regard for old precedents. Then he added, a little choked, "Turkey, I,
too--I----"
"I understand, Kid," said Turkey, gravely clapping his shoulder; "I've
known it all along."
"Dear old boy!"
They walked in silence.
"What's her name?" asked Turkey, slowly.
"Lucille. And hers?"
"Marie Louise."
Another silence.
"Kid, is it all right?"
The romanticist considered a moment, and then shook his head.
"No, Turk."
"Dear old boy, you'll win out."
"I must. And you, Turk, does she care?"
A heavy sigh was the answer. They walked back arm in arm, each fully
believing in the other's sorrow, and almost convinced of his own. At
the esplanade of the Upper they stopped and listened to the thumping of
the piano and the systematic beat from the dancers.
"I wish it were all over," said Turkey, gloomily. "This can mean
nothing to me."
"Nor to me," said the Kid, staring at the melancholy moon.
* * * * *
On the fateful day the school arose, so to speak, as one boy, shaved,
and put on a clean collar. Every boot was blacked, every pair of
trousers creased to a cutting edge. The array of neckties that suddenly
appeared in gigantic puffs or fluttering wings was like the turn of
autumn in a single night.
Chapel and the first two recitations over, the esplanade of the
Upper was crowded with fourth formers, circulating critically in the
dandified throng, chattering excitedly of the coming event. Perish the
memory of the fashion there displayed! It seemed magnificent then: let
that be the epitaph.
The bell called, and the group slowly departed to the last recitation.
From each house a stream of boys came pouring out and made their
lagging way around the campus toward Memorial. Slower and slower rang
the bell, and faster came the unwilling slaves--those in front with
dignity; those behind with despatch, and so on down the line to the
last scattered stragglers, who came racing over the lawns. The last
peal sounded, the last laggard tore up Memorial steps, and vanished
within. A moment later the gong in the hall clanged, and the next
recitation was on. The circle, a moment before alive with figures, was
quiet and deserted. A group of seven or eight lounging on the esplanade
were chatting indolently, tossing a ball back and forth with the
occupant of a third-story window.
At this moment Turkey emerged from the doorway in shining russets, a
Gladstone collar, a tie of robin's-egg-blue, and a suit of red and
green plaids, such as the innocent curiosity of a boy on his first
allowance goes to with the thirst of possession.
"Hurrah for Turkey!" cried the Kid. "He looks like a regular
fashion-plate."
In an instant he was surrounded, punched, examined, and complimented.
"Well, fellows, it's time to give ourselves them finishing touches,"
said the Egghead, with a glance of envy. "Turkey is trying to steal a
march on us. The girls are coming."
"Hello!" cried the Kid, suddenly. "Who's this?"
All turned. From behind Foundation House came a carriage. It drove on
briskly until nearly opposite the group on the steps, when the driver
reined in, and some one within looked out dubiously.
[Illustration: "'Get off my feet!... A fine lady you are!'"]
"Turkey, you're in luck," said the Gutter Pup. "You're the only one
with the rouge on. Go down gracefully and see what the lady wants."
So down went Turkey to his duty. They watched him approach the carriage
and speak to some one inside. Then he closed the door and spoke to the
driver, evidently pointing out his destination, for the cab continued
around the circle.
Then Turkey made a jump for the esplanade, and, deaf to all inquiries,
seized upon his roommate and dragged him aside.
"Great guns! Kid," he exclaimed, "I've seen her--Beauty's sister! She
isn't like Beauty at all. She's a stunner, a dream! Look here! Get that
dance-card. Get it, if you have to lie and steal. He's in recitation
now. You've got to catch him when he comes out. For heaven's sake!
don't let anyone get ahead of you. Tell him two girls have backed out,
and I want five more dances. Tell him I'm to take her to the debate
to-night, and the Dramatic Club to-morrow. Kid, get that card!"
Releasing his astounded roommate, he went tearing across the campus to
meet the carriage.
"What's happened to our staid and dignified president?" cried the
Gutter Pup in wonder. "Is he crazy?"
"Oh, say, fellows," exclaimed the Kid, overcome by the humour of the
situation, "who do you think that was?"
The carriage had now stopped before the Dickinson, and Turkey, arrived
in time, was helping out a tall, slender figure in black. A light
flashed over the group.
"Beauty's sister."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Impossible!"
"Beauty's sister it is," cried the Kid; "and the joke is, she's a
stunner, a dream!"
"A dream!" piped up the inevitable Snookers. "Well, I guess! She's an
all-round A-No. 1. Gee! I just got a glimpse of her at a theatre, and I
tell you, boys, she's a paralyser."
But his remark ended on the air, for all, with a common impulse, had
disappeared. Snookers, struck with the same thought, hastened to his
room.
Ten minutes later they reappeared. Hickey, in a suit of pronounced
checks, his trousers carefully turned up _à l'Anglais_, glanced
approvingly at the array of manly fashion.
"And now, fellows," he said, pointing to the Chapel, which Turkey was
entering with Miss Sawtelle, "that traitor shall be punished. We'll
guard every entrance to Memorial, capture our friend, 'Chesterton V.
Sawtelle (absent from bath),' relieve him of that little dance-card,
and then, Romans, to the victors belong the spoils!"
The Kid having delayed over the choice between a red-and-yellow necktie
or one of simple purple, did not appear until Hickey had stationed his
forces. Taking in the situation at a glance, he chuckled to himself,
and picking up a couple of books, started for the entrance.
"Lucky it's Hungry and the Egghead," he said to himself as he passed
them and entered the Lower Hall. "Hickey would have guessed the game."
He called Sawtelle from the second form, and, slipping his arm through
his, drew him down the corridor.
"Sawtelle," he said, "I want your sister's dance-card. There's some
mistake, and Turkey wants to fix it up. Thanks; that's all. Oh, no,
it isn't, either. Turkey said he'd be over after supper to take your
sister to the debate, and that he had seats for the Dramatic Club
to-morrow. Don't forget all that. So long! See you later."
In high feather at the success of this stratagem, he skipped
downstairs, and avoiding Hickey, went to meet Turkey in the Chapel,
where he was duly presented.
When Sawtelle emerged at length from the study-room, he was amazed at
the spontaneity of his reception. He was no longer "Beauty" or "Apollo"
or "Venus."
"Sawtelle, old man," they said to him, "I want to see you a moment."
"Chesterton, where have you been?"
"Old man, have you got anything to do?"
Each strove to draw him away from the others, and failing in this,
accompanied him to the jigger-shop, where he was plied with substantial
flattery, until having disposed of jiggers, soda, and éclairs, he cast
one lingering glance at the tempting counters, and said with a twinkle
in his ugly little eyes:
"And now, fellows, I guess my sister must be over at the house. Come
around this afternoon, why don't you, and meet her?"--an invitation
which was received with enthusiasm and much evident surprise.
When the Prom opened that evening, Beauty's sister made her entrée
flanked by the smitten Turkey and the languishing Hasbrouck, while
the stricken Kid brought up the rear, consoled by the responsibility
of her fan. Five stags who had been lingering miserably in the shadow
searching for something daring and imaginative to lay at her feet,
crowded forward only to be stricken dumb at the splendour of her
toilette.
Beauty's sister, fresh from a Continental season, was quite overwhelmed
by the subtle adoration of the famous Wash Simmons and of Egghead, that
pattern of elegance and _savoir-faire_--overwhelmed, but not at all
confused. Gradually under her deft manipulation the power of speech
returned to the stricken. Then the rout began. The young ladies from
city and country finishing schools, still struggling with their teens,
were quite eclipsed by the gorgeous Parisian toilette and the science
of movement displayed by the sister of Chesterton V. Sawtelle. The
ordinary ethics of fair play were thrown to the winds. Before the eyes
of every one, Turkey held up the worthless dance-card, and tore it into
shreds. Only the brave should deserve the fair. Little Smeed, Poler
Fox, and Snorky Green struggled in vain for recognition, and retired
crestfallen and defrauded, to watch the scramble for each succeeding
dance, which had to be portioned among three and often four clamourers.
In fact, it became epidemic. They fell in love by blocks of five, even
as they had sought the privileges of the measles. Each implored a
memento to fix imperishably on his wall. The roses she wore consoled
a dozen. The Gutter Pup obtained her fan; the Kid her handkerchief,
a wonderful scented transparency. Glendenning and Hasbrouck brazenly
divided the gloves, while Turkey, trembling at his own blurting
audacity, was blown to the stars by permission to express in a letter
certain delicate thoughts which stifle in the vulgar scramble of the
ballroom.
When the last dance had been fought for, divided, and redivided, and
the lights peremptorily suppressed, the stags _en masse_ accompanied
Beauty's sister to the Dickinson, where each separately pressed her
hand and strove to give to his "Good-night" an accent which would be
understood by her alone.
On that next morning that somehow always arises, Turkey and the Kid,
envied by all, drove her to the station, listening mutely to her gay
chatter, each plunged in melancholy, secretly wondering how she managed
to conceal her feelings so well.
They escorted her to the car, and loaded her with magazines and
candies and flowers, and each succeeded in whispering in her ear a
rapid, daring sentence, which she received from each with just the
proper encouragement. Then, imaginary Lucilles and Marie Louises
forgot, they drove back, heavy of heart, and uncomprehending, viewing
the landscape without joy or hope, suffering stoically as men of
eighteen should. Not a word was spoken until from the last hill they
caught the first glimmer of the school. Then Turkey hoarsely, flicking
the air with the lash of the whip, said:
"Kid--"
"What?"
"That _was_ a woman."
"A woman of the world, Turkey."
They left the carriage at the stable, and strolled up to the
jigger-shop, joining the group, all intent on the coming baseball
season; and gradually the agony eased a bit. Presently a familiar
little figure, freckled and towheaded, sidled into the shop, and stood
with fists jammed in empty pockets, sniffing the air for succour.
"Oh, you Beauty! oh, you astonishing Venus!" cried the inevitable
persecutor. Then from the crowd Macnooder began to intone the familiar
lines:
"His hair, it is a faded white,
His eye a watery blue;
He has no buttons on his coat,
No shoe-strings in his shoe."
"Doc," said the Beauty, blushing sheepishly, "set me up to a jigger,
will you? Go on, now!"
Then Macnooder, roaring, shouted back: "Not this year; next
year--SISTER!"
[Illustration: chapter title decoration--THE GREAT BIG MAN]
THE GREAT BIG MAN
The noon bell was about to ring, the one glorious spring note of that
inexorable "Gym" bell that ruled the school with its iron tongue. For
at noon, on the first liberating stroke, the long winter term died and
the Easter vacation became a fact.
Inside Memorial Hall the impatient classes stirred nervously, counting
off the minutes, sitting gingerly on the seat-edges for fear of
wrinkling the carefully pressed suits or shifting solicitously the
sharpened trousers in peril of a bagging at the knees. Heavens! how
interminable the hour was, sitting there in a planked shirt and a
fashion-high collar--and what a recitation! Would Easter ever begin,
that long-coveted vacation when the growing boy, according to theory,
goes home to rest from the fatiguing draining of his brain, but in
reality returns exhausted by dinners, dances, and theatres, with
perhaps a little touch of the measles to exchange with his neighbours.
Even the masters droned through the perfunctory exercises, flunking the
boys by twos and threes, by groups, by long rows, but without malice or
emotion.
Outside, in the roadway, by the steps, waited a long, incongruous line
of vehicles, scraped together from every stable in the countryside,
forty-odd. A few buggies for nabobs in the Upper House, two-seated
rigs (holding eight), country buckboards, excursion wagons to be
filled according to capacity at twenty-five cents the trip, hacks from
Trenton, and the regulation stage-coach--all piled high with bags and
suitcases, waiting for the bell that would start them on the scramble
for the Trenton station, five miles away. At the horses' heads the
lazy negroes lolled, drawing languid puffs from their cigarettes,
unconcerned.
Suddenly the bell rang out, and the supine teamsters, galvanising
into life, jumped to their seats. The next moment, down the steps,
pell-mell, scrambling and scuffling, swarming over the carriages, with
joyful clamour, the school arrived. In an instant the first buggies
were off, with whips frantically plied, disputing at a gallop the race
to Trenton.
Then the air was filled with shouts.
"Where's Butsey?"
"Oh, you, Red Dog!"
"Where's my bag?"
"Jump in!"
"Oh, we'll never get there!"
"Drive on!"
"Don't wait!"
"Where's Jack?"
"Hurry up, you loafer!"
"Hurry up, you butter-fingers!"
"Get in!"
"Pile in!"
"Haul him in!"
"We're off!"
"Hurrah!"
Wagon after wagon, crammed with joyful boyhood, disappeared in a cloud
of dust, while back returned a confused uproar of broken cheers,
snatches of songs, with whoops and shrieks for more speed dominating
the whole. The last load rollicked away to join the mad race, where far
ahead a dozen buggies, with foam-flecked horses, vied with one another,
their youthful jockeys waving their hats, hurling defiance back and
forth, or shrieking with delight as each antagonist was caught and left
behind.
The sounds of striving died away, the campus grew still once more. The
few who had elected to wait until after luncheon scattered hurriedly
about the circle and disappeared in the houses, to fling last armfuls
into the already bursting trunks.
On top of Memorial steps the Great Big Man remained, solitary and
marooned, gazing over the fields, down the road to Trenton, where still
the rising dust-clouds showed the struggle toward vacation. He stood
like a monument, gazing fixedly, struggling with all the might of his
twelve years to conquer the awful feeling of homesickness that came
to him. Homesickness--the very word was an anomaly: what home had he
to go to? An orphan without ever having known his father, scarcely
remembering his mother in the hazy reflections of years, little Joshua
Tibbets had arrived at the school at the beginning of the winter term,
to enter the shell,[1] and gradually pass through the forms in six or
seven years.
The boys of the Dickinson, after a glance at his funny little body and
his plaintive, doglike face, had baptised him the "Great Big Man" (Big
Man for short), and had elected him the child of the house.
He had never known what homesickness was before. He had had a
premonition of it, perhaps, from time to time during the last week,
wondering a little in the classroom as each day Snorky Green, beside
him, calculated the days until Easter, then the hours, then the
minutes. He had watched him with an amused, uncomprehending interest.
Why was he so anxious to be off? After all, he, the Big Man, found it
a pleasant place, after the wearisome life from hotel to hotel. He
liked the boys; they were kind to him, and looked after his moral and
spiritual welfare with bluff but affectionate solicitude. It is true,
one was always hungry, and only ten and a half hours' sleep was a
refinement of cruelty unworthy of a great institution.
But it was pleasant running over to the jigger-shop and doing errands
for giants like Reiter and Butcher Stevens, with the privileges of
the commission. He liked to be tumbled in the grass by the great
tackle of the football eleven, or thrown gently from arm to arm like a
medicine-ball, quits for the privileges of pommelling his big friends
_ad libitum_ and without fear of reprisals. And then what a privilege
to be allowed to run out on the field and fetch the nose-guard or
useless bandage, thrown down haphazard, with the confidence that he,
the Big Man, was there to fetch and guard! Then he was permitted to
share their studies, to read slowly from handy, literal translations,
his head cushioned on the Egghead's knee, while the lounging group
swore genially at Pius Æneas or sympathised with Catiline. He shagged
elusive balls and paraded the bats at shoulder-arms. He opened the
mail, and sorted it, fetching the bag from Farnum's. He was even
allowed to stand treat to the mighty men of the house whenever the
change in his pocket became too heavy for comfort.
In return he was taught to box, to wind tennis rackets, to blacken
shoes, to crease trousers, and sew on the buttons of the house.
Nothing was lacking to his complete happiness.
Then lately he had begun to realise that there was something else in
the school life, outside it, but very much a part of it--vacation.
At first the idea of quitting such a fascinating life was quite
incomprehensible to him. What gorging dinner-party could compare with
the thrill of feasting at midnight on crackers and cheese, devilled
ham, boned chicken, mince pie and root beer, by the light of a solitary
candle, with the cracks of the doors and windows smothered with rugs
and blankets, listening at every mouthful for the tread of the master
that sometimes (oh, acme of delight!) actually passed unsuspectingly by
the door?
Still, there was a joy in leaving all this. He began to notice it
distinctly when the trunks were hauled from the cellar and the packing
began. The packing--what a lark that had been! He had folded so many
coats and trousers, carefully, in their creases, under Macnooder's
generous instructions, and, perched on the edge of the banisters like a
queer little marmoset, he had watched Wash Simmons throw great armfuls
of assorted clothing into the trays and chum them into place with a
baseball bat, while the Triumphant Egghead carefully built up his
structure with nicety and tenderness. Only he, the Big Man, sworn to
secrecy, knew what Hickey had surreptitiously inserted in the bottom
of Egghead's trunk, and also what, from the depths of Wash's muddled
clothing, would greet the fond mother or sister who did the unpacking;
and every time he thought of it he laughed one of those laughs that
pain. Then gleefully he had watched Macnooder stretching a strap until
it burst with consequences dire, to the complete satisfaction of
Hickey, Turkey, Wash, and the Egghead, who, embracing fondly on the top
of another trunk, were assisting Butcher Stevens to close an impossible
gap.
Yet into all this amusement a little strain of melancholy had stolen.
Here was a sensation of which he was not part, an emotion he did not
know. Still, his imagination did not seize it; he could not think of
the halls quiet, with no familiar figures lolling out of the windows,
or a campus unbrokenly green.
Now from his lonely eerie on Memorial steps, looking down the road to
vacation, the Great Big Man suddenly understood--understood and felt.
It was he who had gone away, not they. The school he loved was not
with him, but roaring down to Trenton. No one had thought to invite him
for a visit; but then, why should anyone?
"I'm only a runt, after all," he said, angrily, to himself. He stuck
his fists deep in his pockets, and went down the steps like a soldier
and across the campus chanting valorously the football slogan:
Bill kicked,
Dunham kicked.
They both kicked together,
But Bill kicked mighty hard.
Flash ran,
Charlie ran,
Then Pennington lost her grip;
She also lost the championship--
Siss, boom, ah!
After all, he could sleep late; that was something. Then in four days
the baseball squad would return, and there would be long afternoon
practices to watch, lolling on the turf, with an occasional foul to
retrieve. He would read The Count of Monte Cristo, and follow The
Three Musketeers through a thousand far-off adventures, and Lorna
Doone,--there was always the great John Ridd, bigger even than Turkey
or the Waladoo Bird.
He arrived resolutely at the Dickinson, and started up the deserted
stairs for his room. There was only one thing he feared; he did not
want Mrs. Rogers, wife of the housemaster, to "mother" him. Anything
but that! He was glad that after luncheon he would have to take his
meals at the Lodge. That would avert embarrassing situations, for
whatever his friends might think, he, the Great Big Man, was a runt in
stature only.
To express fully the excessive gaiety he enjoyed, he tramped to his
room, bawling out:
"'Tis a jolly life we lead,
Care and sorrow we defy."
All at once a gruff voice spoke:
"My, what a lot of noise for a Great Big Man!"
The Big Man stopped thunderstruck. The voice came from Butcher Stevens'
room. Cautiously he tiptoed down the hall and paused, with his funny
little nose and eyes peering around the door-jamb. Sure enough, there
was Butcher, and there were the Butcher's trunks and bags. What could
it mean?
"I say," he began, according to etiquette, "is that you, Butcher?"
"Very much so, Big Man."
"What are you doing here?"
"The faculty, Big Man, desire my presence," said the Butcher,
sarcastically. "They would like my expert advice on a few problems that
are _per_-plexing them."
"Ah," said the Great Big Man, slowly. Then he understood. The Butcher
had been caught two nights before returning by Sawtelle's window at
a very late hour. He did not know exactly the facts because he had
been told not to be too inquisitive, and he was accustomed to obeying
instructions. Supposing the faculty should expel him! To the Big Man
such a sentence meant the end of all things, something too horrible to
contemplate. So he said, "Oh, Butcher, is it serious?"
"Rather, youngster; rather, I should say."
"What _will_ the baseball team do?" said the Big Man, overwhelmed.
"That's what's worrying me," replied the crack first-baseman, gloomily.
He rose and went to the window, where he stood beating a tattoo.
"You don't suppose Crazy Opdyke could cover the bag, do you?" said the
Big Man.
"Lord, no!"
"How about Stubby?"
"Too short."
"They might do something with the Waladoo."
"Not for first; he can't stop anything below his knees."
"Then I don't see how we're going to beat Andover, Butcher."
"It does look bad."
"Do you think the faculty will--will----"
"Fire me? Pretty certain, youngster."
"Oh, Butcher!"
"Trouble is, they've got the goods on me--dead to rights."
"But does the Doctor know how it'll break up the nine?"
Butcher laughed loudly.
"He doesn't _ap_-preciate that, youngster."
"No," said the Big Man, reflectively. "They never do, do they?"
The luncheon bell rang, and they hurried down. The Big Man was
overwhelmed by the discovery. If Butcher didn't cover first, how could
they ever beat Andover and the Princeton freshmen? Even Hill School and
Pennington might trounce them. He fell into a brown melancholy, until
suddenly he caught the sympathetic glance of Mrs. Rogers on him, and
for fear that she would think it was due to his own weakness, he began
to chat volubly.
He had always been a little in awe of the Butcher. Not that the Butcher
had not been friendly; but he was so blunt and rough and unbending
that he rather repelled intimacy. He watched him covertly, admiring
the bravado with which he pretended unconcern. It must be awful to be
threatened with expulsion and actually to be expelled, to have your
whole life ruined, once and forever,--The Big Man's heart was stirred.
He said to himself that he had not been sympathetic enough, and he
resolved to repair the error. So, luncheon over, he said with an
appearance of carelessness: