GERALD IN GRIEF
Yardley Hall School[1] stands on a small plateau about a half-mile from
the shore, and commanding a broad view, of Long Island Sound, about
half way between Newport and New Haven. The Wissining River, from which
small stream the tiny village takes its name, curves around the back of
the school grounds, separating them from the wide expanse of Meeker’s
Marsh, flows beside the village, and empties into the Sound. Across
the Wissining lies Greenburg, a considerable manufacturing town, and
beyond Greenburg and some two miles from the water is located Yardley’s
time-honored rival, Broadwood Academy.
[1] Readers who desire a more detailed description of Yardley
Hall School are referred to Chapter V of _Forward Pass_, the
preceding story in this series.
There are six buildings at Yardley, most of them quite modern; the
school is not old, as New England schools go, having been founded
by Doctor Tobias Hewitt in 1870. There is Oxford Hall, containing
the Office, the Principal’s living rooms, laboratories, recitation
rooms, library, assembly hall, and the rooms of the rival societies,
Oxford and Cambridge. Oxford Hall is one of the older buildings. The
other is Whitson, which elbows it on the East and which contains the
dining-room, or commons as it is called, on the first floor, and
dormitories above. Clarke is a dormitory entirely, as are Dudley and
Merle, the latter being reserved for the boys of the Preparatory Class.
The Kingdon Gymnasium completes the list of buildings if one excepts
the heating plant and the boat house.
From the back of the gymnasium the ground slopes down slowly to the
tennis courts, the athletic field and the river. Here, too, but
further upstream is the golf links, a nine hole course that is well
maintained and well patronized. In front of Oxford Hall is an expanse
of lawn known as The Prospect. From this a flight of steps leads to
the lower ground and joins a path which crosses the railroad cut by
a rustic bridge and leads to the woods beyond. Through these various
paths wind deviously to the beach and the Sound. Between the woods,
which are school property, and at the mouth of the river, lies the
Pennimore estate, eight acres of perfectly kept lawn and grove and
shrubbery, with a long stone pier running out into the water for the
accommodation of the “Steamship King’s” big yacht on which, in the
summer time, he makes his trips to and from New York.
From the upper floors of the Yardley buildings one may see for miles
up and down the Sound, and even, on clear days, catch a glimpse of
Montauk Point across the water. It would, I think, be difficult to find
a finer site for a school than that occupied by Yardley. Although still
under forty years of age, Yardley Hall has won a name for itself in a
part of the country where famous schools are many, and you will never
be able to persuade a Yardley man to acknowledge that any other school
approaches it in excellence. As for Broadwood--well, I never could do
justice to a Yardley man’s opinion of that institution!
On an afternoon about a week subsequent to the opening of the winter
term Dan dropped in at Number 7 Dudley. The bright weather continued,
but there was no hint of Autumn in the air to-day. A shrill east wind
charged around the corner of the building, and boys crossing the yard
kept their heads down into their collars and their hands in their
pockets and took short cuts across the winter turf in brazen defiance
of regulations. But Number 7 was warm and cozy as Dan closed the door
behind him and tossed his cap onto a chair. The steam pipes were
sizzling drowsily and in the grate a bed of coals glowed warmly.
“Gee,” said Dan, “I wish we had fireplaces in Clarke.”
“You ought to be glad you haven’t,” answered Alf Loring from the
window-seat. “Every time you have a fire it costs you ten cents for a
hod of coal. Tom’s always kicking about the expense.”
Tom Dyer, seated at the study table writing a letter, grunted
ironically without looking up.
“Come on over here and stretch your weary limbs,” said Alf, cuddling
his feet under him to make room and tossing a pillow at the visitor.
Alfred Loring was seventeen years old and was captain and quarter-back
of the football team. He was a nice, jolly looking fellow with a pair
of merry brown eyes and hair of the same shade which he wore parted
in the middle and slicked down straightly on either side of his
well-shaped head. Alf was in the Second Class, as was his roommate,
Tom Dyer. Tom, however, was a year older, a rangey, powerful looking
youth, rather silent, rather sleepy-looking, but good-natured to a
fault. Tom wasn’t a beauty, by any means, but his gray eyes and his
expression when he smiled redeemed the rather heavy features. Tom
played on the Eleven at left half and had just been elected captain of
the basket-ball team in place of a First Class fellow who had failed to
return in the fall.
“Ain’t it cold?” asked Alf as Dan snuggled against the pillow. “If this
keeps up we’ll have ice on the river in no time. Do you skate, Dan?”
“Not much. But I’m going to get some skates and try it.”
“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” laughed Alf, “you’re so
modest. I dare say you can skate all around me.”
“No, honest, Alf, that’s the truth. I can’t skate much. I never seemed
to be able to learn.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d try for the hockey team. But you
get some skates and get busy. You’d better come out for the team,
anyway. You’ll have plenty of fun, even if you don’t make it.”
“And probably break my silly neck!”
“Well, don’t do that; we need you too much next fall. But you might try
for goal. You don’t have to skate much to play goal.”
“Don’t have to do much of anything,” observed Tom dryly, “except stand
up there and be hit with a hunk of hard rubber that feels like paving
block. I’ve tried it; played on Whitson team two years ago. We played
Clarke for the School Championship.”
“Did you win?” asked Dan, scenting a story.
“No, we lost,” replied Tom, going on with his writing.
“Tell him how, Tom,” said Alf with a chuckle.
“Dead easy,” answered Tom with a reminiscent smile. “The first half
ended three to two in our favor and we were feeling pretty cheerful.
But when we began again one of our fellows--Nickerson--he was playing
cover-point--did something that didn’t please the referee and got put
off for the limit; two minutes, I think it was. Then Clarke got down to
business and made things hot around goal. I stopped about four shots
in as many seconds and then there was a mix-up in front of the net and
someone laid open my head with his stick. When I came around again I
found they’d scored on us. I tried to go back and play but I was too
dizzy to stand up and they made me quit and put in a sub named Baxter.
Baxter meant well, but he was so excited that he couldn’t see straight.
And along toward the end of the half, with the score tied, Clarke
rushed the puck again and took a shot. Baxter stopped it with foot and
it got stuck between his skate and his boot. Instead of calling for
time or doing anything sensible he just stood there and shook his foot
like a hen with mud between her toes. Well, at about the sixth shake
the puck came out and flew into the net. That gave Clarke one goal to
the good. We all called Baxter names, and that got him more excited and
nervous than ever. And then, with about a minute to play the puck came
down again with everyone squabbling over it. Baxter’s eyes just stood
out of his head and he made a dash out of goal, got the puck somehow or
other and deliberately swiped into his own goal! Oh, he made quite a
hit that day for a sub!”
“I’ll bet he did!” laughed Dan. “I suppose you fellows all loved him to
death.”
“We did--not,” grunted Tom. “It was funny about Baxter, though,” he
added thoughtfully. “He graduated last year, and about a month later he
was going over from New York to Boston with his folks on that steamer
that caught fire; what was its name, Alf?”
“_Independence._”
“Yes. The fire didn’t amount to a whole lot in the end, but for awhile
things looked a bit bad. Well, the papers the next day made a regular
hero of Baxter. According to them he was the life of the party. Had
a fine time and enjoyed every minute of his visit. He bossed folks
around, strapped life-preservers on fat old ladies, helped launch the
boats and was as cool as a cucumber. It just shows that you never can
tell, don’t it?”
“Where is he now?” asked Dan.
“Oh, he’s a dead ’un now; he’s gone to Harvard,” answered Tom.
“What did he want to go there for?” asked Dan, who had already decided
on Yale, quite indignantly.
“Search me! What does any fellow want to go there for?”
“Well, it’s lucky for Yale some fellows do go,” laughed Alf. “If they
didn’t we wouldn’t have anyone to beat!”
“Well, there’s something in that,” grunted Tom. “But I’ll tell you
fellows one thing, though. Some day those Harvard Johnnies will take
their hands out of their pockets, work up a coaching system like they
have at Yale and everlastingly wallop us for keeps!”
“Oh, you run away and play!” scoffed Alf.
“All right. You just wait and see,” replied Tom unruffledly, returning
to his letter.
“What’s Tom think he’s doing?” asked Dan of Alf.
“He _thinks_ he’s a little Hague doing the arbitration act,” replied
Alf, “but what he’s really doing is making a mess. Rand--you know Paul
Rand?--he’s basket-ball manager, or thinks he is. Well, he tried to
make dates with Broadwood for three games and got high and mighty and
tried to dictate things with the result that Broadwood refused to have
anything to do with us. And I don’t blame her. We won last year, you
know, and so Rand thought we could lay down the law. Broadwood didn’t
see it that way. So Tom is trying to make a noise like a Dove of Peace.
He’s writing to the Broadwood captain, and I’ll bet he gets sat on for
his trouble.”
“That’ll be all right,” replied Tom, folding and sealing his letter.
“I’ve offered them their choice of dates for the second game and told
them we’d play the third anywhere they liked. They’ll come down and
make terms. And when they do--” Tom put the stamp on with a bang of his
fist--“we’ll lick them so hard that they won’t know whether they’re
coming or going!”
“That’s Tom’s idea of Peace!” laughed Alf.
“Well,” growled his roommate, “I’ve got to have some satisfaction for
grovelling under their feet and rubbing my head in the mud.” He tossed
the letter aside distastefully. “Say, Dan, how’s the kid getting on?”
“Yes, how is little Geraldine?” asked Alf.
“All right,” replied Dan not very enthusiastically. “I was going to
bring him along, but he hadn’t shown up when I left the room. I dare
say he’s gone over home.”
“Sound View?” asked Alf. “I thought the place was closed up.”
“It is, but some of the servants are there, and he’s got a dog he’s
awfully fond of; the one that ’most got burned.”
“I heard some of the Prep kids calling him ‘Young Money-Bags’ the other
day,” said Tom. “I’m afraid he isn’t going to be popular, Dan.”
“I don’t see why not,” answered Dan warmly. “He isn’t a snob by any
means; doesn’t even act like one. The fellows here wouldn’t think of
looking down on a chap because he had no money. Why should they look
down on him because he has?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s exactly that,” mused Alf. “The trouble is, Dan,
that Toby and Collins and the Faculty generally are so blamed proud of
him. You’d think he was a young prince.”
“They aren’t proud of him,” answered Dan. “They’re proud of getting
him; proud of beating Broadwood.”
“Well, that’s a commendable pride,” said Alf with a yawn. “The best way
to do, as Brother Herb said the other day, is to just let him fight it
out alone. If the School finds you sticking up for him too much they’ll
take more of a grudge than ever to him.”
“Oh, I’m letting him do his own fighting right enough. So much so that
Gerald thinks I’ve gone back on him, and looks at me pathetically when
he thinks I don’t see him. Makes me feel sort of like a brute, you
know. He’s been a bit homesick, too, I guess, although he hasn’t said
anything about it.”
“Well, that’s promising,” said Alf. “Shows he isn’t a cry-baby. Does he
know anyone yet?”
“I don’t think so; except you fellows. It’ll take him time, I suppose.”
“Bring him around here whenever you want to,” said Tom. “I don’t mind
him. I know what it’s like to be homesick and out of it myself.”
“You!” exclaimed Dan.
“Sure! Don’t you think I’ve got any feelings? I went to a boarding
school for two years before I struck Yardley; one of those motherly
places where they advertise a nice home life for the kids. The first
month I was there I thought I’d die. Lonesome? Gosh, that isn’t any
word for it! I was sort of quiet and shy, I guess, and the fellows
thought I was stuck-up and left me pretty much alone except when they
picked on me.”
“Did you get over it?” asked Dan.
“Had to. I stood it until I couldn’t have stayed there any longer and
then I picked out the biggest fellow in my class and put it up to him.
‘I’ve been here a whole month,’ I told him, ‘and you fellows haven’t
spoken decently to me yet.’ (I was only thirteen and was half crying.)
‘You’ve either got to take some notice of me,’ I said, ‘or fight, and
I don’t care which it is.’ The chap looked at me in a funny sort of
way for a minute, and then he laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.
‘Fight!’ he said. ‘Why, I don’t want to fight you, kid. You’re all
right. You come along with me.’”
“Well?” Dan asked eagerly.
“Oh, I went.”
“Yes, but did he--what did he do?”
“Nothing; just walked with me across the playground. It was in the
afternoon after school and almost every fellow was there. That was all
he had to do. They gave me a chance after that and I made good.”
“If he’d accepted your invitation and licked you, though,” said Alf, “I
don’t see that it would have helped you much.”
“He wouldn’t have licked,” said Tom quietly, “not the way I was feeling
that day.”
“You, you old duffer,” scoffed his roommate, “why, you couldn’t lick a
postage stamp!”
Tom pushed his chair back, arose, and approached Alf with a broad
smile. Alf got his legs from under him and prepared for battle. Dan
removed to a safer vantage point, and the trouble began. It was a
fine “rough-house” while it lasted. The cushions were soon on the floor
and the combatants speedily followed them, bringing along a curtain
pole and two curtains. It was the pole that produced a cessation of
hostilities. In falling it came end first and Alf’s head happened to
be in the way. There was a yell, and when Tom removed himself from the
recumbent form of his chum, Alf was feeling of his head disgustedly.
[Illustration: “It was a fine ‘rough-house’ while it lasted.”]
“That fool thing always does that. I’ll bet my brain is just full of
holes.”
“Well, there’s something the matter with it,” laughed Tom.
Then they went at it again, around the study and up against the
table where the ink bottle was upset and a portion of its contents
distributed over the letter Tom had just written.
“There!” gasped Tom. “Look what you’ve done! Spoiled the stamp! And
I’ll have to address a new envelope.”
“You did it yourself, you clumsy brute,” answered Alf, rearranging
his attire. “But I’ll give you another stamp. It’s worth that much to
wallop you!”
“Huh! A lot of walloping you did!”
“I made you look like thirty cents, all right. Didn’t I, Dan?”
“I declare it a draw,” laughed Dan. “And I’m going to get out before
you do any more damage.”
“Oh, don’t go,” begged Alf. “Wait and see me lick him again. I’ve only
just begun on him.”
“Huh!” Tom grunted, seating himself at the table. “Say, Dan, wait a
second, like a good chap, and drop this in the mail for me. I’ll take
that stamp, Alf.”
“Haven’t got it just now. I’ll give you one some day, though. I always
pay my debts sooner or later.”
“I’ve got one,” Dan offered. “Toss me the letter.”
“There you are. Remind me that I owe it to you, Dan. That was the last
one I had. I can’t keep stamps. I believe Alf must eat them.”
“Well!” exclaimed Alf indignantly, “I’d just like to know who buys all
the stamps that are used in this room.”
“Not you, you old miser!”
“Tom, you must apologize for that, you really must!”
“Who to? Now, look here, sonny, if you start this again--!”
Dan made a hurried leap for the door and escaped the rush.
“Good-bye, you fellows!”
There was no answer, but as he closed the door behind him there came
the crash of an overturned chair. He paused, smiling, a little way down
the corridor and waited. From beyond the closed portal of Number 7 came
sounds resembling those of a small riot. Presently Dan walked heavily
back and rapped sharply on the door. Instantly the commotion ceased.
“Come in,” said a polite voice.
Dan opened the door. Alf, breathing heavily, was reading on the
window-seat and Tom was seated in a corner nonchalantly nursing one
knee.
“What’s all this noise I hear?” asked Dan, trying to imitate the
gruff tones of Mr. Austin, one of the instructors who roomed in the
building. There was a howl of rage from the occupants of the room and
Dan turned and fled. The joke kept him chuckling all the way around to
Oxford, where he posted Tom’s letter. Then he climbed the stairs to
his room in Clarke, threw open the door and paused on the threshold in
consternation.
In front of the washstand stood Gerald sopping his face with a
blood-stained towel. His nose was swollen and bleeding, his knuckles
were skinned and he was crying.
“Why, Gerald! What’s the matter?” cried Dan.
“N-nothing,” muttered Gerald, turning away.
“Nothing! Nothing be blowed! You’re a sight!” He drew the towel away
from the boy’s face. “Why, you’ve been fighting! Who hit you and how
did it happen? Here, let me take the towel. You sit down there and I’ll
fix you up. Who did it?”
“T-Thompson.”
“Who’s Thompson? And what did he hit you for?”
“I hit him fu-first.”
“Well, what was it about? Let’s see your hand. I should say you did hit
him! You’ll need some court plaster on those knuckles, my boy. Does
your nose hurt very much?”
“Yu-yes,” answered Gerald, struggling with his sobs.
“Well, never mind; don’t cry any more; it’ll feel better in a few
minutes.”
“I’m not cr-crying because it hurts,” sobbed Gerald, “I’m cr-crying
because he li-licked me!”