BERT REFUSES AN INVITATION
“Want to play some pool?” asked Chick.
Bert leaned back in the chair and caressed the end of his straight nose
with the rubber tip of his pencil. “Depends,” he replied. “If you mean
at that evil-smelling dive you dragged me into last week the answer is
no, Chick.”
“What’s the matter with Mooney’s?” demanded the other. “He’s got the
best tables in town.”
“I know, but the smoke’s so thick there you could cut it with a knife,
and it makes my eyes smart. That’s why you beat me last time.”
“Shucks, a little smoke won’t hurt you. Come on. Besides, when a fellow
can’t smoke himself a little of the aroma of the weed isn’t so bad.”
“Maybe, but I noticed the last time that it sort of made you
absent-minded, Chick.”
“How do you mean? Oh, that! Shucks, one cigarette at this stage of the
game doesn’t matter. We weren’t really in training last Saturday, any
way.”
Bert Hollins smiled and shook his head. “That’s a punk alibi, Chick.
Suppose some one had happened to look in? There’d been the dickens to
pay.”
“Some one being Johnny Cade?” asked Chick, grinning. “Johnny doesn’t
frequent that part of town, old son. Don’t look so blamed virtuous
or I’ll punch your head. Anyway, I’m off the things until we quit
training.”
“Which being so,” said the other, “you’d better get rid of the box in
your top drawer. They might tempt you, Charles, beyond your power of
resistance.”
“Say, how come you’ve been snooping through my chiffonier? Hang it,
Bert, you’ve got a cheek!”
“Wait a minute! Did you or didn’t you ask me to get you a handkerchief
one day and drop it out the window to you? And was or wasn’t said
handkerchief in said top drawer of said--”
“Oh, shut up,” said Chick, grinning. “All right, old son. Say no more.
But trust you to see the fags! As to getting rid of them, that would be
rotten extravagance, Bert. No, but I’ll stick ’em out of sight where I
won’t see ’em. How’ll that do? But, listen. Will you shoot some pool,
or won’t you, you poor fish?”
“Won’t,” answered Bert. “That is, I will if you’ll play in a
respectable place, but I don’t like the atmosphere of Rooney’s--”
“Mooney’s.”
“Looney’s, then. And I’m not referring entirely to the tobacco smoke.
A lot of the gentlemen who frequent that dive are the sort that my
Sunday school teacher expressly warned me against, Chick.”
“Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled the older boy. “Come on, won’t
you? You don’t have to pay any attention to the others. I’ll give you a
handicap of--”
“No, thanks, old man, I really had rather not. Anyway, I’ve got some
math here that will stand an hour’s work.”
“Do it later. Great Scott, don’t you know this is Saturday night?”
“Sure, but I sort of feel in the mood for math, Chick. A--a kind of
mental alertness possesses me, and although--”
“Oh, go to thunder!” said Chick shortly, and pulled a cap on his head.
“The next time I ask you, you’ll know it, you blamed Miss Nancy.”
“Them’s hard words,” murmured Bert. “What time you coming back?”
“Some time before ten. Why?”
“Just wondered if you recalled the fact that you’re supposed to be in
bed by that hour.”
“_What?_ Who said so? Johnny hasn’t started that stuff yet, has he?”
“Even so, Chick. He specifically mentioned his wishes no later than
yesterday. Every one in bed by ten sharp, were his words.”
“Well, he’s got a crust,” Chick declared. “That’s mid-season stuff.
How’s he get that way?”
“I really can’t say, but, joking aside, Charles, do try to be home by
nine-thirty or thereabouts, eh? These late hours--”
“Oh, shut up!” With his hand on the door, Chick made a final and
pathetic appeal. “Be a good guy, Bert, won’t you? Listen, we’ll go to
that place on West street, if you can’t stand Mooney’s.”
Bert waved the pencil in dismissal. “Run along to your disreputable
acquaintances, Chick. Fact is, I’m not feeling lucky to-night. Besides,
I got a slam on the shin this afternoon that tells me I wouldn’t enjoy
tramping a couple of miles around a table. Some other time, O Wizard of
the Cue.”
“Honest, you make me sick!” The door shut with some force, leaving
Bert smiling at it. He rather enjoyed ragging Chick, and Chick, while
he sometimes became exasperated, never lost his temper. Not with Bert,
that is. For one thing, they had known each other ever since they had
begun to walk; or, at least, since Bert had, for Chick, who was a full
year older, had probably found the use of his legs first. They had
grown up together in Watertown, adventured together, gone to school
together, had been practically inseparable for some fifteen years.
Chick had a temper, although it was pretty well governed, but save in
the very earliest years of their acquaintance he had never been really
angry with Bert. Perhaps his year of seniority had something to do
with it, for, although Bert could be trying at times, Chick considered
that the other’s youth excused him. Each of the boys made a good deal
of that thirteen months of difference in their respective ages. Chick
had always assumed an elder brother attitude, Bert had always accepted
the position of junior unquestioningly, crediting Chick with superior
wisdom and all the advantages popularly supposed to accrue to those of
great age and experience. Always, that is, until very recently. Within
the last year, it seemed, the matter of age had become less important.
Possibly, as sometimes happens, Bert had matured more in that time
than Chick had. Whereas a year back the older boy had held the rôle of
mentor, now it was Bert who sought to guide Chick’s steps. Sometimes a
slightly puzzled look would come into Chick’s countenance, indicating
that he was sensible of a difference in their relations and hadn’t yet
fathomed it.
In general appearance the friends were not unalike. Both were fairly
tall, well-proportioned youths, Bert slimmer and lighter than Chick but
not destined to remain so much longer. Both were dark of complexion,
Chick with gray eyes and Bert with brown. On the score of good looks
the older boy held an advantage, for his features were regular, while
Bert’s, with the single exception of a straight nose, were decidedly
haphazard. Still, expression counts more than features, as a general
thing, and both scored there, although in different fashions. Chick’s
face told of high spirits and vivacity and thirst for adventure, and
a ready, careless smile won friendship easily. On occasion that smile
could be a bit supercilious. Bert’s countenance was normally rather
grave, although if one looked closely there was generally a glint of
laughter lurking in the brown eyes. It was a friendly countenance, but
not an ardent one. Bert’s smile was slow to appear, but it was very
genuine and was usually followed by a rather infectious laugh.
Before Chick’s footfalls had entirely died away beyond the closed
door that smile had faded to an expression of uneasiness. Bert had
joked about Mooney’s and the frequenters of Mooney’s, about the
cigarettes and the ten o’clock bed hour, but those things were really
threatening to cause him some concern. Chick was different this fall,
he reflected now, jabbing tiny holes in a blotter with the sharp point
of the pencil. Perhaps being a senior made you that way. Football,
which had been an all-absorbing interest to Chick last year and the
year before that, now seemed to have small appeal for him. Of course,
Chick had felt badly about missing the captaincy last winter; had, in
conversation with Bert, been rather bitter about it; but this present
careless, don’t-give-a-whoop attitude toward the team and his job on
it was unexpected. Last year, for instance, Chick wouldn’t have smoked
a cigarette during the season if some one had offered him cigarette,
match and a thousand dollars! Nor would he have protested against the
ten o’clock bed rule. And--Bert shook his head at this reflection--he
wouldn’t have played as listlessly as he had played this afternoon.
To Bert, who had been trying two seasons for a position on the team,
the honor of being selected from among some four hundred fellows to
represent Alton Academy on the football field was something to work for
and make sacrifices for and, if won, to be mighty proud of!
Perhaps Chick was too sure of his position, Bert reflected. Last
year he had played a rather remarkable game toward the latter part
of the season and had been largely instrumental in securing the
lone touchdown which, with a field-goal by Nip Storer, one of the
half-backs, represented Alton’s earnings in the disastrous Kenly Hall
contest. Chick had been wonderful on defense and had spoiled more than
one Kenly dash in the direction of the Alton line. On attack he had
performed his share, too, for it was his catch of a long forward-pass
that had made it possible for Jim Galvin, substituting for the
first-string full-back in the second quarter, to smash his way across
the Cherry-and-Black’s line. Chick had been a fine and gallant warrior
that day, and Bert warmed toward him at the recollection until his
present shortcomings seemed of no importance. It had been Chick, too,
who had swooped down on a loose ball in the last few minutes of the
game and raced off up the long field, dodging, side-stepping, twirling,
to the enemy’s twelve yards before he was pulled down from behind.
That Alton had failed lamentably to gain a foot on the next four plays
detracted not at all from Chick’s heartening performance. Indeed, that
brief threat had somehow made the pill of defeat less bitter to the
Gray-and-Gold that drizzling November evening. Kenly Hall had won that
contest by 16 to 9 with a team that was a better all-around eleven than
Alton’s. The latter had shown fine moments, feats of brilliance, daring
plays, but Kenly had been steady, machine-like, irresistible, and
the victory had been hers deservedly. Bert brought his thoughts back
from that thrilling battle, in which he had taken part for just three
minutes and forty seconds at the tag-end, thereby winning the privilege
of wearing the “Big Gold A,” and resolutely drew his book toward
him. Mr. Hulman, the mathematics instructor, was a new member of the
faculty, and seemed set on emulating the new broom and sweeping clean.
Bert laid his pencil aside, placed elbows on desk and hands against
cheeks and set out to discover what it was all about.
After a while the pencil came into play again, and still later Bert
closed the book with a sigh of relief, pushed it away from him and
glanced at his watch. It was only a few minutes after eight! There was
still time to pick up some fellow along the corridor and get to the
movie theater for the big picture, but after a tentative start toward
the closet to get his cap he shook his head and sank into an easy
chair. Saturday evening was no time to find an agreeable companion. All
the fellows save those Bert didn’t desire as companions would be out.
He decided to write a letter home instead, performing a task usually
done on Sunday. He began to think what he would write, and that was
fatal, for half an hour later he was still in the chair, his thoughts
a long way from the letter. In the end, he found a book which he had
started to read away back in August, undressed, went to bed and read.
He was still reading when Chick returned.
“Hello,” said Bert, “what time is it?”
Chick frowned. “For the love of Pete, cut that out,” he protested.
“Honest, Bert, you’re getting to be an awful nagger!”
“Sorry,” said Bert. “I asked only because I’ve been reading and haven’t
any idea what time of night it is.” He sat up and looked at the little
clock on the nearer chiffonier. It was four minutes past ten according
to the clock, but as the latter was frequently wrong he didn’t accept
the evidence as conclusive. He laid back again, yawned, dropped
the book to the floor and clasped his hands under his head. Chick,
undressing, whistled cheerfully; almost too cheerfully Bert thought.
“Have a good game?” the latter asked presently.
“Corking. I certainly made the old balls do tricks to-night. Played
three games of fifty points and won two of them. Had to go some to get
the last one, though. That’s why I’m sort of late.”
“Who did you play with?” asked Bert.
“Fellow named Devore.”
“Devore? Guess I don’t know him. Not in school, is he?”
“No, he’s a guy lives in town. Works with the railroad, I think. Pretty
decent sort and a clever lad with a cue. If I hadn’t been going mighty
well to-night I wouldn’t have got a game, I guess. Gosh, that place was
crowded, Bert!”
“Rooney’s?”
“No, Mooney’s, you coot!” Chick disappeared into the corridor in
slippers and dressing-gown. Bert stared at the ceiling a moment and
then got out of bed and consulted his watch. The little clock for once
was right to a minute. When Chick returned from the lavatory Bert was
apparently asleep and Chick turned out the light and got into bed.
Silence reigned for a minute or two. Then Chick asked softly: “Asleep,
Bert?”
“No, are you?”
“Sure! No, listen. Who do you suppose I met over on Meadow street,
coming home?”
“Prince of Wales?”
“No; Johnny.”
After a moment Bert asked: “Did he see you?”
“Of course he did,” replied the other impatiently. “Didn’t I say I met
him? Ran right into him, almost, in front of that laundry over there.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing but ‘Ah, Burton!’ or something like that.”
“What time was it, Chick?”
“Ten, or nearly. The clock struck when I got to West street. Talk
about rotten luck! Why the dickens he was prowling around over there
at that time of night, goodness only knows! If he had stopped I’d have
given him a stall, but he just said ‘Ah, Burton’ in a kind of a funny
tone and kept right on. I think he had something in his hand; a bag, I
guess.”
“Maybe he’s going home over Sunday. There’s a train about ten-twenty, I
think.”
“That’s so.” Silence fell again in Number 21 and continued for several
minutes. Then Chick’s voice came once more. “Sort of wish I hadn’t run
into him, Bert.”
“Me and you both,” agreed Bert.
“Of course it’s blamed poppycock, that ten o’clock bed rule, but he’s
acting kind of snorty this fall and he may get on his ear about it. If
he does, by gosh, I’ll tell him I’m no kid freshman to have to go to
bed with the chickens!”
“Sure! That will make it all right with him,” answered Bert. “He will
like that, Chick.”
“Oh, well, hang it, a fellow’s got to have some fun! What’s the good of
going to bed at ten, anyway? You don’t get to sleep.”
“Not if you keep on talking,” said Bert, yawning.
“Gosh,” grumbled the other, “you could go to sleep at seven, I guess.
How long have you been in bed?”
“Couple of hours.”
“What, didn’t you go out at all?”
“Uh-huh--I mean no! Say, for Pete’s sake, Chick, shut up and go to
sleep! How do you think I’m going to keep my schoolgirl complexion if
you go on jabbering?”
“All right. But, just the same, I wish I’d come home by State street!”
“Or started earlier,” murmured Bert.
Chick glared resentfully across through the darkness but could think
of no appropriate retort. Then came unmistakable indications that his
room-mate was asleep.