A VISIT FROM KILTS
It began to clear off about sunset time that evening. To the westward,
beyond Meeker’s Marsh, beyond the distant rolling hills, a gleam of
crimson dispelled the gray for a brief moment. Later, one by one, the
stars came out, and a little wind brushed the sky clear of clouds. It
was a cold, crisp evening, and Mr. McIntyre, looking out for a moment
before he drew the shades in his study, felt the attractions of fresh
air and exercise. Getting into a heavy plaid ulster, settling his funny
round cloth hat on his head, and taking his big Scotch oak walking
stick in hand, Kilts turned down his light and left the building.
He had been expecting some books by express for several days, and now
he would just walk down to the station and see if they were there.
He was a good walker, and once clear of the school grounds, he swung
his stick and stepped out vigorously. Overhead the millions of stars
sparkled whitely in a purple-black sky, shedding a faint radiance over
the snowy road and fields. Perhaps memory brought recollections of
just such tingling nights at home in the lowlands of Scotland, for he
paused once for a long while at the edge of the road and gazed off
across the fields and sighed ere he went on his way again.
At the station he found that his package had not yet been received.
As he turned to retrace his steps a long whistle reached him through
the silence, and he paused at the corner of the station to watch the
train come in. He always enjoyed that. He liked to see the glare sweep
down the track, listen to the mighty breath of the great iron monster
hurling itself out of the night, watch the lighted windows as they
flashed by, and wonder, as folks will who are quite out of the world of
travel, who were beyond them and why. Even an instructor of mathematics
may have imagination. But instead of thundering by, the train slackened
pace and came to a stop. Only a handful of travelers alighted, and they
were soon swallowed up in the semi-darkness outside the radius of the
station lights.
But two of the alighting travelers interested him. They were boys, and
Kilts believed that he recognized one of them. This one, the taller and
larger of the pair, passed not far from where Kilts stood. He carried
a suit-case into the station, and presently emerged without it. Then
he joined his companion, who was awaiting him in the shadow at the
farther end of the platform, and together they passed around to where
the carriages stood. Kilts, with no idea of spying, but merely to
satisfy a mild curiosity, went around the station at the other end and
walked down the asphalt there until he was within a few yards of the
carriage into which the two boys were clambering. He was right. The
larger of the two was Vinton. He wondered where that youth had been
to be returning to school so long after supper time. He recollected,
too, that Vinton had been absent from his class that afternoon. It
was quite likely, however, that he had permission to leave school,
Kilts reflected. Then the incident of the bag presented itself. Why
had Vinton left his bag at the station, since he had ridden up in
a carriage? That looked suspicious. Kilts wasn’t one to look for
trouble, but it seemed to him that here was something that would bear
investigation. He resolved to stop at the Office on his way to his room
and see whether Vinton had received permission to sign off.
Meanwhile the carriage containing the boys was rattling along over the
snowy, rutted road. Dan seemed suddenly very silent, and Gerald, who,
ever since his capitulation, had been in the highest spirits, wondered,
and presently asked the reason. After a moment’s hesitation Dan
answered:
“Kilts was down there at the station, Gerald, and I’m pretty certain he
recognized me.”
“Do you think he will tell?” asked Gerald anxiously.
“I don’t know. He saw me take your bag into the station. He was
standing at the corner. I didn’t notice him until I came out, and
I wasn’t certain then who he was. But he followed us around to the
carriage. I hope he didn’t see you to know you.”
“So do I,” said Gerald. “He’s got it in for me badly enough as it is.
But I hope you won’t get into trouble.”
“It won’t matter as long as he doesn’t find out who you are,” Dan
replied. Then he moved forward and engaged the driver in conversation,
swearing that worthy to secrecy. They dismissed the carriage at the
foot of the hill and walked up to school by way of the path. Their
precaution, however, proved unnecessary, for no one was in sight as
they made their way to Clarke. Nor did they meet a single person on
their way up the stairs and through the hall. Dan heaved a sigh of
relief as he closed the room door behind him. If Kilts didn’t prove
troublesome everything was all right.
“Jove!” he said as he took off his coat and looked curiously around the
room. “It seems like two or three days since I was here last. And I’ve
only been away eight hours! Get your things off, Gerald, and we’ll get
to work. What’s going to trouble you most to-morrow? You missed all
your recitations to-day, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Gerald answered, “but algebra is the only thing I’m afraid of.”
“All right. Get your books together and sit down. We’ll go over the
lesson together. I suppose you’ll have about five pages more to-morrow,
eh?” Dan brought his chair around beside Gerald’s. “This doesn’t look
awfully difficult. I don’t believe you really get your mind on it,
Gerald. Here, try this one and see how it goes. While you’re doing it
I’ll glance through my French.”
They were both studying very hard when, some twenty minutes later,
there came a knock at the door.
“Come,” called Dan, darting an apprehensive glance at his companion.
The door opened and in walked Kilts. The boys jumped to their feet.
“Good evening,” said Dan. “Will you sit down, sir?”
Kilts was tall and lean, his clean-shaven face surmounted by an unruly
shock of iron-gray hair. His eyes--they might have been gray or
blue--were deeply set and sharp as two gimlets. In age he was about
fifty. He still wore his queer old plaid ulster, without which he was
seldom seen abroad, no matter the season, and carried his cloth hat and
his stick in his hand. He answered Dan’s greeting, bowed to Gerald and
took the chair offered, settling his stick across his knees and laying
his hat carefully atop. Then with a glance about the room he smoothed
one lean cheek with his hand and fixed his gaze on Dan.
“I’m not wanting to be here, Vinton,” he said gravely but kindly. “But
I’ve got a question to ask you. I saw you at the station awhile ago,
eh?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dan.
“You’d been away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Without permission?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kilts’ gaze moved to Gerald, who, in his chair at the desk, was looking
intently at his book.
“There was a boy with you?”
Dan hesitated a moment. Then:
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“Who was he?”
“I’d rather not say, Mr. McIntyre.”
“Hum,” grunted Kilts. There was a moment of silence. Gerald took up a
pencil and began scrawling nervously on the margin of his book. Kilts
cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sorry. I’ll have to report this, Vinton.
You understand that?”
“Yes, sir. And--I’m sorry, too.”
“Well, well, maybe ’twill not be so bad. If you’re sorry, now, likely--”
“What I meant was,” said Dan with a smile, “that I was sorry for you,
sir.”
“Eh? Sorry for me?” Mr. McIntyre’s thick, grizzled eyebrows snapped
together.
“Why, yes, sir. I know you don’t like to have to report fellows,”
answered Dan.
“Hum! Well, no more I do, Vinton.” Kilts frowned, glanced at Gerald
and glanced away again. “Maybe there were circumstances, Vinton, that
extenuate your action,” he said finally with a hopeful note in his
voice. “Maybe, now, ’twas illness in the family; maybe ’twas necessary
for you to leave school suddenly--”
“It was, sir, very necessary,” replied Dan, “but it had nothing to do
with my family.”
“Well, well, maybe if you’d be telling me about it, now--”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” said Dan regretfully. “I wish I could. But
it concerns someone else.”
“Then you’re afraid you might get him into trouble?”
“Y-yes, sir.” He paused. Then he said frankly; “The fact, sir, is that
it was necessary for me to go to New York on the noon train; I can’t
tell you why it was necessary; and I only learned that I had to go just
a few minutes before the train left. The train was moving when I got on
it. So there was no time to get permission and sign off. I knew it was
against the rules, sir, but I couldn’t very well do anything else.”
“Well, well, it’s too bad,” said Kilts, “too bad! But I’ll speak a good
word for you. I would not be surprised if we were lenient, Vinton. As
for the other boy, now--” Kilts very carefully refrained from even a
glance toward Gerald--“why, I don’t know who he may be, and so I don’t
feel called on to mention him. But he must promise not to do anything
of the kind again. Do you think he will promise that?”
“I’m sure of it,” replied Dan earnestly and gratefully.
Kilts nodded.
“Good! Then I’ll say good-night. I fear I’ve kept you from study too
long already.” Mr. McIntyre took up his stick and hat and prepared to
rise, but Dan interrupted.
“Mr. McIntyre, sir, just a moment, please,” he begged. “I--I--there’s
something else, sir.”
Kilts laid his stick back across his knees and threw aside his ulster
again.
“Well?” he asked. Dan was silent a moment, formulating his thoughts.
Then:
“This other boy, sir,” he said, “it’s about him.” Kilts nodded and
Gerald stirred uneasily at the table. “You don’t know who he is, sir,
as you say, and so he--he isn’t likely to come into the affair. But I’d
like to tell you a little about him, as it can’t do him any harm.”
“Well, let me hear it,” said Kilts.
“I’ll call him--Moore,” said Dan, “but that isn’t his name. He--he
hasn’t been here very long. This is his first school. He has always
studied with tutors and there are some things he hasn’t got on very
well with. And one of them is mathematics.”
Kilts nodded inscrutably and Gerald leaned closer to his book.
“He’s in algebra now, sir,” Dan continued, “and he’s making hard work
of it. At first he really tried hard to understand it and get along,
but he couldn’t seem to make a go of it. Then he got discouraged and
I’m afraid he didn’t try so hard. You see, sir, there were other things
that were--were unpleasant. Moore’s father is a very prominent man and
a very wealthy one. And when Moore came here a good many of the fellows
took a dislike to him on that account. I suppose they thought that
Moore was stuck-up, although he really isn’t. But he isn’t the sort of
fellow that makes friends easily, sir; he’s a little bit shy. Well,
some of the fellows tried to make it unpleasant for him; called him
‘Miss Nancy’ and ‘Young Money-bags’ and things like that. Well, that
wasn’t pleasant, sir; and then he didn’t have any friends, only two or
three who had known him before he entered school, and he began to think
he was imposed on. Then there was the algebra. He couldn’t seem to make
a go at that; he fancied that the instructor was a bit down on him,
too, and you know that always discourages a fellow, sir.”
“Ay,” grunted Kilts.
“So one day, when he didn’t have his lesson, the instructor lost
patience with him and ragged him in front of the class and Moore
answered back. He hasn’t any excuse for that, sir, and he’s sorry now.
Of course he was reported and he was placed on probation. Well, he
ought to have kept his nerve and steadied down. But instead he sort of
went up in the air; thought everyone was down on him, nobody liked him,
and that he was pretty badly treated. So he made up his mind to--to
cut it out--leave school, you know.”
“Hum,” muttered Kilts as Dan paused an instant.
“The fact is, sir, he really thought that all he had to do was to
go home in order to leave school. He didn’t understand that it was
necessary for his father to withdraw him. He believed that when he left
Wissining the Faculty had nothing more to do with him. What I’m trying
to show you, sir, is that he didn’t mean to disobey rules, but just
quit altogether. Well, a friend of his learned about it three hours
after he had gone. This friend knew that if the Faculty heard of it
they might expel him. So he--he took the first train and went to the
other fellow’s home and found him and brought him back.”
“He was ready to come back?” asked Kilts.
“Yes. He wanted to come back, although he pretended he didn’t. You see,
sir, he--he had an idea that this friend of his had--had grown tired of
him and didn’t care about him any more. When he found that wasn’t so
he was glad to come back. If it would do any good he would go to the
Office and confess what he’d done, but it might result in his being
expelled. He doesn’t need punishment, sir, for he’s had a pretty tough
time of it already, and he won’t ever do anything of the kind again.
I’ve already promised that for him,” added Dan with a smile at the
professor.
For a moment there was silence. Kilts, leaning back in his chair,
observed Dan steadily out of his sharp eyes. Dan stood the ordeal
without a tremor. Then:
“And why have you told me this, Vinton?” asked Kilts suddenly.
“Because Moore is back here now, sir, and he intends to do the best he
can in everything, especially algebra. And I wanted you to know, sir,
that if he doesn’t get on very well it isn’t because he isn’t trying.
I’m going to help him all I can, sir,” said Dan earnestly. “I was going
over the lesson with him when you--”
Gerald’s pencil rolled to the floor and Dan brought himself up with
a jerk. But the only sign from Kilts was a momentary twinkle of the
deep-set eyes.
“And so he thinks the instructor is down on him, eh?” asked Mr.
McIntyre.
“He did think so, but I--but his friend made him understand that he was
wrong.”
“Really, and how did his friend do that? What did he say now, Vinton?”
“He said,” replied Dan gravely, “that the instructor was hard on
fellows when he thought they weren’t trying to get on; that he was a
good deal like anyone else, sir; had a temper--”
“Hum!” grunted Kilts.
“And lost it sometimes, like most folks. But that he was square and
just and would treat a fellow white if the fellow showed that he was
trying to do his work.”
Kilts seemed for the moment at a loss for something to say. Then he
cleared his throat.
“Well, and what did he say?” asked Kilts, with a nod toward Gerald.
“You mean what did _Moore_ say?” asked Dan politely.
“Yes, Moore; what did he say?”
“Well, he didn’t say much, sir; but he understood.”
“You think he did, eh? Think he believed you--I mean this friend of
his?”
“Yes, sir, I’m quite sure he did.”
Kilts was silent a moment. Finally:
“Then you tell him that that instructor will give him fair-play. Tell
him to do his best and not be touchy when the instructor loses that bad
temper of his.”
“Thank you, sir, I will,” answered Dan gratefully. Mr. McIntyre got up
with a grunt that might have meant most anything and began to button
his ulster about his gaunt form. In the process his feet wandered
toward the table. Gerald kept his head over his book.
“Ah--hum--that your algebra, Pennimore?” asked Kilts, pointing at the
book.
“Yes, sir,” murmured Gerald without looking up.
“Been--been looking it over, have you?”
“Yes, sir, a little.”
“Hm. I didn’t see you in class this morning, did I?”
“Er--no, sir.”
“Thought so. Well, to-morrow we take--let me see.” Kilts laid his stick
and hat on the table and leaned over the book. “Yes, we take four pages
and a half. To here. Mark it there. That’s right. Had any trouble with
it so far?”
Gerald shot a bewildered look across at Dan’s smiling countenance and
read reassurance.
“Yes, sir, I have. I--I don’t seem to understand it, sir,” he added
pathetically.
“Because you don’t try to!” said Kilts with a trace of asperity.
“You’ve just made up your mind that algebra is something you don’t need
and that you’ll just fiddle through it the easiest way; just learn
enough to get your marks. I know. Half you fellows think that. You
don’t any of you understand that mathematics is a grand study. Why, you
talk about romance, my boy! Here it is, right here!” And he thumped
the open book with the back of one big hand. “The Romance of Figures!
Why, ’tis a wonderful, marvelous thing, my lad, this mathematics. ’Tis
as full of romance and beauty as a garden of flowers! You don’t look
beyond the surface; you don’t think! An’ ye go at it right, laddie,
with open eyes and an open heart ye’ll love it!”
Kilts stopped and shook his head patiently.
“But ye won’t believe me. I know. You’re like the rest. You think I’m
just an old fool with a hobby for figures, a dried-up old curmudgeon
with no feelings, and no manners--”
“Oh, please, sir!” begged Gerald miserably.
“There, there, laddie! ’Twas ill said! Think no more of it!” Kilts
patted the boy’s shoulder and smiled down kindly at his distressed
face. “Now show me what you don’t understand.” He looked around for
a chair, and Dan, anticipating his want, placed one for him. Kilts
produced his glasses from his pocket, unceremoniously pushed the litter
of books and papers away from in front of him so that several would
have fallen to the floor had not Dan rescued them in time and drew the
algebra toward him. “What is it that’s puzzling that young brain of
yours, my boy?”
Dan went quietly to his chair across the table and bent over his
French. But he didn’t do much studying. The voices of Kilts and Gerald
broke the silence at intervals, Gerald’s apologetic, inquiring, Kilts’
patient, persuasive. Half an hour went by. Then:
“What did I say?” exclaimed Mr. McIntyre triumphantly. “Concentrate,
concentrate, Pennimore! Put your mind on what you’re doing. There’s not
an example in that whole book that won’t come just as easy as that one
has, if you put your mind to it. Look now, laddie, that’s not just a
mess of little figures; ’tis a story, a little romance waiting for you
to translate it. Remember that, lad, and maybe ’twill come easier.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Gerald gratefully. “I--I don’t think
I’ll have so much trouble after this, sir. Anyhow, I’m going to try
very hard, sir.”
“That’s right, that’s right,” answered Kilts, patting him on the arm
as he lifted his long length out of the chair. “Put your mind on it;
concentrate, concentrate! You’ll do finely yet. Good-night, good-night,
boys.”
“Good-night, sir,” they echoed. Dan went to the door with the
instructor and held it open.
“I’ll report to the Office to-morrow, sir,” he said.
“Eh? Well, well, I wouldn’t do that,” said Kilts slowly. There was
a twinkle in his eye. “Wait ’till you hear, Vinton, wait ’till you
hear.” He lowered his voice. “Fact is, my boy, I’m getting along and
my memory isn’t what it used to be. I might forget; there’s no telling.
Yes, I might forget.”
And Kilts went off down the corridor. Dan thought that he heard a
chuckle.