Life," added Turkey, with a friendly tap on the
shoulder. "Mind now, keep cheerful."
Lovely's mood was not exactly cheerful. In fact he felt as if the
bottom had fallen out of things. He tried his best to follow Charley De
Soto's advice and not think of the coming encounter, but, do what he
would, his mind slipped ahead to the crowded baseball cage, the small,
ill-lighted ring, and the Gutter Pup.
"After all, will he lick me?" he said, almost aloud. His heart sank, or
rather it was a depression in the pit of his stomach.
"Supposing he does?" he went on, pressing his knuckles against his
teeth. What a humiliation after his boast! There would be only one
thing to do--leave school at once, and never, never return!
He had wandered down to the football field where the candidates for the
school eleven were passing and falling on the ball under the shouted
directions of the veterans. The bulky figure of Turkey Reiter, gigantic
with its padded shoulders and voluminous sweater, hove into view, and
the tackle's rumbling voice cried out:
"Hi there, old Sockarooster, this won't do! Keep a-laughin'; keep
cheerful; tumble down here and shag for me."
Lovely Mead went gratefully to fetch the balls that Turkey booted, far
down the field, to the waiting halfbacks.
"Feeling a bit serious, eh?" said Turkey.
"Well----"
"Sure you are. That's nothing. Don't let the Gutter Pup see it, though.
He's got to believe we are holding you in, chaining you up, keepin' you
under the bars, 'cause you're barking to get at him. Savvy? Chuck in a
bluff, old sport, and--keep cheerful. Better now?"
"Yes, thank you," said Lovely, who was in nowise suffering from an
excess of hilarity.
He did not see the Gutter Pup until supper, and then had to undergo
again his solicitous inquiries. By a horrible effort he succeeded in
telling a funny story at the table, and laughed until his own voice
alarmed him. Then he relapsed into silence, smiling furiously at every
remark, and chewing endlessly on food that had no flavour for him.
"Lovely," said the Gutter Pup upstairs, shaking his head, "you don't
look fit; you're getting nervous."
"Sure," said Lovely, remembering Turkey's injunction. "I'm a
high-strung, _vicious_ temperament!"
"Your eye acts sort of loose," said the Gutter Pup, unconvinced.
"You're new to fighting before a big assemblage. It's no wonder. I
don't want any _accidental_ advantages. Say the word and we'll put it
over."
"No," said Lovely, quite upset by his friendly offer. "I only hope,
Lazelle, I can hold myself in. I've got an awful temper; I'm afraid
I'll kill a man some day."
"No, Lovely," said Gutter Pup, shaking his head. "You don't deceive me.
You are ill--ill, I tell you, and you might as well own up."
The truth was, Lovely was ill and rapidly getting worse under the
insouciance of the veteran of the ring.
"Why, my aunt's cat's pants, Lovely," said the Gutter Pup seriously.
"That's nothing to be ashamed of. Didn't I get it the same way the
first time I went up against Bloody Davis, of the Murray Hill gang, on
a bet I'd stick out three rounds?"
Lovely Mead drew a sigh of relief. The red blood seemed to rush back
into his veins once more, and his lungs to resume their appointed
functions.
"September's a good month for these little things," he said hopefully.
"October's better, more snap in the air," said the Gutter Pup.
"September's muggy. I remember when I was matched against Slugger
Kelly; it was so hot I lost ten pounds, and the fight only went five
rounds, at that."
The old provocation had roused up the old antagonism in Lovely. He
hardly dared trust himself longer in the room, so he bolted and slipped
down to the Waladoo's room and out into the campus.
"Gee," he said to himself, with a sigh of relief, "if I could only get
at him _now_!"
At taps he went cautiously to the Upper, by the back way, and gained
the room of Charley De Soto, where he was told to turn in on the
window-seat and take it easy.
Presently Turkey Reiter and Macnooder arrived to discuss the
probabilities. Then Bojo Lowry, who could play anything, sat down at
the piano and performed the most wonderful variations and medleys,
until Lovely forgot any future engagement in the delight of gazing from
his cushioned recess on real Fourth Formers, enjoying the perquisites
and liberties of the Upper House.
Suddenly Macnooder glanced at his watch and announced that it was
almost midnight. Lovely sprang up feverishly.
"Here, young Sporting Life," cried Turkey, "no champing on the bit!
Just a dash of calm and tranquillity."
"Easy, easy there," said De Soto, with a professional glance.