WHEN SPRING COMES
There was silence in the room--a silence broken only by the ticking of
the fussy alarm clock, which seemed to be doing its best to distract
attention from the unwelcome letter. It was as if it were chanting over
and over again:
“Come-on! Come-on! All-right! All-right!”
Finally the constant ticking got on the nerves of Sid, and he stopped it
by the simple, but effective means of jamming a toothpick in the back of
the clock, where there is a slot for regulating the hair spring.
Tom read his letter over again.
“Is there--that is, can we--Oh, hang it, you know what I mean, Tom!”
blurted out Phil. “Is there anything we can do to help you? If there
is----”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Tom softly. “It’s some trouble dad is in,
and--well, of course it may affect me.”
“Affect you--how?” asked Frank.
“It’s this way,” went on the Randall pitcher. “Dad, you know, is a
farmer. That’s how he made what little money he has, and, in the last
few years he laid by quite a bit. About a year ago, he was persuaded to
invest it in a Western horse deal. He sunk about all he had, and--well,
those Westerners double-crossed him. They got his money, and froze him
out.”
“That’s like some fellows in the West, but not all,” broke in Frank
Simpson, bound to stick up for his own region. “How did it happen, Tom?”
“I never heard all the particulars, only I know that dad invested his
money, and he never got any return from it. Those Western horse dealers
kept it, and the horses too.”
“But that was a year ago,” spoke Sid. “What’s new about it?”
“This,” replied Tom. “Dad brought suit at law against them to recover
his money, and the case was just decided--against him.”
“Jove! That’s too bad!” exclaimed Sid. “But can’t he----?”
“Oh, dad’s appealed the case,” went on Tom, “but it’s this way, fellows.
If he loses on the appeal I’ve got to quit Randall.”
“Quit Randall!” cried the three in chorus.
“Yes, quit Randall. There won’t be money enough to keep me here. I’ll
have to go to work a year or so earlier than I expected to, and help
support the family. That’s what dad writes to me about. He says I must
not be disappointed if I have to come away at any time, and buckle down
to hard work. He says he’s sorry, of course--but, hang it all, I don’t
blame him a bit!” cried Tom, blowing his nose unnecessarily hard. “I
really ought to go to work I suppose. And, if this suit on appeal goes
against us, I will. It’s up to the judge of the higher court now,
whether dad gets his money or not.”
“But you mustn’t leave Randall,” declared Phil. “We’re depending on you
for the baseball nine.”
“Yes, and for track athletics,” added Sid. “There’s talk of forming a
new league for track athletics, and that will mean a lot to Randall. You
simply can’t go, Tom.”
“Well, I hope I don’t have to,” and the pitcher folded his letter
thoughtfully, and put it in his pocket. “But if it has to be--it has to,
that’s all. Let’s talk of something pleasant. What’s this about track
athletics?”
No one knew very much about it, save that there had been a proposition
that, in addition to having a football and baseball team, as well as
possibly a rowing crew, Randall try for some of the honors in all-around
athletics--broad and high jumping, putting the shot, hurdles, and
hundred yard and other dashes.
“I think it would be a good thing,” declared Tom. “With Spring coming
soon----”
“Spring!” broke in Phil. “It looks a lot like Spring; doesn’t it? with
us just back from a coasting party.”
“Oh, well, this snow fall was out of date,” declared Sid.
“Spring will be here before we know it,” went on Frank, in dreamy tones.
“I can almost hear the frogs croaking in the pond now. Oh, for glorious,
warm and sunny Spring. I----”
“Cut it out!” cried Phil, shying a book at his chum. “You’re as bad as
Tom with your poetry,” and they all looked toward the pitcher, who
seemed unusually downcast.
“Do you think you’ll have to go soon?” asked Sid, after a pause.
“I hope not at all,” answered Tom, “but there is no telling. If the case
goes against dad I’ll leave, of course, and buckle down to hard work. If
he wins it--why, I’ll stay on here.”
“And take part in the athletic contests?” asked Frank.
“Well, if they need me, and I have a show. But I’m not so much good at
that. Did you ever have a try at ’em, Frank?”
“Yes, I used to do some jumping, and occasionally a pole vault.”
“Listen to Mr. Modesty!” blurted out Sid. “Why, fellows, he holds the
Western amateur record for the broad jump! Twenty feet one inch--and
Sheran only did six and a half inches better,” and Sid rapidly turned to
the pages of an athletic almanac, where records were given. “He ran,
too. Beat in the mile contest.”
“Did you?” cried Tom. “And you never told us.”
“Well, it was sort of luck,” spoke Frank modestly. “I did my best, but
that day there weren’t very many contestants. I beat ’em all, but, as I
said it was luck.”
“Luck nothing!” grumbled Phil. “Why don’t you own up to it that broad
jumping is your specialty.”
“Well, it is, in a way. I like to run better, though. I’d be glad if we
did have some track athletics at Randall.”
“How about Pete Backus?” asked Tom with a laugh.
“Oh--Grasshopper,” cried Phil. “I suppose he’ll go in for the jump,
too.”
“The more the merrier,” commented Frank. “But does any one know anything
definite about this?”
No one did, beyond rumors that the athletic committee was considering
it. Then they fell to talking of what might happen when the Spring came,
of records, past performances, of great baseball and football games won
and lost, and, by degrees, Tom felt less keenly the unpleasant news that
had come to him.
“I do hope your dad wins that case!” exclaimed Phil, as they were
getting ready for bed, on hearing the warning bell ring. “We don’t want
to lose you, Tom.”
“And I don’t want to go, but still, a fellow----”
“I know, he has to do his duty. I sometimes feel that I ought to be
at work helping the family instead of staying here, where it costs
considerable,” interrupted Phil. “But if I ever can I’m going to make it
up to them. Wait until I get my degree, and the law cases come pouring
in on me, with big fees--say, maybe I could give your dad some points!”
he exclaimed, for Phil was considering the law as his profession.
“Well, dad has hired about all the lawyers he can afford,” replied Tom
with a smile.
“Oh, I didn’t mean for a retainer!” cried Phil. “I’d take the case for
practice.”
“I’ll tell dad,” was the pitcher’s smiling answer.
From the easy chairs, and the rickety sofa, the lads arose, amid clouds
of dust. The alarm clock, that served to awaken them in time for first
chapel call, was set going again, and carefully placed under some
cushions that the ticking might not keep them awake, while yet the bell
might summon them in time for worship next morning.
“We surely must do something to that sofa,” remarked Phil, as he pressed
down on the old springs. “We need a new one----”
“Never!” cried Tom.
“Then we’ll have to have this one revamped. It feels like lying on a
pile of bricks to stretch out on it now. I think----”
“Hark!” interrupted Tom.
There were loud voices out in the hall. Voices in dispute.
“I tell you I will go out!” exclaimed someone.
“But the last bell is just going to ring,” expostulated another, whom
the boys recognized as a hall monitor.
“What do I care! I can fool Zane. Stand aside!”
There was a moment of silence, and then the strokes of the retiring bell
peeled out through the dormitories.
“There! I told you!” said the monitor. “You can’t go. If you do, I’ll
have to report you.”
“All right, report and be hanged to you!” and then followed the sound
of a scuffle in the corridor, as if some one was shoving the monitor
aside.