SOAP AND WATER
The next day Monty appeared, appropriately clad, on the football field
at a few minutes before three-thirty, and gazed inquiringly around.
Most, if not all, of the candidates were on hand, and the rest were
dribbling along the path from the direction of the field house. Mr.
Bonner, however, was not in sight, nor was Pete Gowen, and Monty
wondered whether he was supposed to simply stroll out and join the
nearest squad or to report to someone and get instructions. He decided
to make inquiries as to the usual methods pursued in such cases, and
walked up to a youth of eighteen or thereabouts, who, dressed in
football togs that had apparently never been worn before, presented
an immaculate and almost unapproachable appearance. He was a tall,
finely-built, and very good-looking youth, but his good looks were
somewhat marred by an air and expression of arrogance.
“Say, partner,” observed Monty, “I want to get into this. What do I
do?”
Starling Meyer turned slowly and viewed the questioner with languid
surprise and contempt, or so it seemed to Monty. Meyer’s eyebrows went
up and a flicker of amusement showed in his eyes as his gaze traveled
deliberately from Monty’s head to the tips of his scuffed shoes and
back again. Finally: “Really,” he replied, “I don’t care what you do.
But I’d suggest that you have your hair cut.”
Monty’s eyes narrowed a trifle, but he only smiled pleasantly. “You
don’t understand,” he said gently. “What I wanted to know was about
getting on the football team. You see, I’ve decided to play, and I
don’t know whether I ought to tell the captain about it or――or what.
And you looked as if you might be the coach or something.”
Meyer frowned suspiciously, but the other boy’s smile was so innocent
and placating that the frown vanished, and the look of amusement
deepened. Meyer even chuckled a bit. “Oh, so you’ve decided to play
football, have you?” he asked. “That’s fine, isn’t it? What position
have you selected?”
“I think I’d like to be one of the fellows who take the ball and run
with it,” responded Monty almost shyly. “You call them halfbacks,
don’t you? I can run pretty fast, I can. But Alvin Standart, who’s my
roommate, says that maybe they won’t use more than two halfbacks this
year, and if they don’t, I wouldn’t get to be one, because they’ve got
two already. Do you know if they’re going to have more than two?”
“Three or four, I understand,” answered Meyer gravely. “If I were you
I’d see Mr. Bonner, the coach, and tell him I had decided to be third
halfback. Better do it before some other fellow asks for the place.
He’s coming now. Better get right at it.”
“I will,” declared Monty brightly. “And I’m ever so much obliged to
you. Are you one of the players?”
Meyer nodded. “I’m right and left guard,” he replied. “By the way,
what’s your name?”
“Crail. What is yours, please?”
“Heffelfinger. If you like, you may use my name to the coach. Just tell
him Heffelfinger, Walter Heffelfinger sent you.”
“Oh, thank you! I――I think I’ve heard of you. I guess everyone has!
You’re sure you don’t mind if I just say that you――you――――”
“Not a bit.” Meyer waved a hand courteously. “Go as far as you like,
Crail. Remember now; third halfback is what you’re after.”
“Third halfback, yes. Or maybe fourth, if someone has chosen to be
third? Anyway, I’ll ask to be third first. Thank you so much, Harold.”
“No, not Harold; Walter; Walter Heffelfinger. Good-by, and don’t take
any wooden money.”
Monty showed clearly that the latter advice puzzled him, but he
nodded gratefully, and turned away. Meyer chuckled as he watched the
other’s progress along the line in the direction of Coach Bonner. Then
something in the boy’s swinging stride, or, perhaps, something in
the capable poise of the head, brought suspicion back again, and the
chuckle died away in his throat.
“I wonder if he――” But he didn’t go any further. Instead, he shook
his head impatiently, banishing the unwelcome suspicion, and watched
Monty approach the coach, speak to him, shake hands and engage in
conversation for a minute before Mr. Bonner, pointing into the field,
dispatched the new candidate to join one of the squads. Starling Meyer
smiled. He wished he could have heard that conversation.
A half-hour later, when the squads had been cleared from the gridiron,
and a first and second eleven were trotting out for the initial
scrimmage of the year, Meyer, consigned with many others to a rôle of
watchful waiting, approached Mr. Bonner, who was at the moment alone,
near the side line. “Did that new fellow get the position he wanted,
Mr. Bonner?” he asked with a chuckle.
The coach turned. “Hello, Meyer. What was it you asked?” Meyer repeated
the question, and the coach looked puzzled. “What fellow was that?” he
asked.
“Crail, or some such name. He wanted to be third or fourth halfback.
Asked me if you were going to use more than two this year. I told him
he had better see you before some other fellow got ahead of him,”
laughed Meyer.
The coach frowned, and shrugged his shoulders. “The only Crail I know
of is a candidate for guard. I’m afraid,” he added, as he turned away,
“someone’s been stringing you, Meyer.”
And Meyer, his self-conceit horribly jolted, was afraid so, too!
Nothing especially notable occurred that afternoon, either to the new
guard candidate or to anyone else. A tentative first squad went through
two ten-minute periods against an equally tentative second, and neither
scored. Substitutions were frequent, but neither Monty nor Meyer left
the bench again until the practice was over. Monty had given his name
and other particulars to a youth named Burgess, the manager, and later
on, in the field house, he had stepped on the scales and tipped up a
hundred and forty-one pounds. A little Welshman who went by the name
of Davy, and whose official capacity was still a mystery to Monty,
informed him that he was several pounds over weight. Monty refused to
argue the matter, although Davy had the aggressive look of one who
would have liked an argument better than his supper! Subsequently,
Monty discovered that Davy Richards was the trainer. And subsequently,
too, he made the acquaintance of Mr. Sargent, the physical director,
and of Mr. “Dinny” Crowley, his assistant. These gentlemen controlled
the physical, and, in a way, moral welfare of the football candidates,
while Coach Bonner confined himself wholly to implanting in them
as much knowledge of the game as his ability to teach and their
ability to learn made possible. Football at Grafton School was taken
seriously, and pursued systematically and efficiently. Compared to
the happy-go-lucky methods in vogue at Dunning Military Academy, the
Grafton system impressed Monty immensely. The only feature of it that
he couldn’t quite approve of was the apparent disposition to lose sight
of the individual. As Monty put it to Leon on one occasion, they threw
every fellow into the same pot and boiled them all together! But that
criticism came later. During the first fortnight of his stay at Grafton
Monty formulated no criticisms. He was, perhaps, too busy getting
shaken down into his new existence.
In those two weeks his preconceived ideas of boarding school life
were much altered. He had unconsciously expected to hang up his hat,
say “Howdy,” and instantly take his place in the school world. Rather
to his surprise, he had discovered that there was no place awaiting
him, that if he wanted a place he would have to make it. As far as he
could see, no one bothered the least bit about him, neither principal,
faculty nor students. If he didn’t want to study there was no one
to insist on his doing so. He merely flunked, and nothing happened.
At least, nothing happened for a considerable while. Eventually,
though, something did happen. He went on probation, and was given a
ridiculously brief space of time in which to recover his standing. If
he didn’t he packed his trunk and disappeared. Many fellows did just
that during the year. That Monty wasn’t among them was mainly because
he asked questions, and reasoned things out and had the sense to see
that the broad and easy path of idleness led eventually to the gulf
of disaster. Besides, he wanted to study, anyhow. He wanted to know
things. He wanted especially to get out of the lower middle class into
the upper middle, for Alvin Standart’s jeer still rankled. As to making
a place for himself, well, Monty meant to do that, too, and was only
wondering how to go about it. The end of that first fortnight found him
wiser, somewhat disillusioned, and quite resolved to make good.
On the football field he was still an unknown candidate for a guard
position, working hard when he was given the chance, and making no
spectacular success of it. But he learned a good deal. At Grafton they
were extremely particular about the little things. Details that were
scarcely considered at Dunning were held here of great importance. Mr.
Bonner seemed to have a perfect passion for drilling the candidates in
the rudiments. Monty sometimes wondered how the fellows had the courage
and perseverance necessary to survive that first three weeks. For that
matter, some of them didn’t. The eternal grind killed their ambitions,
and they disappeared. Usually such defections passed unmourned, for
it was the coach’s belief that those who couldn’t survive the grind
and hard labor of that preliminary season were not of the quality he
wanted. Gradually the number of candidates dwindled from some sixty-odd
to around fifty, and this in spite of the fact that a call for more
candidates had brought out a handful of late arrivals. The first cut
in the squad came ten days after the beginning of the school year, and
reduced the total to about forty. Monty survived that cut, but he had
fears of the next, for it seemed to him that there was no place for
his services. For the two guard positions there were to his certain
knowledge six candidates besides himself, and each of the six were
fellows who had played last year on either the first or second teams.
Kinley and Gowen were the first-choice men, with Hersum, Bowen, Little
and Williams struggling hard for substitute positions. Monty couldn’t
see where he came in, and he began to consider his chances of finding a
place on the second team which was due to be chosen in another week.
Grafton played her first game the second Saturday of the term, and
defeated the Grafton High School eleven with no difficulty by the
score of 21 to 0. The Scarlet and Gray played pretty raggedly, in
spite of a team composed very largely of experienced players, and the
four ten-minute periods provided scant interest for the audience. Leon
declared that it was a sin to adjourn the tennis tournament for such
a silly proceeding, and Jimmy Logan agreed with him. The tournament
was three days old, and had reached the semi-final stage, and Leon
was among the survivors. He had won two matches, one by default, and
was looked on as certain to fight it out with the present champion
in the last round. Jimmy, entered in the doubles with Brooks, had
pulled out a victory that morning, and was due to play again Monday
afternoon. But Jimmy had no expectation of surviving the next match.
Jimmy’s particular chum, Dud Baker, had met his Waterloo in the first
encounter, and was now rooting hard for Leon to come through.
Jimmy and Dud had taken Leon up with enthusiasm. Jimmy had fallen
victim to Leon’s skill in that first game of tennis, and Jimmy had a
worshipful admiration for anyone who could play good tennis. Later
Jimmy suspected that Leon had purposely let him down easy on that
occasion, since in subsequent encounters Leon had, to use Jimmy’s
expressive description, “simply wiped up the blooming court with him.”
Within a few days Jimmy and Dud and Leon and Monty had established a
four-cornered friendship that bade fair to last, unless, as sometimes
seemed possible, they fell out over the question of school societies.
Jimmy was a member of the Literary and Dud of the Forum, and each
sought to get Monty and Leon pledged for his own favorite. There were
some rare arguments in Number 14 Lothrop, with Monty and Leon playing
the rôle of audience. When discussion waxed too warm it was Monty’s
way to announce that, for his part, when it became necessary to decide
between the merits of the two societies he meant to toss up a coin! In
the end, which wasn’t until the next term, the matter was settled in
quite another fashion, but that doesn’t enter into this story.
Leeds High School was defeated, 39 to 0, the next Saturday, by which
time Grafton had found herself to some extent. Monty got into that game
for a very few moments toward the end, and perhaps because by that time
the Leeds line was largely a substitute affair, did well enough at left
guard. Both the Grafton High and Leeds High contests were looked on
as merely practice games, and the first real encounter was that with
St. Philip’s School, a week later. In preparation for that event, the
first squad was started in on the development of an attack and Mr.
Crowley rounded up his second team and began to put it through its
paces. Rather to his surprise, Monty was neither drafted to the second
nor banished from the first, but continued to adorn the bench during
the scrimmages, sometimes being called on to substitute at one side or
the other of Ned Musgrave or Brewster Longley, first and second choice
centers. In those days the haughty Starling Meyer, or Star, as he was
generally called, usually kept him company. Star, however, treated
Monty with silent contempt, something that bothered Monty not at all.
Star was trying for a back field position and was said to have designs
on Ordway’s job at right half. Sometimes Monty surprised Star looking
at him with a puzzled expression as though wondering where innocence
left off and guile began. On such occasions Monty always smiled
expansively and Star removed his gaze with much dignity.
But before the Leeds game arrived Leon had won honor and renown by
capturing the Fall Tennis Tournament with ease. In the final match
he won from Ainsworth, holder of the title, 6–1 6–3, 5–7, 6–4, and
had shown a brand of tennis that was nothing short of a revelation at
Grafton. That Leon would succeed to the Tennis Team captaincy in the
spring was a foregone conclusion. _The Campus_ devoted quite a half
column to him in the November issue and predicted a decisive victory
over Mount Morris next May. In such manner Leon became almost overnight
a person of importance at Grafton, and especially amongst a fairly
large tennis element. The result was that he viewed the fate which had
exiled him to the cold and inhospitable north much more kindly and no
longer seized every opportunity, as had been his custom, to compare New
England unfavorably to his beloved south. Leon had made a place for
himself, in short, and was fitting nicely into it.
Monty was still jostling around on the fringe of things, trying hard
to convince himself that he “belonged,” and not succeeding. Two things
were worrying him about then. He was having difficulty with both German
and English and was not getting on at all smoothly with his roommate.
He told himself that whether Alvin Standart liked him or whether he
liked Alvin were matters too small to bother about, but nevertheless
rooming with a chap who spent all his time nagging or glowering was
not pleasant. Monty saw as little of Alvin as he could manage, but it
wasn’t possible to avoid him entirely. Alvin, it seemed, was capable
of nursing a grouch for ever and ever, and Monty had the feeling that
the tow-headed youth was watching and waiting for an opportunity to
revenge himself for the loss of that forty cents worth of witch hazel.
Sometimes Monty wished he had replaced the precious fluid as Alvin had
demanded. At the time the latter’s peevishness had seemed too childish
to merit serious attention, and Monty had refused recompense, not from
stinginess, but, as he put it to himself, to teach Alvin the virtue of
generosity. Meanwhile Alvin had himself replenished the bottle at least
once. Monty sometimes thought the boy bathed in it, for, as near as he
could determine, Alvin seldom bathed in that more usual element, water.
It was his dislike of water, and soap as well, that brought about the
first physical encounter between the occupants of Number F.
One morning in the second week in October Alvin was in the process of
performing his usual style of morning toilet, that process consisting
of dabbing a moist washcloth over his eyes, nose and chin, and rubbing
a toothbrush very sketchily across his teeth. Monty had witnessed like
performances many times without protest, but this morning he lost
patience.
“Don’t you ever wash yourself, Standart?” he asked contemptuously.
“What am I doing?” asked Standart, peering scowlingly over the folds of
his towel.
“Search me! It’s what I’d call a lick and a promise, though. Why don’t
you pour another spoonful of water into the bowl and use the soap and
go after the dirt? Honest, Standart, I couldn’t tell from looking at
the back of your neck whether you were a blonde or a brunette!”
“Oh, dry up! I wash myself as clean as you do,” muttered the other.
“You think the more water you splash around the room the cleaner you
are. And my neck isn’t dirty, either. You mind your own business,
you――you cowboy!”
“It’s my business if I have to live with you, _hombre_,” replied Monty.
“Go ahead now. Just try it once. It won’t hurt you. You might grow to
like it.”
“Don’t you call me dirty!” cried Standart shrilly. “I’ll wash the way I
want to, and if you don’t like it you can lump it!”
Monty glanced at the closed door and arose from the bed whereon he had
been seated while awaiting his turn at the washstand, with a smile of
anticipation. Standart, towel in hand, watched him suspiciously. “Let
me show you, partner,” said Monty. “It isn’t half as bad as you think
it is.”
“Keep away from me!” threatened Standart, dropping the towel and
seizing his tooth-mug. “Don’t you dare touch me! If you come any nearer
I’ll throw this!”
“If you do you’ll break it, son,” replied Monty. “And if you broke it
you couldn’t brush your teeth any more. And if you couldn’t brush your
teeth your heart would break, too. And――――”
_Whizz_ went the tooth-mug, but Monty ducked and it banged against
the further wall, to the marring of the plaster and rolled under a
bed. Just one instant later Standart was choking, sputtering, writhing
and kicking as, held firmly in Monty’s grasp, he was subjected to
ablutions as enthusiastic as they were informal. Monty scorned the few
cupfuls of water in the basin. Instead, he dipped Standart’s washcloth
in the pitcher, rubbed it on the soap and set to work. His left arm
encircled Alvin’s neck and held tightly a generous fold of his pyjama
jacket and his right wielded the cloth. The victim of his philanthropy
said things, or tried to say things, that were, to say the least,
ungentlemanly. Some of the expressions he sought to enunciate were
of the sort never used in polite society. But whenever he threatened
to become the least bit coherent Monty deftly introduced the soapy,
dripping washcloth into his mouth, with the result that Standart’s
remarks were for the most part made from between clenched teeth, and
therefore they lacked conviction. But, at that, he managed to make
considerable noise, and Monty, fearing that interruption would come
before his task was completed, worked hard and fast.
“Behind the ears, Standart,” he said. “And around the back of the neck.
That’s the ticket. Quiet, _hombre_! Where do you get that stuff, son?
Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? All right, keep quiet then if you don’t
like the taste of it. Sorry you’ve got these pyjamas on, because I’d
like mighty well to do this job proper. Kicking won’t help! And never
mind pinching! A little more water now――――”
“If you don’t――gurgle――I’ll kill――gug, gug――you, you――――!”
“Your language would make a horse-thief blush! I’m ashamed of you,
Standart. Almost through now. You can’t expect me to get all the dirt
off the first time, son, but if you behave nice I’ll have another go
at you some day. I can almost see your skin here! Now, then, we’ll
wash the soap off!” Whereupon Monty seized the half-filled pitcher and
quickly and unsuspectedly inverted it over Standart’s head!
At the same instant, three occupants of neighboring rooms, having
knocked and hailed without response, thrust open the door. Monty
with the self-congratulating expression of one who has performed a
difficult task with neatness and dispatch, had retreated from the scene
of action, and Standart, gasping and spluttering incoherent vows of
revenge, was standing, drenched to the skin, in an ever-widening pool
of water. The boys in the doorway looked for a moment with wide-open
mouths, and then three shrieks of laughter drowned Standart’s angry
threats.
“Wha――what’s up?” gasped Joe Mullins delightedly.
“I’ve been helping Standart wash,” answered Monty calmly. “He couldn’t
reach the back of his neck.”
“You wait!” shrilled Standart, darting shiveringly for his gown and
throwing a malevolent glare at the amused audience in the doorway.
“He held me and poured the pitcher over me! He――he――――” But there
Standart’s words became unprintable. Mullins called a halt sternly.
“Cut it out, Alvin!” he said. “You ought to have your mouth washed too.
I’m glad Crail has washed your dirty face. It’s needed it for a week.”
Mullins closed the door again and the trio went chuckling off to
bear the glad tidings that at last Standart’s neck and ears had been
washed! In Number F the victim of Monty’s kindness sat on the edge of
his bed trying to dry his drenched body and at the same time express
in adequate terms his gratitude. He hadn’t nearly finished when Monty
bore off the pitcher to the bathroom for refilling, nor was he through
when the latter returned. But presently his words trailed off into
vindictive mutterings and the mutterings into silence. But Standart’s
expression said plainly that in his opinion the incident was not yet
closed.
The affair made a pleasant break in the monotony of daily life at
Morris House and Standart didn’t hear the last of it for some time. He
fulfilled none of his threats to take the matter to faculty, probably
because he had no taste for the incident publicity, nor did he complain
to “Mother Morris.” But Mrs. Fair doubtless learned of the happening,
for more than once when the others referred cryptically to the back of
Standart’s neck, or asked interestedly: “How are the old ears today,
Alvin?” Monty noticed a demure flicker of amusement cross the lady’s
face.
So far as practical results for good were concerned, Monty’s object
lesson in cleanliness was hardly a success, for after that Alvin took
a huge delight in ostentatiously avoiding water and soap, and only had
recourse to them when driven to it by threats. And so the incident was
apparently at an end. But Alvin nursed his wrath and waited patiently
for an opportunity to wreak vengeance, and when the opportunity came
proved that the enmity of even a “Digger Indian” is not to be scoffed
at!