Crofton Chums
[Illustration: Jim was off with a clear field ahead.]
Crofton Chums
By
Ralph Henry Barbour
Author of “The Crimson Sweater,” “Captain Chub,”
“Team-Mates,” etc.
With Illustrations
By C. M. Relyea
[Illustration]
New York
The Century Co.
1912
Copyright, 1911, 1912, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published, September, 1912_
To
G. R. O.
Who Helped
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BACK TO SCHOOL 3
II. SUNNYWOOD COTTAGE 16
III. GARY RECONSIDERS 36
IV. MR. GORDON RECEIVES 52
V. MR. HANKS RENTS A ROOM 69
VI. PLATO SOCIETY 89
VII. JIM MAKES A PROMISE 103
VIII. POKE USES TACT 114
IX. OUT FOR THE TEAM 129
X. MR. HANKS ACCEPTS ADVICE 148
XI. ON THE SECOND 162
XII. GARY IS SURPRISED 172
XIII. POKE ON CANOES 183
XIV. UP THE RIVER 193
XV. THE “MI-KA-NOO” 205
XVI. MR. HANKS AS A NOVELIST 216
XVII. THE GAME WITH ST. LUKE’S 227
XVIII. GARY CHALLENGES 235
XIX. POKE ADVERTISES 245
XX. AN EARLY MORNING PRACTICE 256
XXI. THE GREAT RACE 267
XXII. THE SWORD FALLS! 284
XXIII. FRIDAY AND ILL-LUCK 302
XXIV. HAWTHORNE COMES TO CONQUER 316
XXV. JIM PASSES AN EXAMINATION 332
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Jim was off with a clear field ahead _Frontispiece_
“Well, what do you think of that!” ejaculated Poke 11
“This is Mrs. Hazard’s, isn’t it?” 27
“What is it, Jim? Is anything wrong?” inquired Mrs.
Hazard 37
“This certainly beats dining-hall,” declared Poke 61
“You a football man, Hazard?” Sargent asked 75
“I am looking for accommodations, a room and――er――yes,
board with it” 83
“Look here,” he demanded, “what did you tell Duncan
Sargent about me?” 125
“Ever see a football before?” he asked 141
They found Mr. Hanks at his desk 153
Gil and Poke assisted in the household duties 181
Hope, being a rather wise young lady, prepared a tray 295
“We thought you might send him a telegram,” said Gary,
boldly 309
Jim takes his examination on the football field 329
CROFTON CHUMS
CHAPTER I
BACK TO SCHOOL
“In the good old football time,
In the good old football time!”
sang “Poke” Endicott, as he pulled a nice new pair of fawn-hued
football pants from his trunk and reverently strove to smooth the
creases from them. “Aren’t those some pants, Gil?” he demanded.
His room-mate turned from the window as the “mole-skins” were held up
for inspection.
“Rather! You must have spent a year’s allowance on those, Poke.”
“Huh!” Poke folded them carefully and then tossed them in the general
direction of the closet. “I’d hate to tell you, Gil, what they stood
me. But they’re good for ten years; anyhow, that’s what the tailor man
said. Those trousers, Gil, will descend from generation to generation,
down through the ages, like――like――”
“A mortgage,” suggested Gil Benton, helpfully, as he turned again to
the view of autumn landscape framed by the open casement. Just under
the window, beyond the graveled path, the smooth turf descended gently
to the rim of the little river which curved placidly along below the
school buildings barely a stone’s throw away. (Joe Cosgrove, baseball
captain, had once engaged, on a wager, to place a baseball across it
from the steps of Academy Hall, and had succeeded at the third attempt.
As Academy stands farthest from the stream of any of the buildings,
Joe’s throw was something of a feat, and many a perfectly good baseball
had been sacrificed since by ambitious youths set on duplicating his
performance.) The Academy side of the river was clear of vegetation,
but along the farther bank graceful weeping willows dipped their
trailing branches in the water and threw cool green shadows across the
surface. Beyond, the willows gave place to alders and swamp-oaks and
basswood, and then, as the ground rose to the rolling hills, maples,
already showing the first light frosts, clustered thick. Here and
there the white trunks of paper-birches showed against the hillside.
Gil――his full name was Gilbert, but no one ever called him that――viewed
the familiar scene with eager pleasure and satisfaction. To-morrow
began his third year at Crofton Academy, and he had grown very fond of
the school; how fond he had scarcely realized until this minute. To the
left, a quarter of a mile away, the old covered bridge was in sight,
its central pier emerging from a wilderness of bush on Bridge Island.
To his right, a little distance down-stream, lay Biscuit Island, a tiny
round mound of moss-covered rock with here and there a patch of grass,
and, in the middle, a group of four white birches asway in the westerly
breeze. Opposite the island was the brown-stained boat-house and the
long float, the latter as yet empty of the canoes and skiffs and tubs
that would later gather there. By bending forward a little, Gil could
catch a glimpse of a corner of the athletic field and the roofed
portico of Apthorpe Gymnasium, the last of the buildings that formed a
crescent along the curve of the river.
He smiled companionably at the blue and green world, sighed once――why,
he couldn’t have told you――and breathed in a lungful of the warm,
scented air. It was good to be back again; awfully good! He wondered――
Footsteps crunched the gravel beneath the window, and Gil leaned out.
Then he turned and called to his chum:
“Say, Poke, come and see ‘Brownie.’ He’s got a suit of ‘ice-cream’
clothes on, and a Panama hat! Me, oh, my! Who’d ever think Brownie
could be so frivolous?”
Poke stumbled over a pile of clothing and hurried across to the
casement, leaning out beside Gil. Almost directly below was a tall man
of thirty-odd years, attired modishly in light home-spun. When, in
answer to Poke’s “Hello, Mr. Brown!” he looked up at the window, his
face was seen to carry a rich coating of tan from which his very light
blue eyes twinkled with startling effect. He waved his hand to them.
“Hello, Endicott! Hello, Benton! You’re back early, it seems.”
“Couldn’t stay away, sir,” replied Poke laughingly. “Missed Greek
awfully, sir!”
“Not the first time you’ve missed it――awfully,” retorted the instructor
with a broad smile. The boys chuckled. “Don’t forget the meeting
to-morrow evening, fellows.”
“No, sir; we’ll be there,” said Gil.
“He’s a dandy chap,” he added heartily, as the instructor passed on
toward his room in the next dormitory. Poke nodded.
“One of the best. That’s why Plato’s the best society in school. What
time is it?”
“Nearly one,” replied Gil, with a yawn.
“Don’t suppose we can get anything to eat here, eh?”
“Not likely. We might try, but as we’re not supposed to come until
after dinner, I guess it would look pretty cheeky.”
“Right-O! Besides, it will be more fun eating in the village. Aren’t
you going to unpack?”
“Yes, but there’s no hurry. Let’s get dinner now, Poke. We’ll go to
Reddy’s; he has the best eats.”
“Got you! But wait until I get some of this mess picked up. How’s
that for a swell suit of glad rags, Gil?” Poke held up the jacket for
inspection. It was perceptibly green in color and decidedly “loud” in
style. Gil grunted.
“If you had a gray silk hat you could march in the minstrel parade with
that, Poke. Bet you sent your measurements by mail with a ten-dollar
bill.”
Poke looked highly offended, and draped the garment over the back of a
chair. Then he drew away and admired it silently.
“That,” he announced finally, “was made by one of the best tailors in
New York.”
Gil grunted again. “We wouldn’t wear a thing like that in Providence,”
he said.
Poke laughed rudely as he hung the coat up. “Providence! I believe you,
Gil! Providence never saw anything like that.”
“That’s no joke,” replied the other. “Get a move on, Poke, I’m hungry.”
“All right. Put that in the drawer for me, will you? No, the table
drawer, you idiot! Where’s my hat? Come on now. I could eat an ox!”
They closed the door of Number 12 behind them, scuttled down a flight
of well-worn stairs, and emerged on the granite steps of Weston Hall.
They looked along the fronts of the buildings, but not a soul was in
sight. Gil chuckled.
“Bet you we’re the first fellows back, Poke.”
“Sure. They won’t begin to get here until that two-twenty train.”
They turned to the right, passed between Weston and Rogers, traversed a
few rods of turf, and took a path leading downwards through a grove of
maples and beeches. The path turned and twisted to accommodate itself
to the descent. Gil walked ahead, hat in hand, since it was close and
warm here in the woods, and Poke lounged along behind, hands in pockets
and his merry, good-humored face alight with anticipation of the good
things awaiting him at Reddy’s lunch counter. Poke’s real name was
Perry Oldham Kirkland Endicott, and the nickname had been the natural
result of the first view of the initials on the end of his suitcase.
In age he was sixteen, one year his companion’s junior. He was well
set-up, with a good pair of shoulders and a depth of chest that told
of athletic training. He had brown hair and brown eyes, a good-looking
sunburned face, and a general air of care-free jollity. Like Gil
Benton, Poke was a member of the Upper Middle Class, and consequently
had two more years to spend at Crofton.
Gilbert Benton, seventeen years old, was a good two inches taller than
his chum, and somewhat slimmer. But the slimness showed wiry muscles
and a healthy body. Gil’s hair was darker than Poke’s, and his eyes
were gray. His face spoke of determination and fearlessness. Seeing
the two boys, you would have said that Gil was the sort to lead bravely
a forlorn hope, and Poke the sort to shrug his shoulders, laugh――and
follow. Gil’s home was in Providence, Rhode Island, and Poke’s in New
York City. The latter had taken an early train and Gil had joined him
at Providence, and the two had reached the station at Crofton well
before noon. To arrive at school early and get settled before their
fellows arrived had struck them as something of a lark.
The woods ceased and the path led them out onto Academy Road, where
Hill Street turned off and where the village residences began.
Hereabouts most of the trim white-walled structures were used as
boarding- and rooming-houses for the Crofton students who were unable
to secure accommodations in the school dormitories. At the corner was
Mrs. Hooper’s; across the road from it, Jones’s; farther up Academy
Road toward the school, Mrs. Sanger’s. To their left as they leaped
the tumble-down stone wall was a comfortable-looking residence whose
outbuildings nestled in the edge of the woods.
[Illustration: “Well, what do you think of that!” ejaculated Poke.]
“Wonder who has the Timberlake place this year,” said Gil. “I see it’s
rented.”
“Why did she give it up?” asked Poke idly.
“Went out West to live with her son, I believe. I don’t believe the old
lady ever made much money here.”
“Well, what do you think of that!” ejaculated Poke, stopping in his
tracks and staring at the house in question. Perched on a short ladder
was a boy of about Poke’s age, nailing a sign over the front steps. A
girl in a white dress and with a long braid of yellow hair aglint in
the sunshine was steadying the ladder. As the boys stopped to look, the
last screw went home and the sign stood forth for all to see:
SUNNYWOOD COTTAGE
The boy descended from the ladder, and he and the girl stepped a little
distance down the short walk toward the gate to admire the result of
their labors. Gil and Poke went on, the latter chuckling.
“‘Sunnywood Cottage,’” he murmured. “Guess there wasn’t anything very
sunny about the place when Mrs. Timberlake had it. I wonder who the
girl is?”
“Miss Sunnywood,” replied Gil instantly.
“Thanks,” said Poke, turning to steal another look at the young lady.
“You’re a veritable mine of information, Gil. The house is looking
rather nice, isn’t it? Must have painted it, I guess.”
“Yes, and her hair is very pretty,” laughed Gil.
“Oh, you run away,” Poke retorted. “Wonder who the chap is?”
“You seem mighty interested in the family. Like to call there on the
way back?”
“That’s not a bad idea! We might make believe we wanted to rent a room.”
“We might,” Gil laughed. He, too, turned for a glance at the cottage.
“Guess a fellow could be pretty comfy at Sunnywood. Funny, isn’t it,
how some houses look homey and comfy and others sort of give you the
creeps. Look at Jones’s; wouldn’t live there for a hundred dollars a
month!”
“I wonder if a fellow has more fun living in the village,” mused Poke.
“Of course it’s nice being in hall when you know there are loads of
chaps envying you your room, but, after all, we don’t have much chance
for larks, what with study hour, and being in at ten, and all that. I
believe I’d like to try a house next year, Gil.”
“Sunnywood?” asked Gil slyly.
Poke grinned and nodded. “I wouldn’t mind. That corner room in front on
this side ought to be pretty nice. You’d get lots of sun and light――and
that’s more than we get in Number 12.”
“Well, never mind about sun and light now. Let’s hit it up, Poke. What
I need is food and drink. Thank goodness we’re nearly there! It’s
pretty hot for September, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know how hot it is for September,” replied Poke with a grin,
as they turned into Main Street, “but it’s uncomfortably hot for Poke!”