BLASHINGTON
“Of course,” said Stanley, “you can go to ‘Jud’s’ reception if you’d
rather, but you’ll have a poor time. You just shake hands with Jud and
a bunch of the faculty and Mrs. Jud and stand around until you get
tired and go home again.”
“Jud being Doctor Lane?” asked Dick.
“Right! The idea is that you’re to become acquainted with the other
fellows and the instructors, but the old boys fight shy of it and the
new boys just stand and look at each other, and the faculty always
forgets your name the next morning.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound exciting,” acknowledged Dick, “and I’m for
cutting it out unless it’s required.”
“It isn’t, it’s elective,” laughed Stanley. “We’ll blow over to Blash’s
room presently. He may not be there, but we can try.”
They had finished supper and were strolling along the walk toward the
west gate. Windows were open in the dormitories and from the nearer
ones came the sound of voices and laughter. Occasionally someone
hailed Stanley and they stopped for a moment while the latter held
conversation. There were groups of fellows on the turf along The Front,
for the evening was warm and still. A bluish haze softened the twilight
distances and somewhere toward the centre of the town a church bell was
ringing. It was all very peaceful and homey, and Dick felt no regrets
for Leonardville. At the gate which led onto the junction of Linden and
Apple Streets they paused a moment. A belated arrival climbed tiredly
out of a decrepit taxi in front of Williams and staggered up the steps
bearing suit-case and golf-bag. Along the streets and less frequently
across the campus the lights gathered brightness in the deepening
twilight, although westward the sky was still faintly aglow.
“Where does Blashington room?” asked Dick as they turned their steps
back the way they had come.
“Goss,” answered Stanley. “He rooms with Sid Crocker, this year’s
baseball captain.”
“Goss?” Recollection came to Dick. “I wonder if you know a fellow named
Quiggle--no, that’s not his name. I don’t know what his name is, but he
rooms in Goss. He’s a tall, lanky chap with a long nose.”
“Where’d you meet him?” asked Stanley, interestedly.
Dick recounted the incident and, since he didn’t happen to look at
Stanley’s countenance while doing so, was not aware of the smile that
trembled about the hearer’s lips. “He’s going to pay me the rest of
that money when I find him,” ended Dick resolutely. “I thought maybe
you’d know who he is.”
“Well, the description isn’t very--er--whatyoucallit, Dick,” replied
the other gravely. “I dare say the fellow was just having a joke with
you.”
“I dare say, but he was too fresh. I felt like an awful fool when the
taxi driver called me down for offering him half a dollar instead of
seventy-five cents. Well, I suppose I’ll run across him pretty soon.”
“Oh, you will,” Stanley assured him almost eagerly “You’re absolutely
certain to, Dick!”
“What’s the joke?”
“Joke?”
“Yes, what are you snickering about?”
“Oh, that? I--I thought I wanted to sneeze. It’s sort of dusty this
evening.”
“I hadn’t noticed it,” said Dick suspiciously. But Stanley’s
countenance was quite devoid of amusement, and he accepted the
explanation. In front of Goss, Stanley backed off onto the grass and
looked up to one of the third floor windows.
“There’s a light in his room,” he announced. “Somebody’s in, anyhow.
Let’s go up.”
So, Stanley leading the way, they climbed the two flights of worn
stairs, for Goss didn’t boast slate and iron stairways, and traversed a
length of corridor to where the portal of Number 27 stood partly open.
Stanley thumped a couple of times on the door and entered. Someone
within said, “Come in, Stan,” and Dick, following his friend, saw a
rather short, stockily-made youth stretched on the window-seat at the
end of the room. “Excuse me if I don’t rise,” continued the boy. “I
happened to look out a minute ago and saw you rubbering up here.” He
shook hands with Stanley and then, seeing Dick for the first time,
muttered something, and swung his feet to the floor.
“Shake hands with Bates, Sid,” said Stanley. “Dick, this is Mr.
Crocker, well-known in athletic circles as a shot-putter of much
promise.”
“Shut up,” grumbled Crocker. “Glad to meet you,” he added to Dick. “Sit
down, you chaps, if you can find anything to sit on. Blash has got his
things all over the shop. Bring up that chair for your friend, Stan.
You can sit here, and I’ll put my feet on you. Pardon me if I return
to a recumbent position, will you? I’m very weary.”
“Where’s Blash?” asked Stanley. “Gone over to Jud’s, I suppose.”
“Not exactly. He’s down the hall somewhere. He suggested tossing up to
see whether he or I should unpack the bags, and he lost. So, of course,
he remembered that he had to see a fellow and beat it. He will be back
in a few minutes, I guess. This is a fair sample of the way in which he
meets his obligations, gentlemen. I’m ashamed of him.”
Sid Crocker sighed, stretched, and deposited his feet in Stanley’s lap.
He was a nice looking boy of apparently eighteen years, with light
hair and a round, much tanned face. He seemed unnecessarily serious
of countenance, Dick thought, but afterwards he found that Sid’s
expression of gravity was no indication of mood. Sid caught Dick’s gaze
and was reminded of his duties as host.
“I guess I didn’t quite get your name,” he said, politely.
“Bates,” said Stanley. “We’re together over in Sohmer. This is his
first year.”
“Bates?” echoed Sid. “Bates! Where have I--Ah! I remember.” He sank
back against the cushions again, closing his eyes as though in deep
thought. Dick determined to be modest, but it was flattering to find
that someone here had heard of him. He waited for Crocker to proceed,
and so did Stanley, but instead Sid wriggled off the window-seat.
“Just excuse me a minute, will you?” He crossed to a chiffonier,
opened a drawer and fumbled within. “Just remembered something. Fellow
downstairs wanted me to lend him--er----” Whatever it was the fellow
downstairs required they didn’t learn, for Sid removed something from
drawer to pocket and made for the corridor. “While I’m about it,” he
added from the doorway, “I’ll find Blash and fetch him back.” Dick got
the impression that he was seeking to convey to Stanley more than his
words expressed, for he stared very hard at that youth as he spoke and
continued to stare for an instant longer before he disappeared.
“Rather a jolly old room,” said Stanley, when they were alone. “These
old places fix up nicely, I think.”
Dick agreed. Personally he didn’t care for the idea of sleeping and
living in the same room, but the low studding, and the deep window
embrasure and the scarred, dark-painted woodwork were somehow very
homelike. The walls held dozens of pictures of all sorts: photographs,
posters, engravings, etchings, a veritable hodge-podge. Amongst them
were strange trophies, too: part of a wooden board bearing the strange
legend “TE WAY S PASSING” in two lines, evidently half of a sign that
had been sawed in two; a fencing mask; a canoe paddle with a weird
landscape painted on the broad end; a cluster of spoons and forks tied
together with a brown-and-white ribbon; several tennis rackets; a
lacrosse stick; a battered baseball adorned with letters and figures
and tacked to the moulding by its torn covering; several faded or
tattered pennants, one bearing a big blue K which Dick presumed stood
for the rival school of Kenwood. Between the two narrow beds was a
good-sized study table littered with books and clothing and odds and
ends awaiting Blashington’s return. Two chiffoniers and three chairs
about completed the furnishings. The beds held bags, partly unpacked,
and two steamer trunks blocked the passages between beds and table.
“Blash has had this room four years,” mused Stanley. “Says he would be
homesick if he went anywhere else. The joke about Sid’s shot putting,
by the way, is that he tried it last fall and Blash got a cannonball
that weighed about thirty pounds, and worked it off on him. Sid almost
killed himself trying to putt it more than twelve feet. Then he
noticed that Blash and the others were using another shot, and got onto
the joke. Here they come.”
With Sydney Crocker was a tall, thin fellow who, to Dick’s utter
amazement, wore a long and drooping black moustache. Perhaps the
gorgeous luxuriance of that moustache was a surprise to Stanley as
well, for Dick noted that the latter stared at it fascinatedly for a
long moment ere he greeted its wearer. Even then he seemed to find
difficulty in speaking. Perhaps the dust was annoying him again. Dick
awaited an introduction while the thought that there was something
wrong with that moustache, grew from a mere suspicion into a certainty.
In the first place, no fellow of Blashington’s age could grow such
a thing. In the second place he wouldn’t be allowed to wear it in a
preparatory school. In the third place it was much too good to be true;
too long, too black, too--Why, of course, it was a false one stuck on!
Dick smiled knowingly as Blashington stepped over a trunk and held out
a bony hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bates,” said Blashington, heartily. “Any
friend of Stan’s is mine to the extent of ten dollars. Sit down,
everyone. Dear me, you haven’t got these things put away yet, Sid. So
sorry to have you chaps find the room in such a mess. I don’t know what
Sid’s been doing, I’m sure.” Blashington chatted on, but Dick noted
that there was a distinct air of restraint about the others. Indeed,
Stanley appeared to be actually suffering from restraint, for his face
was very flushed, and the low sounds that came from him spoke of deep
pain.
“You are a new-comer, I understand, Bates,” Blashington continued,
smiling amiably behind that ridiculous moustache. “I hope you will like
us and spend a pleasant and profitable year in these classic shades.”
He said more, but Dick wasn’t listening now. “Classic shades!” Where
had he heard that expression recently, and who had used it? Then memory
came to his aid and he knew! His face stiffened and his cheeks paled.
Blashington, reading the symptoms aright, paused in his rhetorical
meanderings and laughed.
“Bates is on, Stan,” he said. “I see the warm light of recollection
creeping over his face. Further attempts at disguise are futile, not
to say idle. The clock strikes twelve. Unmask!” Blashington pulled the
moustache from his face and tossed it to the table. “Excuse the little
jest, Bates. It was Sid’s thought. Like most of his ideas, it didn’t
work.”
Stanley and Sid were laughing enjoyably, but Dick couldn’t find any
humour in the trick. He remained silent, while Sid gasped: “Gee, Blash,
you did look an awful ass with that thing on!”
“Did I? Well, I seem to have offended Bates. He doesn’t look as though
he thought I was a bit funny.”
“I don’t,” said Dick, stiffly. “Either now or this afternoon.”
“Oh, come, Dick!” protested Stan. “Take a joke, won’t you?”
“Dry up, Stan,” said Blashington. “Bates has a right to feel peeved if
he likes to. Look here, Bates, I’m sorry I offended you. When you know
me better you’ll understand that I didn’t mean to. Will that do for an
apology?”
“I think the whole thing is awfully silly,” replied Dick coldly, “but
it’s of no consequence: not enough to talk about.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Stanley said
hurriedly: “That’s all right then! You mustn’t mind Blash, Dick: nobody
does.”
Blash, whose expression of deep contrition Dick had thought
suspiciously emphatic, chuckled. “I thank you, Stan, for them few kind
words. Well, now that the _entente cordial_ has been restored, how are
you and everything? Have a good summer?”
“Oh, yes, bully. Did you?”
“I had a busy one, anyway. I’ll tell you about it some time. I suppose
you’ve heard that Pat isn’t coming back this year?”
“No! Why? What’s the matter?”
“Gaines told me that he had a letter from Pat about two weeks ago,
saying that his father had lost a lot of money and that he was going
to work; Pat, I mean, not his father: although it is likely that Mr.
Patterson will work, too. It sounds reasonable, eh? I’m awfully sorry.
Pat was a dandy chap. Besides, he’s going to leave a big hole to be
filled.”
“That’s right,” agreed Sid Crocker. “Patterson was a corking
quarter-back. And he would have played on the nine next spring, I’ll
bet. He swung a mean bat on the Second last year, and would have made a
mighty good fielder for us, I guess. Who will get his place, Blash?”
“Stone. Gus isn’t bad, but Pat came pretty close to being a marvel.
We’re talking about our last year’s quarter-back, Bates. Do you care
for football?”
Dick felt Stanley’s anxious look on him as he answered: “Yes, I like
football, thanks.”
“Do you play?”
“I have played--some.”
“That’s good. We need talent this year, and you look as if you might be
clever.” Dick knew, however, that Blash was only being polite.
“Do you play baseball?” asked Sid.
“N--No, not much. Of course I have played it, but I’m not good enough.”
His manner was still stiff, and he made no effort to remain in the
conversation. The others chatted on for some time longer, Stanley
frequently seeking to get Dick to talk, but not succeeding, and then
the visitors took their departure.
“Drop in again, Bates,” said Blash. “If there’s anything I can do to
help, let me know.”
Dick thanked him non-committingly. Outside Stanley shook his head. He
was smiling, but Dick knew that he wasn’t pleased. “I guess that didn’t
get us much, Dick,” he said.
Dick frowned. “Well, I can’t help it!” he said defensively. “He makes
me tired. Anyway, if I can’t get along in football without his help,
I’m quite willing to stay out of it.”
“Oh, that won’t make much difference, I suppose. I only thought that if
Blash took to you----”
“Well, he didn’t: any more than I took to him.”
“I suppose I ought to have told you he was the fellow you rode up from
the station with, but I didn’t realise that you were really so peeved
with him. It’s sort of too bad you couldn’t have taken it as a joke,
Dick.”
“I’m sorry,” answered the other haughtily. “I won’t trouble you to
introduce me to any more of your friends, Gard.”
“Well, don’t be waxy,” said Stan, good-naturedly. “There’s no harm
done. You may like Blash better when you get to know him, and----”
“I don’t think so. And it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“N--No, except that it’s always nicer to like fellows than not to. You
get more out of--out of life, Dick. Well, never mind Blash. Want to go
over to Jud’s for a few minutes? It isn’t too late.”
“I don’t know. Yes, I guess I will, but you needn’t bother unless you
want to.”
“Oh, I’ll come along. We don’t have to stay. Hope there’ll be some
eats, though.”
When they had turned back and were retracing their steps along The
Front, Dick broke a silence of several minutes’ duration.
“Anyway,” he said a trifle resentfully, “I noticed one thing.”
“What’s that?” inquired Stanley.
“Blashington took mighty good care not to say anything about that
twelve cents he owes me!”