FRANK HAS A NEW NAME.
It was a gloomy lot of football players that took their shower that
night. They dressed in silence. Horton was by no means a mild-spoken
coach, yet his method was to get the best out of the players by
persuasion and infinite care. But when he occasionally did open up,
the words were all the sharper.
"Laid the hot shot into you fellows, didn't he?" said Patterson,
sliding up to his classmate, Dixon, as they climbed the slope to the
dormitories.
"Yes, Horton has had a grouch for the last two weeks and we can't
please him. Better come out and try it yourself."
"You'd please him if you played the game," retorted the Wee One, who
never lost a chance of sticking verbal pins into the quarterback. "I
noticed a new back to-day, that young Turner fellow. He has Hillard
beaten twenty ways for Sunday," he added. "Wouldn't be surprised if
he made the team even at this late date."
"I didn't see him do anything wonderful," growled Chip. "Dutton went
through him several times. I'll bet he'll be sore to-morrow where
those old keen bones of the big fellow hit him. He's new and he
probably put all he had into the practice to-day. To-morrow he'll be
like putty."
"If I was a betting man," retorted the Wee One, "I'd lay you some
good coin on it. He doesn't know much about it, but he has the stuff
in him, and Horton will do the rest. I think he will play in the
Warwick game, Chip."
"And I say he won't," burst out Chip savagely. "Hillard is worth two
of him," and then seeing a sarcastic grin playing on the features of
Patterson, he added, "I'll see that he don't play----" and then he
stopped short, fearing he had said too much.
"O, is that so, Mr. Dixon, and when did they elect you captain and
coach of this daisy eleven of ours?"
"O, dry up," was all the comment he could get from Chip who,
having reached the yard by this time, turned abruptly and left his
tormentor.
Jimmy, Frank and Lewis were a few rods behind, and the Wee One waited
for them to come up. Frank had just been detailing the story of his
arrival at the yard that afternoon and Dixon's exhibition of bad
temper. Both Jimmy and Lewis were indignant, but Frank laughed about
the incident. "It wasn't worth mentioning," he said, "but it shows
you what kind of a chap your quarter is."
"I've been here only three weeks," said Jimmy, "and I've heard lots
of things about him being a bully, particularly fond of playing
on the smaller fellow. I guess he can't do much to me. I'm only a
Freshman, but I'll give him a dig in the ribs if he tries any of his
tricks on me."
The Wee One was waiting on the flagged walk in front of Warren Hall
as the three boys came along.
"We'll be over in a minute and take you to grub," Jimmy was saying to
Frank.
"All right," said Frank, "I'll be waiting for you and getting things
in such shape that I can comfortably rest myself to-night. My
room-mate Gleason's a fearful and wonderful housekeeper, judging from
the looks of his effects up to date," and he turned into his entry.
"O, Armstrong, just a minute." Frank stopped and saw his new
sophomore friend approaching at a leisurely roll with his hands
shoved deep into his trousers' pockets.
"I say," volunteered the Wee One, "that young friend of yours,
Turner, looks pretty good to me. But I want to give you a tip. If he
plays that way he's sure to get a chance at the team. But for the
good of the cause I'm just dropping you a weenty teenty hint. Tell
him to keep his weather eye on Chip Dixon."
"Why?" said Frank, showing his surprise very plainly.
"Well, Chip doesn't want him and he'd take any means, fair or unfair,
to put him in bad with the coach. It's just a tip from an old fellow.
That's all," and the Wee One, having delivered himself of this
advice, went whistling on his way.
"I don't see what Chip can do if Jimmy plays well enough to make the
team. I can't see what Chip can do to keep him off," murmured Frank
to himself as he trudged up the stairs. "But I'll pass along the
friendly word of Little Willie, who seems to be a fine little chap
and much bigger than his name."
Gleason was in his room this time, curled up on the window cushion,
and he slowly unrolled himself as Frank pushed open the door.
"Hello, Armstrong," he said, "you're my wife, I guess."
"Your what?" asked Frank.
"My wife, my better half, my tried and trusty room-mate, for better
or for worser."
"I'm all of that," said Frank, smiling in spite of himself at the
voluble Gleason who wasn't the sort of chap he had pictured at all.
From the tumbled state of the room, he had drawn his conclusion that
Gleason would also be in a tumbled state, but here was an immaculate
dandy.
Frank looked his room-mate over, and then his gaze involuntarily
traveled around the room.
"Yes, I know," said Gleason grinning, "doesn't look right," as he saw
that Frank was trying to adjust his notions anew. "You see I haven't
time to keep both of us tidy, the room and me, so I put the time on
myself and let the room go. I was never made for a housekeeper."
Gleason was very tall and very thin, and had thin, dark hair which
he parted in the middle and combed straight back. His collar was of
the white wings variety, very high, and encircled a long, lean neck,
and his necktie was of the most positive and overpowering lavender.
Patent leather pumps and socks to match his cravat, and a suit with
a decidedly purple cast to it, completed his attire. Gleason had the
appearance of being half divinity student, half gambler, and "the
other half," as the Irishman said, "dude."
"Well, don't you like me, wifey?" asked Gleason quizzically, as
Frank stood just inside the threshold eyeing this strange mixture
of a boy. "Sorry if you don't, for it's going to be no end of a
trouble. They're chock-a-block with flowering youth at this blessed
institution, and if we fight one of us'll have to go into the cellar."
"O, we're going to get on all right," said Frank grinning, "but
you're so different from what I had expected."
"Well, I might be worse. What are you going in for?"
"It will be study for a while for mine. I'm three weeks late. I'm too
light for football this year, and I don't know much about it, but I'm
going out for baseball in the spring. And maybe I will get a chance
at the track meets. I can run a little. What do you go in for?"
"Me? O, I just sit round on the bleachers and take notes. I soak
myself in records and they just ooze out of all my pores. Very handy
young person to have around, Frank. Don't mind my familiarity, that's
your handle--I saw it on your boxes. Good name for the family Bible,
but kind of cold for school life. Haven't you got something warmer?
They call me 'Codfish' because, forsooth, I came from up Cape Cod
way. But the cod is a good fish properly treated, so I don't object.
Haven't you something in the way of a name besides your Christian
ticket?"
"No, just Frank."
"Well, it isn't right. It isn't cosey and homey enough. All right for
the school catalogue, but too chilly for everyday use. What's your
'ponchong' as the French say, your big swipe, in other words?"
"Well, I do a little swimming now and then," said Frank. "How would
Fish be?"
"Won't do. Can't have two members of the ichthyosaurus family in one
room. Let's see. Eel--no, eel isn't good, he spends most of his time
in the mud. Duck--no, the young ladies at the seminary'd be calling
you ducky some day. I have it--web-foot, Web-foot Armstrong, how's
that?"
"Sounds all right," said Frank, "kind of a paddler, eh?"
"An inspiration, my boy. Web-foot is your name from henceforth, to
have and to hold until death do you part--Web-foot Armstrong, thus I
christen thee."
A sound was heard on the stairs, and in another moment Jimmy and
Lewis appeared at the open doorway. They were already acquainted with
Gleason, and nodded to him.
"Welcome to our city," cried Gleason coming forward. "Are you
acquainted with my young friend, Web-foot Armstrong? He is my steady
for whom I've been waiting for three long weeks."
"It's a new name my room-mate has given me," explained Frank
laughing. "He says Frank isn't homey enough."
"Web-foot suits him all right. He's a perfect water-dog, you know,"
said Jimmy. "One of the rising young swimmers of the generation and
all that sort of thing; gave the champion a hard rub down in Florida."
"Ah, yes," said the Codfish, straddling. "I saw something about
that; let's see, I have it somewhere--yes, here it is," as he began
picking in a big envelope among a number of clippings--"here it
is--'Champion Boy Swimmer of Milton hustles the Champion,' copied
from the _St. Augustine Record_," and he began to read an exaggerated
account of the affair in the Florida tank.
"That was going some," he concluded. "Darnell's record is 56 and 2-5
seconds for the hundred. He did that at the Olympics in Athens two
years ago and repeated it in the New York Athletic Club last winter."
The Codfish reeled off the information with the certainty of
knowledge.
"He knows every amateur record that was ever made, I think," Jimmy
whispered to Frank, "and can tell you what the score of every league
contest was since he was big enough to fall out of the cradle; and he
is a great practical joker, so they say. You want to look out for his
tricks."
"Stop filling us up on your records, Gleason," said Lewis. "I'm
hungry as a bear. Let's fill up on something more substantial."
The boys raced down the stairs with a clatter and headed in the
direction of Howard Hall beyond Russell. Howard was the old gymnasium
which had been turned into a great dining hall, and there, amid the
crash of crockery, Frank sat down to his first school meal, flanked
by Jimmy and Lewis. Across the table was the irrepressible Codfish.
"We all mess together here, you see," said Jimmy, waving his
hand abroad, "but the upper classes have that end of the hall to
themselves. Noisy, isn't it, but you'll get used to it."
Frank nodded. He was taking in this part of his new life, with all
his eyes and ears to the exclusion of his stomach. What would his
mother think of this rumpus, he thought, and he smiled to himself.
"Hey, Skip, you there, don't hog all the butter, shoot it down
here," called the Codfish. "You use as much grease as a six-cylinder
transmission." And the butter dish came hurtling down from Skip
Congdon, caroming against the pepper and salt dishes and knocking
them off their pins.