A FALLING OUT
Harry made no mention of his meeting with Cotton. There were moments
when he regretted that stamp. Frequently he turned to the space in his
big album where it should be mounted and as often sighed his regret.
Some time he meant to have one of those stamps, only he would get it
without having to play traitor. Meanwhile he delved more furiously than
ever into his albums and his envelopes, wrote letters and received
them, perused catalogues and lists, and became an earnest student of
three different philatelic journals. It seemed to his roommate that the
finer the weather became the closer Harry stuck to his room. Arthur
growled and threatened and begged, but all to slight purpose. Day by
day Arthur, returning from the field, discovered Harry leaning over
his albums in a litter of catalogues and stamps, the air redolent of
library paste.
About the beginning of the second week in May, when the blue sky was
swept clean of clouds and the sunlight just drew you out of doors as
a magnet draws steel filings, Arthur’s patience gave way. Threats,
he told himself grimly, had lost their virtue. Things had gone wrong
all day, and Arthur was in a decidedly bad temper when he got back to
the room. Stevie, or Mr. Austin, to give his real name, had hauled
him over the coals in chemistry class in the morning――to the signal
amusement of his fellows; he had failed miserably at Greek after
dinner, and then, to clap the climax, he had broken his favorite
vaulting pole at practice. All that was enough to spoil the best temper
any one ever had! And now here was that little idiot of a roommate of
his disregarding everything he had been told, wallowing around in a
room that was a veritable pigsty and that smelled to heaven of that
sickening library paste!
Arthur’s patience gave way, and his temper with it. Crossing the room
in three bounds, he lifted Harry from his chair, seized the two big
albums and the smaller one, and, striding to his closet, opened the
door and tossed the books on to the shelf. Then he turned the key in
the lock viciously and placed it in his pocket.
From table to closet stretched a gay, vari-colored path of loose
stamps. Harry, bewildered, open-mouthed, looked from the litter on the
carpet to Arthur. But before he could summon words to express some of
the thoughts within him, Arthur took the floor. He had plenty to say
himself, and proceeded to say it.
“I told you what I’d do if you didn’t quit,” he began, angrily. “I said
I’d pitch those fool books out the window, but if I did you’d sneak
them back again. Well, they’re where you won’t get them for awhile, my
son, and you can just make up your mind to that! No more stamps for a
week, and not then unless you spend a good part of every day outdoors.
You’ve got to play tennis and take walks and get some fresh air into
your little starving lungs and some color into your little white face,
Harry. Now you clear up that mess there and get these stamps off the
floor.”
“I want my albums!” said Harry, hotly.
“You won’t get them.”
“I _will_ get them! You’ve no right to boss me, Arthur Thompson!
You――you’re a big bully, that’s what you are! I want my books!”
“Shut up that noise and do as I tell you. Clear that table off.”
“I won’t! I won’t, and you can’t make me! I want my stamp books!”
Arthur shrugged his shoulders wearily.
“You heard what I said, Harry, and you’d better believe I mean it. I’ve
given you plenty of chances to act right. Now you can do without your
old stamps for awhile.”
“I’ll go to Mr. Collins! I’ll――I’ll break open that door!”
Harry was so angry that his voice broke, and the tears came to his
eyes. He sprang at the closet door and tugged at the handle in frantic
rage. Finding that useless he faced Arthur with white face and glaring
eyes. He wasn’t a pleasant sight to look at, and Arthur turned away in
disgust and began to gather Harry’s rubbish into a pile on the table.
“You let those things alone! They’re not yours!” shrieked Harry. He
seized Arthur’s arm with one hand and aimed a puny blow at him with
the other. Arthur seized him and dumped him ingloriously on his bed,
howling and kicking.
“Look here,” he said, sternly, “we won’t have any of that, Harry. What
you ought to have is a mighty good hiding, and I’ve got more than half
a mind to give it to you. Now stop that noise and behave yourself. Do
you hear? If you don’t, I’ll turn you over and spank you until you’ll
have something to yell for!”
The threat served its purpose. Harry ceased his noise and stopped
struggling, but the looks he gave his roommate were full of hate.
“You――you make me sick,” he muttered. “Just because you helped Gerald
pull me out of the pond last year you think you can do anything you
like. But I’ll show you! It wasn’t you saved my life, anyway; it was
Gerald. You just helped pull me ashore. You give me those books right
away, Arthur Thompson, or it will be the worse for you. You think
I can’t get even, but I can. I know a way, a dandy way!” He smiled
maliciously. “You’d better do what I say or you’ll be sorry for it!”
“You keep quiet,” answered Arthur, calmly, his own anger having worn
itself out. “I don’t care for your threats, my son. The long and short
of it is that you don’t get those books to mess around with until you
get outdoors every day for a week. That’s settled.”
Harry’s manner suddenly became as quiet as Arthur’s. He sat up on the
bed and smoothed his rumpled attire. Then he walked to the table and
picked up his cap.
“All right,” he said, darkly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll give
you one more chance. Do I get my books?”
“You do not,” replied Arthur, emphatically.
Harry opened the door and turned for a parting shot.
“You’ll wish you hadn’t been so smart,” he sneered, “before I’m through
with you.”
[Illustration: “‘You’ll wish you hadn’t been so smart,’ he sneered.”]
Arthur shrugged his shoulders indifferently and Harry closed the door
quietly behind him.