A CRISIS
In response to Will's eager questions, Mr. Phelps explained that he had
come to Winthrop to satisfy himself as to the exact status as to the
fever that had broken out. Before he had come up to Will's room he had
consulted the college officials and now felt that he was in a position
to decide calmly what must be done by his son.
"And what's the verdict?" inquired Will.
"It will not be necessary for you to return. I think everything is being
done that ought to be and though we shall be anxious, still I am not
unduly alarmed. I have confidence in you, Will, and I am sure you will
not be careless in a time like this. The president informs me that there
have not been any new cases since the first outbreak, and he is of the
opinion that all these cases were due to one cause and that was found
outside of the village."
"Then you don't want me to go home with you?" inquired Will quizzically.
"What I might 'want' and what is best are two different matters," said
his father with a smile, "Just at present what I want and what you need
happen to be one and the same thing."
"What's that?"
"Your Greek."
Will's face clouded and then unmindful of the others who were in the
room he told his father of his recent interview with his professor of
Greek. The smile of amusement on the face of Mr. Phelps when Will began
soon gave way to an expression of deep concern. To Will, who understood
him so thoroughly, it was evident that his father was angry as well as
disappointed, and for a moment there was a feeling of exultation in his
own heart. Now something would be done, he felt confident, and the
injustice under which he was laboring and suffering would be done away.
"Your other work is all right, Will?" inquired his father after a brief
silence.
"Oh, yes! Fine! If old Splinter was only half the man that Professor
Sinclair is, there wouldn't be a bit of trouble. Why the recitation in
Latin never seems to be more than fifteen minutes long. But the
Greek--bah! The hour is like a week of Sundays!"
"Still, Will, there is only one way out of it for you."
"I suppose so," responded Will, his heart sinking as he spoke.
"Yes, it must be faced. I know it's hard, but you can't get around it,
Will, and I'm sure you don't want to run from it. As I told you, it
isn't as if your Greek professor was the only one of his kind you will
meet in life, for his name is legion and you will find him everywhere.
The only thing for you to do is to keep on with your tutor and prove
yourself to be the master. If you do that, the experience, hard as it
is, may prove to be one of the best that could come to you."
Will was silent for a moment before he spoke, and then he said
impulsively, "Well, pop, I suppose you are right. I'll do my best."
"Of course you will," responded his father quietly, though his eyes
were shining. "It isn't so hard for you as it is for Mr. Schenck."
"Is Peter John worse?" inquired Will quickly.
"Yes."
"Isn't there something we can do?" said Will eagerly.
"No, nothing," said Mr. Schenck. "My boy is very sick, but all we can do
is to wait. He is having good care. The only comfort I have is what they
tell me about him and what he has been doing since he came to college."
Both boys looked up quickly, but neither spoke and Mr. Schenck
continued. "Yes, there's a young man I have met since I've been here who
has told me many things about my boy that comfort me now very much."
"Was it Mott?" interrupted Will.
"Yes, that was his name. You know him too, I see. He seems to be a very
fine young man. He told me that Peter was one of the leaders in his
class, and that everybody in the college knew him. He said too, that he
had won his numerals--though I don't just understand what that means."
"It means that he has the right to wear the number of his class on his
cap or sweater," said Will. "That's more than I've won." He had not the
heart to undeceive the unhappy man, though both he and Foster were aware
that Mott had been overstating the facts in his desire to comfort Peter
John's father.
"Well, I hope he'll get well," said Mr. Schenck with a heavy sigh,
"though it does seem as if such things always happened to the brightest
boys. I'm going to stay here for a few days till I know he's better
or--" The sentence was not completed and for a time there was a tense
silence in the room.
At last the men departed, Mr. Schenck to go to his son's room where he
was to sleep while he remained in Winthrop, and Mr. Phelps to the
station where he was to take the train for his home. Will accompanied
his father, but the subject that was uppermost in the mind of each was
not referred to for there are times when silence is golden.
In the days that followed, Will Phelps worked as he never had worked
before in all his brief life. His distaste for the Greek and dislike of
the professor were as strong as before, and at times it almost seemed to
him that he could no longer continue the struggle. His sole inspiration
was in the thought of his father and in his blind determination not to
be mastered.
An additional element of gloom in those days were the reports that came
from the infirmary of the condition of Peter John. All the other
patients appeared to be doing well, but the daily word from the watchers
by Peter John's bedside was that he was worse. A pall seemed to be
resting over the entire college. The noisy songs and boisterous shouts
were not heard in the dormitories nor upon the campus.
A part of the general anxiety was gone when as the days passed there
were no reports of new cases developed, but the fear of what was to be
the issue in the case of Peter John was in every heart--even with those
who had not exchanged a word with him since he had entered Winthrop.
Will Phelps found himself even wondering how it was that the "old
grads" when they returned always spoke in such enthusiastic terms of
their own college days. How they laughed and slapped one another on the
back as they recalled and recounted their exploits. It was Will's
conviction that those days must have been markedly different from those
through which he was passing, for he was finding only hard work and much
trouble, he dolefully assured himself. He was too inexperienced to
understand that one is never able to see clearly the exact condition of
present experiences. There is then no perspective, and the good and
evil, the large and small, are strangely confused. It is like the
figures in a Chinese picture wherein the background and foreground, the
little and the big, are much the same in their proportions. Only when a
man looks back and beholds the events of the bygone days in their true
perspective is he able to form a correct estimate of the relative
values. Even Will Phelps would not have believed that there might come a
day when the very struggle he was having in mastering his Greek would be
looked upon by him as not unpleasant in the larger light in which all
his college days would be viewed.
Mr. Schenck still remained in Winthrop, and his face every morning when
Will went to inquire about Peter John was a sure indication of the
report which was to be made even before a word had been spoken. Steadily
lower and lower sank the freshman, who was desperately ill, until at
last the crisis came, and with the passing of the day the issue of life
or death would be determined.
In the interval between his recitations Will ran to see the suffering
man and learn how the issue was going, and when at last the word was
received that Peter John, if no relapse occurred, was likely to recover,
he felt as if a great load had been lifted from his mind. It was his
first experience with the deep tragedy that, like a cloud, rests over
all mankind, and in the glimmer of hope that now appeared it seemed to
him that all things appeared in a new light. Even his detested Greek was
not quite so bad as it previously had been, and in the reaction that
came Will bent to his distasteful task with a renewed determination.
When several weeks had elapsed, and the time of the Christmas vacation
was near, for the first time Will was permitted to enter the room where
Peter John was sitting up in bed. It was difficult for Will to hide the
shock that came when he first saw his classmate, his face wasted till it
almost seemed as if the bones must protrude, his head shaved, and his
general weakness so apparent as to be pathetic.
Striving to conceal his real feelings and to appear bright and cheery,
Will extended his hand and said nervously: "I'm mighty glad to see you,
Peter John, and so will all the fellows be. I don't think you've taken
the best way of getting a vacation."
Peter John smiled in a way that almost brought the tears to Will's eyes,
and said, "I'm much obliged to you, Will."
"No, you're not. We're all much obliged to you for getting well. I don't
know what the track team would have done without you."
"Guess I won't bother the track team this year. That's what the doctor
says."
"Oh, well," said Will hastily, "that won't make any difference. You'll
be all right for another year and that will do just as well."
"Say, Will," said Peter after a brief pause:
"What is it?" inquired Will kindly.
"There's something I want to say to you."
"Say it, then," laughed Will.
"I'm never going to touch a drop again."
"That's all right. Of course you won't," assented Will cordially.
"And, Will--"
"Yes?"
"I'm not going to have anything charged up to you any more."
"'Anything charged up to me'? I don't know what you mean."
"I mean those cakes and pies I had charged to you down at Tommie's."
"Tommie" was the name by which the proprietor of one of the little
restaurants and bakeshops in Winthrop was familiarly called by the
college boys.
"I didn't know you had anything charged to me."
"You didn't?"
"No. I haven't had any bill for it, anyway."
"You'll get it. You'll have one," said Peter John nodding his head
decidedly. "I don't know what I ever did it for anyway. At first I
thought it was a good joke on you. M--some of the fellows said it would
be. And then somehow I kept it up."
"Never mind, Peter John. I'll fix it. It'll be all right."
"Did you tell my father?" inquired Peter John anxiously.
"No. I haven't told him anything."
"I'm glad. I lost some money on that trip with the football team, Will."
"How much?"
"Seven dollars and a half. It was all I'd got."
"Do you want--" Will started to take out his pocketbook, but stopped
abruptly, for he was not certain just how Peter John might receive his
offer. He did not see the light that came for a moment into his
classmate's eyes or the look of disappointment that quickly followed it.
"I'm never going to bet any more," remarked Peter John simply.
"Of course not."
"But my money is gone and I sha'n't be able to pay for those things I
had charged to you at Tommie's, as I fully meant to."
"Never mind that."
"I'm going to study harder too."
"Not just yet. I shouldn't bother my head about such things now, Peter
John. Wait till you are up and around before you do that."
"I'm afraid that'll be a long time."
"No. Oh no, it won't," said Will cheerily. "You'll be all right before
you know it."
Peter John shook his head and was about to reply, when Mott entered the
room and at the same time the physician also came. The latter glanced
keenly at his patient, and then said to the visitors, "That's enough
this time, boys. You'd better cut it short now and come again."
Will and Mott at once departed after bidding Peter John good-bye, and
when they were out on the sidewalk Mott began to laugh.
"What's struck you? I don't see anything so very funny," said Will
irritated by his companion's manner.
"Peter John has made a clean breast of it."
"What of it?"
"Oh, nothing much. Only when the 'devil was sick the devil a monk would
be.' You know the words probably. It strikes me as absolutely funny."
"I don't see anything to laugh about," retorted Will warmly.
"You wait and maybe you will later, Phelps. Tra, la, freshman!" and Mott
abruptly departed.
His words, however, still lingered in Will's mind, and throughout the
evening the jingling rhyme that the sophomore had repeated kept running
through his thoughts.