VAN MUTINIES
Another day passed and Bob and Van were once more back at Colversham
greeting the boys and vainly endeavoring to settle down to the work
of the last term.
"It seems as if the stretch from April to June is about the hardest
pull of the whole year," yawned Van, looking up for the twentieth
time from his Latin lesson and gazing out into the sunny campus.
"Studying is bad enough at best, but when the trout brooks begin to
run and the canoeing is good it is a deadly proposition to be cooped
up in this room hammering away for the finals."
"It always seems worse after a vacation," agreed Bob, tilting back
in his chair. "You'll get back into the harness, though, in a day or
two; you know you always yap just about so much when you first get
back to school."
"I don't yap, as you call it, any worse than most fellows do. I hate
being tied up like a pup on a leash. It seems as if I'd just have to
get out and play ball--and if you were a human being you'd want to,
too," growled Van.
"Hang it all, don't you suppose I want to?" Bob retorted. "What do
you think I'm made of, anyway?"
"I don't know, Bobbie. Sometimes you're so resigned I begin to fear
you are a mummy," was Van's laughing retort. "Now, I'm not like
that. It is one big grind for me to study. The minute spring comes
it seems as if I never could translate another line of Cicero as
long as I lived, and I don't care a hurray what X equals. What will
it matter a hundred years hence whether we plug away here at this
stuff, or get out and play ball?"
"I guess you'd find it would matter to you right now without waiting
for the end of a century," was the laconic answer. "But speaking of
ball, what wouldn't you give to see the first League game of the
season in town, Saturday? That will be some playing!"
"I clean forgot the season opened this week," exclaimed Van. "Since
I got back here I've been all mixed up on dates. I thought it was
next week. Are you sure it's Saturday?"
Bob nodded.
"Positive."
"It'll be a cracker-jack game," mused Van. "I'd give something to be
there. You don't suppose we could get off at noon and go, do you?"
"Not on your life! Right now, after vacation? What do you take this
school faculty for--an entertainment committee? You seem to forget
we'd have to cut algebra, and English, and gym."
"I shouldn't care."
"I should. I'm working this trip, and can't afford to miss
recitations," was Bob's sharp reply. "As for you, you can afford to
miss them even less than I can--you know that. Put it out of your
head. When you can't do a thing there is no use thinking about it
and wishing you could."
"I see no earthly harm in talking about it."
"I do. It just keeps you stirred up."
"Then what did you mention it for in the beginning?"
"I don't know. I wish to goodness I hadn't," Bob declared.
"Well, in spite of your opinions I repeat I'd give a fiver to see
that game Saturday."
"You can't, so cut it out and let me finish this theme. Every time
I've started to write you've broken in and driven every blooming
idea out of my head. Now quit it. You better pitch into your own
work for to-morrow. Dig out all the Cicero you can, and later I'll
help you with the rest."
With finality Bob wheeled his chair around and proceeded to submerge
himself in his task.
But not so Van. He took up his book, to be sure, but over the top of
it his eyes roved to the world outside, and fixed themselves
dreamily on the line of hills that peeped above the tips of the red
maples budding in the school campus. He was far away from Colversham
and its round of duties. In imagination he moved with a gay, eager
crowd through the gateway leading into the great city ball ground.
He could hear the game called; watch the first swirl of the ball as
it curved from the pitcher's hand; catch the sharp click of the bat
against it; and join in the roar of applause as the swift-footed
runner sped to second base.
Everybody would be at that opening game!
Not to go when it was within trolley distance was absurd.
What was algebra, English, or a little wall-scaling compared to such
an opportunity?
And, anyway, who would be the wiser?
There must be ways of getting off so nobody, not even Bob, would
know.
If only Bob could be persuaded to cut school!
But it was never any use to urge Bob when he spoke in that horribly
positive tone. You might just as well try to move a lighthouse.
Van glanced furtively at his chum who, unconscious of his scrutiny,
was writing steadily down a long page of foolscap. The sight had a
steadying effect. Van again took up his book and scowled once more
at that same old line at the top of the page. But all the time
between his eyes and his Latin lesson swayed that alluring throng of
pleasure seekers. Impatiently he tried to banish them, but stern as
was his attempt their laughter still sounded in his ears. Against
his will he was back at the ball game, and this time he was on his
feet shouting wildly with the other fans as Carruth, the star
batter, made a soaring hit and stole two bases on it. In that
instant of unreined enthusiasm Van Blake decided that come what
might he would go to the game on Saturday--go even though his whole
term's work went for naught.
The resolve made he tried to stifle his conscience by falling upon
his Latin with unwonted zeal, and so ardently did he wrestle with it
that when, an hour later, Bob pushed aside his papers and offered to
help him with the lesson he was able to greet his chum with a
translation so far beyond his customary efforts that Bob patted him
on the head with paternal pride, exclaiming:
"Bully for you, old man! That's about the best work I ever knew of
your doing. The middle of it is a little queer, but we'll fix that
up all right. Who says you're not a Cicero?"
"Bobbie, if I thought for one moment that there was any danger of my
becoming a Cicero or any other Latin worthy I'd go drown myself!"
Van cried, startled at the mere thought. "I'm not so worse, though,
am I? I'd no idea I could reel it off like that."
"Of course you can do it. Why, Van, you could do all kinds of things
if you'd only go at them. The trouble with you is that you always
study with one eye out the window. If you'd only get down to your
job with all your might you'd not only get your lessons better but
you'd learn them in half the time."
"I 'spect that's so," drawled Van lazily. "I ought to duff right in
on all fours. I acknowledge it. But it is not so easy to make your
mind go where you send it."
He broke off, shifting the subject to athletics, and was in the
highest spirits the rest of the day; but underneath all his fun and
banter the question constantly arose in his inner consciousness: How
could he elude his roommate's watchfulness and on the coming
Saturday escape to the great game?
Strangely enough Fortune seemed to smile upon his plot, for Friday
morning Bob was taken to the infirmary with a sore throat, which,
although slight, isolated him from the rest of the boys. No longer
was he at Van's elbow to watch, warn, or censure.
The coast was entirely clear.
Van formulated his plans.
Directly after luncheon on Saturday he would start for the city,
hugging the edge of the campus and afterward cutting across the
adjoining estate to meet the car line where it forked into the main
road. Many another boy had done the same and not been caught; why
not he? It was, to be sure, against the rules to leave the school
grounds without permission, but one must take a chance now and then.
Did not half the spice of life lay in risks?
Accordingly after the noonday meal was finished and the boys had
scattered to recitations or the dormitories Van sauntered idly out
past the tennis-courts; across the field skirting the golf course
and then with one sudden plunge was behind the gymnasium and running
like a deer for the thicket that separated Colversham from the
Sawyer estate. He knew the lay of the land perfectly, for this short
cut was a favorite thoroughfare of the boys, in spite of the posted
protest of _No Trespassing_.
Creeping cautiously through the shelter of the orchard he contrived
to escape observation and reach the highway in safety; at this quiet
noon hour the road was entirely deserted save for the presence of
one small boy who was jogging on ahead, a dinner pail upon his arm.
He was a slender little fellow of six or seven years who whistled
shrilly as he went and kicked up clouds of dust with his bare feet.
As Van watched the sway of his shoulders and the unhampered tread of
his unshod feet he could not but recall the days when he, too, had
gloried in going barefoot. He smiled at the memory which now seemed
so absurd.
A slight sound behind him broke in upon his reverie.
Bounding the turn just at his back swept a big scarlet touring-car
driven by a solitary man. It was coming at tremendous speed and no
horn had given warning of its noiseless approach. Van had but an
instant to step out of its path when on it shot, bearing down on the
unconscious boy ahead. The little chap was walking in the middle of
the road and whistling so loudly that no hint of the oncoming danger
reached him. The man in the motor saw the child and sounding his
horn, swerved to the left; but it was too late. The speeding car
caught the lad, struck him, and tossed him to the roadside rushing
on in its mad flight faster, if anything, than before.
In vain did Van call after it.
His protest was useless.
The great red vehicle whirled forward, a speck in the sunshine, and
was lost to view.
Terror-stricken Van darted to the child's side and bent over him.
His eyes were closed and an ugly gash in his forehead was bleeding
profusely.
[Illustration: NO HORN HAD GIVEN WARNING]
Binding a handkerchief round the little fellow's head the older boy
lifted him in his arms and retracing his steps ran with him down the
road, across the Sawyer lawn, and up the steps of the Colversham
infirmary.
A young orderly who was lounging at the door came forward and on
seeing the child's face spoke quickly to a physician who was passing
through the hall. Together they took the little boy from Van's arms
and carried him to a cot in an adjoining room, anxiously plying Van
with questions as they went.
Briefly Van related the story.
"Such men should be hung! Prison is too good for them!" snapped the
doctor angrily.
He passed his hand with infinite tenderness over the tiny, still
form on the bed.
"Is he much hurt, sir?" questioned Van eagerly.
"I can't tell yet. He is hurt enough so that he doesn't come to his
senses, poor little chap! Here, Jackson, ring for a couple of
nurses. We'll get the child up-stairs."
Van tagged behind them more because he was anxious to hear of the
lad's condition than because he could be of any real use.
As the sad procession left the elevator, emerging into the corridor
on the second floor, a tall man who was coming down the stairway
confronted them.
It was Dr. Maitland, the principal of the school!
"What's this?" he asked, advancing with swift stride.
The doctor hurriedly explained the circumstances.
"A motor accident on the Claybrook Road, you say? Well, well! Poor
little chap! Who brought him in?"
"This lad--one of the schoolboys. You showed good judgment, Blake,
and it was a mighty fortunate thing that you were there," observed
the surgeon, passing on.
"The Claybrook Road?" repeated the puzzled principal. "You were on
the Claybrook Road, Blake? And what were you doing there at this
time of day?"
With throbbing heart Van suddenly came to himself.
Up to that instant no thought of his own peculiar plight had crossed
his mind. Now the reality of his dilemma rushed upon him with
pitiless force.
"May I ask," repeated the principal in measured tone, "what were you
doing on the Claybrook Road at this hour, Blake?"