PLAYING THE PART.
For a few moments they stared in dumfounded silence at the latest
arrival. Sile Crane was the first to speak; a grin broke over his
homely face, and in a suppressed tone he drawled:
“Great codfish! He’s sartainly come to school this arternoon all
dressed up fit to kill.”
“Oh, ginger!” snickered Chipper Cooper. “Here’s the real wild and
woolly article now. Just look at it!”
Chub Tuttle snorted, clapping a hand to his mouth to check the spray of
half-munched peanuts which flew from his lips. “’Scuse me,” he
entreated, as Barker fell back a step, frowning and producing a
handkerchief to brush some of the peanut crumbs from his coat sleeve.
“Couldn’t help it. Did you ever see such a funny sight in all your
life?”
Even Roger Eliot could not repress a smile as he gazed at the new boy
in Oakdale who professed to come from the State of Texas; for never
before had a person thus attired ventured to cross the threshold of the
academy, and in a moment the eyes of nearly every boy and girl in the
room were focused upon Rodney Grant.
Grant was a well-set-up youngster of sixteen, somewhat large for his
age, and yet not large enough to be noticeably overgrown. He had clear,
dark brown eyes, which were almost black; a strong, well-formed,
prominent nose; a square, firm chin; and a mouth which, while in no way
disagreeable, had something about it to give the impression that the
boy could say “no” and stick to it. In his dark brown hair there was a
glint of red. The short time he had spent as a student at Oakdale
Academy had not yet begun to weaken perceptibly the deep tan of his
cheek and neck.
Set a bit rakishly on the boy’s shapely head was a battered,
wide-brimmed old felt hat that looked as if it had seen any amount of
wear. The crown was encircled by a buckled leather strap, and in front
the brim had been turned up and fastened with a thong. Neither coat nor
vest covered the loose woollen shirt, which had been left open a bit at
the throat. A dark red handkerchief was knotted about the lad’s neck.
His legs were encased in shiny, soiled, calfskin chaps, fringed down
the outer seams; and these likewise bore the tokens of much wear.
Hanging loosely from the point of his left hip was a cartridge-looped
belt that supported a pistol holster dangling low against the upper
part of his right leg. On his feet were tight, thin-soled, high-heeled
boots, to which were attached huge roweled spurs that clanked with
every step he took.
Calm, serene, without the flicker of a smile on his face or a symptom
of self-consciousness in his manner, Rod Grant glanced around and then
walked toward the staring lads near the steam radiator. His high-heeled
boots gave him a somewhat awkward gait.
“Howdy, gents,” he saluted. “This yere weather is sure some nipping
to-day. If it continues, it’s right certain she’ll freeze up tight
before long. Out on the Canadian we’d get it this cold on the front
edge of a no’ther.”
Berlin Barker’s lips curled scornfully as he openly took the measure of
the speaker from head to feet. “On my word,” he sneered, “you’re a
sight. You’re all dressed up, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” was the cheerful answer. “Not knowing but that I might be
invited out to afternoon tea or some sort of social function, I spent
as much as five minutes adorning my person for the occasion. I own up
I’m a heap more familiar with the social etiquette of the range, being
generally accustomed to taking my grub from the tail end of the cook’s
wagon; but, when he sent me East, my old man he says to me, says he,
‘Rod, when you’re in Rome you must seek some to emulate the Romans.’
Therefore, being plenty dutiful, I feel it incumbent to stand up and
meet what’s coming without shying or bucking.”
“Oh, slush!” snickered Cooper. “Who said he didn’t talk in the
ver—what-do-you-call-it?”
“I presume,” said Barker, “that he picked up that line of talk from
some cheap Western novel.”
“You’ve certain got two more guesses coming, partner,” retorted Grant,
still unruffled. “Since locating on this here section of the range,
I’ve spent the greater part of my time in the right painful effort to
talk pure Bostonese. What has been the result? You gents hereabouts
have acquired the impression that I’m an impostor, and therefore all my
trouble has gone for naught. I allow you’ll admit that this must be a
heap discouraging to a person with a naturally retiring and sensitive
nature—that’s me. I now give you notice that henceforth and hereafter
I’m Rodney Grant of the Star D Ranch, Roberts County, Texas Panhandle,
and any gent who doesn’t approve of my style is at liberty to segregate
himself from my society.”
Roger Eliot laughed outright, which was unusual for him.
“That’s plain enough,” he said. “A great many people find it necessary
to play the part in order to be accepted as the real thing.”
Grant flashed him a look from those deep brown eyes; to his surprise,
here was a fellow who seemed to understand.
Barker shrugged his shoulders. “My dear chap,” he said patronizingly,
“I’m afraid you were rather careless in letting us get onto your
curves. Tell us, how much did that rig-out cost you? I presume you
bought it from some fake cowboy in a dime museum.”
“I’ve already noticed,” returned Rodney, “that you’re a presuming sort
of a gent. Being of a forgiving nature, I’ll overlook it and charge it
up to your ignorance.”
Barker flushed with anger. “Cut it out, you freak!” he exclaimed. “Why,
you’re a sight! Folks around here weren’t born yesterday, and you can’t
fool anybody with your bluff. Next thing we know you’ll be calling us
tenderfeet; but we’re not so tender we can’t tell the difference
between a fake and the genuine article.”
“I pray thee, be not so harsh, Berlin,” chuckled Cooper. “Why, we can
all see by looking at his clothes that Mr. Grant is a real, genuine,
_bona fide_ cow-puncher from the Texas Panhandle, just as he claims to
be. At least, he not only looks it, but he’s slinging the lingo.”
Sleuth Piper shook his head doubtfully. “He hasn’t yet said ‘whoop’ or
‘galoot’ or ‘varmint’,” he muttered.
“Thanks, my friend,” bowed Grant, beaming on Cooper. “It’s sure a
relief to know that at last I’m making an impression on one person, at
least.”
“Have a peanut,” invited Chub Tuttle. “Can you shoot a pistol?”
“I’m a rip-roarer with a gun.”
“Know how to throw a lasso?”
“Sure. I can rope and tie a wild steer in thirty-six seconds. The
world’s record is something like forty-one and a half. But that’s
because I’ve never competed in a public steer-roping contest.”
“Bah!” sneered Barker. “Did you ever see a longhorn steer in your life?”
“At least,” returned Grant, gazing fixedly at him, “I’ve seen a
long-eared donkey.”
“Score one for the gent from the Panhandle,” snickered Cooper.
“You insolent puppy!” breathed Barker, in a low, savage voice. “You
want to be careful of your language, or you’ll have a fight on your
hands. Somebody will——”
“I never fight with my fists.”
“No, I don’t suppose you ever fight with anything but your mouth. You
showed the white feather when Hunk Rollins got after you. It’s my
opinion you’re a big case of blow.”
“Your opinions are of so little value that they don’t disturb me any at
all.”
“Quit it, fellows!” interposed Eliot, stepping forward to keep them
apart in case Barker should go at Grant. “You know what it means to
have a scrap here, Berlin.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t touch him—here; but, if he isn’t more civil,
I’ll catch him somewhere and teach him a lesson.”
With which threat Berlin turned disdainfully and walked away, watched
as he departed by the eyes of Grant, in which there shone a strange
gleam of mingled anger and amusement.
“Yeou better not git that feller stirred up, Mr. Cow-puncher,” advised
Sile Crane. “He’s a bad critter when he’s mad. He never forgits a
grudge.”
“I ask you fair and square, gents,” said Grant, “did I begin it? Didn’t
he start the rumpus by spurring me a plenty with slurs and insults?
Never mind, I won’t fight him anyhow, because, as I before stated, I
don’t fight.”
“How about fighting cattle thieves and Injuns?” questioned Cooper.
“That’s a heap different. Having a right violent temper of my own, I
reckon it’s best for me to keep it hobbled constant and regular. Gents,
when I’m riled I’m bad—I sure am. I opine I’ve caused my old man no end
of disturbance and worry. This yere is the first school I’ve never been
expelled from—and there’s enough time for that. Last school I attended,
the master allowed it was his duty to give me a ferruling. It certain
was the mistake of his life, for he got me going some, and I clean lost
my head. As a result, I threw him, traddled him, and lifted his scalp.”
“You wha-what?” gasped Phil Springer. “You don’t mean that you actually
sus-scalped a schoolmaster, do you?”
“Sure. I removed a portion of the gent’s topknot with my trusty
scalping knife. I opine it was a severe shock to his system, but he
recovered in time, though he remained baldheaded in a spot as big as
the palm of your hand.”
“You must be dangerous,” laughed Cooper. “I suppose you learned the
scalping business that time you was captured by Injuns. You know you
said you were captured once.”
“Such was the fate which befell me.”
“Tell us abaout it,” urged Crane. “Haow did yeou escape?”
“By breaking the bonds with which the savages tied me. I am the
possessor of sure enough amazing strength, which enabled me to
accomplish the seeming impossible. There were three of the onery
redskins. They caught me when I was sound asleep, and they were taking
me to their tribe for the self-evident purpose of amusing themselves by
burning me at the stake, or something like that. It was a journey of
two days or more. The first night we camped in a dark and lonely
valley. My captors regaled themselves on roast beef cut from one of my
father’s steers which they had stolen, but not a morsel did they offer
me, although I was mighty near starved to death. When they had eaten
their fill they rolled themselves in their blankets and slept. There I
was, tied hand and foot, and apparently helpless. I watched the
campfire die down and the stars twinkle forth in the lonely sky. I knew
it was up to me, and so when the aborigines were securely wrapped in
the arms of Morpheus I proceeded to put forth my energies to burst my
bonds, and finally succeeded.”
“I s’pose yeou sneaked off and took to your heels then, didn’t ye?”
questioned Crane.
“No, indeed, not any. I knew they would awaken and follow me. I knew
there was only one salvation for me: I must destroy all three of those
red fiends.”
“Did yeou kill ’em?”
“I confess that I did, but never in the history of the world have
redskins died in such a manner. They laughed themselves to death.”
“How was that?” asked Tuttle, so interested that he had forgotten to
eat peanuts.
“As they slept I crept upon them, one by one, seized them, gagged them,
bound them all. This I did to each one in turn, without arousing the
others. Having them securely bound, I meditated on my future course. It
sure seemed some inhuman to hike off and leave them trussed up to
starve or to be eaten by coyotes. I shuddered a plenty at the thought
of tomahawking or shooting them. It was a right long time before I
finally hit upon a mode of execution. Finally I removed their
moccasins—stripped their feet bare. Then from the topknot of the chief
I plucked some feathers. With those very feathers I proceeded to tickle
first one and then another of the redskins upon the soles of his feet.
In about two jiffys I had all three laughing and squirming, and the
more I tickled them the more they laughed. I kept it up, gents, until
those redskins laughed themselves to death.”
“Ge-gee!” exploded Phil Springer. “What a whopper!”
“Pretty fair,” nodded Roger Eliot—“pretty fair.”
Prof. Richardson entered. He paused a moment to peer over his
spectacles, and his eyes fell on Rodney Grant. Slowly an expression of
wonderment crept over the old man’s face.
“What’s this, young man—what’s this?” he inquired, coming forward and
removing his knit woollen gloves. “What are you doing here in such a
rig?”
“I reckon you’ll pardon me, Professor, but people around this neck of
the woods seem to think I’m a fake Texan because I don’t look it, and
therefore I took a notion to wear my cowboy regalia this afternoon.”
The professor shook his head disapprovingly. “Go home,” he said—“go
home at once and change those clothes for civilized garments. I
certainly shall not approve of your wearing such a rig while you attend
this school.”
“Fate is against me,” murmured Rodney Grant, as he turned toward the
door.
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