JOE FINDS A FRIEND
“Walk or ride?” asked Sam, when they were on the sidewalk.
“Just as you like,” answered Joe. “Walk, if you don’t mind.”
“I’d rather.” And Sam set off along the street at a brisk pace. “That’s
the new Adams Building,” he said presently, nodding toward the tall
structure across the street. “We’re rather proud of it, as it’s our
only skyscraper. The old one――it wasn’t old, though――burned last Fall.
I’ve been working for the architects who are putting that up.”
“Really? It must have been a peach of a fire! Was the old building as
big as that one?”
“Bigger. It had fourteen floors and this has only twelve. The water
pressure here isn’t good enough yet for high buildings. That’s why we
left off seventeen feet this time. Still, this new building’s fireproof
from top to bottom and I guess you could start a fire in it and have to
lug fuel to keep it going! Rather good-looking, isn’t it?”
“Awfully,” agreed Joe.
“I suppose you’ve got office buildings in Akron that beat it, but we
think it’s some building. We turn off here.”
They left the busy part of town and walked briskly along a residence
street until, at last, open country was reached. Sam, having exhausted
the subject of the new Adams Building, didn’t have much to say and
conversation was desultory until Joe, hunting for a topic, remembered
baseball.
“Pollock said you were captain of the baseball team, didn’t he?” he
questioned.
Sam nodded. “Yes. Tom could have had it, but he wouldn’t. So they hit
on me.”
“Pollock, you mean?”
“Yes. He has charge of the sporting goods department there at Cummings
and Wright’s and thought he wouldn’t have time to look after the team.
Where have you played?”
“In Akron. Oh, you mean what position? Last Spring I played first base
for our Second Team. How――how did you know I played at all?”
“Felt that crooked finger of yours. Break it?”
“Yes, and didn’t know it for a couple of days. Thought it was just a
strain. Then when it came out of the splints it had an out-curve. I
guess I’ll have to have it broken again some day and set right.”
“Well, it didn’t _look_ so bad,” said Sam judicially. “I happened to
notice it when we shook hands. We’ll be glad to have another candidate
for the bases. You’ll have a couple of pretty good fellows to fight,
but I wouldn’t be surprised if you made good somewhere. How are you at
the bat?”
Joe shook his head ruefully. “Pretty rotten last year. I used to hit
pretty well when I was on the grammar school team, but I guess the
pitching was awfully soft. I suppose you begin practice indoors some
time next month?”
“About the middle. You’ll have a chance to get your batting-eye. We
usually put the fellows through a good deal of bunting work in the
cage. It seems to help a lot when they get outdoors. There’s the pond
over there. Let’s cut across here; it’s shorter.”
The pond was some three acres in extent, and was long and narrow,
curving back around the shoulder of a hill and looking at first glance
like a river. As Joe and his guide climbed a rail-fence and crossed a
snow-covered meadow, following a well-trodden track, the pond proved
to be well populated. Skaters were gliding and turning, many armed with
hockey-sticks, and at the nearer end of the ice two sets of goal-posts
were in place. Some of the hockey players had already thrown aside
their coats and were warming up, their blue-stockinged legs twinkling
over the glassy surface.
“We usually practise on the river,” explained Sam, “but it isn’t good
enough yet. We’ve got some nets, but there’s no way of getting them
out here, and so we just use the posts. They’re mean things, though;
always getting pushed out of place. Come over here and meet some of the
fellows.”
Sam’s appearance was vociferously hailed by a knot of boys at the edge
of the ice. Some of the younger fellows had started a fire there and
were scurrying around, far and near, for fuel. Joe was introduced to
seven or eight chaps, many of whose names he either didn’t catch or
promptly forgot. Those he did recall later were Arbuckle, Morris and
Strobe. Arbuckle proved to be the coach, although he was apparently no
older than several of the players, and Morris was the captain. Morris,
whose first name was Sidney and who was universally called Sid, was a
handsome chap, lean, well-conditioned, and a marvel on skates. He was
of about Sam Craig’s age. Arbuckle was a heavier fellow of eighteen
and bore signs on his upper lip of an incipient mustache. Strobe Joe
remembered chiefly because his name was unusual, although the latter
wasn’t certain whether it was Strobe or Strode at the time.
They were all far too interested in hockey to pay more than passing
attention to the stranger and Joe presently retired from the group
and donned his skates. By the time he was ready for the ice Steve
Arbuckle had blown his whistle and fourteen eager youths were racing
and twisting about after the flying puck. In front of the First Team’s
goal Sam Craig, sweatered and padded, leaned on his broad-bladed stick
and calmly watched. Then a Second Team forward somehow stole the puck
from under Captain Morris’s nose and, digging the points of his skates,
slanted down the rink, dodging and feinting, until only the point
remained between him and goal-keeper. Behind him the pursuit sped, but
he was due for a shot if he could fool the point, and fool the point he
did. Away slid the puck to the right, the charging Second Team forward
twirled, recovered as the point missed his check, got the puck again
before the coverpoint could reach it and charged straight at goal from
the right.
Sam Craig, still apparently calm and unflustered, refused the challenge
to go out and meet him. Instead, he closed his padded knees together,
held his stick across his body and waited. The Second Team player shot
from six feet away, shot hard and straight. There was a _thud_, the
puck slammed against Sam’s knee and was gently brushed aside as Sid
Morris, skating like a whirlwind, rushed past, hooked it expertly,
swung around behind the goal and set off again down the ice. The Second
Team forward, who had so nearly scored, was already back in line, quite
untroubled by his failure, and Joe identified him as Strobe. Sidney
lost the puck a moment later and the whistle shrilled for off-side. Joe
watched until the First Team had finally penetrated the adversary’s
defence and scored its first goal and then went off up the pond to
skate. Since most of the fellows were watching the hockey he had the
upper reaches of the ice practically to himself.
Joe was only a fair skater, and now, swinging along and following the
curving shore, he found himself envying the ability of those chaps on
the hockey teams. It must, he thought, be fine to be able to skate as
they did, to feel as much at home on steel runners as on leather,
and he wondered if any amount of practice would ever enable him to
duplicate their marvellous feats. He wished he could play hockey, too.
It looked mighty exciting. Experimentally, he turned and started to
skate backward, zigzagging as he had seen the Second Team’s coverpoint
do. All went well for a minute, but then he raised his hands to
the sky, followed them with his feet and went down on his head and
shoulders. He had quite a nice slide, but he wasn’t able to enjoy it
much, since he was too busy watching the vari-coloured stars that
flashed in front of his closed eyes. When he stopped sliding he felt
gingerly of his head, grinned and climbed carefully to his feet again.
“That’s what you get,” he murmured, “for trying to be smart.”
However, when he had got his breath again he was ready for more
experiments and tried the inner edge-roll with fair success, and,
becoming more ambitious, essayed a figure eight. But that didn’t go
very smoothly, and since by that time he had neighbours about him he
stopped his capers. One of the neighbours skated toward him, but Joe
paid no heed to him until he swung around and came to a stop a few feet
away.
“Do it slower and you’ll get it all right,” observed the boy
pleasantly. Joe saw then that he was Strobe. He had pulled a faded blue
sweater on and still carried his stick. He was a merry-faced fellow,
with good features, bright blue eyes and a good deal of colour in his
cheeks. He was evidently about sixteen and rather tall for that age. He
smiled in friendly fashion as Joe glanced up and stopped so awkwardly
that he almost fell into Strobe’s arms.
“It isn’t hard,” the latter continued. “Like this. See?” He described a
circle on the outer edge, changed to the inner and completed the figure
slowly and gracefully.
“I know very well it isn’t hard,” replied Joe, “but it’s hard for me
because I’m a perfectly punk skater.”
Strobe laughed. “Oh, well, practice is all you need. Can you do the
‘Figure 3’?”
“Pretty well. I guess you have to learn to skate when you’re about five
years old to do it decently. Like swimming. I never skated much until
two years ago.”
“I started when I was about eight, I guess,” laughed Strobe. “Know this
one?”
“This one” was a “Maltese Cross” so perfectly done that every loop was
the same to an inch. Joe watched and sighed in envious admiration.
“That’s dandy,” he said. “It’s like the ‘cross-cut’ only there’s more
of it.”
“Yes, the ‘cross-cut’ repeated three times. It isn’t hard, really. You
could learn it in an hour.”
“I couldn’t learn it in a month,” replied Joe disgustedly. “I can’t
even skate backwards without bumping my head on the ice.”
“Well, I’ve bumped mine often enough. That’s part of the education.
I’ve seen some perfectly wonderful stars in my time!” He started to
skate and Joe joined him.
“You’re not playing any more?” asked the latter, as the shrill sound of
a whistle from around the shoulder of the hill told him that the game
was still on.
“No. Sidell’s got my place for this half. There’s a half-dozen of us
all trying for a wing position on the Second, and Steve has his hands
full giving us each a show.” He chuckled softly. “He forgot in the
first half and let me play right through.”
“Hockey must be good fun,” mused Joe, secretly trying to copy his
companion’s ease of motion.
“Bully. I wish I could play better and make the First.”
“I thought you did finely when you skated down and tried that shot,”
said Joe.
“Mostly luck. Besides, tries don’t count; it’s only goals. And I ought
to have got that in that time. It was up to me to skate past and push
it in instead of whanging it. You can’t get the puck past Sam Craig
that way. I knew it, too, only I thought I’d be smart. Let’s go up and
watch them. Mind?”
“No, I’d like to,” replied Joe.
They joined the line of spectators along the side of the supposititious
rink, being frequently obliged to flee before the slashing sticks or
plunging forms of the players, and witnessed the final decisive triumph
of the First Team by a score of seven goals to two. A few of the
players remained to practise further, but most of them, accompanied by
a full half of their audience, crossed a field to where, a quarter of
a mile distant, a blue-sided trolley-car was waiting outside the board
fence of the Fair Grounds to start its noon journey townwards. Joe
found himself still in the company of Strobe, and was well satisfied,
since there was something about the other chap that drew him. They were
chatting quite intimately by the time the car was reached, and when
they got out at Main Street Strobe lengthened his own journey homeward
by several blocks in order to pursue the new acquaintanceship.
[Illustration: Joe found himself still in the company of Strobe]
Joe found out then and during the next meeting that Jack Strobe――his
full name was Jackson――was in Joe’s class at school, that he lived
on Temple Street, that he played left field on the nine, that he was
two months older than Joe, that his father was the senior partner of
Strobe and Wonson, whose big jewelry store Joe had noticed on Main
Street, and several other more or less interesting facts. It was only
when Joe was in the house that he recollected that he had failed to
take leave of Sam Craig. He had meant to thank him for taking him out
to the pond, but had been so absorbed in this red-cheeked, blue-eyed
Strobe chap that he had quite forgotten Sam’s existence. He hoped the
latter wasn’t thinking him uncivil, and resolved to make an apology
at the first opportunity. He had agreed to go around in the afternoon
and call on Jack Strobe, and at a little after two was being ushered
by a maid through the rather ornate front door of the Strobe mansion
and into a cosy sitting-room――or perhaps it was a library, since there
were two large bookcases flanking the fireplace, in which a soft-coal
fire was sputtering greasily. Jack came charging down the stairs and at
once haled the visitor up to the third floor, where, on the back of
the house, overlooking a wide vista of snowy roofs and distant country,
Jack had his own particular sanctum.
It was a big square room lighted by three windows set close together,
and at first glance looked like a museum or a curio shop. Almost every
inch of wall space was covered with pictures, posters or trophies of
some kind, with snowshoes, tennis rackets, foils and mask, Indian
moccasins, a couple of small-bore rifles, a battered lacrosse stick
depended against them. A long, cushioned seat stood under the windows
and was piled with brightly-coloured pillows. The floor was bare
save for a few scattered rugs. A brass bed, a chiffonier, an immense
study table, two comfortable armchairs and several straight-backed
chairs comprised the principal furnishings, but by no means all. Near
the windows was a smaller table, holding wireless instruments. A set
of bookshelves, evidently home-made――Jack referred to them as being
“near-Mission”――held a miscellaneous collection of volumes ranging
from “Zig-Zag Journeys” to the latest juvenile thriller, presented
last Christmas, and including all sorts of old school-books with worn
backs. An old seaman’s chest stood against a wall, the repository
for abandoned toys and devices. One end was decorated with the legend,
apparently inscribed with a brush dipped in shoe-blacking: “Captain
Kidd His Chest! Beware!!” One corner of the room held an assortment
of fishing-rods, golf-clubs and hockey-sticks, and another a pair of
skiis, two canoe paddles, and a camera tripod. The camera itself stood
nearby, neighboured by a jig-saw, and a stereopticon sat beside it. Joe
gazed and marvelled.
“You’ve got about everything there is up here, haven’t you?” he
exclaimed. “Is that a wireless set? How’s it work? I never saw one
near-to.”
The instruments were duly explained, not over-enthusiastically, since
Jack had lost interest in wireless telegraphy after a year of devotion,
and then Joe made a tour of the room, examining and questioning and
enjoying himself hugely. Later various scrap-books and stamp-books
were pulled from under the window-seat and looked over, and finally,
having still only partly exhausted the wonders, the two boys settled
down amongst the cushions and talked. That afternoon sped like magic.
Almost before they realised it the room was in twilight and from across
town came the hoarse sound of the five o’clock whistle at the carpet
mills. Whereupon Joe said he must go, and Jack, remonstrating, led him
downstairs, helped him on with his coat, and accompanied him to the
steps. There:
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked very carelessly.
“Nothing special,” replied Joe quite as disinterestedly.
There was a pause. Finally:
“I might run in for a minute,” announced Jack. “I’m going downtown
anyway and――――”
“Wish you would.”
“Your aunt won’t mind?”
“Of course not. I haven’t much to show you, though. My room’s just a
box, you know.”
“That’s all right. We can talk some more. About eight?”
“Before, if you can.”
“Half-past seven?”
“Yes. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. So long, Faulkner.”
“So long. And thanks for――everything.”
Jack laughed shortly. “I haven’t done anything. See you later.”
“Sure!”