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THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH
Or
Hugh Morgan's Uphill Fight
by
DONALD FERGUSON
[Frontispiece: "Are you through?" demanded, Hugh sternly.]
The Goldsmith Publishing Co.
Cleveland
Made in U. S. A.
Copyright, 1919
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A FENCE WITH A HISTORY
II. THE BOYS OF OLD SCRANTON
III. HUGH SHOULDERS A HEAVY TASK
IV. IN FOR A FROLIC
V. THE TRAGIC AFFAIR ON THE ROAD
VI. MAKING A GOOD JOB OF IT
VII. CALLED OUT FOR PRACTICE
VIII. THAD MAKES A DISCOVERY
IX. JUST BETWEEN CHUMS
X. A VISITOR FROM BELLEVILLE HIGH
XI. HUGH'S PETS IN DANGER
XII. THE TRAP
XIII. A COLD RECEPTION
XIV. NICK AS A GAP-STOPPER
XV. PRETTY POLLY UNDER SUSPICION
XVI. THE RESCUE AT HOBSON'S MILL-POND
XVII. LITTLE BRUTUS AND HIS "COLLECTION"
XVIII. A STRAIGHT DRIVE FOR THE TRUTH
XIX. HUGH REACHES HIS GOAL
XX. LOOKING FORWARD--CONCLUSION
THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH
CHAPTER I
A FENCE WITH A HISTORY
"The best day so far this spring, fellows!"
"It feels mighty much like baseball weather, for a fact, Otto!"
"True for you, K. K., though there's still just a little tang to this
April air."
"What of that, Eli? The big leagues have opened shop all over the
land, and the city papers are already full of baseball scores, and
diamond lore. We ought to be getting busy ourselves in little old
Scranton."
"Allandale High is practicing. Sandy Dowd and I saw a bunch of the
boys out on their field after school yesterday, didn't we, Sandy?"
"That's right, we did. And I understand Belleville expects to put an
extra hard-hitting nine in the game this season. They're still sore
over the terrible drubbing Allandale gave them last summer."
"Since Scranton has now become a member of the Three-Town League,
taking the place of Lawrence when that nine dropped out, seems to me we
ought to lose no time if we expect to commence practicing. That same
Allandale team swept the circuit, you remember, like a hurricane."
"We've plenty of good material, fellows, believe me, right here in
Scranton High. And somehow I've got a hunch that we're going to make
even mighty Allandale take a tumble before the season gets old."
"Don't boast too soon, Eli Griffin. That's a wee Yankee trick you must
have inherited from your forebears."
"Easy for you to say that, Andy McGuffey. Why, you're a regular old
pessimist, like all your canny Scotch ancestors were. You love to look
at the world through smoked glasses. On my part, I prefer to use
rose-colored ones, and expect the best sort of things to happen, even
if I do get fooled lots of times."
A number of well-grown lads were perched in all sorts of grotesque
attitudes along the top rail of the campus fence. That same fence of
Scranton High was almost as famous, in its modest way, as the one at
Yale known throughout the length and breadth of the whole land.
It had stood there, repaired at stated and frequent intervals, for at
least two score of years. Hundreds upon hundreds of Scranton lads,
long since grown to manhood, and many of them gone forth to take their
appointed places in the busy marts of the world, kept a warm corner in
their hearts for sacred memories of that dear old fence. Many a
glorious campaign of sport or mischief had been talked over by a line
of students perched along the flat rail at the summit of that same
fence. More than one contemplated school mutiny had been hatched in
excited whispers amidst those never-to-be-forgotten historic
surroundings.
Why, when a few years back the unthinking and officious School
Directors voted to have that fence demolished, simply because it seemed
to be out of keeping with the grand new building that had been erected,
a storm of angry protest arose from students and parents; while letters
arrived from a score and more of eminent men who were proud to call
Scranton their birthplace. So overwhelming was the flood, that a hurry
call for an extra meeting of the Board went out, at which their former
ill-advised decision was rescinded.
And so there that fence remained, beloved of every boy in Scranton, the
younger fry only longing for the day to come when passing for the high
school they, too, might have the proud privilege of "roosting" on its
well-worn rails. Possibly it will still be in existence when some of
their sons also reach the dignity of wearing the freshman class colors,
and of battling on gridiron and diamond for the honor of Old Scranton.
As to the identity of the boys in question, from whom those remarks
proceeded, they might just as well be briefly introduced here as later,
as all of them are destined to take part in the lively doings that will
be recorded in this and in other volumes of this series.
Otto was Otto Brand; Eli Griffin came of New England parentage, and had
some of the traits that distinguish Yankees the world over, though a
pretty fine fellow, all told; Andy McGuffey, as his name would
indicate, could look back to a Scotch ancestry, and occasionally a
touch of the brogue might be detected in his speech; Sandy Dowd had red
hair, blue eyes and a host of very noticeable freckles; but could be
good-natured in spite of any drawbacks; while the lad called "K. K."
was in reality Kenneth Kinkaid; but since boys generally have little
use for a name that makes a mouthful, he was known far and wide under
that singularly abbreviated cognomen.
The Committee on Sports connected with Scranton High was a body of
seniors appointed by the students themselves, and given authority to
handle all questions connected with athletics. As a rule, they carried
out their duties in a broad-minded fashion, and not only merited the
confidence of the entire school but also the respect of the faculty as
well.
There was considerable anxiety abroad just at present, because it was
well known that the committee had been discussing the possible make-up
of the baseball team to which would be given the proud privilege of
representing the school that season in the Three-Town League. No one
knew absolutely just who would be selected among the numerous
candidates, though, of course, it was only natural that many
entertained wild hopes, which were only doomed to disappointment.
Two more boys came sauntering along, and found places on the "roost."
One of these was a burly fellow with a pugnacious face and a bold eye.
He seemed to be no favorite among the boys, though they treated him
with a certain amount of respect. Well, there is never a town or a
village but has its particular bully; and for several years now Nick
Lang had ably filled that role in Scranton.
He was a born "scrapper," and never so happy as when annoying others.
A fight appeared to be the acme of pleasure with him, and it was seldom
that he could be seen without some trace of a mix-up on his face in the
shape of scratches, or a suspicious hue about one of his eyes.
The other boy was Leon Disney, the "under-study" of Nick. While just
as tough as the other, Leon never displayed the same amount of
boldness. He would rather attain his revenge through some petty means,
being a born sneak. The boys only tolerated Leon because Nick chose to
stand up for him; and every one disliked to anger the Lang fellow, on
account of his way of making things unpleasant for others.
The general talk continued, with Nick taking part in it, for he at
least was known to be a smart hand at athletics, and had often led in
such things as hammer-throwing and wrestling.
During the course of the conversation, which had become general, Eli
chanced to mention the name of Owen Dugdale.
"Why, they say that even he aspires to get a place on the substitute
list, just to think of his nerve. Perhaps a few other fellows might
feel they'd been slighted if the committee turned them down for Owen
Dugdale."
"Hold up there a bit, Eli," said K. K., reprovingly. "If I were you
I'd go a little slow about running a fellow down, just because he
happens to be called Owen Dugdale, and live with a queer old gentleman
he calls his grandfather, but who chooses to keep aloof from Scranton
folks as if he were a hermit. I happen to know that two of our most
respected chums, Hugh Morgan and Thad Stevens, seem to have taken a
great liking for that dark-faced chap. I've seen Owen in their company
considerably of late."
Eli gave a snort of disdain. He was one of those impulsive boys who
often say disagreeable things on the spur of the moment, and then
perhaps afterwards feel sorry for having done so. Evidently, he had
taken a notion to dislike the said Owen, and did not care who knew it.
"That fellow had been a mystery ever since he and his ancient
granddaddy came to Scranton, and started to live in that old house
called The Rookery, and which used to be thought a haunted place. I've
always had a hunch they must be some relation to the notorious Luther
Dugdale who has had a bad reputation as a dishonest operator down in
the Wall Street district in New York. Why, lately I even asked my
cousin in a letter about that man, and he wrote me the old chap had
strangely disappeared some years ago, carrying off a big bunch of
boodle dishonestly gained. Well, I'm not saying it's the same old
rascal who's living in our midst right now, but, fellows, you can draw
your own conclusions, for they came here just two years ago this
summer!"
"Wow! that's something new you're telling us, Eli!"
"It takes _you_ to pick up clues, and you'll miss your vocation if you
don't look for a job with the Government Secret Service, believe me,
Eli!"
"So Hugh Morgan has taken up with that gloomy looking chap Owen, has
he?" remarked Nick Lang, with a suggestive wink at his crony, Leon.
"Mebbe, now, I might badger him into having a friendly little bout with
fists through that kid. As the rest of you happen to know I've tried
about every other way to make the coward fight, and he only gives me
one of his smiles, and says he's opposed to scrapping. That wise
mother of his has tied little Hughy to her apron strings, seems like;
but I'll get him yet, see if I don't."
The other fellows exchanged significant looks and nods. Hugh Morgan
had apparently always been more or less of an enigma to them. They
knew he was no coward, for only the last winter he had leaped boldly
into the river at the risk of his own life, and saved little Tommy
Crabbe just when the unfortunate child was about to be drawn by the
fierce current under the ice. Still, no one had even known Hugh to be
engaged in a fight. There was some deep object back of his reluctance
so to demean himself, most of the fellows believed, and as he was so
well liked, they respected his motives.
Just then keen-eyed Andy McGuffey was heard to cry out:
"Speak of an angel and you'll hear the rustle of his wings, and there
comes our Hugh right now. See, he's waving his hand to us, and is
hurrying along at almost a run. Say, it may be he's fetching some news
from the committee, because he told me he had an idea they'd reach an
understanding this afternoon. Yes, he's looking mighty wise, so I
reckon we're going to hear something drop."