THE NEW CHUM
Monty did not, however, come such a cropper the next day as he had
predicted, partly because he put in the best part of two hours
before breakfast in studying, and partly because the instructors
were lenient. He had Latin the first hour, and scraped through, had
German at ten o’clock, and managed to look wise enough to arouse no
suspicion, had mathematics at eleven, and knew more algebra than most
of his companions, and finished with English at two in the afternoon,
having for instructor Mr. Rumford, the assistant principal, who was
usually known as “Jimmy,” and whom Monty had disrespectfully alluded
to yesterday as “Old Whiskers.” Monty, however, had intended no
disrespect, any more than when, in German class, he had mentally
dubbed Mr. Teschner “Google Eyes.” The school in general called him
“Jules,” but Monty didn’t know that, and would have liked his own
invention better, anyway. It was not until after dinner that he had an
opportunity to keep his promise to Leon Desmarais and climb the two
flights of stairs in Trow Hall, and demand admittance at the portal of
Number 32.
Leon was out, but his roommate, a stout, bespectacled youth named
Granger, insisted that he should enter and await Leon’s return from
dining-hall. Granger, whose first name was Seymour, and who was known
as “Sim,” was a senior, and a “dig” of the first water. Even now,
when the sun was shining brightly, and there was a fine, faint nip of
autumn in the air, Granger had chosen to immerse himself in “Johnston’s
American Politics,” with a pencil sticking from a corner of his mouth,
and a pile of notes at his side. Monty marveled and envied, and
accorded Sim Granger then and there a respect which never diminished.
Granger apologized for going on with his work.
“I’m taking four extras this year,” he explained, “and it keeps
a fellow rather busy.” He looked across at Monty through his big
spectacles with a tolerant, even kindly expression, and gave the
latter the idea that he was speaking in words of one syllable for his
guest’s better comprehension. Monty, for once in his life thoroughly
awed, responded somewhat indistinctly that it was quite all right, and
that he supposed it must, and please not mind him at all. And, Granger
smiling benignantly――he had two perfectly developed chins, which made
his smiles much more effective――composed his large, round face again,
and became immersed. From time to time Monty dared a glance, but only
a brief one. A fellow who would willingly remain indoors on such a
September afternoon, and dig political history was far too noble and
great to be made the subject of mere vulgar curiosity.
Number 32 was a very ordinary room, one of at least sixteen more
just like it in Trow Hall. It combined the duties of bedroom and
study――there were a few suites of two and three rooms in Trow, but only
a few――and wasn’t very successful at it. Two windows looked across the
back campus to Crumbie Street, and the slope of Mount Grafton beyond.
The only thing of interest in view, aside from the fields and woods,
was the little red brick, slate-roofed building that held the heating
plant. As far as view was concerned, Monty much preferred his own room,
but he wondered if it wouldn’t be more fun living in one of the big
dormitories like Trow than in Morris House. There was a window-seat
under the casements, covered with a rather hard looking cushion and
holding many pillows. Otherwise the furnishings were much the same as
those in Number F, Morris, although not nearly so new. In fact, about
every article of furniture there appeared to have a long and honorable
history behind it, especially the study table, which, covered in green
felt, had accumulated so many ink spots, and so many names and initials
and strange hieroglyphics that nowadays one had to take the original
color for granted. Several pictures and unframed posters hung on the
walls, and there was the usual Grafton banner, in this case much
larger and dingier than usual. It wasn’t difficult to determine which
chiffonier of the two was Leon Desmarais’s, for one held only a pair
of battered military brushes, a broken-toothed comb, a button-hook and
a row of unframed photographs, and the other boasted a traveling case
laid open to expose its silver and ebony articles, three silver-framed
photographs of rather foreign-looking persons, and a leather belt with
a buckle that looked astonishingly like gold, and was engraved with a
monogram. And, in case there might still exist the chance of mistake,
from the upper drawer escaped the end of a wonderful four-in-hand
tie with alternating bias stripes of dark blue and bronze. Monty was
growing a bit restless when footsteps sounded outside the half-open
door――there had been several false alarms previously――and Leon entered
hurriedly and breathlessly.
“Hello, Crail,” he greeted. “I’ve been over to your house to find you.
That roommate of yours said he didn’t know where you were, and, by
George, it sounded very much as though he didn’t care! Look here, have
you met Mr. Granger? Granger, this is Mr. Crail, the chap I told you
about. Let me see how you look, Crail. Shucks, that eye isn’t so bad,
is it?”
“My ear’s the worst,” answered Monty, investigating it with a careful
finger. “How’s your bump?”
“Oh, I’d forgotten about it. It doesn’t bother any. I told Granger
about our little set-to, so you needn’t talk in parables. Granger
seemed to think it was unfortunate we didn’t both drown!”
“Silly kids,” murmured the stout one benignly, keeping his place in
Johnston’s classic with one pudgy finger. “Ridiculous!”
Leon laughed gayly. “Everything’s ridiculous to him, Crail, except the
accumulation of worthless knowledge. Let’s leave him to it, and get
outdoors. You haven’t anything this hour, have you?”
Monty said good-by to Granger, and followed Leon out and down the
stairs. On the front steps Leon hooked an arm through Monty’s, and
led him along the brick walk toward the principal’s residence and the
tree-shaded road beyond. “Do you know, Crail,” he said, “I believe I’m
going to like this place after all? I didn’t think so yesterday or
the day before, but it looks quite jolly now. I dare say I’ll freeze
to death when the cold weather comes, but until then――” He broke off
to search a pocket of a gray tweed Norfolk, and produce the half of a
cake of sweet chocolate. “Have some?” he asked, stripping the tinfoil
off, and dividing the treasure. “Look here,” he continued, when they
had sampled the chocolate, “I’m going to call you Monty. Maybe Monte
Cristo. Ever read it? Great, isn’t it? Let’s climb that rock up there,
shall we? What’s the thing on top of it, do you suppose?”
“Just a tower. Observatory, they call it. I guess you get some view
from there. Funny, though, to call that little old hump a mountain. Out
at Windlass City it wouldn’t be more than an ant hill.”
“Look here, I’m going out there some day,” said Leon. “It must be
great. I looked it up on a map in the library this morning. Your place
is right next door to the Yellowstone Park, isn’t it? Do you ever go
there?”
Monty shook his head. “I never have yet. It’s only about forty miles,
and I’ve always meant to, but somehow I don’t get to do it. You come
out there next summer, and we’ll go all over the place.”
“I’d love to! How did you happen to come away off here to school,
Monty? Aren’t there any good schools in the west?”
“Piles of them, but I thought I’d like a change. I guess I got it,
too,” he added dryly.
“Yes, I reckon Montana――no, Wyoming is a heap different from this. But
Terre Haute is quite civilized, isn’t it? That is, a regular city.”
“Oh, we’ve got a trolley car there, and several business blocks,”
laughed Monty. “How did you happen to come here?”
“It was father’s idea. He said I ought to know more about the north.
Rather silly, I think. I’d rather have gone to a place nearer home.
Still this isn’t bad, and there are quite a few southern fellows here.
I wonder how we get up this hill.”
“There’s a path over there, isn’t there?”
There was, and ten minutes later they were climbing the steps of the
lookout tower that rose from the granite summit of the hill. As Monty
had predicted, there was “some view.” Almost at their feet lay the
school grounds, dotted with buildings and intersected with gravel
walks. Further away was the athletic field, with the freshly limed
markings of the tennis courts showing dazzlingly white, and beyond,
a narrow ribbon of blue, curved the Needham River. Across the river
lay a strip of forest, and then came fields and winding roads, and
here and there, a cluster of farm buildings. The village of Grafton
seemed quite near with its three church spires and square-topped town
hall tower. They could see the clock on the latter, and Monty, after
a surreptitious glance at his watch, said that he could even tell the
time, which was twenty-six minutes after one, and Leon believed him at
first, and was appropriately surprised by his powers of vision. To the
right of the village was the railway station, and they could follow
the single line of track for some distance westward. On all sides the
distance melted into the blue haze of a warm September day.
“It really is a very pretty country,” granted Leon, “and lots greener
than it is at home. I’ve never been to England, but I reckon it must
look a good deal like this. I suppose you’ve been there, Monty?”
Monty shook his head. “Never been outside the old U. S. A.,” he
answered. “Jasper――he’s my guardian――won’t let me go alone, and never
offers to take me with him. But some day――” His voice dwindled away
into a thoughtful silence.
“‘Some day,’” half grumbled Leon, “lots of things will happen. There’s
too much ‘some day’ to suit me. I want things now.”
“I know,” Monty nodded slowly. “But, at that, I guess it’s a lot better
to have ‘some day’ to look forward to than――than have it behind you,
eh?”
“You’re a philosopher,” laughed Leon. “I don’t like philosophy. Come
along down. It must be getting on toward two. What are you doing at
three?”
“Not a thing. I was going to report for football practice, but my trunk
hadn’t come an hour ago, and I guess it hasn’t got here since.”
“Oh, shucks! Are you going in for that sort of bunk, Monty?”
“Bunk? I’m going to try for the eleven, if that’s what you mean. What’s
wrong with it?”
“Well, it’s the way you look at it, I suppose. I never could see much
sense in football or baseball. I like a game that I can play by myself
and――――”
“Solitaire?” asked Monty gravely.
“I mean like tennis. If you lose at that it’s your fault, and no one’s
else, or if you win it’s your victory. But in football, why, you’re
only one of a dozen――――”
“Eleven, to be exact.”
“Dry up, Monte Cristo! Your playing well may not cut any ice in
football, for some other idiot――I mean some idiot――――”
“I get you, partner. It’s all the way you look at it. Are you going in
for tennis, then?”
“Yes. I’ve got my name down for the fall tournament that starts next
week. Do you play?”
“Nary a play. It’s a girl’s game.”
“_What!_” Leon was outraged, and all the way back to the campus he held
forth on the merits of tennis, growing more and more earnest as Monty
pretended to scoff. Monty found that it was a very easy matter to fool
Leon, and indulged himself in the amusement quite frequently during the
first weeks of their acquaintance. After that the southerner became
wise to the fact that Monty didn’t mean all he said, and that when he
looked the gravest he was always laughing in his sleeve. Monty allowed
himself at length to become convinced by Leon’s eloquence of the many
excellencies of the game of tennis, and the two parted in the corridor
of School Hall after agreeing to meet after their recitations.
It was while in the middle of “Jimmy’s” English class that Monty
remembered that he had not sought to find the runaway skiff in which he
had embarked last evening, and consequently, when Leon met him at a
few minutes past three he broached the subject and suggested that they
go down to the river and have a look. Leon didn’t seem particularly
concerned in the matter, but agreed to take part in the search. Monty
waited while the other ran up to his room with his books, and then they
strolled across the campus to Morris, where Monty, in turn, disposed
of his burdens, and after that went on to the field. The courts were
already busy, and Monty had hard work dragging Leon past them.
“That’s what I ought to be doing,” declared the latter concernedly. “I
need practice like anything. I wish I knew some fellow who would take
me on. Maybe if I got my racket and stood around someone would ask me.
Do you know any fellows yet?”
“Only three or four. I don’t know whether they play tennis, Leon, but
I’ll ask them if you say so.”
“I wish you would. Who are they?”
“A couple of fellows who room together in Lothrop, Logan and Baker, and
another chap named Gowen. Gowen’s a football player. And then there’s
that Indian, Standart, and two or three fellows at Morris. I dare say
some of them must be tennis fiends, eh?”
“I wish you’d ask. I’d like to get used to those courts a little before
the tournament. They look faster than the ones I’ve played on. Come
along, if we have to, and let’s find those silly boats.”
That task proved very easy, for both skiff and canoe were pulled up on
the beach, and Monty’s straw hat was awaiting a claimant on the end of
an upturned oar. “I never thought I’d see that again,” said Monty, as
he tried to pull the soft straw back into shape. “Looks sort of――sort
of――――”
“_Echevelé_,” suggested Leon.
“Honest? As bad as that, eh? Well, I suppose a hat that’s sat around in
the water all night has a right to look ‘aish-flay,’ or whatever you
called it. I suppose you talk French like a headwaiter, eh?”
“A little,” acknowledged Leon.
“And read it, too?”
“Not so much.”
“And――and think in it? Can you think in French?”
“Better than I can talk it,” laughed Leon.
Monty sighed enviously. “That must be great,” he said. “The only
language I know is English, and Mr. Rumford is beginning to make me
think I don’t know that! And I can talk enough Spanish to navigate
a burro, and can tell German when I see it printed. There comes the
football mob. Want to watch them for awhile?”
Leon good naturedly consented, and they found seats on the stand, and
leaned luxuriously back in the sunlight, and waited to be amused. And
there Pete Gowen spied Monty, and so came hustling across to him.
“Hello, Crail, how are you getting on?” he asked. “Why haven’t you been
around to see me?”
“Thought maybe you had troubles enough of your own. Shake hands with
Desmarais. Leon, this is Mr. Gowen. He’s the man they’re building the
team around this year.”
Pete laughed as he acknowledged the introduction, and then asked
soberly: “Why aren’t you out, Crail?”
“I am out. This is me.” Monty tapped his chest.
“Out for practice, I mean. Didn’t you tell me you played, and were
going to try for a place?”
“Oh, that. Why, yes, but I haven’t any togs. My trunk hasn’t caught up
to me, Gowen. I’ll be on hand tomorrow, though.”
“Be sure. Don’t put it off. I told Winslow I’d found him a guard, and
he’s expecting me to make good on the promise. So long. Glad to have
met you, Desmarais.” Pete didn’t exactly say “Desmarais,” but he said
something that sounded nearly like it, and hurried off again.
“He’s a big brute,” commented Leon. “Can he play well?”
“So they say. He seems an awfully decent _hombre_.”
“What’s a _hombre_?” asked Leon.
“Man. I like the looks of that quarter, don’t you?”
“Which is the quarter? Oh, the fellow with the reddish hair. Yes,
what’s his name? He looks as though he could play tennis.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s Weston. Say, they’re a likely looking
bunch, aren’t they? Snakes! I hope my trunk gets here before tomorrow
afternoon. I’m crazy to get my hands on a football.”
“Well, I wish you luck, Monty. Who’s the cross-looking man with the old
flannel trousers?”
“That’s Mr. Bonner, the coach. They say he’s a dandy.”
“Glad he doesn’t boss me. He looks as though he could bite a nail in
two this minute. There’s a chap speaking to you, Monty.”
The chap proved to be Jimmy Logan, and when Monty returned his greeting
he climbed up to them. “Hello, Crail! Say, have you seen Dud Baker? The
idiot promised to play some tennis this afternoon.” Jimmy was sweeping
the scattered audience in the stand and along the edge of the field
with a frowning gaze. “He’s a lazy guy, though, and had rather watch
other fellows exercise than do it himself. He’s probably here somewhere
about.”
Monty introduced Leon to Jimmy, adding: “If Baker doesn’t show up this
fellow will take you on at tennis, Logan. He’s the champion of the
southern states, Desmarais is, and has never been defeated.”
“Dry up, Monty!” protested Leon.
“Do you mean it?” asked Jimmy eagerly. “Do you really want to play,
Des――er――I didn’t get the name, I guess.”
“Desmarais,” supplied Monty. “The accent comes on the antepenultimate
syllable. The K is silent as in French.”
“Yah! And I suppose his first name’s Harold?” jeered Jimmy. “Maybe he’s
another of those Eskimo Twins!”
“Yes, he’s the third of them. Go ahead and whack your little white
balls around, Leon. I’ll come over after awhile.”
“I’d like to play very much, thanks,” said Leon, “if you don’t find
your friend, Mr. Logan.”
“I’m not going to look for him any longer. Have you got your racket
here?”
“No, but it won’t take me a minute――――”
“All right. I’ll wait for you here. Payne is keeping a court for me, so
don’t be long.” Leon hurried off to Trow, and Jimmy turned inquiringly
to Monty. “Who is the raven-tressed youth, Crail? What the dickens did
you say his name was?”
“Desmarais. The accent――――”
“Yes, but never mind that, laddie. Southerner, isn’t he? Won’t do to
get him angry with me, will it? They’re a fiery lot, those southerners.
Believe, though, southron is the proper word. How are you getting on?
Sorry yet that you changed your mind about Mount Morris?”
“Not a bit, thanks. And I’m getting along very comfortably so far. I
think I’m going to get downright fond of this place, Logan.”
“You bet you are,” said Jimmy seriously. “You’ll never regret following
my advice and side-stepping Mount Morris, Crail.”
“Oh, did I do that?” asked Monty politely.
“Sure!” responded Jimmy without a quiver. “Don’t you remember? If you
don’t you’re the only one,” he added with a chuckle, “because all the
fellows I’ve told remember!”
“That’s all right,” Monty laughed. “You’re welcome to the credit.”
“Why haven’t you been around to see us? We’ve got the old sty fixed
up corking now. Come and see it, and bring your friend Dejeuner, or
whatever his name is. Listen; give me another lesson, will you? Go
ahead: Des――Des――――”
“Des――ma――ray. Say it quick and you won’t mind it.”
“I shan’t remember it five minutes,” said Jimmy sadly. “Here he comes
now, on the dead run. Say, if you see Dud Baker tell him I hope he
chokes. Good-by! My love to the Eskimo Twins!”