ANTHONY STUDIES A TIME-TABLE
Anthony returned to his room after the first recitation. He had
discovered while in his class that he had forgotten his watch, and
remembered that he had left it lying on his study table. The first
thing that caught his eyes when he entered his room was an envelope
bearing the inscription in a round, boyish hand, “Anthony Tidball.
Present.” Wondering, he tore it open. Something fell from it and rolled
to the floor. When found it proved to be a brown Florida bean with a
little gold-plated swivel at one end. Anthony stared from the bean to
the envelope; then the thought that the latter probably held a note
came to him and he went back to it.
He read the note very slowly, a frown deepening the while on his face.
He read it the second time and then carefully restored it to the
envelope, thrust his big hands into his trousers pockets and lurched
to the dormer-window. For a minute or two he stood there looking out
across the Common into a tender green mist of quickening branches.
Finally he sighed, shook his head, and turned back to the room.
“Poor kid,” he muttered.
But perhaps, he reflected, it was not too late to intercept him.
When did the trains leave? He pulled out a table drawer and found a
time-card. There was one at 9.22; that had gone. There was another,
an express, at 10.16. If Jack had missed the first it was possible,
thought Anthony, to reach the station in time to bring him back. It was
now----
He felt for his watch, and for the first time since finding the note
recollected the reason of his return. He glanced quickly over the
table. The watch was not in sight. He distinctly remembered placing
it on the blotting-pad while he changed the rather heavy vest he had
been wearing all winter for a lighter one. He pushed aside books and
papers and searched the table from end to end. Then he went through his
drawers and finally, while realizing the uselessness of it, unlocked
and searched his trunk. After he had felt in the pockets of what few
clothes he possessed he accepted the fact that the watch was gone. But
where? Who could have taken it? Who had been in the room--besides Jack?
Jack----!
He sat down in the rocker and stared blankly, frowningly, at the
window. It was the stupidest thing in the world to suspect Jack. And
yet--! With a mutter of disgust at himself for the entertainment of
such a wild suspicion, he jumped up and surveyed the room. But the bed
was still unmade and the momentary hope that Mrs. Dorlon might have
come across the watch and put it away for him had to be relinquished.
He hurried down-stairs and found his hostess in the kitchen. No, she
told him, she hadn’t been up-stairs yet and hadn’t seen the watch. Had
any one been up there? Well, she didn’t know of any one. Still, the
door had been open all the morning and-- Why, yes, come to think of it,
she had thought once that she heard footsteps up-stairs and presumed
that they were Mr. Weatherby’s, though to be sure she hadn’t seen him
come in or go out. Could she help Mr. Tidball look for it?
Anthony politely declined her proffered assistance and returned to
his room. He searched again about the table, striving to convince
himself that he had not left the watch there; that he had worn it to
recitation, that the chain had become detached from his buttonhole
and that the watch had fallen from his pocket. But it wouldn’t do.
He remembered clearly just how the timepiece had looked lying in its
chamois case upon the blotter, with the heavy gold chain curling away
toward the ink-bottle. Perhaps Jack had come in to find out the time
and had unconsciously taken the watch back to his room with him? Of
course, that must be it!
He strode across the hall and into the other chamber. There were
evidences of hurried flight; the little steamer trunk stood in the
middle of the floor and a few odds and ends of rubbish lay about the
bed and table. But the watch was not in sight. The latest explanation
of its disappearance had seemed so plausible that Anthony experienced
keen disappointment. Turning, he retraced his steps toward the door.
Half-way there he stopped and stared as though fascinated at something
lying at his feet. Stooping, he picked it up and looked at it carefully
in the forlorn hope that it would prove to be other than what it was, a
little chamois watch-pouch.
Finally he dropped it into his pocket and went back to his room,
stepping very quietly, as though leaving a chamber of sickness. He
stared aimlessly about for a moment, and then, with a start, took up
his note-books and descended the stairs. Mrs. Dorlon, blacking the
kitchen stove, heard the door open and looked up to see the lean,
spectacled face of her new lodger peering through. He looked rather
pale and sickly that morning, she thought.
“Just wanted to tell you that it’s all right,” he said. “I found my
watch. It was in the--the washstand.”
After he had gone she suddenly paused and sniffed perplexedly. “Now
that’s funny,” she thought. “How could he have found it in the
washstand when the washstand hasn’t any drawer nor nothin’?”
At the luncheon-table Jack was conspicuous by his absence. The story of
Gilberth’s action at breakfast had filtered through college in a dozen
varied forms until by noon it was pretty widely known. The general
opinion was that Gilberth had acted brutally; there were even some
few who flatly called his behavior contemptible; there were others,
fewer still, who thought that he had “given Weatherby just what he
deserved.” There was considerable relief felt by the more charitably
disposed members of the training-table when Jack failed to appear, for
his suffering at the breakfast-table had not been a pleasant thing
to watch. Gilberth, however, was in high feather. He believed Jack’s
absence was a result of his treatment in the morning, and was quite
proud of his abilities as a public prosecutor. But the rest of the
table somehow did not appear to be quite so pleased with him. This
fact was shown by a disposition to avoid entering into conversation
with him. His remarks were received in silence, and after a while he
gave up the attempt to entertain the company and finished his meal in
ruffled dignity.
When luncheon was over “Baldy” Simson, the trainer, who occupied the
seat at the foot of the board, called Joe Perkins’s attention to the
fact of Jack’s absence.
“I know,” Joe answered, looking rather worried. “I’m going to look him
up; you needn’t bother. By the way, Tracy, just wait a minute, will
you? I want to see you.” Gilberth, in the act of leaving the room,
returned and tilting a chair toward him slid into it over the back with
a fine appearance of unconcern.
“Fire away, Joe,” he said. “But I’ve got a two-o’clock, and it’s
getting late.”
Simson went out and left the two together and alone, save for the
waitress who had begun clearing off the table. Joe pushed his plate
away and looked gravely across at his friend.
“Look here, Tracy, this thing has simply got to stop, you know.”
“What thing?” asked the other, raising his eyebrows.
“Why, you know what I mean. I won’t have Weatherby persecuted the way
you’re doing. I can’t turn out a decent team unless you fellows get
together and work in harmony. You know that as well as I do. Whatever
your sentiments toward Weatherby may be, you’ve got to treat him
politely in his position as a member of the varsity nine. I won’t have
any more scenes like the one you brought about this morning. You’re
worrying Weatherby half sick. He may be what you think he is; I’m not
in position to know; but it’s all nonsense for you to take on yourself
the duties of judge, jury, and hangman. You attend to yourself and let
Weatherby attend to himself. That’s what I want you to do.”
Joe’s voice had been getting sharper and sharper as he proceeded and
when he had finished his eyes were sparkling dangerously. As always,
when Joe’s temper threatened to get the better of him, Tracy’s usual
aggressiveness disappeared and gave place to a sullen stubbornness. Now
he traced figures on the stained cloth with a fork and was silent a
minute before he made reply. Then:
“There’s no use in your lecturing me like that,” he muttered. “You can
stick up for Weatherby if you want to, but you needn’t think you can
make me coddle him too. The fellow’s a coward and a cad, and you’ve no
business asking decent fellows to sit at table with him.”
“You’ll sit at table with him or you’ll get out,” cried Joe hotly.
“Then I’ll get out!”
There was silence for a moment, during which Tracy continued to mark up
the cloth and Joe struggled more or less successfully to get command of
his temper. Finally he asked, almost calmly:
“Do you mean that you’ll leave the team, that you’ll throw me over and
threaten the college with defeat for a mere whim?”
“It isn’t a whim,” growled Tracy. “It--it’s a principle.”
Joe smiled in spite of himself and the last of his ill-humor vanished.
“Oh, don’t talk poppycock, Tracy,” he said. “Look here, you must
see how difficult you’re making it for Hanson and me. We can’t do
what we want to do if there are dissensions among you chaps. Like a
good fellow, promise me to leave Weatherby alone. He isn’t going to
interfere with you; you know that. The other fellows aren’t kicking up
a row about having him at table, so why should you? Besides, Tracy,
consider what a thundering hard row the chap has to hoe. Maybe he acted
the coward; I didn’t see it and don’t know; but even if he did it’s
more than likely that he’s a lot worse ashamed of it than you are,
and probably wants to make up for it. Give him a show, can’t you? Be
generous, Tracy!”
“Well, let him keep away from me, then,” Tracy growled.
“How can he when you’re both on the team?” asked Joe impatiently. “We
want him because he’s got the making of a good player; he’s sure,
quick, and--honest.”
“Huh!”
“Yes, honest! We’ve watched him just as we’ve watched all you
fellows--perhaps a bit more, because he’s under suspicion, as it
were--and he’s played us fair every time. He’s done as he’s been told
and done it just as hard as he knew how. And it’s all wrong to call a
man dishonest until he’s done something dishonest.”
“How about that affair at the river?” asked the other sneeringly.
“A man may be a coward at a--a crisis and a brave man all the rest of
his life. Physical cowardice isn’t dishonesty. For that matter, I can
imagine a chap running from bullets and yet standing up like a little
man in front of bayonets. I’m not sure I wouldn’t run away from bullets
myself, and if I were you I wouldn’t be too sure, either.”
“I’m not a coward,” cried Tracy.
“I don’t say you are; I don’t think you are. And yet you’re not brave
enough to let public opinion go hang and give that poor duffer,
Weatherby, a fighting chance!”
Gilberth received this in silence, staring moodily at the table. The
bell in the tower of College Hall began its imperative summons and Joe
pushed back his chair and arose. Tracy followed his example.
“I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” said the former. He overtook the
other at the door and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind
my ill-temper, old man. There’s no use in having a friend if you can’t
bully him a little now and then. And--er--think over what I said, will
you?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Tracy grudgingly. “No harm done. See
you later.”
Joe stood on the porch and watched him cross the road and disappear up
the broad gravel-path toward the laboratories. Then Joe passed down the
steps and through the gate with a little smile of satisfaction on his
face.
“Yes, it is all right,” he told himself. “He’ll do as I want him to.
But I wish--I do wish I hadn’t lost my pesky temper!”
He turned to the left toward Washington Street and as he neared the
corner he caught sight of a tall fellow crossing the Common with long
awkward strides. The ill-fitting clothes and the little stoop of the
shoulders were sufficient to reveal the man’s identity at first glance,
and Joe hailed him:
“O _Tid_-ball! O Tid-_ba-a-all_!”
Anthony paused, looked, waved a note-book responsively, and stumbling
over a “Keep off the grass” sign, crossed the turf and clambered over
the fence.
“How are you, Tidball?” asked Joe, shaking hands. For some reason
fellows usually did shake hands with Anthony when they met him, just
as they thumped other acquaintances on the back or punched them in
the ribs or pulled their caps over their eyes. “You’re just the man I
wanted to see,” Joe went on. “As usual, we’re just about stone broke;
the Baseball Association, I mean. We’ve got to have a lot of money for
the nine and we’ve got to raise it by subscription. The schedule has
the team down for five games away from home, and that means a heap of
expense. The Athletic Association has given us all they could afford
to, about one hundred and fifty dollars, but that won’t last us any
time. So we’re going to get up a mass meeting in about a week or so and
try and raise the dust. And we want you to speak for us; whoop things
up a bit, you know. Can you do it?”
“S’pose so,” answered Anthony doubtfully. “But I don’t know a blamed
thing about baseball.”
“You won’t have to. We’ve got plenty of chaps who can talk baseball;
what we want is some one who can open their pockets. We’re depending on
you, Tidball, so say yes, like a good chap. Hanson is going to speak,
and so is Professor Nast, and so am I. And we’re trying to get the dean
to hem and haw a bit for us. But we need you like anything. What do you
say?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Anthony. “You let me know when it’s to be
and tell me what you want me to say. Don’t believe, though, Perkins,
the fellows will pay much attention to what I’ve got to say about
baseball. ’Tisn’t as though I knew a ball from a--a----”
“From another ball, eh? Don’t let that bother you. I’m awfully much
obliged; it’s very nice of you. And I’ll let you know all about it in a
day or two. By the way, though, where are you living now? Some one said
you’d left the old joint.”
“Yes, I had to when Gooch went home. I’m at Mrs. Dorlon’s, down the row
there.”
“Oh, are you? I was just going there. Doesn’t young Weatherby room
there?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in now, do you know?”
Anthony settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose before he
replied.
“No, he’s not in just now.” He hesitated a moment. Then, “Guess you
might as well know about it,” he said musingly.
“About what?”
“’Bout Weatherby.”
“What’s he done?”
“Gone home.”
“Gone home?”
“Yes, left college.”
“But what for? When did he go?” asked Joe in surprise.
“This morning. He left a note for me. Don’t know whether it’s my place
to tell folks or not. Maybe you’d better keep it quiet. He might change
his mind, you know.”
“I see,” replied Joe thoughtfully. “Do you--do you happen to know why
he left?”
“Yes, and I guess you do, too.”
“You mean----?”
“Yes. He stuck it out as long as he could, but I guess things got too
hot for him. His note made mention of something that happened this
morning at training-table.”
“By Jove!” muttered the other. “It’s a blamed shame! You know,
Tidball, I never quite believed him the--er--coward they say he is.
What do you think?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t know,” answered Anthony uneasily, puckering his lips
together. “Maybe he isn’t.”
Joe looked a little surprised.
“I don’t know just why,” he said, “but I had an idea you’d support
my judgment of him. Well, perhaps it’s just as well that he’s gone.
Although he had the making of----”
“No, no,” cried Anthony in sudden contrition, the blood rushing into
his thin face. “I didn’t mean that! I shouldn’t have said it, Perkins!
I think he’s--I don’t believe he’s a coward!” He pressed the other’s
arm convulsively with his long fingers as though seeking to give added
weight to the emphatic assertion and hurried away. “Come and see me,”
he called back.
Joe stared after him in bewilderment.
“Strange duffer, Tidball,” he reflected. “Wonder if he and Weatherby
had a row? Sounds like it. Poor old Weatherby! I’m sorry he’s gone;
by Jove, I am sorry! And I fancy I might have prevented it if I’d got
after Tracy sooner. Hang him, he ought to be licked!”