A ROOM AND A ROOMMATE
Monty Crail sat in a spindle-backed wooden armchair with his feet on
the sill of the low window, and his hands clasped behind his head, and
dreamily watched a solitary star――it happened to be Venus, but Monty
wasn’t aware of the fact――brighten momentarily in the western sky. It
hung just midway between the topmost branches of the two elms across
the street, and it required little imagination to almost detect the
wire that held it there! Supper was over, and the other inhabitants of
Morris House, saving Mrs. Fair and the maids, had either wandered off
to other scenes or were loitering outside on the steps. Monty could
hear the voices from around the corner of the house. Monty’s room was
numbered――or, rather, lettered――“F,” and was on the second floor. There
were three windows in it, one looking down on a small patch of lawn,
and then across River Street, and, finally, in the general direction of
Grafton Village, and two others, side by side, staring rather blankly
at this season against the leafy screen of a big horse chestnut tree.
Later, when the leaves were gone, those windows afforded a fine view of
Lothrop Field and the tennis courts, and the diamond and the gridiron
and running track, and, further away, glimpses of the Needham River
that wound its quiet way past the southern confines of the school
property. The twin casements were dormered, and the small alcove so
formed was occupied on one side by a washstand, and on the other, a
long shelf, which, with the aid of bright-hued cretonne curtains,
formed a supplementary wardrobe designed to eke out the meager
accommodations offered by a tiny closet.
The room, though small, was attractive. There were two cot beds, one
on each side of the chamber, a brown oak study table in the center,
two chiffoniers to match, the aforementioned washstand, two arm chairs
of the Windsor pattern, a like number of straight-backed chairs, and a
small stand. The center of the floor was spread with a brown grass rug
and smaller ones lay in front of the door, and in the alcove. And there
were, of course, lesser furnishings, such as a green-shaded electric
drop-light on the table, a waste-paper basket with the appearance
of having been used at some time as a football, a scarlet-and-gray
cushion, which, because there was neither window-seat nor couch,
led a restless life. Four pictures of no importance, and a large
Grafton banner adorned the walls, and on one chiffonier were several
photographs, framed and unframed. The walls were covered with a paper
of alternating white and buff stripes which gave a sunshiny effect to
the room. On the whole, Monty’s new home was cheerful and comfortable,
and, while he would have preferred a study and bedroom in one of the
campus dormitories, he was not at all dissatisfied.
He had been at Grafton twenty-eight hours, and, to be exact, fourteen
minutes, reckoning from the time he had stepped from the barge at the
corner of Lothrop, and in that time much of a not exciting nature had
happened. He was reviewing that period now, his gaze fixed intently
on the star. He had been conducted by Jimmy Logan in the august
presence of Doctor Duncan, the principal, and had told his story. The
Doctor――the fellows called him “Charley,” but Monty had not achieved
that familiarity yet――had been visibly interested and amused. In the
end he had picked up the telephone and consulted the school secretary
with the result that Monty, bag in hand, had presently followed Jimmy
across the campus to Morris House.
There Jimmy had left him, after extracting a promise to return later
to 14 Lothrop, and Monty had been conducted upstairs by a stout and
short-breathed lady whom the boys called “Mother Morris,” but whose
real name was Mrs. Fair. Mrs. Fair was the matron, and what the
fellows termed “a good sort.” Left to himself, Monty had wandered
about the room, hands in pockets, looked out the windows, and finally
unpacked his bag. After that there had seemed nothing to do save look
up Jimmy and Dud, and so he had returned to Lothrop. By that time the
campus and the dormitories presented a quite different appearance,
for another train had come in, and boys of all sorts were in evidence
on walks and in doorways, and on the stairs and in the corridors. One
fell over a bag at every turn. Jimmy and Dud were hanging pictures and
arranging their belongings, their trunks having arrived, and Monty had
helped to the best of his ability. Now and then a boy had wandered in
to say “Hello,” pour out a rapid fire of questions and answers, shake
hands with Monty and hurry out again. And finally supper time had come,
and Monty had gone back to Morris House and partaken of cold lamb and
chicken salad and graham muffins and pear preserve and three glasses
of milk at a long table, and in the presence of eleven other youths of
assorted ages, sizes and looks. Monty had been introduced to them all,
but acquaintanceship had for the time ended there. After supper he had
wandered off for a walk along the twilight roads, and across the campus
and past the buildings and had returned to Morris tired enough to go to
bed and sleep.
He had found Room F in possession of a tall, loose-jointed youth, with
tow-colored hair plastered greasily to his head, and a pair of pale,
near-sighted eyes under colorless lashes. This was Alvin Standart, the
rightful owner of one-half of Room F. Monty had met him at supper, but
had not thought of him as a roommate. Standart seemed anything but
delighted with the idea of sharing the apartment with the newcomer,
and Monty, for his part, was not sensible of any particularly joyous
emotions. Standart hadn’t impressed him favorably. He didn’t yet,
after a day’s acquaintance. Standart, in the first place, didn’t look
clean. Monty seriously doubted that he was. And he had unpleasant
manners. Standart was the one fly in Monty’s ointment this evening.
Everything else had turned out beautifully. The examination, conducted
by Mr. Rumford, the assistant principal, had been far less severe than
Monty had feared. He and three other rather anxious looking youths had
assembled in a classroom in School Hall that morning after breakfast,
and had been questioned as to their previous studies. Two simple
problems in algebra, a sight translation of a dozen lines of Ovid, a
test in German grammar, and the ordeal was over. Two of the applicants
were passed into the Junior Class, and two into the Lower Middle, Monty
being one of the latter. He had not impressed the instructor very
deeply, he concluded, for “Jimmy” Rumford had viewed him for several
long moments with an expression plainly dubious.
“Passing this test,” said the Assistant Principal, in conclusion,
“doesn’t mean very much, young gentlemen. It means only that the school
is giving you an opportunity. Whether you remain with us or flit away
to other fields depends entirely on you. We don’t encourage loafers
here. If you’ll all remember that it may save you future sorrow and
regrets. Hand these slips to Mr. Pounder, the secretary, please, and
he will assign you to your classes. If there is anything you want to
know, you will find me here between eight and nine in the morning, and
from five to six in the afternoon. You, er――Crail, ought to be in the
Upper Middle Class, sir, but I don’t see my way to placing you there.
If you’ll take my advice you will do your best to make the jump at the
beginning of the next term. I think you can do it. That is all. Good
morning, young gentlemen. Success to you.”
Recitations that day had been short, the time in each case having been
largely consumed in arranging for future work. Monty found that his
schedule included Latin, Mathematics, English, German (he had selected
it instead of the alternative Greek) and Physical Training. Dud had,
however, informed him that Physical Training was only for those who
did not go in for a regular sport. The studies footed up to twenty
hours a week, and Monty wondered whether he would survive the first
week! That afternoon he had joined Dud and Jimmy and a new acquaintance
named Brooks, and with them watched football practice. The fact that
his playing togs were in his trunk, and that his trunk had scarcely
yet started from New York prevented him from joining the candidates
that afternoon. He had purposely refrained from checking his baggage to
Greenbank yesterday, preferring to make certain first that he was to
remain there, and while he had delivered the check to the agent here in
Grafton at noon with reiterated requests to have the trunk forwarded as
soon as possible, it was not likely that he would receive it before the
next afternoon.
Football practice at Grafton was quite different from the same thing
at Dunning Military Academy, he decided. At Dunning the squad seldom
exceeded thirty candidates, while here the field was literally
thronged with ambitious youths. At Dunning only the “hefty” ones were
encouraged, but at Grafton it seemed that any size or shape of a boy
could have a try-out. Only the juniors were barred, Jimmy explained.
Ed Brooks――Brooks was a catcher on the baseball nine, Monty learned
later――estimated the number of candidates in sight as close on eighty,
which was very nearly a third of the total enrollment.
“There won’t be so many next week, though,” he added, pessimistically.
“They fade away fast! Say, Bonner’s got a peach of a tan, hasn’t he?”
Bonner, Monty gathered, was the coach, a middle-sized man of just under
thirty, alert and quick, with a peremptory voice and a settled scowl.
Or, at least, Monty concluded that the scowl was settled until “Dinny”
Crowley, the assistant athletic director, had tossed a word to him in
passing, and the coach’s face had lighted with a smile that chased the
scowl away, and made Monty smile in sympathy. Practice was not very
interesting that afternoon. Only the fact that nothing more exciting
offered itself kept the spectators there until the squads were sent
back to the field house. After that, Jimmy had suggested walking to
the river, and they had done so, and Monty had had his first sight of
a canoe in actual use, and had mentally registered a vow to become the
proud possessor of one at the earliest possible opportunity, and spend
all his spare time paddling up and down the little stream.
Still later, he had joined the Morris House fellows on the steps before
the supper time, and, without taking much part in the talk, had in a
way established himself as one of the crowd. Of the eleven youths,
who, with Monty, made up the roster at Morris, seven were what Monty
unflatteringly termed “Indians.” Monty would have had some difficulty
in explaining just what he meant by the term, but it satisfied him.
Perhaps when we remember that in the neighborhood of Windlass City,
Wyoming, the noble Red Man is not held in high regard we may form a
fair estimate of the seven. Further light is shed by the fact that
Monty secretly dubbed Alvin Standart a “Digger.” I believe that
the Digger Indian is considered especially low caste and subsists
principally on such luxuries as wild roots!
Monty’s verdict regarding the seven was hasty, and later he revised it
with regard to several of them. It is a mistake to judge others on the
evidence of a day’s acquaintance, and so Monty found it.
After supper he had climbed to the room, Standart being out, and had
seated himself in the chair, and propped his feet comfortably, if
inelegantly, on the sill to think things over. He decided that he
was going to like Grafton School; that, on the whole, he was glad he
had substituted it for Mount Morris; that he would have to do some
hard studying if he was to secure that promotion in January; that he
would certainly “have a stab at it”; that Alvin Standart was a most
undesirable roommate, but would have to be made the best of; and that
if he got a chance to show this eastern bunch how to play tackle or
guard, why, they’d learn something!
The evening sky grew a deeper blue. Somewhere afar off in the direction
of the town a light glowed wanly. The air that entered the open window
still held the heat of the sun, and, while fresher than before supper,
gave no promise of a cool night. Sitting indoors until bedtime did
not appeal to Monty, but neither did joining the crowd outside on the
steps. He would have looked up Dud and Jimmy again, but didn’t want
them to think that he meant to fasten himself on them for the rest
of the school year. He supposed that it would be all right to pay a
visit to Gowen, but Gowen’s invitation might have been more polite
than sincere, and Monty still clung to his belief that easterners were
stand-offish and resentful of anything that looked like “butting-in.”
But not going over to Lothrop was not, after all, a great deprivation,
for, while Monty liked Dud and Jimmy, and was grateful to them for
their friendship, they did not fill the want that he felt. Dud and
Jimmy had each other, and although they always made him feel that he
was welcome, still he realized that he was by no means essential to
their happiness, and that what liking they had for him was, so far at
least, due to the fact that he was a bit different from the run of the
fellows they knew, and that he amused them. What Monty really wanted
was a chum of his own, someone he could talk to about the little,
intimate things of life, someone who would like him because he was just
Monty Crail, and not merely because he was “western” and amusing. It
would, he thought; a trifle wistfully, be a wonderful thing to have a
real chum. Well, that sort of thing just happened, he supposed. You
didn’t go out and find a fellow whose looks you approved of and link
arms with him and say, “Hello, _hombre_, let’s you and I be friends!”
Monty grinned at the mental picture of what would happen if he followed
such a course.
“Guess,” he muttered, as he dropped his heels from the sill, and heaved
himself from the chair, “the poor fellow would drop dead of heart
disease!”
He clapped his straw hat to his head――Monty’s hat had no regular
position, but stayed wherever it happened to land, even if it happened
to be over one ear――“cinched” up his belt another hole, and went
downstairs. The group on the steps was reduced to a quartette now, and
although no one said anything to the new boy each looked at him as
invitingly as dignity permitted. But Monty failed to read invitation
in their glances, and so passed on down the steps and turned into the
well-worn path that led back between Morris and Fuller across the Green
to Front Street and the athletic field. Set in the right-hand pillar
of the ornamental gateway was a bronze tablet on which, enclosed by a
border of laurel leaves, was the inscription: “Lothrop Field. In Memory
of Charles Parkinson Lothrop, Class of 1911.” Monty wondered what deed
Charles Parkinson Lothrop had performed to be so honored. And then the
real portent of the phrase, “In Memory of” came to him, and his face
sobered and the brick and stone pillars and the wrought-iron gates
took on a new dignity in his eyes. And standing on the steps that led
down to the broad path of the field, looking over the acres of level
turf dotted with white figures where the tennis players were wresting
a last hour of pleasure from the growing twilight, he thought that the
boy could scarcely have had a finer memorial than this.
He paused outside one of the back nets and watched two youths send
the balls back and forth with what seemed to him miraculous ease and
certainty. The players were in white flannel trousers and white,
short-sleeved shirts open at the necks. They wore no caps, and their
hair was damp with perspiration. Monty had never played tennis, had
scarcely ever watched it played, and the way in which the contenders
darted on silent, rubber-shod feet here and there about the court,
always anticipating the ball correctly, struck him as surprising. He
stood there for quite a while, nibbling a blade of grass, and watched.
Other courts held two, three or four players, and through the deepening
dusk came the soft pat of ball against racket, the swish of hurrying
feet, the occasional voices of the players, mellowed, as it seemed, by
the warm twilight. The boys before him played swiftly and silently.
They seldom spoke. When they did it was only a few brisk words, as
“Hard luck, Hal!” when the effort of one went for naught, or “I’m
sorry!” when a ball rolled into an adjacent court and had to be chased.
There was no announcing of the score between aces. A wave of a racket
seemed to answer for speech in most cases. Probably, thought Monty,
they were chums and knew each other so well they didn’t have to speak!
He envied them as he turned away at last, and went on along the path
between the courts and the curve of the running track. Against the
purpling sky the football goals stood out like giant H’s.
The gravel path ended where a backwater of the river, known as the
Cove, stretched into the field. It gave forth the stagnant, but not
unpleasant, odor of rotting vegetation, and over its quiet surface
the mosquitos hovered in swarms, and a dissipated dragon-fly who
should have been at home long since darted and swooped above the still
reflections. Two skiffs lay half pulled out on the muddy bank, and one
held a pair of weather-stained, broken-bladed oars. Monty would have
preferred a canoe, and there were plenty of them further down the Cove,
as he knew, but canoes were liable to have jealous owners, whereas he
couldn’t imagine anyone caring a whit whether he helped himself to one
of the leaky skiffs. So he shoved one off, put his feet out of the way
of the water that swished about in the bottom, and dropped the oars
into the locks. Monty was not a skilled rower, and he ran into the mud
twice before he succeeded in getting the craft into the wider part of
the Cove. On his left a grove of trees came to the water’s edge, and a
few yards of mingled sand and pebbles there had been ironically named
The Beach. This was the bathing spot approved of by the faculty, but
few except timid juniors used it. The others preferred the boathouse
float further up the river. Under the trees, back of the beach, a
dozen or more upturned canoes rested, and as Monty went past another
was being put in place by returned mariners. Monty could see the boys’
forms only dimly in the gloom of the grove, but their voices and
laughter came to him distinctly.
“Lift your end, Hobo! Ata boy! Where’s the other paddle? Oh, all right.
I see it.”
“I say, do you know my arm’s lame, Nick? You wouldn’t think a chap
would get out of practice, like that, eh?”
“Shows the enervating effect of the soft and flabby life you’ve led
this summer. Everyone knows that your English climate is punk, anyway.
Come on, and――_Geewhilikins_! I walked square into a tree!”
“’Ware timber!”
The voices diminished, and Monty’s skiff floated out into the river.
The light was still good here. He turned the boat’s nose upstream and
dug at his dilapidated oars. The left one had lost nearly half its
blade, and so he had to favor it to keep from going aground. There was
a faint breeze stirring now, just enough to ruffle the damp hair on his
forehead and defeat the bloodthirstiness of the mosquitos. Behind him
the wake of the skiff dissolved in coppery ripples. At his right the
trees and bushes cast purple-black shadows on the surface and river
and bank merged confusingly. The stream was evidently deserted, and he
was glad of that, for his rowing was naturally erratic, and the oar
with the broken blade was making it more so. Once he thought he heard a
voice, but when he turned his head and looked upstream no one was to be
seen, and he concluded that he had been mistaken. Possibly it had been
a bird. A hoot-owl was crying in the distance, and somewhere, nearer
at hand, a whip-poor-will was calling sadly and monotonously. Monty
began to be conscious of a vague feeling of unhappiness, of loneliness.
The quiet, shadowy river was strange, and seemed suddenly unfriendly.
He wished he could look up and see the purple-gray peak of Mt. Leidy.
He felt strangely homesick just then for his mountains. And so it was
something of a relief as well as a surprise when, out of the silence
and darkness, a warning cry arose, and was followed by the thump of
colliding craft.