MONTY SHAKES HANDS
And, really, their appearance was cause enough for laughter. Their
clothes, no longer dripping water but damp and creased and dirty, were
spotted with leaves and twigs. Collars and ties hung like limp rags.
Mud flaked from their shoes. They were, in short, two as disreputable
looking youths as one could expect to encounter in a day’s march, and,
to add to their sorry appearance, each bore evidence of the recent
encounter. Leon had escaped somewhat lightly, only a bruise on one
cheekbone showing, but Monty’s countenance was sadly disfigured. His
nose had bled a little, his right eye promised to be purple by morning,
there was a contused area around his chin, and that maltreated ear was,
while not as large as the football he had likened it to, at least much
bigger than the other one.
After a minute their laughter subsided into chuckles, and Monty said a
bit sheepishly: “I guess we’re a couple of fools, partner!” But Leon
shook his head as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “No, we’re not,
Crail. We had a good time, didn’t we?”
Monty grinned. “Sure! And I guess I sort of needed exercise, for I was
getting mighty glum and mean feeling. Do I look pretty bad?”
“You wouldn’t make a hit at a Peace Conference,” laughed Leon. “You’d
better let me fix you up, Crail. I’m sorry I made such a mess of you.
I was in a beast of a temper when you came along. Come on over to the
stand here. Got a washcloth or something?”
The next ten minutes were spent in repairs. Monty discovered a bottle
of witch hazel, presumably the property of Standart, and they made
liberal use of it. A lump as large as a pigeon’s egg graced the back
of Leon’s head, its presence making itself known when he leaned
against the chair. However, it didn’t show unless you looked for it.
Monty’s wounds were far more spectacular, although when the blood had
been cleaned from his lip, and his other abrasions and swellings well
bathed, and he had slicked down his hair with a brush, he looked fairly
respectable once more. And presently the two were comfortably seated by
the window, and were talking as intimately as old friends.
They had at least this much in common: both were new boys and felt
strange, and both agreed that this part of the country in which they
found themselves left much to be desired. Leon compared it to the
south and Monty to the west, and neither comparison was favorable to
this particular portion of New England. Leon, it seemed, came from
New Orleans, and an awkward moment ensued when he casually announced
himself a Creole. Monty gazed at him in a surprised manner. “A Creole!”
he ejaculated. “But――but――I thought――――”
“What?” demanded Leon stiffly.
“Nothing,” replied Monty confusedly. “I――I never met a Creole before.”
But he continued to gaze with misgiving at Leon’s hair, which, although
straight as his own, was undeniably black.
“You might as well say it,” challenged Leon. “You thought a Creole was
a nigger, didn’t you? Most of you Yankees do think that, I reckon. It
just shows what an ignorant lot you all are!”
“I’m not a Yankee,” defended Monty. “I was born in Indiana.”
“That’s what you thought, though,” sneered the other. “Now, wasn’t it?”
“N-no, not exactly. I guess I had a sort of notion that a Creole
was something like a mulatto or a quadroon. I’m sorry if I said
anything――――”
“Oh, you northerners all have that crazy idea,” responded Leon,
contemptuously. “A Creole is a person born in Louisiana of French and
Spanish blood. We have the best blood in America in our veins, as
anyone knows who has read history.”
“That’s why I didn’t know,” replied Monty humbly. “I never did read
much history. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, old man.”
“You didn’t,” answered Leon not very graciously. “I don’t mind.” Then
his face cleared, and he smiled. “I do mind, though, Crail, to be
honest. You wouldn’t like it yourself if folks thought you were half
negro. It’s almost as bad as being called a Cajun.”
“What’s a Cajun?” asked Monty.
“He’s a descendant of the refugees who came to Louisiana from Nova
Scotia along about 1765. Acadians, they were called. Evangeline was a
Cajun.”
“Was he?”
Leon laughed merrily. “I reckon you don’t know your Longfellow very
well, Crail.”
“Oh, I remember. But I don’t think I ever read the whole poem. It――it’s
sort of long!”
“Have you ever been in New Orleans?” asked Leon. He made it sound
like “N’Orlins.” Monty shook his head, and Leon promptly started off
on a glorification of that picturesque city, and Monty, listening at
first only politely, but soon with real interest as Leon’s eyes glowed
with fervor, and he pictured so plainly that his hearer could almost
see them, the life and color and quaintness of a city so foreign to
any that Monty had ever known, determined then and there to see New
Orleans the very first chance he got, and, above all, to go shooting
and fishing on the bayous below the city, those bayous, ablossom with
floating water hyacinths and shaded by live oaks draped with Spanish
moss, in which alligators and terrapin and snakes dwell amidst the
swaying marsh grass, and where Filipinos fish for shrimp and Kanakas
and Cajuns and Japanese and Italians and Indian half-breeds are mingled
in a strange hodge-podge.
“It’s New Orleans, isn’t it,” asked Monty finally, “where they have
Mardi Gras?”
But, to his surprise, Leon spoke belittlingly of Mardi Gras. “It’s all
right enough,” he said, “or it used to be. But nowadays the railroads
advertise it, and people flock there from all over the country and make
nuisances of themselves. And they go away with the notion that all
New Orleans is good for is just to hold carnivals. Which isn’t true,
because we’ve got one of the livest cities in the country. Why, we
export――――”
And then Monty was treated to an exposition of the city’s commercial
importance that bored him vastly, even if it impressed him, which, for
Leon’s sake, I hope it did. And then it became Monty’s turn, and he
sang the glories of Wyoming, and of his beloved mountains, and sang
them so eloquently that Leon’s dark eyes warmed, and he made up his
mind that he would visit that wonderful Jackson Lake country, and go
hunting for elk and see the sunset on the snowy tip of Two-Horn Peak
and snowshoe down Halfway Pass, and sit around the bunk-house fire
with “Snub” Thompson and “Pin Head” Farrel, and the other engaging
characters of Monty’s narrative! And then, Alvin Standart intruded his
unpleasing presence, and introductions ensued, and Leon went his way.
Monty accompanied him to the sidewalk, and promised to look him up the
next morning. And at the last, as they were saying good-night, Monty
put his hand out or Leon put his out――Monty never could remember which
of them had made the first move――and they shook hands! Which is a most
unusual thing for two healthy, normal boys to do, and which, remembered
afterwards, brought something very like a blush to Monty’s tanned
cheeks.
“Who’s your friend?” inquired Alvin Standart when Monty returned to the
room.
“His name’s Desmarais,” answered Monty. “A new fellow. He’s in upper
middle.”
“Southerner, isn’t he?”
“Yes, from New Orleans.”
“Thought so. You can generally tell by the way they talk. Sort of drawl
their words, don’t they?”
“Do they? Can’t say I ever noticed it, Standart.”
“Sure, they do. They talk funny.” Considering that Standart himself
talked through his nose, and flattened every vowel it was possible to
flatten, it didn’t seem to Monty that criticism of Leon’s speech came
well from him. But he only smiled. “You didn’t go to the reception,
did you?” continued his roommate.
“What reception’s that?” inquired Monty.
“Why, Doctor Duncan’s. Didn’t you know about it?”
“I guess so, but I forgot it. What happened?”
“Just the usual things. We had a good feed, though; better than last
year. Say, some of the new fellows are wonders, take it from me!”
“Very glad to. You ought to know a wonder when you see it, Standart. By
the way, I used some of your witch hazel stuff. Thanks.”
“I should say you did!” exclaimed Standart, viewing the nearly empty
bottle scowlingly. “I say, Crail, if you and I are going to get on, you
know, you want to cut out that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” asked the other mildly. “Elucidate.”
“Why, I mean you’ve got to let my things alone, Crail. Of course, I
don’t mind you using the witch hazel if you ask me, but you――you seem
to have had a bath in it! It was a brand new bottle! I’d rather you
asked me the next time, please.”
“Snakes! How much does the stuff cost you? And how the dickens could I
ask you when you weren’t here?”
“You could have waited until I came, couldn’t you?”
“No, I couldn’t, Harold. I――I ran against something and bunged my eye
up, and if I’d waited for you to trail into camp I’d have had a peach
of an eye by now. It doesn’t look any too pretty as it is,” he added,
observing it in the mirror.
“Stop calling me Harold,” said Alvin impatiently. “You’re always doing
it. My name’s Alvin, and I wish you’d remember it.”
“I’ll try to,” Monty assured him. “Harold’s a perfectly good name,
though. Guess I like it even better than Alvin.”
“I don’t care whether you do or not. It isn’t my name.” Alvin put down
the witch hazel bottle with a frown. “That stuff cost me sixty cents,”
he announced, meaningly.
“Sixty cents, eh? It’s fairly expensive, isn’t it? Guess I must have
used about forty cents worth then.”
“I guess you did. You can get this bottle filled again at Thayers, in
the village. Maybe they won’t charge more than fifty if you have the
bottle.”
“Sounds fair,” said Monty. “Maybe they won’t. We’ll hope so, eh?”
“If you like, I’ll pour what’s in here into my tooth-mug, and you can
get it filled tomorrow. I don’t like to be without witch hazel. It’s
fine stuff for cuts and bruises and――――”
“Also good on bread,” suggested Monty cheerfully. “For a cough or a
cold there’s nothing like it. A prize goes with every package. The
finest of these is a pearl-handled pocket-knife. Step up, gentlemen,
and have your money ready!”
Alvin viewed him disgustedly. “Cut out the comedy, Crail,” he said,
sourly. “Want this bottle now?”
“No, I think not. Maybe I’ll use a little more of it in the morning,
since you say it’s good. You needn’t hurry about getting more, though,
because I guess I won’t need it.”
“Me? I’m not going to get more! You are, aren’t you?”
“Oh, dear no! Not so’s you’d notice it. Why, if I went and had that
bottle filled again I wouldn’t be under obligations to you, old man. It
would be just like using my own witch hazel, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s not funny,” grumbled the other. “You ought to pay me something
for what you used. Give me a quarter and we’ll call it square.”
“Standart,” replied Monty severely, “you talk like a Piute. Anybody
would think you didn’t want me to have that stuff. If I didn’t know you
to be the soul of generosity I’d think you wanted me to pay for it!”
“So I do,” answered Alvin shrilly. “And I want you to quit being funny.
You think you’re a regular comedian, don’t you? Well, you aren’t. You
make me tired. And I want you to leave my things alone after this. And
if you don’t pay for that witch hazel I’ll――I’ll get square with you
for it some other way.”
“Listen to me, son.” Monty seated himself on the edge of his bed, and
thrusting his hands in his pockets viewed his roommate gravely. “You
and I have got to bunk together here. And we’re bound to see a good
deal of each other, no matter how hard we try not to. Now, I’m a great
believer in being happy whenever it’s possible. And I’m not going to
be happy if you annoy me. I’m queer that way. I hate to be annoyed,
Standart. It――it riles me. Savvy?”
“I guess I don’t annoy you any more than you annoy me,” sneered Alvin.
“I don’t see why I had to have you wished on me, anyway!”
“I’ve wondered the same, son, and I’ve concluded that it’s probably
because you needed someone to lead you gently, but firmly toward better
things, Standart. You needed someone to cheer you up, I guess. Say,
is this grouch of yours something you were born with, or did you just
cultivate it?”
“None of your business,” growled Alvin. “You let me alone.”
“I guess it’s an heirloom, then; something that’s been in the family
for generations, eh? Well, it’s a good one, only――only the trouble is
that I’m likely to find it tiresome, old man. Far be it――――”
“Oh, shut up!”
“Far be it from me to throw asparagus on a perfectly good heirloom,
Standart, but I’d be awfully much obliged if you’d mislay it some time,
and wreathe your features in a genial smile. Why, snakes, man, do you
know that ever since I arrived here in your midst you’ve acted just
like I wasn’t welcome?”
“You’re a beastly fresh guy,” exploded Alvin, “and someone’s going to
hand you what you deserve before you’ve been here long! You make me
sick!”
Monty grinned, and began to disrobe himself for bed. Alvin watched
him gloweringly from across the room. Finally: “You must be proud of
yourself,” he muttered, “being in the lower middle at your age! Yah!
You’re a smart guy, aren’t you?”
“My education’s been sadly neglected, Standart,” replied Monty gently.
“But I’m going to remedy that. I’m going to――” He paused, an expression
of dismay came into his face, and looked toward the table. “Snakes!
I plumb forgot to do any studying! What do you know about that?” He
chuckled as he tossed his towel in the general direction of the rack,
and turned down his bedclothes. “Bet you I make a big hit with the
instructor tomorrow!”
Alvin viewed him balefully a moment. Then: “I hope you flunk
everything!” he croaked triumphantly.
“Thanks for your kind wishes, Harold! Good-night!”