CLEM GETS A LETTER
There were only five entries for the two-mile race, all senior and
junior class fellows. The course was twice around the half-mile flag,
which made for slower time but enabled the audience to keep the skaters
in sight. The five started briskly from the mark, but this event called
for less speed than had the one-mile race, and none of the contestants
seemed especially anxious to set the pace. It was, finally, Newt Young
who took the lead, with a junior named Peele next and Jim Todd third.
That order held to the turn and all the way back to the line. Some one
clocked Young at three minutes and eighteen seconds, but in view of
the final figures that timing may have been wrong. The line was well
strung out when it turned again toward the distant flag, with the first
three skaters at four-yard intervals and the last two close together
a hundred feet back. Not until the figures had grown small in the
distance once more did the order change. Then the spectators saw Jim
Todd pass Peele and fall in close behind the leader. That was a signal
for triumphant cheers from a small coterie of devoted sons of the Pine
Tree State, to whose voices Clem and Mart added theirs. Such triumph
was, however, short-lived, for when Jim, still threshing his long arms
about, took the turn around the flag he tried to make it too short and
the watchers had a confused vision of the white-shirted youth going
over and over, with legs and arms whirling, far across the distant
surface.
“That,” observed Clem dryly, “lets our Mr. Todd out of it.”
The capsized one made a really astounding recovery and was on his
blades again almost before the spectators had sensed the catastrophe,
but Peele had passed him by that time, and Young was well away on his
last dash. The other two contestants, while still grimly pursuing, were
already out of the result. The half-dozen “Maniacs,” as Clem dubbed
them not very originally, refused to own defeat for their favorite
and continued to howl imploringly for Jim to “Come on and win it!”
It is doubtful if Jim heard that demand, for he was still a long way
off and there was plenty of other shouting beside that of the Maine
contingent, but it did look as if he had, quite of his own accord and
without prompting, made up his stubborn mind to do that very thing! He
went after Peele desperately and gradually closed the distance. Then,
while the growing excitement of the onlookers became every instant
more vocal, he edged past his classmate and steadily widened the ice
between them. Doubtless the fast-flying Young looked horribly like the
victor to Jim just then; he surely looked so to those at the line; and
probably the best that Jim hoped for was a close finish. In any event,
Jim came hard, desperately, arms flying all ways at once, a wild,
many-jointed figure that seemed somehow to fairly eat up distance.
At the quarter-mile he was undoubtedly gaining on Young, and public
sympathy, ever tending toward the under dog, veered from the senior
suddenly and surprisingly, and the loyal sons of Maine found their
hoarse ravings drowned under a greater volume of cheers for Jim Todd.
“Come on, Todd! You can beat him!” “Skate, Skinny Boy! Come on! Come
on!” “You’ve got him, Todd! Hit it up! Hit it up!” Even Mart, who was
a most reticent youth when it came to public vocal demonstrations,
appeared to be trying very hard to climb Clem’s back and yelling:
“_Todd! Todd! Todd! Todd!_” in the most piercing tones about four
inches from Clem’s left ear. Clem, though, failed to comment on the
phenomenon at the time, being extremely busy enticing Todd to the
finish with both voice and gesture!
It was somewhere about three hundred yards short of the line that Jim
realized that defeat was not necessarily to be his portion, that Newt
Young’s admirable grace and form were at last lacking and that that
youth was probably as tired as Jim Todd was. Jim devoutly hoped he was
even more tired, although he couldn’t conceive of such a thing! Any one
who has taken a header in an ice race knows that it produces a most
enervating effect and, for a time at least, leaves one in a painfully
breathless condition. Perhaps Jim recalled that, in his opinion,
superfluous tap on the nose of some three months previous, and perhaps
the recollection of that painful indignity urged him to superhuman
effort. That as may have been, the runaway windmill kept on closing the
gap, slowly but inexorably.
The distance between the two dwindled from eight yards to half that
many, from four yards to two, from two to one! They were almost stride
for stride as they swept down on the finish line. Young, suddenly
aware of the loss of his advantage, seemed at once incredulous and
disheartened. There was a brief instant when he faltered, and in that
instant Jim swept into the lead. Perhaps thirty yards still lay before
the adversaries, and Young seized on his courage and determination
again. But once in the lead Jim was not to be headed. Indeed, it seemed
that until the instant of passing Young he had not shown what real
speed was! The tall youth found in those last few yards some joints
he had not suspected the possession of, made surprising use of them,
swayed, bent, buckled and threshed down the ice with the lithe grace
of a camel with a hundred-mile gale behind it, and gyrated across the
finish line a good eight yards ahead of his adversary!
The sons of Maine went crazy, every one yelled and the official
timekeeper proclaimed that the school record had been burst into
infinitesimal fractions! As no one seemed to know what the Alton
Academy record for the two miles was, the present time of six minutes
and forty-one seconds was accepted as something to cheer for. So every
one cheered again. And about that time Young pushed through to Jim Todd
and shook hands with him, and Jim grinned and forgot to say anything
about that incident on the gridiron, and every one went home.
But Jim Todd leaped into mild and momentary fame, and for some weeks
was pointed out as “that long drink of water who beat Newt Young on
the ice and broke the school record for the mile or two miles or
something.” Perhaps his fame would have lived longer if, at about that
time, Alton hadn’t played her final hockey game with Kenly Hall and
smeared up the Cherry-and-Black to the tune of 7 goals to 3, a feat
which, after last season’s defeat for Alton, was hailed with joy and
loud acclaim and resulted later in the election of Clement Harland to
succeed himself as captain of the team. Since Clem had been the first
youth to get the hockey captaincy in his junior year in the history of
that sport at Alton, he was now possessor of the unique distinction of
being the only hockey captain ever serving two terms. Mart sniffed and
said he hoped Clem wouldn’t get a swelled head over it, but that he
probably would and so wouldn’t be fit to live with much longer!
Whether Clem was fit to live with or wasn’t, it strangely happened that
Mart never had an opportunity to reach a decision in the matter, for
after Spring recess Mart came back to Alton with a vast distaste for
exertion and a couple of degrees of temperature that he hadn’t had when
he went away. A day later he went to the infirmary and there he stayed
until well into May with a case of typhoid that seemed to give much
satisfaction to the doctor in charge but that failed to please Mart’s
parents to any noticeable degree. It was a strange, washed-out looking
Mart who rolled away one morning in an automobile for the station on
his way home, and while his smile was recognizable by Clem the rest
of him seemed strange and alien. Mart managed a joke before the car
started off, but it was such a weak, puerile effort that Clem found it
easier to cry than laugh over.
During the rest of the term Clem saw more of Jim Todd than ever, for
Jim had been sincerely concerned about Mart and had offered all sorts
of well-meant but impossible services during the illness, and Clem
had liked the kindness and thoughtfulness shown. Besides, Clem felt
a bit lonesome after Mart’s departure, and Jim was handy. On one or
two occasions Clem even climbed to the upper floor and endured the
presence of Bradley Judson for the sake of Jim. Judson, who shared the
sloping-ceilinged room with Jim, was no treat, either, according to
Clem!
At home, Mart wrote an occasional brief letter. He said he was getting
along finely, but the letters didn’t sound so. Jim, however, who, it
turned out, had seen typhoid fever before, reassured Clem. Typhoid,
declared Jim, left you pretty low in your mind and weak in your body,
and it took a long while for some folks to get back where they had
been. So Clem took comfort. And then June arrived suddenly, and the
school year was over.
Toward the end of July, Clem, who was leading a life of blissful
ease at the Harland summer home in the Berkshires, received a letter
from Jim. He didn’t know it was from Jim until he had looked at the
bottom of the second sheet, for the writing was strange to him and the
inscription on the envelope--“Middle Carry Camps, Blaisdell’s Mills,
Me.”--failed to suggest the elongated Mr. Todd. Clem tucked his tennis
racket under his arm, seated himself on the lower step of the porch
and, seeking the beginning of the missive, wondered what on earth Jim
was writing about. He wouldn’t have been much more surprised had the
letter been from the President and summoning him to Washington to
confer on the Tariff! He hadn’t seen or heard from Jim since June, and,
since life had been full of a number of things, hadn’t thought of him
more than a dozen times. And now Jim was writing him a two-page letter
in queer up-and-down characters and faded ink on the cheap stationery
of a Maine sporting camp!
“Friend Harland (Clem read): I guess you’ll be surprised to
get a letter from me and will wonder what in tuck I am writing
about. I just heard last week that Mart Gray’s folks have taken
him to Europe and that he will not be back to school this next
year. I’m right sorry he don’t pick up faster, but that’s the
way it is with typhoid lots of times. What I’m writing about is
whether you have made any arrangement with any other fellow to
room in with you. You see, Harland, it is like this. I wasn’t
very well fixed where I was last year. Judson is all right, I
guess, only I don’t cotton to him much. And I was thinking that
perhaps if you didn’t have any fellow in view to room in with
you now that Gray won’t be back, perhaps you wouldn’t mind me.
Of course, you may have some other in mind. I guess likely you
have, but I thought there wouldn’t be any harm in asking.
“I’m right easy to get along with and I’m neat about the place.
I guess that’s about all I can say for myself, but you know me
well enough to know that we would likely get along pretty well
together if you thought well of the notion. Anyway, I’d like
you to answer this when you get time and let me know. It will
be all right just the same if you don’t like the notion or have
made other arrangements. I just thought I’d take a chance.
“I’m up here at this place guiding. I’m just a local guide.
I’m having a right good time and the pay is pretty fair. There
are about seventy folks here this month and lots of women and
children. Mostly I look after the women and kids, take them
out in the boats or canoes and fishing. There’s good fishing
here all right, and if you ever want to catch some good bass
you come to this camp some time. I guess you wouldn’t be able
to come up for a spell this summer. I would show you where you
could catch them up to three pounds and no joking. The regular
guides here are a fine lot of fellows, and we have some pretty
good times. They eat you well, too, here. I’d like for you to
come on up if you could, if only for a week. I would guarantee
you to catch more fish here in a week than you would most
anywhere else in a month. Well, let me hear from you, please,
pretty soon, because whatever way you say I’m going to see if I
can’t make a change this fall. I hope you are having a pleasant
summer. Yours sincerely, James H. Todd.”
Clem smiled when he had finished the letter. Then he frowned. It was
going to be rather awkward. How could he tell Jim that he didn’t want
him for a room-mate without hurting the chap’s feelings? “It will be
all right just the same if you don’t like the notion or have made other
arrangements.” Clem reread the sentence and smiled wryly. It was all
well enough for Jim Todd to say that, but Clem knew very well that it
wouldn’t be “just the same.” The difficulty was that he hadn’t made
other arrangements. He might tell Jim that he had, but that would be
a lie, and Clem didn’t like lies. Besides, Jim would find out he had
lied, and be a lot more hurt than if he had been told the unflattering
truth! Clem wished mightily that he could have foreseen this situation
and written to Mr. Wharton, the school secretary, as soon as the
tidings of Mart’s withdrawal had come. Wharton would have arranged
things for him in a minute. Instead, though, he had kept putting the
matter off, and now this had happened. Gosh!
Clem recalled the fantastic figure that had wandered into Number
15 that afternoon. If the fellow would only dress less like a--a
backwoodsman--it would be something. Then Clem recalled the fact that
toward the end of the Spring term Jim had looked a great deal more
normal as to attire. Clem sighed perplexedly. He liked Jim, too, he
reflected. There were lots of nice traits in the fellow. In fact, after
Mart had gone home he had preferred Jim’s society to that of most
of the other chaps he knew in school; and he knew a good many, too.
Then what was wrong with having Jim for a room-mate? Clem pondered
that for some time. “Raw” appeared to be the most damaging charge he
could bring against the applicant, and that didn’t seem to him an
altogether sufficient indictment. Clem had never suspected himself of
being a snob, but just now the possibility occurred to him abruptly and
unpleasantly. To get away from the idea he reread Jim’s letter, and
this time he read as much between the lines as in them.
It had taken courage to write that letter, he told himself. He would
wager that Jim had put it off more than once and had made more than
one false start. There was a humility all through it that was almost
pathetic when one remembered that the writer wasn’t much under six feet
in height! Yes, and he wasn’t so small other ways, Clem reflected.
Considering that he had entered Alton without knowing a soul there,
and had burst smack into the junior year, too, Jim had done pretty
well. He was no pill, even if he did wear queer things and could be
held accountable for the epidemic of loud-plaid mackinaws that had
raged violently throughout the school in the late Winter! He had
flivvered at football, to be sure, but he had won momentary fame as
a skater, and he had organized the Maine-and-Vermont Club. That last
feat proved pretty conclusively, thought Clem, that the fellow had
something in him. After all, then, the worst you could say of him was
that he was--Clem searched diligently for the word he wanted and found
it--uncouth!
His thoughts went back to the afternoon when Jim Todd had first edged
into view and to Mart’s almost impassioned utterances just previous
thereto. Clem smiled. Mart had been hankering for new types and then
Jim had walked in quite as if he had been awaiting his cue off-stage!
Clem’s smile, though, was caused by the recollection that Mart hadn’t
been nearly so enthusiastic about “new blood” in the concrete--meaning
Jim Todd--as he had been in “new blood” in the abstract! Mart
had tolerated Jim, but had never derived much pleasure from the
acquaintanceship. Old Mart was a heap more conservative than he had
thought himself!
Then, thinking of Mart, Clem remembered how perfectly corking Jim had
been during Mart’s illness. If he hadn’t done a great deal to help it
was only because there had been so little he could do. He had always
been ready, always eager, always sympathetic. Yes, and there were
those two days when poor old Mart had been so beastly sick, and Clem
had worried himself miserable, or would have if Jim hadn’t sort of
stuck around and kept telling him that folks could be awfully ill with
typhoid and yet pull out all hunky; that he’d seen it more’n once. Why,
come to think of it, there had been three or four days when Jim had
been with him half the time! How had he done it? He must have missed
class more than once, and as for studying--well, he just couldn’t have
studied!
Clem got up very suddenly, stuffed Jim’s letter in a pocket of his
white flannels and stared savagely at an inoffensive palm in a gray
stone jar. But though he looked at the palm he didn’t seem to be
addressing it when he spoke, for what he said was: “Clem, you’re a
low-lived yellow pup! Get it?”