FRIENDS FALL OUT
That afternoon at three o’clock Toby accompanied Arnold to the
gymnasium where the hockey candidates were assembled in the baseball
cage. The arrival of cold weather had added to the enthusiasm and
many new recruits were on hand. Arnold haled Toby to Captain Crowell,
saluted gravely and announced: “Sir, I have the honor to announce
that in pursuance of your orders I have taken into custody and hereby
deliver to you the body of one T. Tucker. Please sign the receipt!”
“Hello, Arn, you crazy chump,” responded Crowell. “Much obliged, just
the same. Glad to have seen you, Tucker. Hope you’ll like us and our
merry pastime. Just wait around a few minutes and we’ll get things
started. Say, Arn, you’re getting a good many fellows out, it seems.
There’s Jim Rose. I want to see him a minute.”
Crowell hurried away and Toby gazed about him. Many of those present
he knew by sight, but only a very few were speaking acquaintances.
Among the latter were Grover Beech, Frank Lamson, Jim Rose and Ted
Halliday. There were others who had sought Toby’s services in the
matter of pressing their clothes but who never seemed to recall him
when they met in public. Arnold had wandered away to speak to Frank
Lamson and Toby found himself embarrassingly alone until a somewhat
stout youth with a pink-and-white countenance ranged alongside and
remarked: “Quite a mob, isn’t it? Must be fifty, I guess. So many
criminal looking countenances, too! Your name’s Tucker, isn’t it?”
Toby acknowledged it and the pink-faced youth went on cheerfully: “I
suppose you’re out for the second. So’m I. Trying for goal. What’s your
line?”
“Line? Oh, goal, too, I think. Crowell seemed to think I’d better try
that.”
“Hah! Me hated rival!” exclaimed the other beamingly. “‘Tucker versus
Creel, or The Struggle for Goal!’ Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? Know
what Crowell’s going to spring on us in a minute?”
Toby shook his head, smiling. He found Creel amusing.
“Well, he’s going to inform us that to-morrow afternoon we’re expected
to go down and build the rink. Last winter I was horribly ill that
day.” Sid Creel winked knowingly. “Had a beastly cold. If I was you I’d
sneeze a few times and blow my nose. That gives you a chance of coming
down with grippe before to-morrow.”
“Oh, I guess I shan’t mind helping,” laughed Toby. “How do we do it?”
“You lug a lot of planks from under the grand-stand and nail ’em
together and drive posts into the ground, which is always frozen
solid, and then you shovel dirt up outside the planks. It’s all right
if you’re strong and healthy, but to one of my weak constitution it’s
fierce. After you get the dirt shoveled up――Did you ever shovel frozen
dirt? No? Well, it’s no fun. Last year they had to pick it first. You’d
think they’d make the rink before it gets cold, wouldn’t you?”
“Why, yes, I should,” agreed Toby. “Why don’t they?”
Creel shook his head sadly. “No one knows. It’s a sort of――sort of
impenetrable mystery. I guess it just isn’t done. Anyway, after you
get the dirt piled up outside the planks you hitch a hose to the
hydrant and turn the water on and wait for it to freeze.”
“Well, that part sounds easy,” said Toby.
“It may sound easy, but it isn’t,” responded the other boy lugubriously.
“Because you have to stand around and watch the bank you’ve made. You
see, the dirt’s mostly in chunks and of course the water oozes out under
the bottom of the planks and you have to yell for help and shovel more
dirt on and puddle it down with your feet. And while you’re choking up
one leak about thirty-eleven others start. Oh, it’s a picnic――not!”
“But look here,” objected Toby, puzzled. “If you were sick last time
how do you know so much about it?”
Creel gazed sadly across the cage and made no answer for a moment. Then
he sighed deeply, and: “They came up to the room and pulled me out,” he
answered sadly. “Unfeeling brutes!”
Toby’s laughter was interrupted by Captain Crowell, who called for
attention. “There won’t be any practice this afternoon, fellows,”
announced Crowell. “And I don’t believe there will be any more until
we get the rink ready. We’re going to do that to-morrow afternoon.
Every one be on hand as near three as possible so we can get the work
done before dark. It doesn’t take long if we all show up. If any of
you fellows develop colds between now and then you needn’t report
again. We don’t want fellows on the teams who are as delicate as that.”
Toby thought Crowell’s gaze dwelt a moment on Sid Creel’s innocent
countenance. “A lot of you are new to the game and I want to tell you
right now, so there won’t be any kick coming later, that if you put
your names down for hockey you’ll have to show up regularly or you’ll
be dropped. We mean to turn out the best seven this year that has ever
played for Yardley, and if we are to do that you’ll simply have to
make up your minds to come out regularly for practice and work as hard
as you know how. That means the second team candidates as well as the
first. As soon as we get ice the class teams will be made up, and any
fellow that shows good hockey with his class team will have a chance
to show what he can do on the school squad. You fellows who haven’t
put your names down will please do it before you leave. Halliday is
manager and he will take them. I guess that’s about all, fellows. Only
if you really want to make the teams, show it by doing your best.
Listen to what is told you and do your best right from the start. We
play our first outside game in a little more than a week, so, you see,
there isn’t much time to get together. I hope you’ll all pull hard for
a victory over Broadwood this year. We owe her two lickings and we
might as well start out this winter and give her the first one. Don’t
forget to-morrow afternoon at three sharp, fellows.”
Toby gave his name to Ted Halliday and found Arnold waiting for him at
the door of the cage in conversation with Frank Lamson. Frank hailed
Toby jovially. “Going to be a hockey star, Toby?” he asked. “Well, we
need a few earnest youths like you. Have a good time on your vacation?
You and Arn must have been mighty busy, I guess. I called up twice on
the ’phone and each time they told me that you were out doing the town.
How’s Greenhaven? Say, that must be a dreary hole in winter, isn’t it?
Is your sister well?”
“Fine, thanks. Going back, Arn?”
“N――no, I guess I’ll loaf around here awhile. See you at supper, Toby.”
Arnold and Frank parted from him on the steps and Toby made his way
across the yard, past the sun-dial at the meeting of the paths in front
of Dudley and, finally, through the colonnade that joined Oxford and
Whitson and so around to the entrance of his dormitory. As he went
he puzzled again over the friendship that existed between Arnold and
Frank. Personally, he thought Frank Lamson the most unlikeable fellow
he had ever met. Perhaps, though, he reflected, Frank possessed some
qualities apparent to Arnold and not to him. The two had been friends,
though never exactly chums, for several years, while Toby and Arnold
had known each other only since the preceding June. Probably when you
had known a fellow three or four years you got to like him in spite
of his――his faults. Toby almost said “meannesses,” but charitably
substituted the other word. Of course, there was no reason why Arn
shouldn’t go with Frank if he wished to, only――well, for a fortnight or
so preceding Christmas recess Arn had spent a good deal more time with
Frank than he had with Toby, and the latter wondered, as he climbed
the twilight stairways to his room, whether Arn was beginning to get
tired of him. He was very fond of Arnold and the contingency made him
feel rather sad and lonely.
He shed his sweater and cap and seated himself at the deal table, which
just now was a study desk and not an ironing-board, and drew a book
toward him. But his thoughts refused to interest themselves in Cæsar
and he was soon staring out the window and drumming a slow tattoo
on his teeth with the rubber tip of his pencil. Perhaps it was only
imagination, but, looking back on the last two weeks of vacation, it
seemed to him now that Arnold had been less chummy, that something of
the wonderful friendship of the summer had been lacking. Of course,
Arnold had been perfectly splendid to him, had given him an awfully
good time in New York and had probably given up other good times in
order to spend that week-end with him at Greenhaven. And there were
the gold cuff-links, too. Toby arose and got them from a hidden corner
of the top drawer in the bureau and took them back to the window and
looked at them admiringly and even curiously, as though striving to
draw reassurance from them. In the end he laid them on the table and
sank back into his chair. They were handsome and costly, but they
meant little, after all. Arnold had heaps of money to spend; as much,
perhaps, as any fellow in school. Doubtless he would have given him
something equally as fine had their friendship been far less close.
Why, for all he knew, Arn might have given just such a Christmas
present to Frank Lamson! A wave of something very much like jealousy
went over him and he scowled at the cuff-links quite ferociously and
pushed them distastefully aside. Just that afternoon he had noticed a
new pin in Frank’s tie, a moonstone, he thought it was, held in a gold
claw. It was just the sort of a thing that Arnold would select. In
fact, now that he thought of it, Arnold had a pin very much like it!
There was no doubt in the world that that moonstone scarf-pin had been
Arnold’s Christmas present to Frank, and Toby suddenly felt very, very
miserable.
The daylight faded and the words on the pages of the open book were
no longer legible, although that was a matter of indifference to Toby
since he wasn’t looking at them. What Toby was doing was something far
less commendable and useful than studying his Latin. He was imagining
all sorts of uncharitable things about Arnold and trying to recall all
the faults that Frank Lamson had ever exhibited and making himself
extremely miserable. And finally he arose with a shrug of his broad
shoulders and lighted the gas and pulled down the shade. After that he
scooped the cuff-links up contemptuously and tossed them back into the
bureau drawer.
“Let him,” he muttered. “Who cares, anyway? He’s not the only fellow in
school! I guess I can find some one else to chum with if I make up my
mind to do it.” He closed the bureau drawer with a bang. “He won’t ever
see me wearing those things. Maybe he bought them for Frank and Frank
didn’t like them, or something! He can have ’em if he wants ’em. I’m
sure I don’t!”
After that, since there were no clothes to be cleaned or pressed
this afternoon, he resolutely tried to study, and really did manage
to imbibe a certain amount of knowledge by the time the supper hour
came. He and Arnold had managed to secure seats at the same table in
commons (Yardley Hall, founded by an English schoolmaster, still
retained a few English terms); but they had not been able to get seats
together, and save on infrequent occasions when some boy’s absence
made a rearrangement possible they were divided by the width of the
table. Supper was usually a jolly and enjoyable meal for Toby, as it
was for most others, but to-night he was plainly out of sorts, and
when Arnold came in a trifle late and sank into his chair looking
flushed and happy, he became more morose than ever. Arnold’s greeting
was answered coldly, but Arnold failed to notice the fact and went to
work with a good will on the cold meat and baked potatoes which formed
the principal course. There was a good deal of talk and laughter that
evening amongst the ten occupants of Table 14, and consequently Toby’s
silence and gloom went unnoted by any one until supper was almost over.
Then Arnold, appealing to Toby for confirmation of a story he had
been narrating, was met with such a chilling response that he paused
open-mouthed and stared across at his friend.
“Well, what’s wrong with you, T. Tucker?” he asked wonderingly.
“Nothing,” replied Toby, very haughtily.
Several other fellows turned to observe him and the younger of the two
Curran brothers laughed and said: “Oh, Tucker’s peeved because trade’s
fallen off. Every fellow had his trousers pressed at home, I guess.”
Jack Curran frowned at his brother. “Cut that out, Will,” he growled.
“Try to act like a gentleman even if it hurts you. I say, Glad, I found
that book I told you about. If you want it, come around, will you?”
Gladwin replied and conversation became general again. But now and
then Arnold cast a puzzled glance across at Toby’s lowered head and
wondered what had happened to the usually even-tempered chum. By that
time Toby was angry with himself for having shown his feelings. He
wouldn’t have had the other fellows at the table guess the reason for
his glumness for anything in the world. Nor did he want Arnold to
guess it. He had meant to treat the latter with chill indifference; he
hadn’t intended to act like a sulky kid. When he left the table Arnold
followed him to join him on the way out as was usual, but to-night Toby
skirted another table, reached the corridor in advance of Arnold and,
without a glance, pushed through the swinging door to the stairway and
mounted swiftly to his room. Once there he paused on the threshold and
listened. If he had thought to hear Arnold’s footsteps in pursuit he
was mistaken, for Arnold, viewing his friend’s singular behavior, had
merely shrugged his shoulders a bit irritably and let him go.
In his room again, Toby turned up the light, which had been reduced to
a mere pin-point of flame, dragged the chair to the table again and,
settling his head in his hands, determinedly attacked his Latin. But
for a long while, although he kept his eyes on the page, his ears were
strained for the sound of Arnold’s footsteps. Other footsteps echoed
down the corridor and several doors opened and shut. Roy Stillwell,
across the corridor, was singing a football song, keeping time with his
heels on the floor:
“Old Yardley can’t be beat, my boy,
She’s bound to win the game!
So give a cheer for Yardley, and
Hats off to Yardley’s fame!”
Toby, listening whether he wanted to or not, wished Stillwell would
be quiet. How could a fellow study with such an uproar going on?
Presently Stillwell was quiet, and then Toby sort of wished he would
sing again. The silence was horribly lonesome. He raised his eyes from
the book at last and viewed disconsolately the shabby little room.
He wished himself back at home and, for the time at least, honestly
regretted ever having come to Yardley. It had been, he assured himself,
a silly thing to do. Most of the fellows weren’t his sort. Nearly
all that he knew――and he knew few enough――were boys with well-to-do
parents, boys who had about everything they wanted, who lived in
comfortable rooms with pictures on the walls and rugs on the floors
and easy-chairs to loll in and all sorts of nice things. Secretly,
of course, if not openly――and he had to acknowledge grudgingly that
they didn’t do it openly――they looked down on him for being poor and
ill-dressed and having to press clothes to make enough money to assure
his return another year. They weren’t his kind at all. It would have
been far better had he kept on at the high school in Johnstown, as he
would have done if Arnold hadn’t beguiled him with glowing accounts of
Yardley. And there was the matter of the scholarship, too. Toby had
rather hoped to secure one of the six Fourth Year scholarships, if not
a Ripley, which credited one with sixty dollars against the tuition
fee, then a Haynes, which carried fifty dollars with it. Arnold had
been quite sure that Toby could do it and Toby had thought so himself
just at first, but there had been trouble with mathematics in October
and during the time that he had striven to make good as a football
player he had slumped a little in Latin as well. The announcement would
be made the last of the week, but Toby no longer dared hope to hear his
name coupled with one of the prizes.
Suddenly he turned his gaze toward the door and listened intently.
Footsteps on the stairs! They sounded like Arnold’s! Then they came
along the corridor, nearer and nearer. Were they Arnold’s? One instant
Toby thought they were and the next doubted it. They weren’t quite
like, but if they stopped at his door――
They did stop! And a knock sounded! Toby held his breath. He wanted to
run across the room and throw the door open, but something held him
motionless. Another knock, louder this time, and then the door-knob was
tried.
“Let him knock,” said Toby to himself stubbornly. But he didn’t really
mean it. If Arnold called, he decided, he would let him in. He waited
tensely. There was a moment’s silence outside. Arnold must know that he
was in, Toby assured himself, for he could see the light through the
transom and if he really cared about seeing him he would try again. If
he didn’t――
“Tucker!” called a voice from beyond the locked door. “Tucker, are you
in there?”
Toby’s heart sank. It wasn’t Arnold after all! Outside the door stood a
small and apologetic preparatory class youth with a suit draped across
one arm. “S-sorry to disturb you, Tucker,” he stammered, “but I wanted
to know if you thought you c-could do anything with these. Th-they’re
in an awful mess. I b-brushed up against some paint in the village
to-day.”
“I’ll fix them,” answered Toby listlessly. “What’s the name? Lingard?
All right. I’ll have them for you to-morrow evening.”
“Thanks,” exclaimed the youngster gratefully. “I――I hope you won’t find
them too――too m-messy.”
“I guess not. Good-night.”
Toby closed the door again, tossed the clothes over the back of the
dilapidated arm-chair and returned gloomily to his lessons. He was a
fool, he muttered, to think Arn cared enough to seek him out. Not that
it mattered, however. Not a bit! Arn could plaguey well suit himself.
_He_ didn’t care!