Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Anne Folland, Ted Garvin
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version
by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "Sugar it is, then!"]
The Story of Sugar
BY
SARA WARE BASSETT
Author of
"The Story of Lumber"
"The Story of Wool"
"The Story of Leather"
"The Story of Glass"
ILLUSTRATED BY C. P. GRAY
_To my cousin_
_William Pittman Huxley_
_this book is affectionately inscribed_
It gives me much pleasure to acknowledge the courtesy of the
American Sugar Refining Company, and also the kindness of Senator
Truman G. Palmer, of Washington, D. C.
S. W. B.
CONTENTS
I. COLVERSHAM
II. A NARROW ESCAPE
III. SUGARING OFF
IV. THE REFINERY
V. VAN SPRINGS A SURPRISE
VI. A FAMILY TANGLE
VII. MR. CARLTON MAKES A WAGER AND WINS
VIII. VAN MUTINIES
IX. VAN'S GREAT DEED
X. HOW VAN BORE HIS PUNISHMENT
XI. THE BOYS MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
XII. THE DAWN OF A NEW YEAR
Illustrations
"SUGAR IT IS, THEN!"
"I DON'T REMEMBER THAT BIG ROCK"
"I SHOULD THINK IT WOULD STICK TOGETHER"
"IT IS NO EASY TASK"
NO HORN HAD GIVEN WARNING
"THESE TANKS ARE CONNECTED"
THE STORY OF SUGAR
CHAPTER I
COLVERSHAM
"Oh, say, Bobbie, quit that algebra and come on out! You've stuck at
it a full hour already. What's the use of cramming any more? You'll
get through the exam all right; you know you always do," protested
Van Blake as he flipped a scrap of blotting paper across the study
table at his roommate.
Bob Carlton looked up from his book. "Perhaps you're right, Van," he
replied, "but you see I can't be too sure on this stuff. Math isn't
my strong point, and I simply must not fall down on it; if I should
flunk it would break my father all up."
"You flunk! I'd like to see you doing it." Van smiled derisively.
"When you fall down on an exam the rest of us better give up. You
know perfectly well you'll get by. You are always worrying your head
off when there's no earthly need of it. Now look at me. If there is
any worrying to be done I'm the one that ought to be doing it. Do I
look fussed? You don't catch your uncle losing any sleep over his
exams--and yet I generally manage to scrape along, too."
"I know you do--you old eel!" Bob glanced admiringly at his friend.
"I believe you just wriggle by on the strength of your grin."
"Well, if you are such a believer in a grin why don't you cultivate
one yourself and see how far it will carry you?" chuckled Van. "The
trouble with you, Bobbie, is your conscience; you ought to be
operated on for it. Why are you so afraid you won't get good marks
all the time?"
"I'm not afraid; but I'd be ashamed if I didn't," was the serious
reply. "I promised my father that if he'd let me come to Colversham
to school I'd do my best, and I mean to. It costs a pile of money
for him to send me here, and it's only decent of me to hold up my
end of the bargain."
Van Cortlandt Blake stretched his arms and gazed thoughtfully down
at the ruler he was twirling in his fingers.
"Bobbie, you're a trump; I wish more fellows were like you. The
difference between us is that while I perfectly agree with you I sit
back and talk about it; you go ahead and do something. It's rotten
of me not to work harder down here. I know my father is sore on it,
and every time he writes I mean to take a brace and do better--honest
I do, no kidding. But you know how it goes. Somebody wants me on the
ball nine, or on the hockey team, or in the next play, and I say yes
to every one of them. The first I know I haven't a minute to study
and then I get ragged on the exams.
"You are too popular for your own good, Van. No, I'm not throwing
spinach, straight I'm not. What I mean is that everybody likes you.
Why, there isn't a more popular boy in the school! That's why you
get pulled into every sort of thing that's going. It's all right,
too, only if you expect to study any you've got to rise up in your
boots and take a stand. That's why I shut myself up and grind
regularly part of every evening. I don't enjoy doing it, but it's
the only way."
Van rose and began to roam round the room uneasily.
"Goodness knows, Bobbie, if one of us didn't grind neither of us
would get anywhere. By the way, did you manage to dig out that
Caesar for to-morrow? Fire away and give me the product of your
mighty brain. I guess I can memorize the translation if you read it
to me enough times."
Bob did not reply.
"Well?"
"I don't think it is a straight thing for me to translate your Latin
for you every day, Van," he said at last. "You ought not to ask me
to do it."
"I know it; it's mighty low down--I acknowledge that," answered Van
frankly. "But what would you have me do? Flunk it? Come on. I'll get
it myself next time."
"That's what you always say, Van, but you never do."
"But I tell you I will. This week I've been so rushed with the Glee
Club rehearsals I couldn't do a thing. But you wait and view yours
truly next week."
Reluctantly Bob took up his Caesar and opened it.
"That's a gentleman, Bobbie. Some time when you're drowning I'll
throw a plank to you. I knew you'd save my life."
"I do not approve of doing it at all," Bob observed, still searching
for the place in the much worn brown text-book. "I've done about all
your studying this term."
"I own it, oh Benefactor. Are you not my brain--my intellectual
machinery? Could I live a day without you?"
Leaning across the table Van affectionately rumpled up Bob's tidy
locks until every individual hair stood on end.
"If it weren't for me you'd be dropped back into the next class--that's
what would happen to you; and you deserve it, too."
Van was silent.
"I know it. I haven't put in an hour of solid work for a month, Bob
I ought to be ashamed, and I am." He paused. "But there's no use
jumping all over myself if I haven't," he resumed, shifting to a
more sprightly tone. "I've said I was going to take a spurt soon and
I mean it. I'll begin next week."
"Why not start to-day?"
There was a rap at the door.
"Why not?" echoed Van, moving toward the door with evident relief.
"Don't you see I can't? Somebody's always breaking in on my work.
Here's somebody this very minute."
He flung open the door.
"Mail. A parcels-post package for you, Bob. I'll bet it's eats. Your
mother's a corker at sending you things; I wish my mother sent me
something now and then."
"Well, it's a little different with you. Your family live so far out
west they can't very well mail grub to you; but Mater is right here
in New York, and of course as she's near by she'd be no sort of a
mother if she didn't send me something beside this prison fare. Come
on and see what it is this time."
Bob loosened the string from the big box and began unwinding the
wrappings.
"Plum-cake!" he cried. "A dandy great loaf! And here's olives, and
preserved ginger, and sweet chocolate. She's put in salted almonds,
too; and look--here's a tin box of Hannah's molasses cookies, the
kind I used to like when I was a kid. Isn't my mother a peach?"
"She sure is; and she must think a lot of you," said Van slowly. "I
wish my mother'd ever--"
"Maybe if you pitched in a little harder here she'd feel--"
"Oh, cut out the preaching, Bobbie," was the impatient retort. "I've
had enough for one day."
Bob did not speak, but tore open the letter that had come with the
bundle.
"Oh, listen to this, Van," he shouted excitedly. "Mother says they
have decided to open the New Hampshire house for Easter. They're
going up for my spring vacation and take in the sugaring off. What
a lark! And listen to this. She writes: 'You'd better arrange to bring
your roommate home with you for the holiday unless he has other
plans.'"
"Oh, I say!"
"Could you go, Van?"
Bob eyed his chum eagerly.
"I don't see why I couldn't. I'm not going home to Colorado. It's
too far. I was thinking of going to Boston with Ted Talbot, but I'd
a good sight rather go batting with you, Bobbie, old man. It was
fine of your mother to ask me. Where is the place?"
"Our farm? It's in Allenville, New Hampshire, near Mount Monadnock.
It used to be my grandfather's home, and after he died and we all
moved to New York Father fixed it over and kept it so we could go
there summers. I've never been up in the spring, though. It will be
no end of fun."
"I hope you do not call this weather spring," put in Van,
sarcastically, pointing to the snow-buried hills outside.
"Well, it is the middle of March, and it ought to be spring, if it
isn't," answered Bob. "Just think! Only a week more of cramming;
then the exams, and we're off. I'm awfully glad you can go."
"You speak pretty cheerfully of the exams. I don't suppose you dread
them much." Van lapsed into a moody silence, kicking the crumpled
wrapping-paper into the fireplace. "You don't need to worry, Bob.
But look at me. I'll be lucky if I squeak through at all. Of course
I've never really flunked, but I've been so on the ragged edge of
going under so many times that it's no fun."
"Cheer up! You'll get through. Why, man alive, you've got to. Now
come on and get at this Latin and afterward we'll pitch into the
plum-cake."
"What do you say we pitch into the cake first?"
"No, sir. Not a bite of cake will you get until you have done your
Caesar. Come on, Van, like a good kid, and have it over; then we'll
eat and talk about Allenville."
Once more Bob opened the book.
"Here we are! You've got to do it, Van, and to-morrow you'll be glad
that you did. Stop fooling with that paper and bring your chair
round this side of the desk. Begin here: _Cum Caesar esset_--"
Persistently Bob followed each line of the lesson down the page,
translating and explaining as he went, and ungraciously Van Blake
listened.
The little brass clock on the mantelpiece ticked noisily, and the
late afternoon sun that streamed in through the windows lighted into
scarlet the crimson wall-paper and threw into prominence the posters
tacked upon it. It was a cozy room with its deep rattan chairs and
pillow-strewn couch. Snow-shoes, fencing foils, boxing-gloves, and
tennis racquets littered the corners, and on every side a general
air of boyish untidiness prevailed.
Although the apartment was not, perhaps, as luxurious as a college
room, it was nevertheless entirely comfortable, for the Colversham
School boasted among its members not only boys of moderate means but
the sons of some of the richest families in the country. It aimed to
be a democratic institution, and in so far as this was possible it
was; the school, however, was richly endowed and therefore its every
appointment from its perfectly rolled tennis courts to its instructors
and the Gothic architecture of its buildings was of the best.
Van Cortlandt Blake, whose father was a western manufacturer, had by
pure chance stumbled upon Bob Carlton the day the two had alighted
from the train and stood helpless among the new boys on the station
platform, awaiting the motor-car which was to meet them and carry
them up to the school. Before the five mile ride was finished and
the automobile had turned into the avenue of Colversham the boys had
agreed to room together. Bob came from New York City. He was younger
than Van, slender, dark, and very much in earnest; he might even
have passed for a grind had it not been for his sense of humor and
his love for skating and tennis. As it was he proved to be a master
at hockey, as the school team soon discovered, and before he had
been a week at Colversham his classmates also found that he was most
loyal in his friendships and a lad of unusual generosity.
Van Blake was of an entirely different type. Big, husky, happy-go-lucky--a
poor student but a right jolly companion; a fellow who could pitch
into any kind of sport and play an uncommonly good game at almost anything.
More than that, he could rattle off ragtime untiringly and his nimble
fingers could catch up on the piano any tune he heard whistled. What
wonder he speedily became the idol of Colversham? He was a born leader,
tactfully marshaling at will the boys who were his own age, and
good-naturedly bullying those who were younger.
To the school authorities he presented a problem. His influence was
strong and, they felt, not always good; yet there was not a teacher
on the premises who did not like him. Intellectually they were
forced to own that he was demoralizing. He was, moreover, a
disturber of the social order. But his pranks were, after all, pure
mischief and never malicious or underhanded. With a boy like Bob
Carlton as a roommate and drag anchor the principal argued he could
not go far astray.
And so the first year had passed without mishap, and already the
second was nearing its close. The school board congratulated itself.
Had the faculty known that for most of his scholarship, poor as it
often was, Van Blake was indebted to the sheer will power of Bob
Carlton they might have felt less sanguine. Day after day Bob had
patiently tutored his big chum in order that he might contrive to
scrape through his lessons. It was Bob who did the work and Van who
serenely accepted the fruits of it--accepted it but too frequently
with scant thanks and even with grumbling. Bob, however, doggedly
kept at his self-imposed task. To-day's Latin translation was but an
illustration of the daily program; Bob did the pioneering and Van
came upon the field when the path was cleared of difficulties. And
yet it was a glance of genuine affection that Bob cast at his friend
stretched so comfortably in the big Morris chair with a pillow at
his back.
"There, you lazy villain, I think you'll do!" he declared at last.
"Don't forget about the hostages in the second line; you seem pretty
shaky on that. I guess, though, you'll pull through alive."
"Bobbie, you're my guiding angel," returned the elder boy yawning.
"When I make my pile and die rich I'm going to leave you all my
money."
"Great Hat! Hear him. Leave me your money! What do you suppose I'm
going to be doing while you're rolling up your millions? I intend to
be rich myself, thank you," retorted Bob, throwing down his book.
"Now for the plum-cake! You deserve about half the loaf, old man,
but I shan't give it to you, for it would make you sick as a dog,
and then I'd have you to take care of. Oh, I say, listen a minute!
Isn't that the crowd coming from the gym? Open the window and
whistle to them. Tell 'em to pile up here for a feed. And get your
muscle to work on this olive bottle, Van. I can't get the cork out."