THE LAST TERM
It was a warm bright May day, with just enough breeze to fleck the
waves of the bay and passage with white caps and make it lively for the
school crews in their heavy whaleboats, the substitute at Deal for the
conventional shell.
From their post on the Rocking-stone or just by it, high up on the
highest ridge of Lovel’s Woods, two boys looked out upon the spreading
panorama of marsh and beach and river and bay. They both were drinking
it in with a deep sense of its beauty and with a sense too that it was
the more beautiful in that it all was a part of the old school. Up on
the hill there, across the wide valley of the marshes and Beaver Pond
and Creek, rose the school itself, gleaming now in the bright western
sunlight as a fairy castle of rose and gold.
One of the boys by the Rocking-stone was Tony Deering, coatless,
hatless, his hair glowing in the sunlight, half-hidden by the tall
sweet grass in which he lay at full length. The other was Reginald
Carroll, now nearly at the end of his Freshman year at Kingsbridge
College, back at the School for a week-end as he had so often been
since his graduation the previous June. Much of his time on these
occasions, though we have not chanced to note it, was spent with
Deering, much too with Mr. Morris between whom and himself the old
feeling of distrust had altogether dropped away. For during his last
term at school Reggie had won his house-master’s confidence as well as
his regard.
[Illustration: “YOU WILL CERTAINLY BE COMING UP TO COLLEGE NEXT
YEAR?”]
The boys were sprawled flat on their stomachs in the warm sweet grass,
heads on hands, at the very edge of the ridge, peering off across the
tops of the pine trees and cedars that rose from the ravine between
the ridges almost to a level with their heads. They looked eastward
and their position commanded a view of the Strathsey river, the harbor
in the bend of the Neck, the broad beach and bay, and the open ocean
beyond. They could see the House crews out beyond Deigr Light; they
were turning the noses of their boats toward the harbor again in the
hope of getting back for supper. A dozen or more sailboats were in
the river. Tony and Reggie had been sailing, and had stopped at the
Rocking-stone on their way back to the School.
“Peachy day, Reg, isn’t it?” said Tony, for the thousandth time
sniffing of the good sea breeze.
“Well, rather,” drawled Reggie for reply. He was still languid,
individual, different, but distinctly more purposeful, less afflicted
with the air of being perpetually bored than when we first observed him
some four or five years ago.
“Doesn’t it make you sort of sicky to feel you can’t have it all the
time?”
“It does, boy; as you yourself before long will be finding out.”
“Ah—I know.”
“But, I tell you what, Tony; it makes it almost worth while being away,
it is so wonderful to come back. College is different, likable too; but
it never takes the place of school. Though I must say, toward the end
of the year I begin to feel myself caring for it as I didn’t in the
least think I should. It’s rough at first, as I told you before, as you
could see from my pretending it wasn’t last fall. But here—well, the
heart’s at home here.”
Tony smiled his appreciation of the phrase. “Old chap, you do get your
sentiments expressed now and then in perfectly good nice poetry, don’t
you? I feel like that ever so often, but to save my life I can never
find words that seem in the least to do justice to my thoughts.”
“Oh, well, that comes a good deal not only from feeling a thing, boy;
but quite as much from the habit of hunting for the right phrase now
and then, as old Jack used to tell us in Sixth English.”
Tony drew in the fragrance of the May flowers that a fresh breeze
stirred. “Bully, isn’t it? This always was a favorite spot of yours,
wasn’t it, Reg?”
“Rather—oh, the time I’ve wasted here, little one—scribbling verse
and stuff, dreaming dreams that never came true!”
“You mooning here, poetizing—you must let me see your latest, by
the way,—always remind me of those jolly verses in the Harrow Song
Book—remember—‘Byron lay, lazily lay’?”
“More or less—mostly less; let’s have it.”
Tony essayed it in his clear voice.
“’Byron’ lay, lazily lay,
Hid from lesson and game away,
Dreaming poetry all alone,
Up-a-top of the Peachy stone.
All in a fury enters Drury.
Sets him grammar and Virgil due;
Poets shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have,
Poets shouldn’t have work to do.”
“That’s all; I don’t know the rest. But when we sing it at General
Singing or on the steps of the Old School these spring nights, I always
think of you, and wonder if you scribble verses at Kingsbridge as much
as you used to at school.”
“Oh, yes, still,” laughed Reggie, “as much as ever—and to as little
purpose as ever, I fancy. But look here, boy; I don’t like to suggest
unpleasant things to you such as the fact that school won’t last
forever, but I want to be sure of one thing—”
“Yes?”
“You will certainly be coming up to col. next year?”
“Oh, yes, if I pass my exams. But of course there’s not much doubt
about that. I’m not in much danger of being flunked.”
“Money matters all right?”
“So, so. Yes, much better, thank goodness. But it’s going to be mighty
hard to pull out of the old school.”
“There is one thing that helps the pulling out a lot, and particularly
in your case,—” said Carroll, “—more than it did in mine—such a lot
of the fellows go up to Kingsbridge from the School—quite the best of
the form usually, it seems to me; so that you feel quite at home there
from the beginning. Then there’s always a lot of Dealonians among the
upper classmen who look out for you more or less. Most of your chums
are going up, aren’t they?”
“Yes—all, I think, except Ned Clavering. Too bad—but Ned’s going to
wear the blue—and I hope we’ll line up against each other some time.”
“That’s hard luck; but I didn’t know Ned Clavering was in your crowd.”
“Oh, our crowd!” exclaimed Tony, with something like a sigh.
“What! do you mean to say that you and Kit Wilson are still on the
outs?”
“I’m ashamed to say, we are.”
“You still sore at Kit?”
“Not in the least!”
“Well, then, what’s the trouble?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Sheer asininity on both our parts, I
reckon. I’ve started over to Kit’s rooms a hundred times this term, I
should say, and turned back.”
“All serene with the rest of the crowd?”
“Oh, absolutely. After the Finch affair last term everybody except Kit
went out of their way to be decent. Even Tack, whom I had been rather
nasty to.”
“Weren’t you a bit sore because Kit didn’t go out of his way to be
decent?”
“Why, yes—naturally; I suppose I was.”
“Well, listen to words of wisdom—it is all nonsense, blooming idiotic
nonsense. You quarreled about Finch. He’s gone. What’s become of that
little shaver, by the way?”
“Finch—oh, he is well now, I reckon; they have taken him away—to the
mountains or some place. He is ever so much better in every way than
before he was ill—it seemed to need that tremendous break and sickness
to get him straight. I have an idea that the Doctor,—good old chap,
the Head!—will keep him on here another year, and then put him to
work, without trying for college.”
“You carried the guardian angelship business through, didn’t you? did
it from the bottom up—as I hoped you would.”
“Oh, I tried.... By Jove, Reg,” Tony exclaimed, looking at his watch,
“it’s nearly six; we’ll have to wander if we want to get back in time
for supper. You are staying over, of course, for the game and dance
to-morrow?”
“Of course.”
That evening as the Sixth were singing on the steps of the Old School,
which was their custom on warm spring nights, Carroll drew Kit Wilson
out of the crowd and walked him off under the shadows of the trees.
“Look here, Wilson,” he said, “I’m butting into something that isn’t
in the least my affair, but I want to know why on earth you and Tony
Deering don’t drop your differences and be friends?”
Kit swung himself loose from Reggie’s friendly encircling arm. “Ask
Deering,” he said laconically.
“I have asked Deering, and so far as he knows there is no reason under
heaven why you shouldn’t be as thick as you ever were. The original
cause of your misunderstanding has long since passed away. Deering is
simply holding off because you are. He doesn’t know how you will take
it if he makes advances.”
Still Kit kept silence.
“Come on, Wilson, don’t take it like that. I haven’t any axe to grind;
as a matter of fact in school days, Deering’s intimacy with you meant
that I see a lot less of him, and I can tell you I didn’t relish that.
You like Tony, don’t you, really?”
“Like him!” cried Kit. “Doesn’t everybody like him—even the odious
Gumshoe? Like him! Why, Carroll, I like him better than any fellow I
ever knew.”
“Well, my dear child—what then hinders you?”
“Does Tony care a hang about me?—has he ever minded our not being
friends?” asked Kit huskily.
“Has he minded? why, of course, he has minded.”
“Well, I never supposed he did; hasn’t he had Jimmie and you and Bill
Morris and a dozen others? Why, honest, Reggie, even the Gumshoe just
eats out of his hand. It’s marvelous—don’t understand it—or I guess I
_do_ understand it. You can’t _help_ it, can you?”
“No, you can’t; but note this;—the more Tony cares for, the more it
seems he can. And I tell you what, Kit, with Tony or with anyone else,
the loss of one friend can never be made up by gaining others. If you
and Tony don’t make up, you will never forgive yourselves later. As it
is, you have lost nearly a year of school life.”
“I know, I know,” said Kit miserably.
“Well, lose no more!”
As they drew back again within the range of the singing, the Sixth
were giving in fine form—“There’s a wind that blows o’er the sea-girt
isle,” a song that Reggie had always particularly liked. He stepped
forward a bit to encore them. But Doc. Thorn, the leader of the
singing, catching sight of him, cried to the fellows on the steps,
“Let’s have ‘Old Boys’ now, in honor of Reggie Carter Westover Carroll.”
And they rang it out with a hearty good will, with long, lingering,
caressing notes to the last lines, notes that thrilled every Old Boy’s
heart as he heard the well-loved song.
“... and the heart is glad
For all the friendliness of vanish’d years.”
The tears were in Reggie’s eyes. He was glad it was dark, and that he
could let them gather there without fear of it being noticed. And just
then Mr. Morris stepped somewhere from out of the gloom and slipped his
arm around Reggie’s shoulders.
The singing was over then; the fellows were beginning to separate for
the evening and were calling to each other as they started away from
the steps. Carroll pushed Wilson forward. “Now’s your chance,” he
whispered. “Don’t you be a fool and don’t let Tony be a fool!”
Poor Kit’s heart was in his mouth; it seemed to him to be thumping
like a sledge-hammer. He had a momentary wild hope that he would not
be able to find Tony. But yes,—there he was, just taking leave of Ned
Clavering and starting across the campus alone. Kit hurried after him,
feeling as though his legs would scarcely carry him another inch.
“I say—Tony!” he called at last, his voice husky and strange.
Deering stopped, turned, but did not recognize him. “What is it? Who’s
calling?”
“It’s me—Kit. Wait a second, will you?”
Tony’s heart was beating wildly too, for he divined what was coming; by
the time Kit reached him his hand was out.
“What’s your hurry?” cried Kit, grabbing the extended hand and wringing
it.
“I’m not in a hurry. Are you?”
“No, not a bit.” Then awkwardly, “Well, what are you going to do?”
“Not a thing—loaf—come and do it with me.”
“I’m your man. Where shall we go?”
“Good, old boy. To the beach then.”
They turned about, and arms went about each other’s waist and neck.
They swung off across the fragrant fields, soft with the new mown
grass, to the beach. For a while they were silent.
“I have been a stubborn fool,” said Kit at last.
“Not a bit of it; I’ve been a hot-headed one,” protested Tony.
“Well, I guess we’ve both been both,” said Kit lucidly. “Any way, thank
God it’s over.”
“Amen,” said Tony.
Another long silence as they strolled along, strangely happy, in the
fresh caressing night.
“I say, Kit.”
“Yes, old chap!”
“Let’s you and Jim and me room together at college next year.”
“Right o! I’ve hated to think of college next year just on account of
that—we used to plan to, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, it’s all right now. Hard though it’s going to be to leave the
old school.”
“Mighty hard, Kit.”
Another silence; close step; shoulder to shoulder.
“I say, Tony.”
“Yes, old boy.”
“Let’s swear never to let this sort of thing happen again. Let’s swear
always to talk it out. No matter what, never to break again.”
“All right—I swear—never to break again—absolutely—so help me, God.”
“And I, I swear!—so help me, God.” They wrung each other’s hands.
“Say—Tonio old sport,” said Kit after another pause.
“What is it, Kitty?”
“Reg Carroll’s a brick, don’t you think?”
“He certainly is. By the by, Kit, is Betty coming down for the dance
to-morrow night?”
“Yes, gets here to-morrow afternoon; Bab too.”
“Good work. Tell her, will you, before to-morrow night that you and I
have made it up.”
“I won’t need,” answered Kit; “I never let her know we had fallen out.”
Tony gasped with astonishment. “Well, by Jove, kiddo, you _are_ a
perfect corker.”
And so they strolled on, talking by fits and starts, in the sweet
fragrant May night, glad of heart, the gladder that for long they had
not known each other’s friendship.
The next few weeks were wonderful ones to Tony and his friends. On that
bright Saturday a worthy rival had come from western Cæsarea to meet
their baseball team and had bit the dust. Jimmie Lawrence, captain
of the team now, had played first without an error and had knocked a
home-run, bringing in three men—a pleasant augury for the Boxford game
in mid-June. In the evening there had been the dance in the Gymnasium,
and Betty Wilson had been there, lovelier than ever it seemed to Tony,
as his eyes fluttered in the light of her eyes and he thrilled with a
strange, nice, happy little thrill at the touch of her hand in his.
And Barbara Worthington was there, and Kit too was beaming. As yet the
shadow of the final good-byes had not fallen upon them. There were
still three golden weeks for the reunited crowd.
* * * * *
One night, not long after the dance, Tony sat late in Mr. Morris’s
study, as he was apt to do these last weeks, talking things over with
his older friend.
“This has certainly been a bully term,” said Tony, with a contented
sigh, “I don’t think I have ever been so happy. I can’t bear to think
of leaving.”
Morris had been happy too, but for him the shadow was already falling.
“Ah—that’s the hard part of school life—the going and the being left
behind.... But you will be coming back often—that’s a comfort. I
never cease to be thankful that Kingsbridge is so near.”
“Yes, I shall be coming back mighty often. Doesn’t seem really as if
the school could run without us. I suppose I shall like college, but I
can’t imagine that it will ever be quite the same as school.”
“Well,” said Morris, as his mind turned back to good Kingsbridge days,
“one grows fond of it. But school——”
“It’s as Reggie says,” Tony interrupted, “the heart’s at home here. It
will be bully to have Reggie and Kit and Jim and so many of the old
form at Kingsbridge, but, magister, I shan’t have you.”
Morris’s heart glowed at this. “Stupid they,” thought he, “who say
a boy does not show feeling or gratitude!” Aloud he murmured, “No;
you will not have me. But I will tell you what reconciles me to the
situation, Tony,—you will be coming back during college days pretty
often; and then—I have a strong prophetic feeling—you will be coming
back for good.”
Tony smiled. “I wouldn’t wonder, you know. I’ve often thought I’d like
to. The heart’s at home here, magister. Good-night.”
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.