The bell on Harvard Hall clanged imperatively and a new college year
began. The leaves in the Yard rustled tremulously under the touch of a
cool breeze out of the east, and here and there one fluttered downward,
dropping from branch to branch lightly, lingeringly, as though loath
to own its life at an end. Summer, which had loitered overlate in New
England, had stolen southward in the night and to-day autumn was firmly
enthroned. There was a crispness in the air that bade the blood run
swifter; feet that yesterday had dragged themselves wearily over the
hot pavements to-day trod the walks blithely; overhead the sky showed a
different blue, more distant and ethereal. It was good to be alive.
Phillip Ryerson, hurrying across the yard to his first recitation, felt
the invigoration of the morning. Yesterday had been a day of trials
and vexations; to-day he experienced a pleasurable excitement and a
comforting faith in his ability to hold his own in this new little
world into which, by means of certain nightmarish examinations the
mere recollection of which made him shudder, he had fought his way.
He had lived his life out-of-doors and was susceptible to Nature’s
every mood. To-day he was laughing brightly and Phillip’s heart echoed
the laughter. Under one far-shading tree he paused, unaware of the
curious or amused glances thrown upon him by passers, and looked
upward into the green, sun-flecked gloom of interlacing branches and
sniffed the delicate odour exhaled therefrom. Suddenly a faint, almost
imperceptible stir far up the grayish trunk caught his senses. He
watched and presently two little eyes twinkled down at him inquiringly.
He uttered a softly shrill whistle and in response there was an excited
chattering in the branches and a sleek squirrel descended nimbly,
swaying a thick, handsome tail, until he clung head-downward a foot or
two out of reach.
“Hello, Mister Gray Squirrel,” said Phillip softly. “Come on down.
Can’t you see I haven’t got a gun? Anyway, I reckon you wouldn’t know a
gun if you saw it, would you?”
The squirrel chattered volubly, his bright eyes twinkling hither and
thither and his little nose working anxiously.
“Why, you little rascal,” cried Phillip, “you’re asking for breakfast.
I’m mighty sorry, but I don’t reckon I’ve got anything you’ll care
about. Let’s see.” He searched his pockets carefully, the squirrel
edging a few inches nearer and watching him intently. But, save for a
few crumbs of tobacco, Phillip’s pockets contained nothing that had
even the appearance of edibles. He shook his head.
“Not a thing,” he said aloud. “But you wait until next time and I’ll
bring you some nuts.” The squirrel seemed to understand, for he
squeaked disappointedly and turned tail. Footsteps crossed the grass
and Phillip turned.
“I guess he’ll eat peanuts all right.”
A fellow of about Phillip’s age approached. He was a sunny-haired,
blue-eyed youth, and Phillip thought he had never seen one cleaner or
more wholesome. He smiled genially and held out three or four peanuts.
“Let’s try these on him,” he said. “Here, Sport!”
The squirrel looked doubtfully for an instant at the newcomer, and then
his eyes fell on the delicacies and he scrambled down onto the grass
and approached bravely.
“Some of them will eat out of your hand,” said the yellow-haired youth.
“Come and get them if you want them.”
The squirrel hesitated a moment at arm’s length and then ran forward
and seized the nut. Retiring to the foot of the tree, he ate it
hurriedly, apparently fearful that the others would escape him if he
lingered overlong at the first.
“Tame, aren’t they?” said Phillip.
“Yes. There are lots of them here in the Yard. There’s one chap――he has
part of his tail chewed off, so I know him――came up to my window-ledge
yesterday and just begged. So I got some peanuts for him. But he hasn’t
been around yet to-day, though I saw him in a tree a minute ago. Come
on, Sport; here’s another. I can’t wait here all day, you know.”
The invitation was readily accepted and, tossing the rest of the nuts
onto the grass, the youth turned away. Phillip followed and the two
walked along together, hurrying a little, since the bell had ceased its
summons.
“I guess this isn’t your first year?” said the blue-eyed fellow
questioningly.
“It is, though,” answered Phillip.
“Really? I thought――――” He hesitated and then turned a laughing face to
the other. “I guess I won’t say it.”
“Go ahead,” begged Phillip. “I can’t see how you could have taken me
for an old stager.”
“Well, you looked so kind of don’t-give-a-hang, standing under the tree
there, that I thought you were probably a soph. Hope you won’t take
that as an insult.”
“No indeed; why should I? I rather wish I was a sophomore, I reckon.”
“Phew! That’s regular treason! Don’t you know that a freshman holds a
soph. in the deepest contempt?”
“No, I didn’t know it. Why?”
“Oh――well, just because, I guess. It’s――it’s reciprocal. You have to;
it’s part of the game.”
“Oh.” Phillip looked puzzled. They had reached the steps of the
recitation hall. “Well, I’m going in here,” he said, hesitatingly.
“So’m I,” answered his new acquaintance. “And say, afterward come over
to my room in Thayer with me and we’ll see if we can’t find that other
squirrel, eh?”
“Thanks,” answered Phillip; “I’ll look for you.”
“Oh, come on; we’ll get seats together.”
But they didn’t, and so, for a time, Phillip lost sight of the other.
But during the next half-hour his thoughts were busy with him. It
did not seem extraordinary to him that the blue-eyed youth should
have made overtures of friendship as he had. In Virginia one spoke to
strangers on the road, and common courtesy demanded a certain disregard
of conventionalities. Later, however, when Phillip had seen more of
college life and customs, he marveled greatly. Now he wondered what
the white E embroidered on the other’s crimson cap meant, and resolved
to purchase a cap just like it at once. Also, the stunning shirt of
white and green and pink stripes worn by his new acquaintance made him
dissatisfied with his own stiff-bosomed affair; and he acknowledged the
superiority, from the standpoint of picturesqueness, of knickerbockers
and golf stockings over long trousers. He wondered how much such
articles of apparel cost and what would be left to him of his present
capital after he had made such purchases as now seemed necessary.
He found the crimson cap waiting for him on the steps when he filed out
and he ranged his own straw hat beside it. Together the two made their
way past University to the farther end of Thayer. Here Phillip was
guided into a corner study on the first floor.
On the door a clean, new card was tacked and Phillip read the
inscription as he passed:
“Mr. Chester M. Baker.”
He made a mental note to order some like it and throw away those he
had, on which his name was engraved in a flowing script which he had
heretofore thought very beautiful, but which he now surmised to be
sadly out of style.
The study in which Phillip found himself was homelike and well
furnished, but in no way remarkable. The pictures were few and good;
the rugs and upholsterings were bright and aggressively new; only the
cushions in the window-seat and the half-hundred books showed the
dignity of usage. But Phillip thought it a very nice room, with its
view of greensward and swaying branches through the open windows, and
regretted that he had not secured quarters in the Yard. His host tossed
the crimson cap onto the table.
“Sit down,” he said. “By the way, you haven’t any recitation for this
hour, have you?”
Phillip shook his head, and his host went on:
“All right; let’s see if we can find Raggles.”
“Raggles?” questioned Phillip.
“Yes, the squirrel; I call him Raggles because his tail is all frayed
out. And talking of names, mine’s Baker.”
“And mine’s Ryerson,” answered Phillip.
“Now we know who we are,” said Baker. He went to the window and threw
some peanuts onto the gravel outside. Phillip followed and, peering
over the other’s shoulder, waited for the squirrel to appear. But,
although they offered every inducement, Raggles failed to present
himself, and they made themselves comfortable on the window-seat and
ate the peanuts themselves.
“Would you mind telling me what this E stands for?” asked Phillip,
pointing to one of the cushions. “I saw it on your cap, you know.”
Baker looked surprised.
“Why, Exeter,” he answered.
“Oh,” said Phillip. “That’s in New Hampshire, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” The host was plainly bewildered at the other’s ignorance. “Where
did you prepare?” he asked.
Phillip named a small academy near Richmond, and Baker nodded his head
politely.
“You live in Virginia?” he asked.
“Yes, at Melville Court House. It’s about fifty miles from Alexandria.
This is the first time I have been so far north, except last spring
when I came up for exams.”
“I knew you were a Southerner,” smiled Baker. “You say ‘Ah’ for I and
‘aboot’ for about. It’s great; I wish I could do it. I talk through my
silly nose, like all Yankees.”
“I think you talk very nicely,” said Phillip. “I suppose I do pronounce
things differently from folks up North here. Do you live in Boston?”
“Save us!” cried Baker. “No, I’m from Rutland, Vermont. When you meet a
real, dyed-in-the-wool Bostonian you’ll see the difference. Do you know
any folks in town?”
“No. I haven’t any acquaintances at all hereabouts except my adviser.
You’re the first one,” he added with a smile.
“Really?” cried Baker. “Well, I know stacks of fellows and I’ll
introduce you ’round. My chum’s a chap named Bassett. You’ll like
Guy; he’s awfully jolly. We’ll have lots of fun. Only――――” his face
fell――“only the trouble is that Laurence is here.”
“Laurence?”
“Yes, he’s my big brother; a senior. That makes it awkward, you see,
because he’ll think it’s his plaguey duty to keep watch on me. I wanted
to go to Yale for that reason, but dad thought it would be better if I
came here so that Laurence could guide my trembling footsteps during
my first year in the midst of college temptations.” He grinned. “Dad
thinks Laurence is a wonder. But if he gets too obnoxious I’ll threaten
to tell some of the things I know about him.”
“I should think it would be rather nice to have a brother in college,”
said Phillip. “I wish I had.”
“If you had you’d wish you hadn’t. Where do you room?”
Phillip told him.
“I didn’t try for a room in the Yard,” he explained, “because my father
went here and he lived outside. We used to talk about it before――before
he died, and we decided that I was to get a place outside, too. I
reckon if it hadn’t been that father went here I’d have gone to the
University.”
“The University?” queried Baker.
“University of Virginia. But father always wanted that I should go to
Harvard. Of course, I wished to please him, but if I’d had my choice
I’d have gone to the University. You see, I’d have known more fellows
there. Up here I only know you and a senior; and I haven’t met him yet.”
Baker looked mystified and Phillip went on.
“Father had a friend in Washington, and when he learned that I was
coming up here he wrote to a friend of his, a senior here, and asked
him to call on me. But I haven’t seen him yet.”
“What’s his name?”
“North; John North. Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve never met him yet,” answered Baker, “but Laurence is going to
take me ’round to see him to-night, I think. But if John North’s your
friend, you’ll get on finely. He knows everybody worth knowing and is a
regular high muckamuck himself. You’re in luck.”
“Am I? I thought likely he’d call last night, but he didn’t.”
“Well, I guess he’s pretty busy. I hear he’s going to be assistant
football coach this fall; you know he’s played for the last three years
on the ’Varsity.”
“I think I’d like to play football,” said Phillip.
“I daresay,” laughed Baker. “So’d I. I’d like to play quarter on the
’Varsity, but I don’t think I shall.”
“Why, is it hard to get on the team?”
“It’s like pulling teeth unless you’re an A 1 player. I’m going to try
for the Freshman Eleven; you’d better, too. Then, if you make that and
get on all right, you’ll stand a show for the ’Varsity next fall. Have
you played much?”
“No, I’ve never played at all.”
“Oh; well, you’ll find it hard at first,” said Baker. “Candidates for
the Freshman team are called for to-morrow afternoon. If you like, Guy
and I’ll call for you on our way over to the field.”
“Thank you; I wish you would,” replied Phillip. “What must I wear?”
“Oh, any old sweater and a pair of moleskins.”
“I’ll have to get some, I reckon.”
“You can get them at the Coöperative Society, if you don’t want to go
into town. What courses are you taking?”
For the next quarter of an hour the talk ranged over the subject of
studies, and Phillip discovered, on the authority of his host, that he
had made several frightful mistakes in his choice of courses, and was
quite cast down until Baker assured him that it didn’t matter anyhow,
because no one studied much in his freshman year. Phillip expressed
surprise, and Baker explained that a fellow had too much to do to find
time for grinding.
“Of course,” he allowed, “you have to keep up with things after a
fashion, for there are the mid-years; but you’ll soon find out just
how much work is necessary. Lots of fellows loaf until just before the
exams and then turn to and grind and take seminars, but I’ve made up my
mind to do a little every day, you know, and keep up with the course
of events, as it were. Besides, it costs like the very deuce to be
coached. Why, there are some coaches ask twenty and even twenty-five
dollars for a seminar, and get it, too! Laurence says he was broke for
six months after the mid-years last winter.”
“I couldn’t afford that,” said Phillip, thoughtfully. “But I reckon
I’ll follow your plan and keep up with things. I suppose I’m going to
have hard work, for I had an awful time passing the exams.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t cut much ice,” answered Baker. “It’s hard to
get into this old place, but fairly easy to get along afterward.
Now, some of the other colleges let you in easy, they say, and you’re
tickled to death and think you’ve got nothing to do but look pretty.
But you find that you’ve got to study like the deuce to stay there, and
you wish exams hadn’t been so soft and that you’d learned a lot more
before you came. Do you like theatres?”
“Yes, immensely; although I’ve never been a great deal.”
“No more have I――that is, not such a lot. I’ve seen pretty much
everything good, but there’s a lot of jolly nonsense I’ve missed. I’m
going to change that. I love melodrama. Did you ever see ‘The Great
Northwest’? or ‘The Convict’s Daughter’? or ‘The Great White Diamond’?”
Phillip shook his head apologetically. Somehow, he felt rather small
and unimportant in the presence of the easy-mannered, laughing-eyed
youth before him.
“And there are usually some jolly good burlesque shows in town. And I’m
going to see ‘Florodora’ and ‘San Toy’ and ‘Miss Simplicity’ when they
come. Guy and I and two or three other dubs are going in to the Museum
Friday night; want to come along? We’d be glad to have you.”
“Thanks,” answered Phillip, doubtfully. “I don’t believe――――”
“Oh, poppycock, of course you’ll come. I’ll get a seat for you, anyhow.
That reminds me, I must do it to-day. You get them at Thurston’s and
have them charged and they cost about a thousand dollars apiece. It’s
very convenient.”
“Well, I’ll go then,” laughed Phillip. “I only hesitated because I
haven’t been going around to things much lately. You see, my father
died only last winter. But I should like to go if you’re sure your
friends won’t mind.”
“They’ll be tickled into convulsions,” declared Baker. “Well, I guess
we’ll have to go and try another stunt. It’s five minutes of.”
They passed out together and parted company in front of University.
“Come and see me often,” commanded Baker. “Let’s set things humming.
And we’ll stop for you at your joint to-morrow afternoon about
three-thirty.”
He waved a note-book and hurried off, whistling at the top of his
lungs. Phillip fished a schedule from his pocket, learned where
his ten o’clock recitation was held, tried to remember where that
particular hall was located, consulted a pocket directory filled with
boarding-house advertisements, and finally strode on. And as he went he
reflected ruefully that if he was going to keep pace with Chester Baker
and the unknown Guy Bassett and their companions, his already sadly
diminished capital, originally designed to last him until the Christmas
recess, would very soon be only a memory. But after three days in
Cambridge without acquaintances, the new friendship between Baker and
himself was such a pleasant thing that the contemplation of it drove
all disquieting thoughts out of his mind.
“After all,” he told himself when, at noon, he climbed into one of the
revolving stools at the dairy lunch counter and demanded sandwiches and
pudding and milk, “I reckon the first expense is always bigger than you
look for. And after Christmas I’ll settle down and economize.”