FLIGHT
When Jack left the house he hesitated a moment at the little gate. Then
he turned to the left and hurried to Murdoch Street and down that to
the railroad track. He was taking the longest route to the station;
but, since his main desire was to avoid meeting any one he knew, it
was also the safest. His battered valise, although by no means full,
soon grew heavy and began to bump against his legs at every stride.
When he reached the track, what with the aggravating behavior of the
valise and the difficulty of walking over the uneven ties, speed was no
longer possible. He had barely reached the Washington Street crossing
when a whistle down the track behind him brought consternation. It was
the 9.22 train, he told himself; and he knew that if he missed that
he would have to wait a whole hour at the station before he could get
another--an hour which might serve to bring Anthony upon him with a
wealth of unanswerable argument in favor of his return.
So, after a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the
warning blast, he shifted the valise again and set out over the ties
at a run. Once he stumbled and the bag went hurtling down the bank and
brought up against a board fence. When he had recovered it and had
scrambled back to the track the train was but a few hundred yards away.
But the station was almost gained now. He retired to a hand-car siding
while the engine and its three cars whizzed past him with much grinding
of brakes, and then ran on in the wake of dust.
There was no time to buy a ticket. When he reached the platform and the
last car, the conductor had already swung his hand to the engineer.
Jack pushed his valise on to the car-steps and crawled, breathless,
after it. Then the train moved again, and a minute later Centerport was
lost to sight. Jack, huddled upon the rear platform, saw it disappear
with mingled emotions. Regret was prominent. He wondered at this.
Surely, he thought, he had been miserable enough at Erskine to make the
parting anything but regretful. And yet, even as he thought that, the
idea of leaving the train at the next station and walking back came
to him with strange attractiveness. Anthony would be glad; none else
would know that he had contemplated flight; he would go back to the
training-table, secure a place on the nine, and do great things--things
that would make the college proud of him. And Gilberth might----
But at the recollection of Gilberth the plan lost its attractiveness.
Jack gritted his teeth and shook his fist toward where the tower of
College Hall was still just visible above the tree-tops. Then, having
recovered his breath, he took up his bag and passed into the car. It
proved to be the smoker and was almost deserted. He selected a seat on
the riverside, placed his valise beside him, and gave himself up to
his thoughts. These were not cheerful. He wondered what his father and
mother would say to his return. As for the latter, he could count with
certainty upon her sympathy and support. But his father was different.
He was a man with a stern conscience, and one singularly devoid of
the finer sensibilities. For him the path of duty was always clearly
defined and he trod it unswervingly, no matter what might befall. And,
as Jack well knew, he looked for and demanded the same moral courage
from others that he himself displayed. No, there would be no sympathy
forthcoming from his father. Jack could almost hear him now:
“You had done no wrong, my son. With a clear conscience you had nothing
to fear. The wrong was in running away.”
He might, thought Jack, even insist upon his returning. But that he
would not do. He would find work and, as soon as possible, would
pay back to his father the money wasted upon him at Erskine. He had
intended becoming a teacher. But now that was impossible. Perhaps he
could get employment from Billy Cromwell. But, whatever happened, he
would not, having once reached home, go back to Erskine!
Had Jack been less busy with his thoughts he might, perchance, have
taken notice of a passenger who sat across the car and a little to
the rear. He was a man of about forty years, with small, clearly
cut features, brown eyes, and carefully trimmed mustache and beard.
His attire was notably neat. In his mouth was a cigar, in his hands
a morning paper, and at his feet a handsome suit-case. Ever since
Jack’s advent he had been watching him over the top of his paper with
a puzzled frown. The boy’s face, seen against the white light of the
car window, expressed every passing emotion, and the passenger across
the aisle, who was a good reader of expressions, felt a stirring of
sympathy at the pervading look of despondency he saw.
Presently the conductor entered, and Jack remembered that he must pay
his fare. He felt for the little roll of money that was to take him
home, first in his vest pocket, then in his trousers. Then, while an
expression of bewilderment came over his face, he searched hurriedly
in every pocket he possessed. The conductor came and waited patiently.
Jack seized his valise and began to unstrap it. Then he paused and
glanced uneasily at the conductor.
“I can’t find my money,” he said. “If you’ll just give me a minute or
two--” The other nodded and passed on down the car. Jack opened the
valise and feverishly searched it. But when it was thoroughly upset
he was forced to acknowledge with a sinking heart that the money was
not there. He had taken it out of the trunk; he remembered doing that
perfectly; he had meant to put it into his vest pocket. But it was not
there.
He stared blankly out of the window, still searching his clothes
hopelessly. Well, he was not going home after all. Fate had intervened.
Disappointed and chagrined, he counted the few coins in his trouser’s
pocket and found that while they would pay his way to the next station
they would not serve to take him back to Centerport. He blinked his
eyes to keep back the tears. Tears, he reflected miserably, were always
trying to crawl out nowadays. And then--
“What’s wrong, Weatherby?” asked a voice over his shoulder, and Jack
looked up with startled eyes into the face of Professor White.
[Illustration: “What’s wrong, Weatherby?”]
For a moment his surprise kept him silent. And in that moment he saw
in the professor’s face a kindliness that he had never before noticed.
The professor’s brown eyes were plainly sympathetic and the professor’s
lips held a little reassuring smile at their corners. And Jack,
wondering more, found his tongue.
“Well, that is hard luck,” said the professor when he had heard the
story. “And you’re going home, you say? How much money will it take?”
“About ten dollars,” answered Jack. The other shook his head.
“That’s not much,” he replied, “but I’m sorry to say that it’s more
than I’ve got with me. You see, I’m only going to Hampden, three
stations up the line, and so didn’t bring much. But wouldn’t it do if
you got off at the next station and went back and got your money? Would
the delay matter? How long leave have you got?”
The conductor came back and smiled questioningly at the pair. Jack
shook his head.
“I’ve got to go on,” he muttered.
“Well, here now, I’ll pay your way to Hampden, anyhow. That will give
us time to consider things. Here you are, conductor.”
When the change had been made and the professor was in possession of an
elaborate rebate slip, the conductor went off and the professor removed
Jack’s valise from the seat and sat down at the boy’s side.
“How long are you going to be gone?” he asked pleasantly.
Jack hesitated. Then--
“I’m not coming back,” he answered defiantly.
“What? Leaving college?”
Jack nodded.
“Why, how’s that? What’s the trouble?” questioned the professor kindly.
“Nothing wrong at home, I hope?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what is it?”
Jack was silent, looking scowlingly out of the window at the flying
landscape of freshly green hills and meadows with an occasional glimpse
of the sparkling river. He would accept the other’s help as far as
Hampden, he decided; from there he would work his way home somehow;
perhaps he could steal a ride now and then on the trains.
“You don’t want to tell me, I see,” said Professor White. “And I
dare say that’s natural, Weatherby. You and I have had a couple
of unpleasant conversations, and I suppose the experience doesn’t
recommend me as a confident. But you’re in some sort of trouble and I
think you’d better make a clean breast of it and let me help you if I
can.
“And while we’re speaking of former encounters, Weatherby, I want to
tell you that I made a mistake that day down at the coal wharf. I’ve
got lots of faults, and one of the worst of them is an inclination to
judge hastily. I accused you of cowardice that day, and I’ve regretted
it very often since. I can understand how it might be possible for you
to have hesitated about going into the river and yet not be guilty of
cowardice in the strict sense. You see, I’ve given some thought to the
matter, after it was a bit too late. I’ve been watching you since that
day, and I think I made a mistake; I’m certain I did. And I want you to
forgive me for the injustice I did you and for the hurt I inflicted.
Will you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jack drearily. “You only said what all
the others thought. I guess it did hurt, but I don’t mind now; you see,
there’s been a lot worse since then.”
“Ah!” said the other comprehendingly. “I understand. Don’t you think
you might tell me something about it, Weatherby?”
And after a doubtful glance at the professor’s face, in which he read
only sympathy, Jack told him. He spoke bitterly, giving free rein to
the pent-up anger and indignation of the past month; and, perhaps,
he may be forgiven if unconsciously he exaggerated the tale of his
troubles. When he had finished Professor White nodded gravely, and
then, after a momentary silence, asked:
“How old are you, Weatherby?”
“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in July.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you that the thing is trivial, nor that
were you older it would appear less tragic. Nothing is trivial that
influences our lives, no matter how small it looks; and it is just the
things that happen to us when we are young and receptive that are most
important. I said I would help you if I could, and I’m going to. But in
order to do it I must first convince you that I am your friend, and I
fear that’s going to be difficult. And,” he added, as the train slowed
down for the second station, “what’s more, I haven’t much time to do
it.”
“Friends,” said Jack sagely, “always advise you to do things you don’t
want to.”
“Yes, I guess that’s so,” answered the professor, smiling. “And I think
what I’m going to advise will prove me your friend.”
Jack watched the coming and going on the station platform for a minute,
then, as the train began to move again, he asked:
“Would you mind telling me--what it is, sir?”
“No; it’s this.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke
earnestly. “Come back, Weatherby, and have another try. Wait,” he
continued, as the other started to speak, “let me finish first. I’m
not going to belittle your trouble; it’s a big one and it’s hard to
bear. But you’ve borne it for a month and more. You can bear it longer,
if you try. Make up your mind to it and you’ll do it. From what I can
see, Weatherby, you’ve given up the fight just on the verge of victory.
A while back you had the whole college against you; now there is but
one fellow actively opposed to you. From what you have told me I can
see that Tidball believes in you, and Perkins, and King. They are all
men of prominence and their views have weight. Hold on a little while
longer and you’ll find that the college has come around to their way
of thinking. If you give up now you’re losing a year of your life that
you can’t catch up with again if you live to be a hundred. Stick it out
and you’re a year nearer your degree. Besides, there are your parents,
Weatherby; what are they going to think about it? Maybe they’ll say
you’ve done right in leaving, but down in their hearts they are going
to be disappointed over this wasted year.”
Jack stared dumbly at his hands, and presently the other went on.
“Come back, and I’ll do everything I can to help you, my boy. Just what
that will be or what it will amount to, I can’t say at this moment; but
what assistance I can give you may be certain of having. You won’t find
it an empty promise.”
He paused, and Jack looked up.
“I wish I’d--wish I might have talked to you before,” he said.
“So do I, Weatherby; but it isn’t too late now. I have a suspicion that
you’ve come away without signing off. You needn’t tell me whether I’m
right or wrong. But you may rest assured that there’ll be no trouble
about it. To-morrow you and I’ll go back together and try it over.”
“But what--where am I going to go now?” asked Jack dismally.
“Why, you’ll come home with me, of course,” replied the professor. “No
one need ever know but that you and I came off together. We’ll have to
take a pretty early train back in the morning, but I guess you won’t
mind that. My mother and sister will be very glad to see you, and--
Hello, here we are! Grab your bag, Weatherby, and come along.”
“But--” stammered the boy.
“All right; you can tell me about that when you get outside. Besides,”
he laughed, “you’ve got to get off here, anyhow; your fare is only paid
this far. Hurry up, or we’ll both get left!”
A moment later Jack found himself out on a sunny platform, dodging a
baggage-truck and following his hurrying guide through the throng.