GETTING ACQUAINTED
A boy of seventeen followed the suit case, and the first occupant of
Number 17 sighed with relief. Walter Harrison Treat looked more than
possible as a roommate. He was fairly tall, rather thin, wore excellent
but unobtrusive clothes and observed Clif with sober inquiry through
a pair of spectacles. Being made with a very light gold frame, the
spectacles were not especially apparent, and a second relieved sigh
escaped Clif. It would have been a horrible thing had Treat worn those
staring, tortoise-shell contraptions. Clif was certain he could never
live through the school year with a pair of mandarin spectacles!
They shook hands, Clif with warmth, Walter with a polite reserve that
the other soon learned to be natural with him. Then they talked,
carefully avoiding apparent interest in each other’s affairs. Even
so, however, certain facts regarding Walter were laid bare. He lived
in Boston. Well, not exactly _in_ Boston, you understand, but just
outside; West Newton, to be exact. This was his third year here. He had
entered as a Junior. Last year he had roomed in East Hall. He thought
he might like this better, as it seemed quieter. Over there, the
Juniors had the first and second floors and were a noisy lot. He was a
third classman this year. By rights he should be in the second class,
but he had begun school late, owing to illness when he was thirteen.
What did Clif think of the school?
Presently they selected beds, closets, chiffoniers, window seats and
chairs at the study table, choosing alternately after Clif, at Walter’s
insistence, had spoken first. Then Clif started unpacking, and Walter,
whose trunk had not yet arrived, took himself off to report at the
Office. Twenty minutes sufficed to transfer the contents of trunk and
bag to drawers and closet, and then, since Walter had not returned,
Clif slipped his coat on again and went downstairs. The scene below
had changed since he had last viewed it. Boys congregated thickly
about the Office, wandered in and out of the recreation room, and
liberally sprinkled themselves over the steps outside. Clif went out
and perched himself near the bottom of the flight. It was not so warm
now. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to four. His father would
be somewhere about Hartford, he guessed; that is, barring trouble with
that soft tire. He hoped there had been no trouble, for his father
usually left tire changing to him. Clif smiled. He guessed his father
would make pretty hard work of putting on a new tire! Then the smile
faded. He was going to miss his father a good deal, he told himself.
They had been together so much, that it seemed strange to think that he
wasn’t to see him again for a fortnight. He guessed his father would
miss him, too. Maybe it was going to be harder for dad than for him!
He wondered why he had decided on Wyndham, when there were so many
schools near home which he could have attended as a day student. Well,
that was just the reason, wasn’t it? They had both thought it would be
better if he went far enough away so that he would get the benefit of
school life. “You pick the place yourself, son,” Mr. Bingham had said.
“I don’t care what the price is, only see that you get your money’s
worth.” And so, after months of indecision during which he had perused
a veritable library of prospectuses and catalogues, Clif had chosen the
John Wyatt Wyndham Preparatory School for Boys for no better reason
than that while looking through the program of last year’s Brown and
Dartmouth game he had paused at a half-tone picture of a clean, earnest
looking youth in football togs and idly read the lines beneath it:
“E. W. Langley, Jr., End. Class of 1923, age 21, weight 169,
height 5 ft. 11 in. Cooperstown, N. Y. Prepared at Wyndham
School.”
Clif had watched “Wuzzy” Langley play football, and “Wuzzy” had become
very close to hero size in Clif’s estimation, and it seemed to him that
a school that could turn out fellows like “Wuzzy,” fellows who played
wonderful football and whose names were synonymous with all that was
clean and healthy and manly, was exactly the school he was looking for.
That evening he told his father that he had decided on a school, and
Mr. Bingham, after learning his reason for choosing Wyndham, gravely
agreed that he had undoubtedly made a wise selection. If Mr. Bingham
was secretly amused he didn’t show it. So Clif wrote for literature
and studied it interestedly. Even if the description and pictures sent
to him had been disappointing he would still have gone to Wyndham, but
they weren’t. On the contrary, what he read increased his enthusiasm,
and after that, until he received assurance from “J. Coles, Secretary,”
that he had been admitted, he was on tenterhooks.
It wasn’t until close to the time for departure that the thought
of being separated from his father began to dampen his pleasure of
anticipation. There were days, toward the last, when he would have
backed down had Mr. Bingham given him the slightest encouragement.
Keeping on at high school seemed plenty good enough then. But Mr.
Bingham kept on smiling cheerfully and the fatal day grew nearer and
nearer and――then one September morning they were speeding off in the
car, Clif’s trunk in the tonneau, and the die was cast.
Clif’s somewhat doleful reminiscences were broken into by the tooting
of a motor horn down the drive, and a big blue bus rolled past to East
Hall and disgorged nearly a score of very small, very noisy boys. “The
infant class has arrived,” said a youth behind Clif. A second bus
paused at West Hall and a dozen or so older fellows went crowding past,
bag laden, exchanging greetings. A load of trunks passed around the
side of the wing. The tall clock in the reception room chimed out four
o’clock. Another automobile, a hired vehicle, crowded to the steps and
four more laughing, sun-browned fellows piled out of it and dragged
suit cases and bags to the gravel while one of the number haggled
amusingly with the driver. When the new arrivals had disappeared inside
Clif remembered Kemble and wondered if that objectionable youth had
been released from his session with Mr. Wyatt, and, if he had, whether
he was even now preparing for his exodus. Judging from the expression
Clif had seen on his face, Kemble’s chance of remaining at Wyndham
was mighty slim! Well, Clif guessed the school would be well rid of
him. Fellows who hadn’t the common decency to mind their own affairs
and――and didn’t know any better than to sit and gloat over another
chap’s――another chap’s――well, embarrassment, weren’t wanted at a school
like Wyndham. No, sir! Only――well, when you came to think of it, it was
sort of tough to get turned down like that. And the fellow was kind
of nice looking, too; and there had been something about him. Sort
of――sort of appealing. Or――or something. Oh, well, Clif didn’t wish him
any ill luck. If they let him stay it wouldn’t make any difference to
Clif. There’d be room enough for both of them in a school that looked
after a hundred and ninety fellows!
Presently he got up and climbed the stairs again to Number 17. Walter
Treat’s trunk had arrived and he was unpacking. Clif sat down on a
window seat and watched. Walter was astonishingly methodical and
particular. It took him many minutes to dispose of a couple of dozen
collars to his liking in the left-hand top drawer of his chiffonier,
and he rearranged his five pairs of shoes exactly three times along the
bottom shelf of his closet. Clif began to wonder if he was going to
like Walter Treat, after all. Conversation was desultory, consisting
mainly of questions from Clif and answers from Walter. The latter was
parsimonious of information, then and ever after. It seemed to be
Walter’s philosophy to never offer anything not asked for and then
to give as little as possible of it. But by dint of requestioning
Clif managed to elicit information regarding school customs and rules
which he stood in need of; information regarding the hours for meals,
the location of class rooms, the time of rising and so on. With his
father――they had reached Freeburg at half-past twelve and had luncheon
at the Inn before proceeding to the school――Clif had been conducted
through the buildings by one of the faculty and had everything shown
and explained. But there were certain details that Mr. Frost, Latin
instructor and Assistant to the Principal, had neglected, and it was
these that Clif now obtained, not without difficulty, from Walter.
“What sort of a chap is this Mr. McKnight?” Clif inquired. “He’s my
adviser, you know.”
“‘Lovey’? Not a bad sort. He’s Chem.”
“Yes, I know, but is he――is he a young man or a fossil?”
“About twenty-eight, I believe. Haven’t seen him yet?”
“No, I’ve got a date at seven-thirty to fix up my schedule. I’m glad
he’s youngish. And how about Wyatt?”
“You won’t like him. ‘Alick’s’ a tartar. But you won’t have him more
than four hours a week. He’s English Lit.”
“Do you have McKnight, too?”
“For adviser? No, ‘Cheese’ is my ‘nurse.’ He’s French. You don’t have
him until next year.”
“Is Cheese his real name, or――”
“Parks, Charles Parks. They call him ‘Charlie’ sometimes.”
“Do they all have pet names?” asked Clif.
“Naturally. There’s ‘Old Brad’ and ‘Lovey’ and ‘Pink’ and ‘Cocky’――and
‘Wim’――”
“Who’s ‘Cocky’?”
“Babcock, Physical Director and Hygiene. ‘Wim’s’ Head of the Junior
School. It’s run separate, you know. Then there’s ‘The Turk’ and――” But
possibly Walter realized that he was offering unsolicited information,
for he stopped short, selected a towel from a neat pile in a lower
drawer and made for the lavatory. Clif hugged a knee and watched the
shadows creep across the courtyard. Life didn’t look promising to him
just then. This fellow Treat――well, Clif didn’t believe he was going
to find him just what his name implied. Sort of a “frozen-face,” he
seemed. Maybe you were like that if you came from Boston. Still, there
had been a corking chap at the beach last month who had hailed from the
Hub, too. Too bad he wasn’t to have Benson for a pal instead of Walter
Treat. Even that cheeky Kemble was more――more human, Clif grudgingly
acknowledged. He got up and sent a difficult look toward Mr. Wyatt’s
window. It was empty now and the room was full of shadows. His watch
proclaimed four-forty. There remained, then, an hour and twenty minutes
before dinner――no, supper. Funny scheme, having supper in the evening
and dinner at midday. He didn’t suppose he was going to like that at
first. Well, there were probably plenty of other things he wouldn’t
like any better! He guessed there wasn’t any school that was as nice
as a fellow’s own home. Thinking of the square, brick house back in
Providence made him feel decidedly unhappy. Pretty soon――well, not yet,
but in another two or three hours――the lights would come out all over
the city, and from the window of his room up there on the hill it was
like looking down on fairyland. Sophie would be trotting to the front
door about now, looking for the evening paper. She always got it first
and took it back to the pantry and read the love story and the beauty
hints before any one else could get hold of it. And pretty soon dad
would come walking up the hill, the Boston financial paper held in one
gloved hand, his silver-knobbed stick in the other――no, he wouldn’t
either; not this evening. Clif looked at his watch again. His father
ought to be somewhere around Willimantic now; maybe further; he had a
way of “stepping on it” when the road was clear that was a caution!
Clif wished mightily that he was in that softly purring car this minute!
Walter came back, looking annoyingly virtuous for having washed up, and
Clif said he guessed he’d walk around a bit. He would have been glad if
Walter had offered to accompany him, as little as that youth’s society
would have appealed to him under other circumstances, but Walter didn’t
offer. He just said “Yes,” in that irritatingly noncommittal way of
his. Clif took up his cap and went out and down the stairs and so,
presently, into the late sunshine. Well, it was a heap better than that
gloomy room, he told himself, and the threatened attack of homesickness
disappeared. He walked down the drive and out at the wide gate at the
corner of the grounds and on to Oak Street. He knew it was Oak Street
because a neat sign told him so. The village proper began a block south
with comfortable if unpretentious residences that presently merged into
the business district. The hotel, the Freeburg Inn, at which they had
eaten a very satisfactory luncheon, was across the wide, elm-shaded
street. Beyond it was a short block of two-story brick store buildings;
a busy, modern looking drug store, a hardware emporium with one window
devoted to football and other sporting goods, a dry goods store, a
grocery displaying a colorful array of canned fruit, a real-estate
and insurance office. There were more stores on the other side, and
then, at the corner, the Town Hall; and the library beyond that, where
the street branched and a tiny patch of park surrounded a memorial
fountain. At the apex of the junction a small fire house offered,
through a wide doorway, an arresting glimpse of red paint and shining
brass. Clif paused to look in at the apparatus, wondering why an alarm
of fire never came in while a fellow was on hand to get the benefit of
it! Beyond the fire house more residences bordered the quiet stretch
of recently sprinkled asphalt, but they offered small interest to the
boy and he crossed to the other side of Oak Street and loitered back,
stopping before each window until he had exhausted its possibilities
for entertainment. He managed to kill more than a half hour in this
wise, and got back to West Hall about half after five to find Number 17
empty and dark. The room, however, looked quite cheerful after he had
switched on the lights, and he got a magazine he had brought with him
and read until a few minutes to six. He was still slicking down his wet
hair when a gong clanged thrice somewhere below. He put out the lights
and, suddenly aware of a very healthy appetite, set out for the dining
hall.