WATTLES USES COERCION
“Is it necessary, sir, for Tom Kemble to ask for permission to cut
study hour himself?”
“How’s that?” asked Mr. McKnight, smiling. “If Kemble cut study hour he
would have to do it himself, wouldn’t he Bingham?”
“Yes, sir. I meant, does he have to ask himself?”
“It would be much better if he asked me, or one of the other faculty
members,” responded “Lovey” gravely. “His own permission, supposing he
obtained it, would hardly be sufficient, I fear.”
Clif laughed. For once he didn’t find Mr. McKnight’s fooling very
funny, but he must be diplomatic. “I guess I can’t say it right, sir,
but you know mighty well what I mean.”
“I suspect I do, Bingham. Kemble wants to be excused from study hour,
and has sent you as his ambassador. I am to presume, I fancy, that
he is too ill to make the request himself. Or does he think that
you’ll prove more successful than he would?” Mr. McKnight’s eyes were
twinkling.
“No, sir,” answered Clif earnestly, “it really isn’t that way, Mr.
McKnight. He――he isn’t able to come.”
“I’m sorry. It isn’t anything serious, I hope.” The instructor’s voice
was so genuinely sympathetic that Clif felt ashamed of the deception
he was attempting.
“I don’t think so, sir. He didn’t go down to supper, but I guess he
will be all right by morning.”
“I hope so. I’m not so sure, though, you shouldn’t have gone to some
one on Kemble’s floor. He’s in 34, isn’t he? However, as you are acting
in his behalf, and you are on my floor, I’ll take the responsibility of
excusing him. Is he in bed?”
“N-no, sir. That is, he wasn’t when I was up there.”
“Oh, better tell him to get to bed, Bingham. That’s the best place for
him, no matter what’s wrong. Probably just an upset of his tummy. You
chaps take awful chances, the way in which you stuff yourselves with
sweet chocolate and peanuts and Heaven only knows what! By the way,
Kemble’s on restriction, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. He got in wrong with ‘Alick’――I mean Mr. Wyatt!”
Mr. McKnight’s nose twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Too bad. I dare say
that’s upset him somewhat, too. I’ll look in on him a little later and
see if he needs anything.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t, sir,” said Clif hurriedly, striving to keep the
sound of panic from his voice. “I think he means to go to sleep.”
“Best thing for him. Tell him it’s all right about study hour, Bingham,
and that he’s to get into bed. I don’t want to find him up, reading
stories, when I call!”
“Yes, sir――I mean no, sir!” stammered Clif. “I’ll tell him. I don’t
believe he’d want you to bother about looking in on him, though.”
Then, seeing or fancying he saw, the dawning of suspicion in “Lovey’s”
eyes, Clif abandoned that line quickly. “Well, thank you, sir.”
“Not at all, Bingham.” When the visitor had gone Mr. McKnight protruded
his lower lip, closed his eyes slightly and stared thoughtfully at the
ink-well. Finally he shook his head. “If it were any one but Bingham,
now,” he murmured, “I’d be inclined to suspect that something had been
put over on me!”
Upstairs again, in Number 34, Clif related to Billy Desmond, in a
somewhat small voice, the result of his visit. “Gee, if he does come
up it’s all off! What’ll I do, Billy? I didn’t lie to him, but he will
think I did, and I’d hate that!”
“Huh,” said Billy, pinching his nose as an aid to concentration of
thought, “there’s just one chance, Clif, and we’ll have to risk it.”
From his closet he gathered an armful of clothing, turned down Tom’s
immaculate bed, heaped the clothing on the sheet and pulled blankets
and coverlet back into place. From the end of the room the illusion
was only fairly successful, but when Billy had turned the light out,
and opened the corridor door, admitting the wan radiance from without,
none but the most suspicious would have doubted that Tom lay there fast
asleep, his head covered by the sheet. Billy chuckled approvingly.
Then he threw a pair of his own trousers and a towel, and an old coat
over the back of the chair by Tom’s bed and tucked a pair of shoes
underneath it. After that, still chuckling at intervals, Billy got his
books and closed the door behind himself and Clif.
“That’s the best we can do,” he said, as they made their way down the
stairs. “It may fool him and it may not. The rest, Clif, is in the lap
of the gods!”
It was about half-past eight when Mr. McKnight finished Chopin’s Waltz
in G Flat Major, and arose from the piano. Study hour was the one hour
of the twenty-four in which he felt at liberty to use the piano to his
heart’s content, and he was loth to lose the time entailed by a visit
to Number 34. Even after he was on his feet another sheet of music
caught his eye, and he opened it on the rack and tentatively fingered
the first bars before finally and resolutely tearing himself away. The
corridors were pleasantly silent as he made his way upstairs and tapped
lightly at the closed portal of Number 34. There was no reply, and he
turned the knob and thrust the door inward. The room was in darkness
and no sound came to him. Evidently his advice had been acted on, for
Kemble was not only in bed but sleeping extraordinarily peacefully. Mr.
McKnight’s gaze took in the shoes beneath the chair, and the garments
above. The sleeper remained undisturbed, oblivious of the intrusion.
The instructor smiled as he closed the door softly again and walked
noiselessly away.
“Nothing much wrong with him, I guess, if he can sleep like that,” he
told himself as he sought the stairway. “Probably be all right when he
wakes up.” Then his thoughts went forward to the piece of music on the
piano rack, and his steps became swifter.
* * * * *
That ride to Danbury was long and wearisome to Tom. Waiting in the
shadows of the station at Freeburg, after he had decided not to risk
purchasing a ticket, but to pay his fare on the train, had been sort
of exciting, and even after the station lights and the lights of the
town itself had faded behind him a certain zest in the adventure had
remained. But soon, what with the overheated car, the uncomfortable
seat, the numerous stops and the dust that drifted in at every opening,
the excitement dwindled fast. At the end of an hour he had begun to
doubt the brilliancy of the exploit. For one thing, it was going
to be extremely hard sledding to convince his guardian that he had
taken the right course; the more so since Tom hadn’t yet succeeded in
convincing himself. Mr. Winslow, an estimable gentleman despite Tom’s
prejudices, was a lawyer, and, being a lawyer, his judgment was not
easily swayed. You just had to have a good case, and Tom was horribly
afraid he hadn’t! Well, one thing was certain. If Old Winslow insisted
on his returning to Wyndham he just wouldn’t! No, sir, he’d run away
first. Maybe he’d go to sea. No, he wouldn’t, either. You couldn’t play
football at sea! But he’d go somewhere.
Then there was Clif. He had grown to be rather fond of Clif. Until
six weeks ago he had never had a real chum. He had been friendly with
lots of fellows, but close to none. He was going to miss Clif a whole
lot; was missing him already, in fact. And there was Billy, too; and
Loring Deane. They were, all three, corking chaps, and back home there
wouldn’t be any one to take their places. If it wasn’t that it was
already too late――
He pushed his suitcase forward where he could set his feet on it,
let his knees dig into the back of the seat in front, and moodily
stared along the length of the ill-lighted coach. No, it was too late
to change his mind. Study hour was almost over now, and they’d have
discovered his absence long since. Besides, there probably wasn’t any
way of getting back, even if he wanted to; and, of course, he didn’t.
Wyatt had played him a rotten trick, and to-morrow the old pest would
maybe realize it! And, anyway, what was the good of being back there
when he couldn’t play football again this season? Heck, he had done
just what any fellow with an ounce of gumption and spirit would do, and
he was glad of it!
These reflections brought him to the lights of the junction, and a few
minutes later he was descending the car steps, one of a half-hundred
passengers from the north. To find himself staring into the solemnly
respectful countenance of Wattles was such a surprising experience
that it was several seconds before he found his voice, and during
those seconds his suitcase was removed from his grasp. Finally: “Why,
Wattles, were you on that train?” he exclaimed.
“No, sir, I came by car,” replied the other. “Quite a bit colder,
sir, isn’t it? One can do with a coat to-night, Mister Tom, and I see
you have yours with you.” Suitcase in hand, Wattles led the way around
the end of the station, and it was not until he had started across the
track on the farther side that Tom realized what was happening.
“Hold on, Wattles! What’s the idea?” he asked, stopping.
“The car’s just over here, sir.”
“What car? I didn’t order any car!”
“No, sir. Mister Loring and Mr. Clif sent it. I was to tell you that
everything was quite all right, sir. It’s all absolutely _sub rosa_,
Mister Tom. We’ll get back to the school by midnight――”
“So that’s it?” Tom laughed roughly. “Expect me to go back with you in
the car, eh? Well, nothing doing, Wattles. I’m off that dump for keeps.
Let’s have that bag, please.”
“Certainly, sir, but if you wouldn’t mind just coming across to the
car. I’ve a robe and you’ll be quite warm. Your train doesn’t leave for
rather more than a half-hour, sir, and I’d like very much to deliver my
message, Mister Tom.”
“Oh, well, all right,” Tom grumbled. “Go ahead. But I’ll tell you right
here and now, Wattles, that it’s no good. It was mighty nice of them to
do this, and all that, but I’ve no idea of going back.”
“Quite so, sir. Thank you. Right this way.”
The car stood well away from the station, the street lights revealing
its black bulk, and the figure of the driver on the front seat. Tom
laughed as Wattles held the tonneau door open. “Some class to you,
Wattles! Where’d you get the boat?”
“In the village, sir.” Wattles was unfolding a large and heavy rug.
“It’s not a new car, sir, but it’s really most competent.”
“Funny idea――” began Tom, with a chuckle. Then; “_Say! What are you
trying――_”
The big robe which Wattles, standing beside him in the back of the car,
had spread open had enveloped him. For the briefest instant Tom thought
that Wattles, meaning to lay the rug across his knees, had stumbled
against the suitcase and fallen against him. But that idea vanished
before the sudden knowledge that Wattles had tricked him! He shouted
protestingly, but the folds of the thick cloth, dust laden and odorous
of the stable, were about his head, muffling the outcry and almost
choking him. He strove to get to his feet, to push himself free, but in
vain. Something, a rope or a strap, cinched his arms to his body. He
kicked out wildly, felt himself slip from the seat to the floor, found
the suitcase under his shrouded head, and knew that Wattles was sitting
on his legs!
It had all taken less than a minute, and now the driver had scrambled
back to the front seat, and the engine was shaking the car. Then they
were moving. Tom, panting from his exertions, relaxed and took a long
breath. Dust filled his throat and nostrils, and he sneezed violently.
Wrath induced one final struggle, but, although momentarily unseated,
Wattles remained in command of the situation. Tom stopped writhing and
considered events with a fair degree of calmness.
The car, a good one although of ancient vintage, after negotiating
the streets of the town at moderate speed, was now on a straight hard
road, and the engine’s voice arose to a louder song. Wattles, who
had removed his overcoat before meeting Tom――it was a newish coat,
and he wanted nothing unfortunate to happen to it in case Tom proved
obstinate――shivered as, sitting sidewise on Tom’s legs, he strove to
keep his balance, and at the same time protect himself from the rush of
the cold night wind. It was a most uncomfortable position, but Wattles
was game. With Wattles duty was duty, and he was prepared to sit like
that all the way back to Freeburg if necessary.
But it wasn’t necessary. Some ten minutes after they had left the
station there was a series of muffled sounds from under the robe and
Wattles, leaning nearer, said: “Pardon, Mister Tom. Will you say that
again, please, sir?”
“I said if you don’t take this pesky thing off I’ll smother!” answered
Tom through the folds.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid it’s rather uncomfortable, and I’m sure you’ll
understand, sir, how much I deplore the necessity of the――the methods――”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying!” shouted Tom in exasperation. “_Take
this off me! Let me out!_”
“Certainly, sir, only, asking your pardon, Mister Tom, I must have your
agreement not to leave the car.”
“Go to thunder!” said Tom.
“Yes, sir.” Wattles retreated, shivering violently. After a minute more
sounds reached him from beneath the rug and again he leaned closer.
“I’ll promise, Wattles, you blamed idiot! Only take this horse blanket
off me!”
“Yes, indeed, sir! Just a moment!” Wattles’s hands were busied, the
restraint vanished from Tom’s arms, the awful robe dragged chokingly
away from his face, and he sat up, gasping. Wattles, balancing himself
precariously on his feet, was holding the robe and, as shown by the
brief radiance of a passing light, shivering like an aspen. Tom could
almost hear the chattering of his teeth. That momentary vision of the
long, mournful countenance, agitated by the shivers that chased up
and down Wattles’s spine, was too much for Tom. He forgot that he was
dreadfully angry and humiliated, and burst into wild laughter.
The driver turned an inquiring face, looked briefly, and unemotionally
gave his attention back to the road. Wattles, fearing hysteria, looked
down in grave anxiety, and shivered harder than ever. At last: “For the
love of mud, Wattles, put your coat on!” gasped Tom as he weakly pulled
himself onto the seat.
“Yes, sir, just what I was about to do, sir.” Nevertheless, Wattles
first placed the robe over Tom’s knees, and tucked it about him
carefully. Then, at last, he managed to get his wavering hands into the
armholes of his coat, buttoned it tightly and seated himself at the
extreme limit of the wide seat. “If you’d prefer to sit in front, sir,
I fancy you’d find it quite a bit warmer.”
“I’m all right, but don’t be an ass, Wattles. Slide over here and get
some of this over you.”
“Thank you, Mister Tom, but I’m very comfortable.”
“You do as I tell you,” commanded Tom ferociously. “Mind you, Wattles,
you and that pal of yours there may be able to get the best of me when
I’m not looking for it, but I can lick either one or both of you in a
fair scrap. Here, lay this across and sit on the edge of it.”
“Yes, sir. And I’m quite certain you’d be a match for us both, Mister
Tom, and no mistake.”
“I’ll say so,” agreed Tom, mollified. “Just the same, Wattles, I’ve got
to hand it to you for turning a neat trick. I suppose, though, Loring
planned that, eh?”
“No, sir,” replied Wattles modestly. “Mister Loring just said I was to
bring you back. Beyond that, sir, I was obliged to proceed quite on my
own. Sorry, sir, that the exigency of the occasion demanded a certain
amount of coercion.”
“Coercion! Is that what you call it, Wattles? Man, you’re a scream!”
“Should I have said compulsion?” asked Wattles anxiously.
“I’ll say you should!” Tom’s spirits were rising rapidly. Of course,
he hadn’t meant to return to Wyndham; hadn’t wanted to, indeed; but
the matter had been taken out of his hands, and, now that the die was
cast, he would make the best of it. And, sitting there snuggled under
the warm rug, with the old car hitting on all six, with the nipping air
stinging his face, he listened to Wattles’s explanation of the events
leading up to his present situation and felt that the best was mighty
good!