I
Some people think it great fun to build a house of cards slowly and
anxiously, and then knock it to pieces with one little snip of the
finger. Or to fix up a snow man in fine style and watch a sudden thaw
melt him out of sight. Or to write a name carefully, like a copy-book,
and with many curlicues, in the wet sand, and then scamper off and let
the first high wave smooth it away as a boy's sponge wipes from his
slate some such marvelous statement as, 12 × 12 = 120, or 384 ÷ 16
gives a "koshunt" of 25. When such things are erased it doesn't much
matter; but there are occasions when it hurts to have Father Time come
along and blot out the work you have taken great pains with and have
put your heart into. Twelve young gentlemen in the town of Lakerim
were feeling decidedly blue over just such an occasion.
You may not find the town of Lakerim on the map in your geography. And
yet it was very well known to the people that lived in it. And the
Lakerim Athletic Club was very well known to those same people. And
the Lakerim Athletic Club, or, at least the twelve founders of the
club, were as blue as the June sky, because it seemed to them that
Father Time--old Granddaddy Longlegs that he is--was playing a mean
trick on them.
For hadn't they given all their brain and muscle to building up an
athletic club that should be a credit to the town and a terror to
outsiders! And hadn't they given up every free hour for two years to
working like Trojans? though, for that matter, who ever heard of
any work the Trojans ever did that amounted to anything--except the
spending of ten years in getting themselves badly defeated by a big
wooden hobby-horse?
But while all of the Dozen were deep in the dumps, and had their brows
tied up like a neglected fish-line, the loudest complaint was made,
of course, by the one who had done the least work in building up the
club--a lazybones who had been born tired, and had spent most of his
young life in industriously earning for himself the name of "Sleepy."
"It's a dad-ratted shame," growled he, "for you fellows to go and
leave the club in the lurch this way, after all the trouble we have
had organizing it."
"Yes," assented another, who was called "B.J." because he had jumped
from a high bridge once too often, and who read wild Western romances
more than was good for his peace of mind or his conversation; "it kind
of looks as if you fellows were renegades to the cause."
None of the Twelve knew exactly what a renegade was, but it sounded
unpleasant, and the men to whom the term was applied lost their
tempers, and volunteered to clean out the club-room where they all sat
for two cents.
But the offenders either thought they could have more fun for less
money, or hadn't the money, for they changed their tune, and the
debate went on in a more peaceful manner.
The trouble was this: Some of you who are up on the important works of
history may have heard how these twelve youth of the High School at
Lakerim organized themselves into an athletic club that won many
victories, and how they begged, borrowed, and earned enough money to
build themselves a club-house after a year of hard work and harder
play.
Well, now, after they had gone to all this trouble and all this
expense, and had enjoyed the fruits of their labors barely a year, lo
and behold, one third of the Dozen were planning to desert the club,
leave the town, and take their good muscles to another town, where
there was an academy! The worst of it was that this academy was the
very one that had worked hardest to keep the Lakerim Athletic
Club from being admitted into the league known as the Tri-State
Interscholastic.
And now that the Lakerim Club had forced its way into the League, and
had won the pennant the very first year, it seemed hard that some of
the most valuable of the Lakerimmers should even consider joining
forces with a rival. The president of the club himself was one of
the deserters; and the rest of the Dozen grew very bitter, and the
arguments often reached a point where it needed only one word more to
bring on a scrimmage--a scrimmage that would make a lively football
game seem tame by comparison.
And now the president, or "Tug," as he was always called, had been
baited long enough. He rose to his feet and proceeded to deliver an
oration with all the fervor of a Fourth-of-July orator making the
eagle scream.
"I want you fellows to understand once for all," he cried, "that
no one loves the Lakerim Athletic Club more than I do, or is more
patriotic toward it. But now that I have graduated from the High
School, I can't consider that I know everything that is to be known.
There are one or two things to learn yet, and I intend to go to a
preparatory school, and then through college; and the best thing you
follows can do is to make your plans to do the same thing. Well, now,
seeing that my mind is made up to go to college, and seeing that
I've got to go to some preparatory school, and seeing there is no
preparatory school in Lakerim, and seeing that I have therefore got
to go to some other town, and seeing that at Kingston there is a fine
preparatory school, and seeing that I want to have some sort of a show
in athletics, and seeing that the Athletic Association of the Kingston
Academy has been kind enough to specially invite three of us fellows
to go there--why, seeing all this, I don't see that there is any
kick coming to you fellows if we three fellows take advantage of our
opportunities like sensible people; and the best advice I can give
you is to make up your minds, and make up your fathers' and mothers'
minds, to come along to Kingston Academy with us. Then there won't be
any talk about our being traitors to the Dozen, for we'll just pick
the Dozen up bodily and carry it over to Kingston! The new members
we've elected can take care of the club and the club-house."
Tug sat down amid a silence that was more complimentary than the
wildest applause; for he had done what few orators do: he had set his
audience to thinking. Only one of the Twelve had a remark to make for
some time, and that was a small-framed, big-spectacled gnome called
"History." He leaned over and said to his elbow-companion, "Bobbles":
"Tug is a regular Demoskenes!"
"Who's Demoskenes?" whispered Bobbles.
"Why, don't you remember him?" said History, proudly. "He was the
fellow that used to fill his mouth full of pebbles before he talked."
"I'll bet he would have choked on some of your big words, though,
History," growled a little fellow called "Jumbo."
But the man at his side, known to fame as "Punk," broke in with a
crushing:
"Aw, let up on that old Dutchman of a Demoskenes, and let's talk
business."
So they all got their heads together again and discussed their affairs
with the solemnity due to their importance. They talked till the
janitor went round lighting up the club-house, which reminded them
that they were keeping dinner waiting at their various homes. Then
they strolled along home. They met again and again; for the fate of
the club was a serious matter to them, and the fate of the Dozen was
a still more serious matter, because the Dozen had existed before the
club or the club-house, and their hearts ached at the mere thought of
breaking up the old and dear associations that had grown up around
their partnership in many an hour of victory and defeat.
But where there are many souls there are many minds, and it seemed
impossible to keep the Twelve together for another year. It was
settled that Tug and Jumbo and Punk should accept the flattering
invitation of the Kingston Athletic Association, and their parents
were glad enough to have them go, seeing that Kingston was an academy
of excellent standing.
History was also to be there, for his learning had won him a free
scholarship in a competitive examination. B.J., "Quiz," and Bobbles
were to be sent to other academies--to Charleston, to Troy, and to
Greenville; but they made life miserable for their fathers and mothers
with their pleadings, until they, too, were permitted to join their
fellows at Kingston.
Sleepy was the only one that did not want to go, and he insisted that
he had learned all that was necessary for his purpose in life; that he
simply could not endure the thought of laboring over books any
longer. But just as the Dozen had resigned themselves to losing the
companionship of Sleepy (he was a good man to crack jokes about, if
for no other reason), Sleepy's parents announced to him that his
decision was not final, and that, whether or not he wanted to go, go
he should. And then there were eight.
The handsome and fashionable young Dozener, known to his friends
as Edward Parker, and to fame as "Pretty," was won over with much
difficulty. He had completely made up his mind to attend the Troy
Latin School--not because he loved Latin, but because Troy was the
seat of much social gaiety, and because there was a large seminary for
girls in that town. He was, however, at length cajoled into consenting
to pitch his tent at Kingston by the diplomatic Jumbo, who told him
that the girls at Kingston were the prettiest in three States. And
then there were nine.
The Phillips twins, "Reddy" and "Heady," were the next source of
trouble, for they had recently indulged in an unusually violent
squabble, even for them, and each had vowed that he would never
speak to the other again, and would sooner die than go to the same
boarding-school. The father of this fiery couple knew that the boys
really loved each other dearly at the bottom of their hearts, and
decided to teach them how much they truly cared for each other; so
he yielded to their prayer that they be allowed to go to different
academies. The boys, in high glee, tossed up a penny to decide which
should go with the Dozen to Kingston, and which should go to the
Brownsville School for Boys. Reddy won Kingston, and rejoiced greatly.
But though Heady was so blue that his brick-colored hair was almost
dyed, nothing could persuade him to "tag along after his brother," as
he phrased it. And so there were ten.
The deepest grief of the Dozen was the plight of the beloved giant,
"Sawed-Off." There seemed to be no possible way of getting him to
Kingston, much as they thought of his big muscles, and more us they
thought of his big heart. His sworn pal, the tiny Jumbo, was well nigh
distracted at the thought of severing their two knitted hearts; but
Sawed-Off's father was dead, and his mother was too poor to pay for
his schooling, so they gave him up for lost, not without aching at the
heart, and even a little dampness at the eyelids.
Heady was the first to leave town. He slipped away on an early morning
train without telling any one, for he felt very much ashamed of his
stubbornness; and he and his brother shook hands with each other as
nervously as two prize-fighters.
A few days later the five sixths of the Dozen that were booked
for Kingston stood on the crowded platform of the Lakerim
railroad-station, bidding good-by to all the parents they had, and all
the friends. All of them had paid long calls on their best girls
the evening before, and exchanged photographs and locks of hair and
various keepsakes more or less sentimental and altogether useless. So,
now that they were in public, they all shook hands very formally: Tug
with a girl several years older than he; Pretty with the beautiful
Enid; Quiz with the fickle Cecily Brown; bashful Bobbles with the
bouncing Betsy; B.J. with a girl who had as many freckles as B.J. had
had imaginary encounters with the bandits who had tried to steal her;
the unwilling Sleepy with a lively young woman who broke his heart by
congratulating him on being able to go to Kingston; tiny Jumbo with
plump Carrie Shields, whom he had once fished out of the water;
and Reddy with the girl over whom he and his brother had had their
bitterest quarrels, and who could not for the life of her tell which
one she liked the better.
[Illustration: STOP THE TRAIN AND WAIT FOR ME, I'M GOING TO KINGSTON,
TOO!]
But there was one very little girl in the crowd whose greatest sorrow,
strangely enough, was the fact that she had no one to bid good-by
to, since her dearest friend, the huge Sawed-Off, was not to go to
Kingston.
Just as the engine began to ring its warning bell, and the conductor
to wave the people aboard, there was a loud clatter of hoofs, and the
rickety old Lakerim carryall came dashing up, drawn by the lively
horses Sawed-Off had once saved from destroying themselves and the
Dozen in one fell swoop down a steep hill. The carryall lurched up to
the station came to a sudden stop, and out bounced--who but Sawed-Off
himself, loaded down with bundles, and yelling at the top of his
voice:
"Stop the train and wait for me. I'm going to Kingston, too!"