KEYS: PIANO AND OTHERS
Monty had a good voice, and lots of it, a true baritone. And he proved
within a few moments that he could, to use his own phrase, “pound the
tombstones.” He could read easy notes, but his playing was usually
by ear, and he was not tied down by any particular method, style or
rules. Fingering may not have been one of Monty’s strong points, but
he had a good sense of harmony and rhythm and plenty of strength! His
first offering, however, afforded him small opportunity to prove his
skill as an accompanist, for the song required little assistance from
the instrument. Nor, for that matter, did it call for remarkable vocal
effort. It wasn’t a particularly cheerful song, and the fact that Monty
sang it in a drawling wail made it no livelier.
“Oh, bury me out on the lone prair_ee_,
The words came low and mournfully
From the cold, pale lips of a youth who lay
On his dying couch at the close o’ day.
He had wasted and pined till o’er his brow
The shadows o’ death were gath’ring now,
And he thought of his home and breathed a sigh
As the cowboys came round to see him die.
Oh, bury me out on the lone prair_ee_,
In a narrow grave just six by three,
Where the wild coyotes will howl o’er me;
Oh, bury me out on the lone prair_ee_!”
There was, evidently, another verse, but Jimmy interposed. “For the
love of lemons, Monty!” he begged. “Don’t you know anything cheerful?”
Monty grinned, nodded and struck the keys a resounding bang,
straightened back and started off blithely:
“Only a ‘ranch hand,’ stranger,
At a dollar a day, you see;
And six mules hitched to a ‘Stockton gang’
Furnish the fun for me.
“At four o’clock in the bunk house
The clock beats a wild tattoo,
It’s git up an’ git an’ feed your mules
An’ swallow the Chinaman’s stew.
“The ‘Stockton gang’s’ three miles away;
We’re there before the sun;
There’s fifteen of us breaking the sod
Before the day’s begun.
“There’s no orange bloom on the harness,
But frost on the single-trees,
And the sun shows red over Baldy’s head
As you shiver an’ cough an’ sneeze.”
Monty said there were eighteen verses in all, but he compromised with
Leon and Jimmy on eight. By that time Monty’s audience had increased
vastly. The doorways were thronged, while a few of Jimmy’s friends had
joined him at the piano. Monty dashed into a rollicking cowboy ditty
called, “When Rob Got Throwed”:
“The time when Rob got throwed
I thought I sure would bust!
I like to died a-laffin’
To see him chew the dust.
He crawled on that Andy bronc
An’ hit him with a quirt;
The next thing that he knew
He was wallerin’ in the dirt!”
Applause followed the final verse, and for the first time Monty became
aware of the size of his audience. “Hello,” he said to the room in
general. “Want to sing something? What do they know, Jimmy? How about
‘Sam Bas’? or ‘The Shivaree’? or ‘Black Jack Davey’? Well, what _do_
you know?”
But it appeared that the audience preferred to hear more from Monty,
and Monty good-naturedly responded. The game tables were now abandoned
and the doorways were empty, and half a hundred inhabitants of Lothrop
had closed in around the piano or found points of vantage near by. The
big tables, one at each end of the room, were crowded, and swinging
feet kept time to the refrains. Monty had to ransack his memory for
songs. Now and then the listeners showed a disposition to take part
by humming a chorus, but it wasn’t until the soloist had got halfway
through “Cantankerous Charlie” that he had the audience with him. They
liked that song, for there was a fine swing to the refrain:
My name’s Cantankerous Charlie, and I come from over the mesa.
I never gets bust, I’ve plenty o’ dust, and I always pay my way,
sir.
I’ve rocked the cradle and shoveled the dirt from morn till dewy
night,
And now I’m down in this old town with a heart that’s gay and light
Yip, yip! Yip, yay! I’m free to say I’m here to see the sights!
After that the concert was no longer a one-man affair. One singer after
another was pushed forward, held a brief conference with Monty and
launched into song. After the first verse was sung Monty was right with
him. When in doubt he “faked,” but he never went far wrong. They sang
all the popular songs of the moment, and many old favorites. Once,
Mr. Rumford appeared unnoticed at the door――his rooms were at the end
of the corridor――and looked and listened doubtfully. But the hour was
still early, and save that the noise was possibly a bit excessive, the
performance was violating no rule, and the assistant principal went
softly away again.
At last, Monty pleaded weariness, and a senior named Forbes took his
place at the keyboard, and they began on the school songs: “Here We
Go,” “The Scarlet and Gray,” “The Days to Memory Dear,” and many
others. Monty sifted his way through the crowd. He had had enough, and
was ready for bed. He tried to find Leon, but that youth was swallowed
up in the throng. Fellows near by were observing him curiously, but
approvingly, as he loitered across to the fireplace. At the piano
Forbes was making the strings hum under the strains of “Here We Go!”
and half a hundred throats――more, perhaps, since youths returning from
the village or other dormitories had joined the throng――were chanting
the chorus. Monty yawned. After all, singing had not altogether
quieted his craving for exciting deeds, but nothing more promised.
Unobtrusively, he left the room by the nearer door, and climbed the
stairs to Number 14 to recover his hat. As he went, the swelling
refrain followed him:
“Grafton! Grafton! Here we go,
Arm in arm, with banners flying!
Pity, pity any foe
When it hears us loudly crying:
‘Grafton! Grafton! Rah, rah, rah!’
All together! Now the chorus:
‘Grafton! Grafton!――――’”
The words, if not the sound, failed him as he pushed open the door
of Number 14. He considered awaiting Leon’s and Jimmy’s return, and
decided against it. Leon would probably go back to Trow without coming
back upstairs. Monty yawned again, picked up his hat, set it askew on
his head, and started out. But the sight of the key reposing trustfully
on the inside of the door gave him an idea. He chuckled as he withdrew
it, closed the door, inserted the key on the outside, turned it, and
pulled it out. He tried the portal and dropped the key in his pocket.
Up and down the corridor other doors stood invitingly open, some wide,
some barely ajar. A few were closed. Monty’s idea grew to splendid
proportions. He crossed the corridor to the nearest open portal and
knocked. There was no answer. As he had expected none, he was not
disappointed. Reaching around, he took the key of Number 13 from the
inside, transferred it to the outside, and closed and locked the door.
The key, with its little brass disk bearing the number, joined its
fellow in Monty’s pocket. He listened, a smile of dreamy delight on
his face. They were still at it downstairs. It would be a shame not to
make a thorough job of it, not to take advantage of such good fortune!
For the next few minutes he was busy. He didn’t hurry, and there was
nothing crafty in his movements. Quite boldly he walked to a door and
knocked. Only once did he meet a response. Then he asked for Jimmy,
was told to try Number 14, apologized and withdrew. At the end of five
minutes twelve doors were firmly locked and twelve keys jingled merrily
in Monty’s pocket. Whereupon, crooning softly and happily, he descended
the stairway at the south end of the building, and, carefully avoiding
the common room, let himself out into the night.
“So I went and fetched him back,
But I was feelin’ good all day,
For I sure enough do love to see
A feller to git throwed that way!”
Monty jingled the keys in his pocket in soft accompaniment to his
triumphant song as he walked toward the corner of the building. But
having reached the corner, he paused in the shadow there. The question
confronting him was what to do with the keys. They were no use to
him, were heavy in his pocket, and made a noise as he walked. There
ought to be, he reflected, an appropriate place to deposit them. But
he didn’t see one that he favored until his gaze fell on the lighted
and open window of a room close at hand. It was the corner room in
the building, and, as he determined when he had softly pushed his way
through the branches of the shrubs between walk and building, was
evidently a study.
It was more elaborately furnished than other studies Monty had seen,
and the pictures on the walls were rather more “classy.” A light on a
big mahogany writing table was turned low under its green shade. Best
of all, the apartment was deserted. By standing close to it, and rising
on his tiptoes he could stretch his hand through the window and reach
the top of a small cabinet which stood against the wall at the right.
The top of the cabinet was already occupied by various small articles,
but they could be pushed aside. Monty listened and looked. No one was
in sight, and, save for the subdued din of the singers in the common
room, all was silent. In a moment the booty was disposed of. One key
fell to the floor with an alarming rattle, but nothing happened in
consequence. Monty withdrew noiselessly, got cautiously back to the
path, and proceeded on his way home across the campus. He met no one,
and a few minutes later climbed the stairs of Morris and entered his
room looking as innocent as a cherub.
At the washstand, Alvin Standart was sopping a sponge against his nose
and sniffling weirdly. Monty gazed delightedly.
“Hello,” he said. “Who gave it to you?”
“Nobody,” replied Alvin, sniffling between syllables. “It’s just a
nose-bleed. I have them sometimes.”
“Oh,” murmured Monty, disappointedly. “What for?”
“What for?” echoed Alvin in disgust. “Because I can’t help it, you
fresh chump.”
Monty pondered that, looking on interestedly while Alvin continued his
efforts to stop the hemorrhage. Finally, “Look here,” he said, “isn’t
there something you do for it? Seems to me I’ve heard of something.
Let’s see. I know! You put a lump of ice on the back of the neck or
against the spine. That’s it. And if you haven’t any ice you use
something cold, like a――paper-knife.”
“Haven’t any ice,” grumbled Alvin.
“Wait a bit. A knife will do, or――here’s the very thing!” Monty’s
inquiring hands had encountered a key in his pocket, and he drew it
forth triumphantly. “Here you are. Hold that against the back of your
neck, like that.”
“Ouch! It’s cold!”
“Sure! It ought to be. Got it? All you’ve got to do is to hold it there
until your nose stops bleeding.”
“Well――well, suppose it doesn’t? Think I’m going to stand here all
night holding this thing?”
“Search me,” answered Monty cheerfully. “You don’t expect me to do it,
do you? Couldn’t you sit down and hold it?”
“No, because I’ve used up all the handkerchiefs I’ve got and―― Oh, gee!”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Monty, looking up from his work of
removing his shoes.
“It’s gone.”
“The nose-bleed? Good!”
“No, you fool, the key! It dropped down my back.” Alvin squirmed
uncomfortably.
“You should have held on to it. You see, the well-known law of
gravity――――”
Alvin sniffed. “You and your silly old key,” he growled.
“Well, you ought to be glad it wasn’t a lump of ice,” responded Monty
soothingly. “There’s a bright side to every cloud, Standart.” Monty
dropped his shoes and began undressing. Alvin viewed him aggrievedly
from the washstand.
“I don’t believe you ever heard of stopping nose-bleed with a key,” he
said, suspiciously. “_I_ never did.”
“That’s mighty poor reasoning, partner. About how long will you be
camping around that basin?”
“I――I guess I’m through with it now,” answered Alvin. “I think it’s
stopped.” He sniffed experimentally, blew his nose gently, and said,
“Humph!” in a surprised tone.
“There you are! Next time, _hombre_, you’ll believe in my remedies,
eh? Would you very much mind removing the basin to the bathroom, and
obliterating the evidences of carnage? Give it a good cleaning while
you’re at it.”
When Alvin returned he set about disrobing, and in the course of the
operation the key which had slipped down his back fell with a tinkle to
the floor. Alvin picked it up, and observed it curiously. “Say, where’d
you get this?” he asked.
“Get what? Oh, that key? I don’t know. Let’s see it.”
“It’s a dormitory key,” said Alvin. “It says ‘8’ on it.”
“Oh, I――happened on it. Toss it over. I dare say some chap dropped it.”
Monty put it in his trousers pocket, with a fine show of ease, but as
he went back to bed, and settled down for slumber he wondered how he
had missed it when he had emptied his pockets of the others, and blamed
himself severely for his carelessness.