AN INTERRUPTION
Erskine College, at Centerport, is not large. Like many another New
England college its importance lies rather in its works than in wealth
or magnificence. Its enrolment in all departments at the time of which
I write was about 600. I am not going to describe the college, it would
take too long; and besides, it has been done very frequently and very
well, and if the reader, after studying the accompanying plan, which
is reproduced with the kind permission of the authorities, feels the
need of further description, I would respectfully refer him to Balcom’s
Handbook of Erskine (photographically illustrated) and May’s History of
Erskine College. And if in connection with these he examines the annual
catalogue he will know about all there is to be known of the subject.
Leaving Washington Street and going west on Elm Street, he will find,
facing the apex of the Common, a small white frame cottage profusely
adorned with blinds of a most vivid green. That is Mrs. Dorlon’s. It
is by far the tiniest of the many boarding- and lodging-houses that
line the outer curve of Elm Street, and, as might be supposed, its
rooms are few and not commodious. Mrs. Dorlon, a small, middle-aged
widow, with a perpetual cold in the head, reserves the lower floor for
her own use and rents the two up-stairs rooms to students. Between
these second-floor apartments there is little to choose. The western
one gets the afternoon sunlight, while the one on the other side of
the hall gets none. To make up for this, however, the eastern room is,
or was, at the time of my story, the proud possessor of a register,
supposed, somewhat erroneously, to conduct warm air into the apartment;
while the western room, to use the language of Mrs. Dorlon, was “het by
gas.”
Aside from these differences, apparent rather than real, the two
chambers were similar. In each there was a strip of narrow territory
in which it was possible to stand upright, flanked on either side
by abruptly sloping ceilings whose flaking expanses were broken by
dormer-windows, admitting a little light and a deal of cold. It was the
eastern room that Jack Weatherby at present called home, a feat which
implied the possession of a great deal of imagination on his part. For
when, having escaped the hostile throng by the river and made his way
up Washington into Elm Street, and so to the house with the painfully
green blinds, the room in which he found himself didn’t look the least
bit in the world like home.
The iron cot-bed, despite its vivid imitation Bagdad covering, failed
to deceive the beholder into mistaking it for a Turkish divan. The
faded and threadbare ingrain carpet, much too small to cover the
floor, was of a chilly, inhospitable shade of blue. The occupant
had made little attempt at decoration, partly because the amount of
wall space adapted to pictures was extremely limited, partly because
from the first the cheerless ugliness of the room discouraged him.
The green-topped study table near the end window was a sorry piece
of furniture. Former users had carved cabalistic designs into the
walnut rim and adorned the imitation leather covering with even
more mysterious figures; there were evidences, too, of overturned
ink-bottles. A yellow-grained wardrobe beside the door leaned wearily
against the supporting angle of the ceiling.
The brightest note in the room was a patent rocker upholstered in vivid
green and yellow Brussels carpet. If we except a walnut book-shelf
hanging beside the end window and a wash-stand jammed under one dormer,
the enumeration of the furnishings is complete. Even on days when the
sun shone against the white gable of the next house, the apartment
could scarcely be called cheerful, and this afternoon with the evening
shadows closing down and the wind whipping the branches of the elms
outside and buffeting the house until it creaked complainingly, the
room was forlorn to a degree.
After slamming the door behind him Jack tossed aside his cap, and
subsiding into the rocker stretched his legs and stared miserably
through the window into a swaying world of gray branches and darkening
sky. The overmastering anger that had sent him striding home as
though pursued dwindled away and left in its place a loneliness and
discouragement that hurt like a physical pain. Things had been bad
before, he thought, but now, branded in public a coward and despised
by his fellows, life would be unbearable! He pictured the glances
of contempt that would meet him on the morrow in hall and yard, or
wherever he went, and groaned. He recalled the professor’s biting
words: “I didn’t think we had any cowards here at Erskine!” and
clenched his hands in sudden overmastering rage. The injustice of it
maddened him. Would Professor White, he asked himself, have gone into
the river after the drowning boy if, like himself, he were unable to
swim a stroke and sickened at the mere thought of contact with the icy
flood?
Presently his thoughts reverted to the morrow and the punishment
he must undergo. His courage faltered, and the alternative, that of
packing his few things there and then and leaving college by an early
train in the morning, seemed the only course possible. Well, he would
do it. It would mean disappointment to his parents and a loss of money
they could ill afford. To him it would mean five months of study
wasted. But better that than staying on there despised and ridiculed,
to be pointed out behind his back as The Coward.
With a gasp he leaped to his feet, his cheeks tingling and his eyes
moist with sudden tears. The room was in darkness. He fumbled over
the desk until he found the match-box. When the gas was lighted he
remembered the condition of his feet, and drawing a chair before the
register he removed his wet shoes and placed them against the warm
grating that they might dry overnight. His battered silver watch showed
the time to be a few minutes before six. He found dry socks, and
drawing them over his chilled feet donned a pair of carpet slippers.
Then he washed for supper, bathing his flushed face over and over,
and got back into his coat just as a weak-voiced bell below summoned
the small household to the evening meal. As he went out he noted with
surprise that the door of the opposite room was ajar, allowing a streak
of light to illumine the upper hall with unaccustomed radiance. The
room had been vacant all the year, but now, evidently, Mrs. Dorlon had
found a tenant. But the fact interested him little, for his mind was
firmly made up, and on the morrow his own room would be for rent.
When he entered the tiny dining-room Mrs. Dorlon and her daughter, a
shy wisp of a girl some twelve or thirteen years of age, were already
seated at the table. Jack muttered greetings and applied himself
silently to the cold meat and graham bread which, with crab-apple jelly
and weak tea, comprised the meal. But his hostess was plainly elated,
and after a few pregnant snuffles the secret was out. The western
chamber was rented!
“And such a nice, pleasant-mannered young man he is,” she declared. “A
Mr. Tidball, a junior. Perhaps you have met him?”
Jack shook his head.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll like him, and it’ll be real pleasant for you to
have another student in the house. I know what it is to be alone”--she
sniffed sadly--“since Mr. Dorlon died, and I guess you feel downright
lonely sometimes up there. If you like I’ll introduce Mr. Tidball after
supper?”
The widow appeared to find a mild excitement at the thought, and her
face fell when Jack begged off. “Not this evening, please,” he said.
“I’m going to be very busy, Mrs. Dorlon.”
“Oh, very well. I only thought--” What she thought he never knew, for
excusing himself he pushed back his chair and returned to his room. As
he closed his door he heard the new lodger whistling cheerfully and
tunelessly across the hallway.
He dragged a steamer trunk from under the bed, threw back the lid and
unceremoniously hustled the contents on to the floor. Then he took
a valise from the wardrobe and proceeded to pack into it what few
belongings would serve him until he could send for his trunk. The
latter he couldn’t take with him. In the first place, there was no way
of getting it to the depot in time for the early train; in the second
place, as he was not now able to pay Mrs. Dorlon the present month’s
rent, he felt that he ought to leave something behind him as security.
The prospect of going home raised his spirits, and he felt happier
than he had for many months. He even hummed an air as he tramped
busily between the wardrobe and the trunk, and the result was that
the first knock on the door passed unheeded. After a moment the knock
was repeated, and this time Jack heard it and paused in the act of
spreading his Sunday trousers in the till and looked the consternation
he felt. Who was it, he wondered. Perhaps Mrs. Dorlon come to hint
about the rent; perhaps--but whoever it might be, Jack didn’t want
his preparations seen. He softly closed the trunk lid and wished that
he had locked the door. He waited silently. Perhaps the caller would
go away. Then, as he began to think with relief that this had already
happened, the knob turned, the door swung open, and a lean, spectacled
face peered through the opening.
“I thought maybe you didn’t hear me knock,” said a queer, drawling
voice. “I’ve taken the room across the way, and as we’re going to be
neighbors I thought I’d just step over and get acquainted.”
The caller came in and closed the door behind him, casting an
interested look about the shabby apartment. Jack, after an instant of
surprise and dismay, muttered a few words of embarrassed greeting. As
he did so he recognized in the odd, lanky figure at the door the hero
of the accident at the river.