pretty flush, you know."
The Butcher looked down at the funny face and saw the kindly motive
under the exaggerated bluffness. Being touched by it, he said gruffly:
"Well; come on, then, you old billionaire!"
The Big Man felt a great movement of sympathy in him for his big
comrade. He would have liked to slip his little fist in the great brown
hand and say something appropriate, only he could think of nothing
appropriate. Then he remembered that among men there should be no
letting down, no sentimentality. So he lounged along, squinting up at
the Butcher and trying to copy his rolling gait.
At the jigger-shop, Al lifted his eyebrows in well-informed
disapproval, saying curtly:
"What are you doing here, you Butcher, you?"
"Building up my constitution," said Stevens, with a frown. "I'm staying
because I like it, of course. Lawrenceville is just lovely at Easter:
spring birds and violets, and that sort of thing."
"You're a nice one," said Al, a baseball enthusiast. "Why couldn't you
behave until after the Andover game?"
"Of course; but you needn't rub it in," replied the Butcher, staring at
the floor. "Give me a double strawberry, and heave it over."
Al, seeing him not insensible, relented. He added another dab to the
double jigger already delivered, and said, shoving over the glass:
"It's pretty hard luck on the team, Butcher. There's no one hereabouts
can hold down the bag like you. Heard anything definite?"
"No."
"What do you think?"
"I'd hate to say."
"Is anyone doing anything?"
"Cap Kiefer is to see the Doctor to-night."
"I say, Butcher," said the Big Man, in sudden fear, "you won't go up to
Andover and play against us, will you?"
"Against the school! Well, rather not!" said the Butcher, indignantly.
Then he added: "No; if they fire me, I know what I'll do."
The Big Man wondered if he contemplated suicide; that must be the
natural thing to do when one is expelled. He felt that he must keep
near Butcher, close all the day. So he made bold to wander about with
him, watching him with solicitude.
They stopped at Lalo's for a hot dog, and lingered at Bill Appleby's,
where the Butcher mournfully tried the new mits and swung the bats
with critical consideration. Then feeling hungry, they trudged up to
Conover's for pancakes and syrup. Everywhere was the same feeling
of dismay; what would become of the baseball nine? Then it suddenly
dawned upon the Big Man that no one seemed to be sorry on the Butcher's
account. He stopped with a pancake poised on his fork, looked about to
make sure no one could hear him, and blurted out:
"I say, Butcher, it's not only on account of first base, you know; I'm
darn sorry for _you_, honest!"
"Why, you profane little cuss," said the Butcher, frowning, "who told
you to swear?"
"Don't make fun of me, Butcher," said the Great Big Man, feeling very
little; "I meant it."
"Conover," said the Butcher, loudly, "more pancakes, and brown 'em!"
He, too, had been struck by the fact that in the general mourning there
had been scant attention paid to his personal fortunes. He had prided
himself on the fact that he was not susceptible to "feelings," that he
neither gave nor asked for sympathy. He was older than his associates,
but years had never reconciled him to Latin or Greek or, for that
matter, to mathematics in simple or aggravated form. He had been the
bully of his village out in northern Iowa, and when a stranger came,
he trounced him first, and cemented the friendship afterward. He liked
hard knocks, give and take. He liked the school because there was the
long football season in the autumn, with the joy of battling, with
every sinew of the body alert and the humming of cheers indistinctly
heard, as he rammed through the yielding line. Then the spring meant
long hours of romping over the smooth diamond, cutting down impossible
hits, guarding first base like a bull-dog, pulling down the high
ones, smothering the wild throws that came ripping along the ground,
threatening to jump up against his eyes, throws that other fellows
dodged. He was in the company of equals, of good fighters, like Charley
De Soto, Hickey, Flash Condit, and Turkey, fellows it was a joy to
fight beside. Also, it was good to feel that four hundred-odd wearers
of the red and black put their trust in him, and that trust became
very sacred to him. He played hard--very hard, but cleanly, because
combat was the joy of his life to him. He broke other rules, not as a
lark, but out of the same fierce desire for battle, to seek out danger
wherever he could find it. He had been caught fair and square, and he
knew that for that particular offence there was only one punishment.
Yet he hoped against hope, suddenly realising what it would cost
him to give up the great school where, however, he had never sought
friendships or anything beyond the admiration of his mates.
The sympathy of the Big Man startled him, then made him uncomfortable.
He had no intention of crying out, and he did not like or understand
the new emotion that rose in him as he wondered when his sentence would
come.
"Well, youngster," he said, gruffly, "had enough? Have another round?"
"I've had enough," said the Big Man, heaving a sigh. "Let me treat,
Butcher."
"Not to-day, youngster."
"Butcher, I--I'd like to. I'm awfully flush."
"Not to-day."
"Let's match for it."
"What!" said the Butcher, fiercely, "Don't let me hear any more of that
talk. You've got to grow up first."
The Big Man, thus rebuked, acquiesced meekly. The two strolled back to
the campus in silence.
"Suppose we have a catch," said the Big Man, tentatively.
"All right," said the Butcher, smiling.
Intrenched behind a gigantic mit, the Big Man strove valorously to hold
the difficult balls. After a long period of this mitigated pleasure
they sat down to rest. Then Cap Kiefer's stocky figure appeared
around the Dickinson, and the Butcher went off for a long, solemn
consultation.
The Big Man, thus relieved of responsibility, felt terribly alone. He
went to his room and took down volume two of The Count of Monte Cristo,
and stretched out on the window-seat. Somehow the stupendous adventures
failed to enthrall him. It was still throughout the house. He caught
himself listening for the patter of Hickey's shoes above, dancing a
breakdown, or the rumble of Egghead's laugh down the hall, or a voice
calling, "Who can lend me a pair of suspenders?"
And the window was empty. It seemed so strange to look up from the
printed page and find no one in the Woodhull opposite, shaving
painfully at the window, or lolling like himself over a novel, all the
time keeping an eye on the life below. He could not jeer at Two Inches
Brown and Crazy Opdyke practising curves, nor assure them that the
Dickinson nine would just fatten on those easy ones. No one halloed
from house to house, no voice below drawled out:
"Oh, you Great _Big Man_! Stick your head out of the window!"
There was no one to call across for the time o' day, or for just
a nickel to buy stamps, or for the loan of a baseball glove, or a
sweater, or a collar button, scissors, button-hook, or fifty and one
articles that are never bought but borrowed.
The Great Big Man let The Count of Monte Cristo tumble unheeded on
the floor, seized a tennis ball, and went across the campus to the
esplanade of the Upper House, where for half an hour he bounced the
ball against the rim of the ledge, a privilege that only a fourth
former may enjoy. Tiring of this, he wandered down to the pond,
where he skimmed innumerable flat stones until he had exhausted the
attractions of this limited amusement.
"I--I'm getting homesick," he admitted finally. "I wish I had a
dog--something living--around."
At supper-time he saw the Butcher again, and forgot his own loneliness
in the concern he felt for his big friend. He remembered that the
Butcher had said that if he were expelled he knew what he would do.
What had he meant by that? Something terrible. He glanced up at the
Butcher, and, being very apprehensive, made bold to ask:
"Butcher, I say, what does Cap think?"
"He hasn't seen the Doctor yet," said the Butcher. "He'll see him
to-night. I guess I'll go over myself, just to leave a calling-card
accordin' to _et_-iquette!"
The Big Man kept his own counsel, but when the Butcher, after dinner,
disappeared through the awful portal of Foundation House, he sat down
in the dark under a distant tree to watch. In a short five minutes the
Butcher reappeared, stood a moment undecided on the steps, stooped,
picked up a handful of gravel, flung it into the air with a laugh, and
started along the circle.
"Butcher!"
"Hello, who's that!"
"It's me, Butcher," said the Big Man, slipping his hand into the
other's; "I--I wanted to know."
"You aren't going to get sentimental, are you, youngster?" said
Stevens, disapprovingly.
"Please, Butcher," said the Great Big Man, pleadingly, "don't be cross
with me! Is there any hope?"
"The Doctor won't see me, young one," said the Butcher, "but the
_at_-mosphere was not encouraging."
"I'm sorry."
"Honest?"
"Honest."
"You _damn_ little runt!"
They went hand in hand over to the chapel, where they chose the back
steps and settled down with the great walls at their back and plenty of
gravel at their feet to fling aimlessly into the dusky night.
"Butcher?"
"Well, Big Man!"
"What will you do if--if they fire you?"
"Oh, lots of things. I'll go hunting for gold somewhere, or strike out
for South America or Africa."
"Oh!" The Big Man was immensely relieved; but he added incredulously,
"Then you'll give up football and baseball?"
"Looks that way."
"You won't mind?"
"Yes," said the Butcher, suddenly, "I will mind. I'll hate to leave the
old school. I'd like to have one chance more."
"Why don't you tell the Doctor that?"
"Never! I don't cry out when I'm caught, youngster. I take my
punishment."
"Yes," said the Big Man, reflecting. "That's right, I suppose; but,
then, there's the team to think of, you know."
They sat for a long time in silence, broken suddenly by the Butcher's
voice, not so gruff as usual.
"Say, Big Man--feeling sort of homesick?"
No answer.
"Just a bit?"
Still no answer. The Butcher looked down, and saw the Big Man
struggling desperately to hold in the sobs.
"Here, none of that, youngster!" he exclaimed in alarm. "Brace up, old
man!"
"I--I'm all right," said the Great Big Man with difficulty. "It's
nothing."
The Butcher patted him on the shoulder, and then drew his arm around
the little body. The Big Man put his head down and blubbered, just as
though he had been a little fellow, while his companion sat perplexed,
wondering what to do or say in the strange situation.
"So he's a little homesick, is he?" he said lamely.
"N-o-o," said the Great Big Man, "not just that; it's--it's all the
fellows I miss."
The Butcher was silent. He, too, began to understand that feeling; only
he, in his battling pride, resisted fiercely the weakness.
"You've got an uncle somewhere, haven't you, youngster?" he said
gently. "Doesn't he look after you in vacation-time?"
"I don't miss _him_," replied the Big Man, shaking his head. Then he
pulled himself together and said apologetically: "It's just being left
behind that makes me such a damned cry-baby."
"Youngster," said the Butcher, sternly, "your language is _at_-rocious.
Such words do not sound well in the mouth of a suckling of your size."
"I didn't mean to," said the Big Man, blushing.
"You must leave something to grow up for, young man," said the Butcher,
profoundly. "Now tell me about that uncle of yours. I don't fancy his
silhouette."
The Great Big Man, thus encouraged, poured out his lonely starved
little heart, while the Butcher listened sympathetically, feeling a
certain comfort in sitting with his arm around a little fellow-being.
Not that he was sensible of giving much comfort; his comments, he felt,
were certainly inadequate; nor did he measure in any way up to the
situation.
"Now it's better, eh, Big Man?" he said at last when the little fellow
had stopped. "Does you sort of good to talk things out."
"Oh, yes; thank you, Butcher."
"All right, then, youngster."
"All right. I say, you--you don't ever feel that way, do you--homesick,
I mean?"
"Not much."
"You've got a home, haven't you?"
"Quite too much, young one. If they fire me, I'll keep away from there.
Strike out for myself."
"Of course, then, it's different."
"Young one," said the Butcher, suddenly, "that's not quite honest. If I
have to clear out of here, it will cut me up _con_-siderable."
"Honest?"
"A fact. I didn't know it before; but it will cut me up to strike out
and leave all this behind. I want another chance; and do you know why?"
"Why?"
"I'd like to make friends. Oh, I haven't got any real friends,
youngster; you needn't shake your head. It's my fault. I know it.
You're the first mortal soul who cared what became of me. All the rest
are thinking of the team."
"Now, Butcher----"
"Lord! don't think I'm crying out!" said the Butcher, in instant alarm.
"It's all been up to me. Truth is, I've been too darned proud. But I'd
like to get another whack at it."
"Perhaps you will, Butcher."
"No, no, there's no reason why I should." The Butcher sat solemnly a
moment, flinging pebbles down into the dark tennis courts. Suddenly he
said: "Look here, Big Man, I'm going to give you some good advice."
"All right, Butcher."
"And I want you to tuck it away in your thinker--savez? You're a
nice kid now, a good sort, but you've got a lot of chances for being
spoiled. Don't get fresh. Don't get a swelled head just because a lot
of the older fellows let you play around. There's nothing so hateful in
the sight of God or man as a fresh kid."
"You don't think----" began the Big Man in dismay.
"No; you're all right now. You're quiet, and don't tag around, and
you're a good sort, darned if you aren't, and that's why I don't want
to see you spoiled. Now a straight question: Do you smoke?"
"Why, that is--well, Butcher, I did try once a puff on Snookers'
cigarette."
"You ought to be spanked!" said the Butcher, angrily. "And when I get
hold of Snookers, I'll tan him. The idea of his letting you! Don't
you monkey around tobacco yet a while. First of all, it's fresh, and
second, you've got to _grow_. You want to make a team, don't you, while
you're here?"
"O-o-oh!" said the Great Big Man with a long sigh.
"Then just stick to growing. 'Cause you've got work cut out for you
there. Now I'm not preachin'; I'm saying that you want to fill out and
grow up and do something. Harkee."
"All right."
"Cut out Snookers and that gang. Pick out the fellows that count, as
you go along, and just remember this, if you forget the rest: if you
want to put ducks in Tabby's bed or nail down his desk, do it because
_you_ want to do it, not because some other fellow wants you to do it.
D'ye hear?"
"Yes, Butcher."
"Remember that, youngster; if I'd stuck to it, I'd kept out of a peck
of trouble." He reflected a moment and added: "Then I'd study a little.
It's not a bad thing, I guess, in the long run, and it gets the masters
on your side. And now jump up, and we'll trot home."
The following night the Big Man, again under his tree, waited for
the result of the conference that was going on inside Foundation
House between the Doctor and the Butcher and Cap Kiefer. It was long,
very long. The minutes went slowly, and it was very dark there, with
hardly a light showing in the circle of houses that ordinarily seemed
like a procession of lighted ferry-boats. After an interminable hour,
the Butcher and Cap came out. He needed no word to tell what their
attitudes showed only too plainly: the Butcher was expelled!
The Big Man waited until the two had passed into the night, and then,
with a sudden resolve, went bravely to the doorbell and rang. Before
he quite appreciated the audacity of his act, he found himself in the
sanctum facing a much-perplexed head master.
"Doctor, I--I----" The Big Man stopped, overwhelmed by the awful
majesty of the Doctor, on whose face still sat the grimness of the past
conference.
"Well, Joshua, what's the matter?" said the head master, relaxing a bit
before one of his favourites.
"Please, sir, I'm a little--a little embarrassed, I'm afraid," said the
Great Big Man, desperately.
"Am I so terrible as all that?" said the Doctor, smiling.
"Yes, sir--you are," the Big Man replied frankly. Then he said,
plunging in, "Doctor, is the Butcher--is Stevens--are you going
to--expel him?"
"That is my painful duty, Joshua," said the Doctor, frowning.
"Oh, Doctor," said the Big Man all in a breath, "you don't know--you're
making a mistake."
"I am? Why, Joshua?"
"Because--you don't know. Because the Butcher won't tell you, he's too
proud, sir; because he doesn't want to cry out, sir."
"What do you mean exactly?" said the Doctor in surprise. "Does Stevens
know you're here?"
"Oh, Heavens, no, sir!" said the Big Man in horror. "And you must never
tell him, sir; that would be too terrible."
"Joshua," said the Doctor, impressively, "I am expelling Stevens
because he is just the influence I don't want boys of your age to come
under."
"Oh, yes, sir," said the Big Man, "I know you think that, sir; but
really, Doctor, that's where you are wrong; really you are, sir."
The Doctor saw there was something under the surface, and he encouraged
the little fellow to talk. The Big Man, forgetting all fear in the
seriousness of the situation, told the listening head master all
the Butcher's conversation with him on the chapel steps the night
before--told it simply and eloquently, with an ardour that bespoke
absolute faith. Then suddenly he stopped.
"That's all, sir," he said, frightened.
The Doctor rose and walked back and forth, troubled and perplexed.
There was no doubting the sincerity of the recital: it was a side of
Stevens he had not guessed. Finally he turned and rested his hand on
the Big Man's shoulders.
"Thank you," he said; "it does put another light on the question. I'll
think it over."
When, ten days later, the school came trickling home along the road
from vacation, they saw, against all hope, the Butcher holding down
first base, frolicking over the diamond in the old familiar way, and
a great shout of joy and relief went up. But how it had happened no
one ever knew, least of all Cap and the Butcher, who had gone from
Foundation House that night in settled despair.
To add to Butcher's mystification, the Doctor, in announcing his
reprieve, had added:
"I've decided to make a change, Stevens. I'm going to put Tibbetts in
to room with you. I place him in your charge. I'm going to try a little
responsibility on you."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The "shell" is the lowest class.
[Illustration: chapter title decoration--THE POLITICAL EDUCATION OF
MR. BALDWIN]
THE POLITICAL EDUCATION OF MR. BALDWIN
If Hickey had not been woefully weak in mathematics the famous Fed. and
anti-Fed. riots would probably never have happened. But as revolutions
turn on minor axes, Hickey, who could follow a football like a hound,
could not for the life of him trace X, the unknown factor, through the
hedges of the simplest equation.
It was, therefore, with feelings of the acutest interest that he
waited, in the upper corridor of Memorial Hall, on the opening morning
of the spring term, for the appearance of Mr. Baldwin, the new recruit
to the mathematics department. The Hall was choked with old boys
chattering over the doings of the Easter vacation, calling back and
forth, punching one another affectionately or critically examining the
returning stragglers.
"His name is Ernest Garrison Baldwin," said the Gutter Pup. "Just
graduated, full of honours and that sort of thing."
"He ought to be easy," said Crazy Opdyke, hopefully.
"These mathematical sharks are always fancy markers," interposed
Macnooder.
"If I'm stuck in the first row," said the Egghead gloomily, "it's all
up--I never could do anything with figures."
"If we want short lessons," said Hickey, waking out of his reverie,
"we've all got to flunk in the beginning."
At this Machiavellian analysis there was a chorus of assent.
"Sure."
"Hickey's the boy!"
"Red Dog and Poler Fox have got to be kept down."
"We're not pack-horses."
"Say, is he green?"
"Sure--never taught before."
"Cheese it--he's coming."
The group stood aside, intent on the arrival of the new adversary.
They saw a stiff young man, already bald, with a set, affable manner
and a pervading smile of cordiality, who entered the classroom with a
confident step, after a nodded:
"Ah, boys--good-morning."
The class filed in, eyeing the natural enemy closely for the first
indications of value to aid them in the approaching conflicts.
"He's awfully serious," said the Egghead to his neighbour.
"He'll try to drive us," replied Macnooder, with instinctive resentment.
Hickey said nothing, absorbed in contemplation of a momentous
question--how would the new master hear recitations? To solve a
master's system is to be prepared in advance, and with the exception
of the Roman's there was not a system which he had not solved. Popular
masters, like Pa Dater, called you up every third day, which is
eminently just and conducive to a high standard of scholarship. The
Muffin Head, in stealthy craftiness, had a way of calling you up twice
in succession after you had flunked and were expecting a brief period
of immunity; but this system once solved gave ample opportunity to
redeem yourself. The Doctor, wiser than the rest, wrote each name on
a card, shuffled the pack and called for a recitation according to
chance--but even the Doctor left the pack on his desk, nor counted
the cards as all careful players should. Other masters, like Tapping
and Baronson, trusted to their intuitions, seizing upon the boy whose
countenance betrayed a lurking apprehension. Hickey took kindly to this
method and had thrived amazingly, by sudden flagrant inattentions or
noticeable gazing out of the windows, which invariably procured him a
staccato summons to recite just as the recitation neared the limited
portion he had studied.
So Hickey sat, examining Mr. Baldwin, and speculating into which
classification he would fall.
"Now, boys," said Mr. Baldwin, with an expanding smile, "we're
beginning the new term. I hope you'll like me--I know I shall like
you. I'm quite a boy myself--quite a boy, you know. Now I'm going
ahead on a new principle. I'm going to assume that you all take an
interest in your work [the class sat up]. I'm going to assume that you
look upon life with seriousness and purpose. I'm going to assume that
you realise the sacrifices your parents are making to afford you an
education. I'm not here as a taskmaster. I'm here to help you, as your
friend, as your companion--as an older brother--that's it, as an older
brother. I hope our interest in one another will not be limited to this
classroom."
Hickey and the Egghead, who had prominently installed themselves in
the front seats, led the applause with serious, responsive faces.
Mr. Baldwin acknowledged it, noticing pleasantly the leaders of the
demonstration.
Then he rapped for order and began to call the roll, seating the boys
alphabetically. He ran rapidly through the F's, the G's and H's and,
pausing, inquired:
"Are there any J's in the class?"
At this excruciatingly witty remark, which every master annually
blunders upon, the waiting class roared in unison, while Hinsdale was
forced to slap Hickey mercilessly on the back to save him from violent
hysterics.
Mr. Baldwin, who suddenly perceived he had made a pun, hastily assumed
a roguish expression and allowed a considerable moment for the laughter
to die away. The session ended in a gale of cordiality.
Hickey and the Egghead paid a visit that afternoon to the Griswold, to
make the new arrival feel quite at home.
"Ah, boys," said Mr. Baldwin, with a wringing hand-shake, "this is very
friendly of you, very friendly."
"Mr. Baldwin," said Hickey seriously, "we were very much interested in
what you said to us this morning."
"Indeed," said Baldwin, gratified. "Well, that pleases me very much.
And I am glad to see that you take me at my word, and I hope you will
drop in often. There are lots of things I want to talk over with you."
"Yes, sir," said the Egghead. "It's very kind of you."