ON HIS OWN
Both Jeff and Wade spent a restless night. Jeff lay awake until long
after the clock in the Congregational church tower across the river in
New City boomed the hour of midnight, so overwrought were his nerves
over the day’s occurrences and the interview with Dr. Livingston and
what it would bring forth on the morrow. And as he lay there tossing
between the blankets he realized more and more how hopeless his case
was and how cheerless the outlook for his own future was.
What was he to do? Where was he to turn? He could not go back to live
with his uncle without finding employment for himself, and where would
he turn to find this? Where――
A thought occurred to him that kept him awake for nearly an hour
longer. One of the privileges that would be taken away from him as a
result of his disobedience to the school rules was the privilege of
acting as school correspondent for the New City _Daily Freeman_. He had
secured the position by bearding “Boss” Russell, the city editor of
the _Freeman_, in his office and making application for the job almost
before his predecessor, Harold Hall, was graduated from Pennington. And
ever since he had been contributing paragraphs of school news to the
paper, stories of the football and basketball games, and various other
“write ups” for which he had been paid space rates, and had in that
way earned a neat sum each week which managed to keep him in clothes
and buy some of his books. His work had been acceptable to the paper,
he knew, and he wondered, now that he was going to be thrown out on
his own, why it wouldn’t be possible for him to join the staff of the
_Freeman_ as a cub reporter. It was a great idea. He would try.
And then, thinking of the romance of being a reporter, some time
between midnight and daylight he fell asleep and dreamed that he
had suddenly become a newspaper man, indeed the only employee his
particular dream newspaper had. He was reporter, city editor,
typesetter, printer and pressman all in one, and he had a wild
nightmare of a career that ended when he got into an altercation with a
big printing press and the iron monster stood up on its hind legs and
began clawing the air, finally grabbing him in its teeth and, like some
prehistoric monster, it shook him back and forth until he woke up with
a yell to find Wade Grenville standing over his bed and pulling him out
from between the blankets by the slack of his pajamas.
“For the love of Pete, turn out. It’s seven-thirty. You haven’t a
dickens of a lot of time to get cleaned and report for chapel. Come on,
Jeff, shake a leg. You’ve got a tough day ahead of you, you poor kid.”
“Aw, don’t remind me of it, Wade. I hate to face the Old Man and hear
sentence pronounced.”
“Well, you’ve got to face the music. I hope he gives it to Gould and
Pell as stiff as he can. Blast ’em! If it hadn’t been for that dirty
trick Gould pulled you wouldn’t be in this peck of trouble. Go ahead.
Wash up.”
Jeff made little ceremony of his morning toilet. He turned on the
water in the wash basin until it gushed out with such a splash that
it spattered the walls and slopped over onto the floor. Then, in his
undershirt and trousers, he plunged his head and arms into the basin
and wallowed around like a seal, puffing and snorting and blowing and
adding a great deal more to the water that was already on the floor,
until presently there seemed to be more there than there was in the
bowl. Then he came up for air, and with eyes squeezed tight shut and
his face distorted, he began feeling around for a towel, which Wade
obligingly wadded up into a ball and threw at him, shouting at the same
time:
“There, you blamed hippopotamus; there’s your towel. Why in the dickens
do you have to have the floor knee deep in water before you feel you
are properly washed. Now I’ve got to put on my rubber boots or my
bathing suit before I can cross the room to get my necktie. Every
time you take a wash this room looks like that painting of Washington
crossing the Delaware, only more so.”
“Aw, let me alone. You’ll be sorry when I’m not around to muss up your
old floor. You wait and see.”
“Jingoes, you’re right I will, Jeff. I―― Great guns, there goes the
first bell. Grab your things and get ’em on. Come on quick.”
A mad scramble followed and both fellows only just squeezed into the
last of their clothing as the final bell rang and they dashed for the
hall and the chapel door.
But Jeff’s thoughts were far from being on the services and the
announcements. Indeed, when he was thrown back among the boys again he
realized once more with an aching heart how hard it was going to be to
leave all this behind, and the prospects of a position on the _Freeman_
did not seem half as alluring as it had the night before.
Somehow news of the fight had got through the school and Jeff found
himself the object of admiring glances from the Freshmen and glowering
looks from the Sophomores, and when the boys filed out from chapel Buck
Hart, Rabbit Warren, Cas Gorham and Brownie Davis, got him aside and
congratulated him.
“Great stuff, old fellow. Wish you’d have given him a black eye for me.
That’s a fine lump he has on his cheek and his nose will never be the
same,” said Buck.
“He sure looked cut up this morning. I had a good look at him,” said
Rabbit Warren, slapping Jeff on the shoulder.
To all this Jeff smiled ruefully. It was on his tongue to tell them
too that in reality he had got the worst of it, but he glanced up in
time to see Dr. Livingston coming down the hall. The principal caught
his eye and motioned to him to follow, and Jeff broke away from his
admirers and hurried to the Doctor’s office.
Gould and Pell were already there, and Jeff was surprised to see how
many scars of battle the former bore. His nose was in an unpleasant
state of redness and abnormally swollen and there was just the
suggestion of blackness about his right eye. There was a slight cut on
his right cheek, too.
Dr. Livingston sat down in his chair and swung around to look at all
three. They were silent for several minutes while he looked at them
frowningly. Finally he spoke in a sharp, crisp voice.
“You three boys know the rules of the school as well as I do. I am very
much put out with you. Gould, you and Pell stay in bounds for a month.
No privileges whatever, and report to Professor Battel for an extra
hour’s Latin every day during the period. And mind you, if there is one
complaint against you from any quarter out you go, dismissed from the
school. I’ll not have boys of your stamp around here. You are both on
probation, so mind your conduct. Go to your class. Thatcher, I want to
see you alone a moment.”
Jeff’s heart seemed to drop into his shoes as Gould and Pell departed.
“Why does he want to see me alone?” he asked himself.
Dr. Livingston looked at him in silence for some time after the two
boys had gone. Finally he spoke, and to Jeff it seemed as if his tone
was a little more fatherly than it had been to Gould or Pell.
“Thatcher,” he said, “this is the most unpleasant task I have had in
all my career with boys. I have laid awake most of the night thinking
of just what this was going to mean to you but I can see no way out.
Rules are rules, and you know it as well as I do. That holds not
only in school but in life generally, and the quicker you find it
out the better off you’ll be. Rules are rules, laws are laws, and
when you break either of them you must be punished. I have come to
the conclusion that I cannot make an exception even of you, and I
realize in making this decision just how disastrous it is going to be
for you. My only hope is that somehow you will find a way out of the
difficulty. I will have to suspend all your privileges for the rest of
the term, and you will have to remain in bounds for two weeks at least.
That is the minimum penalty, as you know. I’m very, very sorry.”
In spite of his best efforts at self-control tears welled up in
Jeff Thatcher’s eyes and a great lump gathered in his throat as Dr.
Livingston talked. It was several seconds before he could speak without
breaking down completely.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he finally gulped, “but I guess it means the end of
my career at Pennington. I can’t stay if my privileges are taken away.
I――I――” Jeff gulped and turned away, starting tear-blind for the door.
“I’m sorry too, son. I only hope you’ll find a way out of the
difficulty. I’d help you if I could but there is no way I can grant you
special privileges under the circumstances. Go to your class now and
see if there isn’t some way you can work the situation out.”
But to Jeff there was no way out. He puzzled over it all day in his
classes and all evening in the privacy of his room, for Wade had gone
to a concert in town with several other fellows and Jeff was left
alone with his unpleasant problem. He pondered over every phase of
it until he became so discouraged and unhappy that he realized in
desperation that he would have to quit Pennington forthwith, leave
while yet he had a few dollars in his pockets with which to take care
of himself while trying to find a position.
He listened. The big clock over in New City was booming the hour. He
counted the strokes. It was nine o’clock. Why not leave now? Leave
while Wade and the rest of the fellows were away. He knew that he did
not have the courage to stay and bid them all good-by. He realized he
would break down and probably make a chump of himself. Now was the
time to go. And besides, he realized, now was the time when he could
best get at Boss Russell, the city editor of the _Daily Freeman_, and
perhaps secure the position he so much needed. He would go.
Hastily, almost eagerly, he packed up his few belongings and put
them in his suitcase. Several little personal things he purposely
overlooked, for he wanted to leave them for Wade to remember him by. In
twenty minutes he had completed his task. Then he sat down at his desk
in the corner and hastily scribbled Wade a note telling him of his
plans. He read this over once, tucked it into an envelope, and dropped
it on Wade’s bed. Then he picked up his suitcase, snapped out the light
and stepped out into the broad hall and tiptoed his way to the big side
door of the building, fearful lest he should disturb Dr. Hornby, the
professor in charge of the house.
Out on the campus, he paused a moment in the shadow of the building and
looked about. It was a hard pull to leave. It made his throat and eyes
fill up once more, and it was only with the utmost self-control that he
kept from breaking down as he finally stepped out among the tall elms
on the campus and hurried toward the big gate and the street where a
trolley to New City stood waiting at the end of the line.