THE ENTERING WEDGE
If you have by any chance read a previous narrative of events at
Grafton School entitled “Rivals for the Team” you are sufficiently
acquainted with the scene of this story, and, also, with many of
the characters. But since it is quite possible that you have never
even heard of the former narrative, it devolves on the historian to
introduce a certain amount of descriptive matter at about this stage,
something he has as little taste for as have you. Descriptions are
always tiresome, and so we’ll have this as short as possible.
Grafton School, then, occupies a matter of ten acres a half-mile
east of the town of that name and at the foot of the hill which is
known as Mount Grafton. Like many another New England school, it is
shaded by elms, boasts many fine expanses of velvety turf and, so to
speak, laves its feet in a gently-flowing river. The buildings on the
campus consist of three dormitories, the more venerable School Hall,
the gymnasium and the Principal’s residence, and of these all save
the two latter stretch in a straight line across the middle of the
three-acre expanse. The gymnasium is slightly back from the line and
the Principal’s cottage is a bit in advance, its vine-covered porch
looking along the fronts of the other buildings and its rear windows
peering down into Crumbie Street. School Hall is in the center. Trow
comes next on the left, and then Lothrop. On the right of the older
building stands Manning, which shelters the younger boys, and somewhat
“around the corner” is the gymnasium.
Graveled walks lead across the campus, under spreading elm trees,
to Crumbie Street on one side, to River Street on the other, to
School Street straight in front. Beyond School Street is the Green, a
block-wide parallelogram on which, at the corner of School and River
Streets, two smaller dormitories stand. These, Morris and Fuller, are
converted dwellings of limited accommodations. The main walk from
the steps of School Hall continues across the Green to Front Street,
beyond which, descending gently to the Needham River, is Lothrop Field.
An ornamental wall and gate commemorate the name of the giver. The
Field House flanks the steps on the left and beyond lie the football
gridirons, the baseball diamonds, the tennis courts and the blue-gray
cinder track. The distant weather-stained building on the river bank is
the boathouse.
Grafton School looks after slightly over two hundred boys between the
ages of twelve and twenty. At the time of which I am writing, February
of last year, the number was, I believe, exactly two hundred and ten,
of which some thirty-five had attained to the senior class and about
eighty were juniors, leaving the upper middle and lower middle classes
to share the residue fairly equally. The faculty numbered twelve,
beginning with Doctor Duncan, the Principal, and ending with Mrs. Fair,
the matron. Doctor Duncan’s full title is Charles William Duncan, A.M.,
Ph.D., but he is better known as “Charley”! There was――and doubtless
are――also a Mrs. Duncan and a Miss Duncan, but they are not likely to
enter into this narrative. So much then for our stage setting. I might
keep on, but I fear you are weary, and I know I am!
Hugh Ordway roomed on the top floor of Lothrop, the newest and most
luxurious of the dormitories, sharing the suite of study and two
bedrooms with Bert Winslow. Hugh’s father was English and his mother
American, and, although Hugh had been born on the other side and had
spent most of his sixteen years there, he declared himself to be half
American. His full name was Hugh Oswald Brodwick Ordway, and in spite
of the fact that by reason of his father being the Marquis of Lockely,
Hugh had every right to the title of Earl of Ordway, he was generally
known at Grafton as “Hobo,” a nickname evolved from his initials. As he
was a straight, well-built, clear-skinned, young chap with quiet brown
eyes and an undeniable air of breeding, the nickname was amusingly
incongruous if one stopped to consider it. But Hugh had been known as
Hobo Ordway ever since fall, when his cleverness as a running halfback
on the first football team had surprised and delighted the school,
and nowadays the name was too familiar to excite any comment. Hugh’s
particular friends were more likely to call him “’Ighness,” however.
It was Hugh, alone in the study, who responded to the knock at the
door shortly after supper that evening and who successfully disguised
the surprise he felt when he recognized his visitors as Jimmy Logan
and Dudley Baker. He made them welcome quite as heartily as though he
had been expecting them all day, and Dud, who had hung back all the
way up the three flights of slate stairs, was vastly relieved. The
conversation skipped from one subject to another for the first few
minutes, during which time Hugh, perched on the window-seat, leaving
the easy-chairs to his guests, hugged his knees to his chin, piloted
the conversation and secretly wondered at the visit.
You are not to suppose, however, that Hugh was the only one of the
three at his ease. Such a supposition shows on your part a vast
ignorance of Jimmy Logan. Jimmy was a stranger to embarrassment. Had
Hugh been the President of the United States or the King of England
or――well, “Home Run” Baker, Jimmy would have been just as splendidly
at ease as he was this moment. He might have assumed a more dignified
attitude in the Morris chair and his voice might have held a more
respectful tone, but beyond that――no, not Jimmy! Just now Jimmy was
humorously recounting his skiing adventures that afternoon and Hugh
was chuckling over them. Dud smiled when Hugh laughed, sitting rather
stiffly in his chair, and tried his best to look animated and pleasant
and only succeeded in looking anxious and uncomfortable. Jimmy did his
best to get Dud to talk, but Dud’s conversation consisted largely of
“Yes” and “No” and Hugh secretly thought him a bit of a stick. Jimmy
was wondering whether to withdraw as gracefully as possible before
Dud created any worse impression when the door opened to admit a
black-haired, dark-eyed fellow of seventeen who, with less command over
his features than Hugh, looked frankly surprised when he saw who the
visitors were. The surprise even extended to his voice as he greeted
them.
“Hello, Jimmy,” said Bert Winslow. “What are you doing up here? Haven’t
seen you around here for ages.” He spoke to Dud then, hesitating a
moment as though not certain of the latter’s name. Dud, noting the
fact, felt his embarrassment increase and wished that Jimmy would
give the word to leave. But Jimmy had already abandoned thoughts of
withdrawing. He liked Bert Winslow, just as most fellows did, and
welcomed the chance to talk to him. Bert and Jimmy were both members of
“Lit”――short for Literary Society――and only two evenings ago had been
pitted against each other in one of the impromptu weekly debates and
had struggled along nip and tuck until Jimmy, abandoning facts, had in
a wild flow of rhetoric won the meeting. Bert alluded to it now as he
tossed his cap through the open door of his bedroom.
“Jimmy, that was a fine lot of hot air you got off the other night,” he
said with a grin. “Didn’t your folks ever teach you anything about the
beauties of truthfulness?”
Jimmy laughed. “Sure, but I had to beat you somehow, Bert. Besides,
what I said may be so for all I know!”
“Huh! You just said the first thing that came into that silly head of
yours! Did you ever hear such a mess of rot as he sprang, Hugh?”
Hugh smiled. “It sounded all right! Some of the figures were corking.
You must have a wonderful memory, Logan!”
“Memory!” snorted Bert, seating himself beside Hugh on the window-seat.
“There wasn’t a figure that was right! I looked it up afterwards. Did
you hear him, Baker? Oh, no, you’re Forum, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Dud. He tried very hard to follow that up with something
brilliant or amusing in regard to Jimmy’s debating, but couldn’t think
of anything, possibly because Bert’s tone had held some of the careless
contempt with which members of a society spoke of its rival, and Dud
wished just for the moment that he, too, was “Lit.”
Perhaps Hugh thought that his chum had verged on discourtesy, for
he observed quickly: “They tell me you chaps have some awfully good
talkers in Forum, Baker.”
Dud agreed. “I guess Joe Leslie is our best; he and Guy Murtha.”
“Murtha’s better than Joe, I think,” said Jimmy. “Anyway, he did a lot
better last year in the debate with Mount Morris.”
“Joe’s a wonder at hammering home facts,” said Bert. “Guy’s better at
the eloquence stuff, though. Speaking of Guy, Hugh, reminds me that I
told him you were going to try for the outfield this spring and he said
he was mighty glad because if you could get on the base he was certain
you could get around.”
“Oh, but I say, Bert, I don’t know that I shall! Try for baseball, I
mean.”
“Of course you will!”
“But I don’t know much about it. You say it’s quite different from
cricket, eh?”
“Quite, ’Ighness! You’ve seen baseball played, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes, once or twice, but――――”
“I should think a fair cricket player would easily get the hang of
baseball,” said Jimmy. “I guess it’s as hard to catch a cricket ball as
a baseball, isn’t it? I suppose you’re a rattling good cricket player,
Ordway.”
“Oh, no, really I’m not,” exclaimed Hugh. “I’ve played a bit at it, of
course. You chaps bowl――I mean pitch to the batters so like thunder,
don’t you? I fancy I’ll be scared to stand up there, eh?”
“You might if Gus Weston was pitching,” laughed Bert. “You going to
play this year, Jimmy?”
“Oh, I guess so. What would the dear old second do without me?”
“Aren’t you trying for the first, though? You’re as good a fielder as
Parker, I guess.”
“I may. The fact is, Bert, I’m sort of used to the dear old second. It
would be like leaving home to go to the first. Still, I may decide to
break home ties and meet you fellows there.”
“I fancy you’re not likely to meet me there,” said Hugh. “I’ll be an
awful dub if I try it, I know. Do you play, Baker?”
“A little,” answered Dud.
“Dud’s the coming Mathewson,” said Jimmy. “Got to watch him, we have.
Some twirler!”
“Really?” asked Bert, evidently not much impressed. “That’s fine,
Baker. The second rather needed pitchers last spring.”
“He’s going out for the first,” said Jimmy. “Dud’s like me, you know.
When Duty calls――――” Jimmy smiled eloquently.
“I say, though, Logan, who is this Johnnie you spoke of? Mathews,
wasn’t it?”
“Not Johnnie; Christopher,” replied Jimmy gravely. “I referred to Mr.
Christopher Mathewson, better known as ‘Matty,’ the Dean of American
Pitchers. Dud and ‘Matty’ are as thick as thieves; that is, Dud is!
Dud reads everything ‘Matty’ writes and can tell you off-hand how
many games ‘Matty’ pitched last year and all the other years, and how
many he won, and what his averages are and all the rest of it. He has
a gallery of Mathewson pictures and he’s the proud possessor of a
ball that Mathewson used in a game with Philadelphia back in 1760 or
thereabouts. I don’t know how he got that ball, but I suspect that he
swiped it.”
“It was given to me,” said Dud defensively. Then he added, embarrassed:
“You mustn’t mind what Jimmy says. He talks a lot of nonsense.”
“I say, though,” exclaimed Hugh, “I do hope you get on the first,
Baker. It must be a lot of fun to do the pitching, eh? More fun than
fielding, I fancy.”
“Have you pitched much?” inquired Bert politely.
“I’ve been trying to for a couple of years,” answered Dud. “I don’t
suppose I’ll make the first this year, of course, but Murtha said he’d
be glad to have me try, and so――――”
“You must make allowances for his modesty,” said Jimmy. “He’s really
rather a shark at it. He can tell you just how to pitch any ball ever
discovered, from a straight one to a ‘floater.’”
“Question is, I guess,” Bert laughed, “whether he can _pitch_ ’em. I
know _how_ to pitch a ‘knuckle ball,’ but I can’t do it. I remember
now, Baker, you pitched some on the second last year, didn’t you?”
“Only three games, or parts of them, Winslow. I dare say I won’t be
good enough this year, but――I thought I’d try.”
“Of course,” said Bert heartily. “Nothing like trying. The trouble is,
though, you’ve got some good ones to stack up against, eh? There’s Nate
Leddy and Ben Myatt――――”
“And Gus Weston,” observed Jimmy gravely.
Bert smiled. “Just the same, Gus has pitched some good games for us.
But isn’t he a wonder when he goes up?”
Jimmy chuckled. “Gus Weston can go up quicker and higher than any
fellow I ever saw,” he said. “And when he _is_ wild――――” He ended with
an impressive whistle.
“He looked pretty promising last spring,” continued Bert. “Remember the
game he pitched against Middleboro? They only got six hits off him, I
think.”
“Yes, and Kelly is another chap that is likely to make good this year,”
said Jimmy. “Oh, we’re pretty well off for twirlers, but you wait until
Dud gets going. And speaking of going, Dud, what do you say if we do a
little of it?”
“Don’t rush off,” said Bert. “Well, come around again, Jimmy.”
Probably the invitation was meant to include Dud, but Hugh thought that
Dud might not interpret it so and added cordially, “Yes, do, fellows!”
On the way downstairs Jimmy said: “Well, we got out of that pretty
well, Dud. I thought for a while you were going to spoil everything by
monopolizing the conversation the way you did, but――――”
“I don’t seem to know what to talk about,” said Dud ruefully. “I guess
Ordway thought me an awful ass.”
“Well, he rather pointedly invited you to come back, so I don’t think
you need to worry about that. The next time――――”
“There won’t be any next time,” interrupted the other. “It’s just like
you said, Jimmy. I can’t mix and there’s no use trying.”
“Oh, yes, there is! We’ve just started. That was the――the entering
wedge, so to say. We’ll drop around again next week. And between now
and then I’ll put you through a course of sprouts, old chap. We’ll mix
in society. Just as soon as you can learn to forget your plaguey self,
Dud, you’ll get on finely. The trouble is with you that you just sit
and worry about what fellows are thinking of you. But I’ll break you of
that quick enough.”
“I guess we’ll call it off,” muttered Dud.
“And I guess we won’t,” was the firm response. “Having set my hand
to the plow, Dudley, I never look back. That’s me. My full name is
Grim Determination. All others are impostors. Accept no substitutes.
Guaranteed to comply with the Pure Food Law. After you, Dud. One flight
and turn to the right, please.”