“LOVEY” McKNIGHT
The dining hall occupied the ground floor of the rear section of West
Hall, a spacious room of oak beams and rough gray plaster, of paneled
walls and many high windows. On either side, like soldiers on parade,
eight white-draped tables were spaced. There was, also, a seventeenth
table, but this was in the corner beyond the door that led to Middle
Hall, and, whereas the other tables held twelve persons each, the
seventeenth accommodated only Doctor Wyndham; Mr. Frost, his assistant;
Miss Coles, the secretary; and Mrs. Flood, Junior School matron. At the
head of each of the eight tables along the farther wall sat a faculty
member; in Wyndham School parlance, a “fac”; and his surveillance
included not only the board at which he sat but also the one directly
across from it. Seats at tables bearing even numbers were much sought
after since those were the ones lacking, as one might say, local
government. Clif, though, wasn’t aware of good fortune when he found
himself seated at Table 12; beyond, that is, the good fortune of being
provided a place where food was supplied.
There was nothing especially remarkable about any of his table
companions, he decided after furtive study. Many of the eleven were of
about his own age; three or four were older. One of the latter sat at
the head of the board, a broadshouldered, athletic-looking fellow of
possibly eighteen with good features and a pleasant, crisp voice. He
didn’t talk much, however. Clif mentally catalogued him as a person
of importance, probably a football or crew captain. The boy on his
right was thin and nervous and ate a great deal. The one on his left
was neither thin nor nervous, but, or so it seemed to Clif, equally
heroic with the food. Directly opposite sat a short youth with a large,
square head and hair that grew erect and was very thick and coarse and
black. This youth had table manners never learned from any book of
etiquette, Clif thought. It was evident that the members of Table 12
were not yet well acquainted, for conversation was neither general nor
frequent. Clif applied himself diligently to the matter of satisfying
his appetite, finding more food than sufficient and of an excellent
quality; then, having finished, made his way out again.
His course took him around the end of Table 10, and as he passed he
was surprised to find himself spoken to. “Hi, Bingham,” said a voice.
Clif looked, expecting to see Walter Treat, but the boy who had spoken,
seated at the farther side of the table, was Kemble. He waved the
half of a muffin and followed his hail with: “Wait around, will you?
I want to speak to you.” Clif nodded and went on. So, it appeared,
Kemble had survived the ordeal after all! Probably he wanted to arrange
about that scrap in the morning. Evidently he was a man of his word
and didn’t intend to attempt a back-down. Clif followed some other
fellows along the corridor, past the reading room and library on one
side and the offices on the other, and reached the recreation room. The
place appeared pretty well filled, but, after a moment’s hesitation
at the doorway, he saw that there were still vacant seats along the
leather-cushioned bench that followed the walls from door to great
stone fireplace. He picked his way between the chattering groups and
found a place by one of the front windows and looked about him.
The recreation room was a big square apartment filled with chairs and
couches and game tables. Already several games of chess or checkers
were in progress, and Clif wondered how the players could put their
minds on their problems with such a din of talk and laughter going
on about them. There was one huge table in the center of the room,
and from it half a dozen fellows swung their feet and took part in a
loud discussion with the occupants of several clustered chairs. Clif
couldn’t make out what the subject under consideration was, because
they all talked at once, but it was undoubtedly important since several
of the assemblage were gesticulating excitedly and getting quite red of
face. Clif watched for a minute or two and then turned his gaze to a
checker battle being waged a few feet distant between two absorbed and
silent opponents. He had become quite interested in it when some one
squeezed down beside him on the bench and claimed his attention.
“Well, I didn’t have any luck,” announced Kemble.
“How do you mean? Aren’t you going to stay?” Clif took pains to keep
all trace of interest from his voice.
“That’s it,” replied Kemble. “I am. Wyatt said he ought to turn me
down, but that that would be too easy on me. Said he was going to pass
me and devote the next three years to letting light in on the dark
places. Or something insulting like that. Anyway, I’ve got to stay.”
“But don’t you _want_ to?” asked Clif, surprised.
Kemble shook his head gravely. “I don’t know. Of course I did want to
when I came, but Wyatt got me scared so I was dead sure I couldn’t,
and so I had it all planned to go back home. And now he’s gone and
double-crossed me and I’ve got to――to readjust myself, so to say. Isn’t
that the dickens?”
Clif eyed the other suspiciously. “I guess you’ll live through it,” he
said coldly. “What class are you?”
“Third. You, too, I suppose.”
Clif nodded. “Funny you being shy on English. The course doesn’t look
hard in the catalogue.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose it’s hard. I just never got up much interest in
those guys that wrote literature. I’m pretty fair on math and Latin and
history and the rest of the junk, though. Well, I’ll just have to make
the best of it, I suppose. Got your schedule fixed up yet?”
“No, I’m to see Mr. McKnight at half-past seven.”
“We’ll probably get the same hours, mostly,” mused Kemble. “Fellow
sufferers, we twain!”
“Gee, if you don’t want to study or anything, what did you come here
for?” demanded Clif impatiently.
“Thunder! You don’t suppose I came because I wanted to, do you?” asked
Kemble incredulously. “I wanted to stay where I was, at Morristown. I
was dead sure of the First Team this fall, too, hang it!”
“Where’s Morristown, and what First Team do you mean?”
“New Jersey, of course. High School Team. I’d made the backfield
certain if I’d been there. I nearly did it last year.”
“Well, you can play football here, can’t you?”
“Yes, and you can jump out the third-story window, but that doesn’t
mean you’re going to fly! A swell chance I’d have to make the team
here, Bingham! Oh, well!”
“I guess it’s just a question of playing well enough. I’m going to try,
anyhow.”
“That so? Played much? What school?”
“I haven’t played much, no,” answered Clif, “but I mean to. I played on
our Second Team last fall, but just as a sub. I was too light. I’ve put
on eight or ten pounds since then, though.”
“Back?”
“End.”
“Half back’s mine. Still, I’d play――play center if they’d let me! Best
you and I’ll make, though, is a class team or a hall team, or whatever
they have here. Well, if the old high school gets licked this year
it’ll be Wyatt’s fault.”
Clif laughed, and then, remembering that here was an enemy, he froze up
quickly. “I guess it would worry him to know that,” he remarked with
immense sarcasm. “Look here, Kemble, how about to-morrow?”
“To-morrow?” Kemble looked blank.
“Yes, to-morrow,” answered Clif sternly. “You needn’t pretend you’ve
forgotten.”
“Oh, that! I really had forgotten, though; give you my word, Bingham.
Why, any time you say. That is, if you really want to go on with it.”
“I certainly do,” answered Clif emphatically. “Unless,” he added after
an instant, “you care to apologize.” He hoped, when he had said it,
that his tone hadn’t sounded as eager to Kemble as it had to him!
“Apologize? Sure! Why not?” replied the other readily. “That’s much the
best way, eh? You know, I’m about a dozen pounds heavier than you, old
scout, and a couple of inches taller, too, and I guess――here, put your
arm out.” Clif obeyed and Kemble tucked his fingers under the other’s
armpit. “Just as I thought. I can outreach you by two inches.”
“That makes no difference,” declared Clif warmly. “You said you’d fight
me――”
“Yes, I know,” broke in Kemble soothingly, “but I’ve apologized,
haven’t I?”
“No, you haven’t. You merely said you were willing to.”
“Oh, gosh, why the formality? All right, though. I apologize, Bingham,
for――I say, what the dickens _do_ I apologize for?”
His perplexity was so genuine that Clif’s severity relaxed in spite
of himself. It was, he decided, no use trying to stay angry with this
chap, and having reached that decision he felt much relieved, and
laughed frankly at the puzzled Kemble. Whereupon Kemble’s brow cleared
and he grinned back.
“You’re a perfect ass,” declared Clif indulgently.
“No one is perfect,” Kemble demurred modestly, “although some of us do
come pretty close.”
“Just the same, you were a good deal of a rotter to sit there and――and
make fun――”
“Yes, I was, Bingham, and I’m sorry. I apologize, honestly. It isn’t
much of an excuse, I know, but――but I wasn’t feeling very chipper
myself.”
Clif nodded. Kemble, of course, was referring to that session with Mr.
Wyatt. Then:
“Maybe,” added Kemble more constrainedly, “I’ll tell you about it some
time.”
“Oh!” said Clif, for want of anything better. Kemble was staring
frowningly at the nearby checker board. Observing him, Clif sensed
a matter more serious than the recent English quiz. A silence that
might have become slightly awkward in another moment was dispelled by
the golden tones of the clock across the corridor. They reached Clif
even above the noise of the room, and he sprang to his feet. “Gee!
Seven-thirty! I’ve got to beat it, Kemble. Listen; I――”
“Go ahead. I’m with you.”
In the corridor, where half a dozen boys were awaiting their turns at
the telephone booths outside the Office, Kemble said, “Look for me in
Assembly Hall at eight, eh? I’ll stick around the door.”
“Right-o!” agreed Clif, making for the stairs. “Wear a red carnation,
will you?”
Kemble grinned and waved.
Although Clif reached his appointment several minutes late he had to
wait several more minutes while Mr. McKnight disposed of a previous
visitor, and he used the time in making an interested and approving
examination of his surroundings. There were four faculty suites in each
of the two dormitory buildings, and Mr. McKnight occupied Number 19,
W., just around the corner from Clif’s room. Number 19, however, didn’t
resemble Number 17 much. The study was a big, nearly square room with
windows on two sides. Back of it, visible between parted draperies of
dark blue, was the bedroom, and from that opened a bathroom of white
tiling and gleaming nickel. But it was the study that enthralled Clif.
Everything about it was so homelike and jolly. There was a small grand
piano by the nearer window with a gorgeous silk prayer rug laid across
it. Before the fireplace ran a huge couch that simply begged to be
lolled in, and there was a shaded light behind one corner, in exactly
the right place for reading. Rugs covered the floor, pictures――good
ones, too, Clif was certain――peered down from the pleasant dimness of
paneled walls, bookcases flanked the chimney. Here and there a deep
chair; its leather cushion a mite shabby from honorable service, held
forth inviting arms. Beside one, on a low stand, lay a blackened pipe,
a magazine, opened face-down, and a heavy brass paper knife. For the
first time Clif discerned advantages in the profession of pedagogy. If
a fellow could live in a room like this, why, gee, teaching wouldn’t be
so bad!
Mr. McKnight sat at the farther side of a desk table, the light from a
green-shaded lamp cutting him off at the top button of his waistcoat
and leaving his face in mellow shadow. But when Clif had taken the
chair across the polished expanse of mahogany surface the instructor’s
countenance was plainly visible. Mr. McKnight was the youngest member
of the faculty, being but twenty-eight. Although his first name was
Godfrey, he was popularly known as “Lovey.” The reason was obscure.
Some said that he had brought the nickname with him from college,
others that it had been conferred upon him after he had arrived at
Wyndham, but none could say why. Clif didn’t consider that the name
suited. In the first place, “Lovey” was rather a large man, dark
haired, keen eyed and deep voiced; and, after that, there was nothing
at all effeminate in his manner nor affectionate in the tone in which
he had bade Clif exchange the chair by the door for that at the table.
“Your name’s Clifton Bingham,” said Mr. McKnight briskly. “You’re in
the Third Class.”
Clif assented, watching the instructor take a gray oblong of cardboard
from a drawer and begin to write on it. The writing was small and
extremely neat and legible.
“You have five prescribed courses in this term, of a total of eighteen
hours, Bingham, as I presume you know. I include Hygiene, two hours,
and I mention it because formerly one didn’t get it until Second Class
year.” His pen moved rapidly and certainly. “There are two other
courses open to you, either of which you may elect if you care to.
They’re both ‘snap’ courses, you know, Bingham, and won’t strain you
any. But if I were you I’d leave them alone this year; at least until
the next term. I find that you chaps have plenty of work if you do it
right. All right. Now about athletics.” Mr. McKnight laid his pen down,
pushed the gray card aside and folded his hands. “Anything in that line
appeal to you?”
“I’m going out for football, sir,” said Clif.
“Good. You understand that regular participation in some recognized
sport is demanded, and that in any case you are required to attend
gymnasium classes unless excused by the Physical Instructor, Mr.
Babcock. If you are taken permanently on to one of the football squads
you won’t have to bother with gym stuff for a while. See Mr. Babcock
to-morrow, by the way. You’ll find him in his office in the gymnasium
from nine to twelve. Or you can get him at his study in East Hall,
probably. Better look this over and then put it somewhere where you can
refer to it until you’ve got your hours memorized.”
He indicated the schedule and Clif picked it up and, after a somewhat
vague examination, placed it in a pocket. Mr. McKnight asked about
his roommate, about his football experience and about himself, and
Clif gradually sank back against the chair and felt more at ease. Mr.
McKnight leaned back, too, and listened and watched. Clif told about
Providence and high school and his father and, before he realized it,
how he had decided on Wyndham School. Mr. McKnight chuckled then, but
it was a genial, understanding sort of chuckle, and Clif smiled in
response, and after that the instructor didn’t seem so awe-inspiring.
“That,” said Mr. McKnight, “reminds me of the story of the boy whose
father and mother wanted him to go to college but who wasn’t keen
on it himself. His father wanted Jack to go to Princeton and his
mother wanted him to go to Harvard. (You can swap the names around to
suit yourself, Bingham. I’m a Princeton man, and I’m telling it the
Princeton way.) Jack didn’t care where he went, you understand, and so,
after his parents had argued the matter for weeks, he said, ‘Tell you
what, Dad. I’ll toss a coin. If it comes down heads, you win and I go
to Princeton. If it comes down tails, Ma wins and I go to Harvard.’ So
they agreed and Jack tossed up a quarter and when it fell and stopped
rolling, there it was leaning up against the leg of a chair, straight
on edge! Jack took a look at it and kicked it down the register. ‘It’s
a “dud.” I’ve got to go to Yale!’”
Clif laughed, but not so heartily as he might have if he had not at
that period been vacillating between Yale and Brown as a scene for
future scholastic and athletic triumphs!
A few minutes later Mr. McKnight said, “I’d like to remind you,
Bingham, that an adviser is one who supplies advice. Most fellows think
his business is only to get them out of trouble. Well, I’m always glad
to do all I can in that way, but you chaps ought to remember that
prevention is better than cure and that if you come here for advice
you’re not likely to come back later for help. Just bear that in mind,
won’t you? And bear in mind that I’ve been through just what you and
all the rest of you are going through――and not so long ago, either――and
know pretty well what your problems and temptations are. So don’t think
I’m no use to you except to advise you about your studies. Studies,
school work, are a small part of your life here. The real problems and
the biggest worries are likely to concern your relationship with your
fellows, your attitude toward the school, your social and athletic
interests. Very often the smallest problems are the hardest to solve,
Bingham. Well, when you run up against something that you can’t settle
to your own satisfaction come and see me and we’ll talk it over. Maybe
we’ll find the answer that way, maybe we won’t; but it always helps to
talk it over. Sort of blows the fog away. You’ll find me here in the
evenings, generally, and always between five and six. And that reminds
me: Friday evenings, after study hour, we get together here and have a
sort of quiet shindig; talk a good deal, have a little music, maybe,
and get acquainted. Not much in the way of excitement, you know, but
usually a pleasant time is had by all. Drop in as often as you can,
Bingham, and bring a friend with you.” Mr. McKnight glanced at his
watch. “You’ve just time to make assembly hall before the fun starts.
Good night. Drop in often, Bingham. You don’t have to wait for a Friday
evening, you know.”
Traversing the dimly lighted corridor of Middle Hall, past the gloomy
caverns of the darkened class rooms, Clif was sensible of a new
cheerfulness. The echoes aroused by the brisk tramp of his feet on the
old, worn floor sounded almost friendly to him.