The interview with the house master was not trying. Mr. Jenkins was a
short, fuzzy little man, who looked him over with nervous concern,
calculating what new strain on his temper had arrived; introduced him
to Mrs. Jenkins, and seized the occasion of the luncheon-bell to cut
short the conversation.
At lunch Stover committed an unpardonable error which only those who
have suffered can understand--he sent his plate up for a second
helping of prunes.
"What in the name of peanuts did you do that for?" said Butsey in a
whisper, while the Coffee-colored Angel jabbed him with his elbow and
trod on his toes. "Now you _have_ put your foot in it!"
Stover looked up to behold every countenance grim and outraged.
"What's wrong?" he said in a whisper.
"Wrong? Didn't you ever have prunes and skimmed milk before, thousands
and thousands of times?"
"Yes, but----"
"You don't like 'em, do you?"
"Why, I don't know."
"Do you want to have them five times a week--in springtime?"
The plate, bountifully helped, returned from hand to hand down the
table, laden with prunes and maledictions.
"I didn't know," Stover said apologetically.
"Well, now you know," said the Coffee-colored Angel vindictively,
"don't you so much as stir 'em with your spoon. Don't you dare!"
Stover, being thus forbidden, calmly, wickedly, chuckling inwardly,
emptied his plate, smacked his lips and exclaimed:
"My! those are delicious. Pass my plate up for some more, will you,
Mr. White?"
"Now, why did you do that?" said Butsey White when they were alone in
their room.
"I couldn't help it. I just couldn't help it," said Stover ruthfully.
"It was such a joke!"
"Not from you," said Butsey White with Roman dignity. "You've got the
whole darn house down on you already, and the Coffee-colored Angel
will never forgive you."
"Just for that?"
Butsey White disdained an answer. Instead, he scanned Stover's clothes
with critical disfavor.
"Say, if I'm going to lead you around by the hand you've got to come
down on that color scheme of yours, or it's no go."
Stover, surprised, surveyed himself in the mirror.
"Why, I thought that pretty fine."
"Say, have you got a pair of trousers that's related to a coat?"
Stover dove into the trunk and produced a blue suit that passed the
censor, who had in the meanwhile confiscated the razor-tipped
patent-leathers and the red-visored cap, saying:
"Now you'll sink into the landscape and won't annoy the cows. Stick on
this cap of mine and hoof it; you're due at the Doctor's in half an
hour, and I promised old Fuzzy-Wuzzy to show you the lay of the land
and give you some pointers."
Outside, Cheyenne Baxter, who was pitching curves to Tough McCarty,
stopped them:
"Hello, there, Rinky Dink: turn up here sharp at four o'clock."
"What for--sir," said Stover, surprised.
"We've got a game on with the Cleve. Play baseball?"
"I--I'm a little out of practice," said Stover, who loathed the game.
"Can't help it; you're it. You play in the field. Four o'clock sharp."
"You're the ninth man in the house," Butsey explained as they started
for the school. "Every one has to play. Are you any good?"
Stover was tempted to let his imagination run, but the thought of the
afternoon curbed it.
"Oh, I used to be pretty fair," he said half-heartedly, plunging into
the distant past.
But Stover had no desire to talk; he felt the thrill of strange
sensations. Scarcely did he heed the chatter of his guide that rattled
on.
The road lay straight and cool under the mingled foliage of the trees.
Ahead, groups of boys crossed and recrossed in lazy saunterings.
"There's the village," said Butsey, extending his hand to the left.
"First bungalow is Mister Laloo's, buggies and hot dogs. There's Bill
Appleby's--say, he's a character, rolling in money--we'll drop in to
see him. Firmin's store's next and the Jigger Shop's at the end."
"The Jigger Shop!" said Stover, mystified. "What's that?"
"Where they make Jiggers, of course."
"Jiggers?"
"Oh, my beautiful stars, think of eating your first Jigger!" said
Butsey White, the man of the world. "What wouldn't I give to be in
your shoes! I say, though, you've got some tin?"
"Sure," said Stover, sounding the coins in his change pocket.
Butsey's face brightened.
"You see, Al has no confidence in me just at present. It's a case of
the regular table d'hote for me until the first of the month. Say,
we'll have a regular gorge. It'll be fresh strawberry Jiggers, too."
They began to pass other fellows in flannels and jerseys, who
exchanged greetings.
"Hello, you, Butsey!"
"Why, Egghead, howdy-do?"
"Ah, there, Butsey White!"
"Ta-ta, Saphead."
"See you later, old Sport."
"Four o'clock sharp, Texas."
Under the trees, curled in the grass, a group of three were languidly
working out a Greek translation.
"Skin your eyes, Dink," said Butsey White, waving a greeting as they
passed. "See the fellow this side? That's Flash Condit."
"The fellow who scored on the Princeton Varsity?"
"Oh, you knew, did you?"
"Sure," said Stover with pride. "Gee, what a peach of a build!"
"Turn to your left," said Butsey suddenly. "Here's Foundation House,
where the Doctor lives. Just look at that doorway. Wouldn't it give
you the chills?"
They were in front of a red-brick house, hidden under dark trees and
overgrown with vines that congregated darkly over the porte-cochere
and gave the entrance a mysterious gloom that still lives in the
memory of the generations.
"It swallows you up, doesn't it?" said Dink, awed.
"You bet it does, and it's worse inside," said Butsey comfortingly.
"Come on; now I'll show you the real thing."
They passed the surrounding trees and suddenly halted. Before them the
campus burst upon them.
"Well, Dink, what do you think of that?" said Butsey proudly.
Stover plunged his hands in his trousers pockets and gazed awed.
Before him extended an immense circle of greensward, dotted on the
edge with apple trees in blossom, under which groups of boys were
lolling, or tumbling over one another in joyous cublike romping. To
the left, across the circle, half a dozen red-coated, slate-topped,
portly houses, overgrown with ivy, were noisy with urchins hanging out
of myriad windows, grouped on steps, chasing one another in twisting
spirals over the lawns. Ahead, a massive brownstone chapel with
pointed tower rose up, and to its right, in mathematical bulk, was the
abode of Greek and Latin roots, syntax and dates, of blackboards, hard
seats and the despotism of the Faculty. To the right, close at hand,
was a large three-storied building with wonderful dormer windows
tucked under the slanted slate roof, and below was a long stone
esplanade, black with the grouped figures of giants. At the windows,
propped on sofa cushions, chin in hand some few conned the approaching
lesson, softening the task by moments of dreamy contemplation of the
scuffle below or stopping to catch a tennis ball that traveled from
the esplanade to the window. Meanwhile, a constant buzz of inquiry and
exclamation continued:
"Say, Bill, how far's the advance?"
"Middle page ninety-two."
"Gee, what a lesson!"
"You bet--it's tough!"
"Hi, there, give me a catch."
"Look out! Biff!"
"Oh, you, Jack Rabbit, come up and give me the advance!"
"Can't. I'm taking my chances. Get hold of Skinny."
"What time's practice?"
"That's the Upper House, House of Lords, Abode of the Blessed," said
Butsey with envious eyes. "That's where we'll land when we're
fifth-formers--govern yourself, no lights, go to the village any time,
and all that sort of thing. Say!" He swept the circle comprehensively
with his arm. "What do you think of it? Pretty fine, eh--what?"
"Gee!" said Stover with difficulty, then after a moment he blurted
out: "It's--it's terrific!"
"Oh, that's not all; there's the Hammil House in the village and the
Davis and Rouse up the street. The baseball fields are past the
chapel."
"Why, it's like a small college," said Stover, whose gaze returned to
the giants on the esplanade.
"Huh!" said Butsey in sovereign contempt. "We'll wipe up anything in
the shape of a small college that comes around here! Do you want to
toddle around the circle?"
"Oh, Lord, no!" said Stover, cold at the thought of running the
inspection of hundreds of eyes. "Besides, I've got to see the Doctor."
"All right. Stand right up to him now. Don't get scared," said Butsey,
choosing the one method to arouse all latent fears.
"What's he like?" said Stover, biting his nails.
"There's nothing like him," said Butsey reminiscently. "He's got an
eye that gives you the creeps. He knows everything that goes
on--everything."
Stover began to whistle, keeping an eye on the windows as they
approached.
"Well, ta-ta! I'll hang out at Laloo's for you," said Butsey, loping
off. "Say, by the way, look out--he's a crackerjack boxer."
Stover, like AEneas at the gates of Avernus, stood under the awful
portals, ruminating uneasily on Butsey's last remark. There certainly
was something dark and terrifying about the place, that cast cold
shadows over the cheery April day. Then the door opened, he gave his
name in blundering accents to the butler, and found himself in the
parlor sitting bolt-upright on the edge of a gilded chair. The butler
returned, picking up his steps and, after whispering that the Doctor
would see him presently, departed, stealing noiselessly away.
Abandoned to the classic stillness, nothing in the room reassured him.
The carpets were soft, drowning out the sounds of human feet; the
walls and corridors seemed horribly stilled, as if through them no
human cry might reach the outer air. All about were photographs of
broken columns--cold, rigid, ruined columns, faintly discerned in the
curtained light of the room. The Doctor's study was beyond, through
the door by which the butler had passed. Stover's glance was riveted
on it, trying to remember whether the American Constitution prohibited
head masters from the brutal English practice of caning and birching;
and,--listening to the lagging tick of the mantel clock, he solemnly
vowed to lead that upright, impeccable life that would keep him from
such another soul-racking visit.
The door opened and the Doctor appeared, holding out his hand.
Stover hastily sprang up, found himself actually shaking hands and
mumbling something futile and idiotic. Then he was drawn to the horror
of horrors, and the door shut out all retreat.
"Well, John, how do you like the school?"
Stover, more terrified by this mild beginning than if the Doctor had
produced a bludgeon from behind his back, stammered out that he
thought the buildings were handsome, very handsome.
"It's a pretty big place," said the Doctor, throwing his nervous little
body back in an easy chair and studying the four-hundred-and-second
problem of the year. "You'll find a good deal in it--a great many
interests."
"He certainly has a wicked eye," thought Stover, watching with
fascination the glance that confronted him like a brace of pistols
suddenly extended from under shaggy bushes. "Now he's sizing me
up--wonder if he knows all?"
"Well, John, what was the trouble?" said the Doctor from his easy,
reclining position.
"The trouble, sir? Oh," said Stover, sitting bolt-upright with every
sinew stiffened. "You mean why they fired--why they expelled me, sir?"
"Yes, why did they fire you?" said the Doctor, trying to descend.
"For getting caught, sir."
The Doctor gazed at him sharply, seeking to determine whether the
answer was from impertinence or fright or a precocious judgment of the
morals of the nation. Then he smiled and said:
"Well, what was it?"
"Please, sir, I put asafetida in the furnace," said Stover in
frightened tones.
"You put asafetida down the furnace?"
"Yes, sir."
"That was a very brilliant idea, wasn't it?"
"No, sir," said Stover, drawing a long breath and wondering if he
could possibly stay after such a confession.
"Why did you do it?"
Stover hesitated, and suddenly, yielding to an unaccountable impulse
toward the truth that occasionally surprised him, blurted out:
"I did it to make trouble, sir."
"You didn't like the school?"
"I hated it! There were a lot of girls around."
"Well, John," said the Doctor with heroic seriousness, "it may be that
you didn't have enough to do. You have evidently an active
brain--perhaps imagination would be a fitter word. As I said, you'll
find this a pretty big place, just the sort of opening an ambitious
boy should delight in. You'll find here all sorts of boys--boys that
count, boys you respect and want to respect you, and then there are
other boys who will put asafetida in the furnace if you choose to
teach them chemistry."
"Oh, no, sir," said Stover, all in a gasp.
"Your parents think you are hard to manage," said the Doctor, with the
wisp of a smile. "I don't. Go out; make some organization; represent
us; make us proud of you; count for something! And remember one thing:
if you want to set fire to Memorial Hall or to dynamite this study do
it because _you_ want to, and not because some other fellow puts it
into your head. Stand on your own legs." The Doctor rose and extended
his hand cordially. "Of course, I shall have my eye on you."
Stover, dumbfounded, rose as though on springs. The Doctor, noticing
his amazement, said:
"Well, what is it?"
"Please, sir--is that all?"
"That's all," said the Doctor seriously.
Stover drew a long breath, shook hands precipitately and escaped.