THE BOY IN 32
Rob Langton was sixteen years of age, tall, a trifle weedy, like a boy
who has grown too fast. He always seemed to be in difficulties with his
arms and legs. Even his hair, which was dark and long, looked as though
in a constant state of mutiny. There was one obstreperous lock which
stood straight into the air on the top of his head, and several thick
ones which were forever falling over his eyes and having to be brushed
impatiently back. Comb and brush and water had little effect on Rob’s
hair.
His face was thin, with a broad, good-humored mouth, a firm chin, a
straight nose, and two very kindly brown eyes. Evan liked him from the
very first moment of their meeting. And doubtless Evan’s sentiment
was returned, otherwise Rob Langton would never have adopted him on
such slight acquaintance, for Rob, while generally liked throughout
Riverport School, had few close friends and was considered hard to know.
The two boys examined each other quite frankly while they talked, just
as boys do. What Rob saw was a well-built, athletic-looking youngster,
fairly tall, with a good breadth of shoulder, alert and capable.
There was a pair of steady blue eyes, a good nose, a chin that, in
spite of having a dimple in the middle of it, looked determined, and
a well-formed mouth which, like Rob Langton’s, hinted of good humor.
Evan’s hair, however, wasn’t in the least like that of the older boy.
In the first place, it was several shades lighter, and, in the second
place, it was very well-behaved hair and stayed where it was put. Even
the folded towel which he wore around his forehead hadn’t rumpled it.
“I ought to be in the middle class,” Rob was explaining cheerfully.
“When I came last year I expected to go into the junior, but Latin
and Greek had me floored, and so, rather than make any unnecessary
trouble for the faculty, I dropped into the preparatory. The fact is,
Kingsford, I hate those old dead languages. Mathematics and I get on
all right, and I don’t mind English, but Greek――well, I’d like to
punch Xenophon’s head! Dad has it all cut out that I’m to be a lawyer;
he’s one himself, and a good one; but if I can get my way I’m going to
Cornell and go in for engineering. They call it structural engineering
nowadays. That’s what I want to do, and there’s going to be a heap of
trouble in our cozy little home if I don’t get my way. What are you
going to be?”
“I don’t know――yet. I haven’t thought much about it. My father’s a
doctor, but I don’t go in for that. I don’t like sick folks; besides,
there doesn’t seem to be much money in doctoring.”
“Well, some of them seem to do pretty well,” replied Rob, thoughtfully.
“You might be a specialist and charge big fees. When Dad was ill two
years ago we had a fellow up from New York in consultation. He and our
doctor got together in the library for about ten minutes, and then
he ate a big lunch and went home again. And it cost Dad five hundred
dollars.”
“That sounds all right,” laughed Evan, “but I guess he had to do a lot
of hard work before he ever got where he could charge five hundred
dollars.”
“I suppose so. Do you ever invent?”
“Invent? What do you mean?”
“Invent things, like――like this.” Rob began a search through his
pockets and finally pulled out a piece of brass, queerly shaped and
notched, some three inches long.
“What is it?” asked Evan, as he took it and examined it curiously.
“Just a――a combined tool, as you might say. I call it ‘Langton’s Pocket
Friend.’ Here’s a screw-driver; see? And these notches are for breaking
glass after it’s cut. Up here there’s a little steel wheel for cutting
it, only I haven’t put that in. This is just a model, you know; I filed
it out coming down on the train this morning. Then this slot is for
sharpening pencils. There’s a nail-file here, you see, only it isn’t
filed, of course, because this is just brass. The spur is for cutting
wire, or you can open a can with it if the tin isn’t very thick. Then
this end here is to open envelops or cut pages with. There are two or
three other things I’ve thought of since that I can work in. Of course,
if I ever made them, they’d be of steel.”
“That’s fine,” said Evan. “Did you think of it yourself?”
“Yes. I’m always tinkering with some silly thing. That’s the reason I
don’t cut more of a figure with studies, I guess. Dad has patented two
or three things for me, but I’ve never been able to sell the patents.”
“What are they?” asked Evan, interestedly.
“One’s a snow shovel made of wire netting like an ash sifter. It
only weighs twelve ounces and works finely. But no one would buy it.
Another’s a top with a slot just above the peg so you can put in a cap.
Then when you throw it on the ground the peg comes up against the cap
and explodes it.”
“I should think that would be a dandy idea.”
“Well, one man I tried to sell it to said if I could induce boys to
spin tops around the Fourth of July he would buy my patent. You see,
folks are so fussy now that you can’t buy paper caps except around the
Fourth.”
“I see. And what was the other thing?”
“That’s the best of the lot,” said Rob, thrusting his hands into his
pockets and sprawling his legs across the floor. “I’ve still got hopes
of that. It’s a patent match safe to carry in your pocket. It looks
just like any other match safe, but when you want a match you don’t
have to open it. You just push a little button, and a match pops out.
Maybe I’ll sell that yet. It’s a mighty good idea, and there ought to
be money in it.”
“I should think you’d want to be an inventor instead of an engineer.”
“There isn’t much money in inventions, except for the patent lawyer; at
least, that’s what Dad says. Besides, engineering is a good deal like
inventing. You have problems to solve, and there’s always the chance of
discovering a better way to do a thing. Dad says I’ve got a good deal
of ingenuity, but that if I don’t look out I’ll never be anything but a
potterer.”
“A potterer? That’s a funny name for you.”
“Yes; he means a chap who just potters around doing a lot of little
things that don’t amount to anything. How’s your head?”
“Much better. Do you think I’d better unpack my bag, or shall I wait
until I’m sure about my room?”
“Go ahead and unpack. It’ll be all right. Even if it isn’t, 36 is just
across the hall, and I’ll help you carry things over. Trunks ought to
be up pretty soon, too. Say, do you go in for anything?”
“In for anything?” repeated Evan, doubtfully.
“Yes, foot-ball or hockey or track or rowing or――”
“I play foot-ball,” answered Evan. “I want to try for the team here. Do
you think I’d stand any show, Langton?”
“Do I think――” Rob stopped and chuckled. Evan flushed.
“What’s the matter? I’ve played a good deal, and I dare say I know as
much about it as――as lots of fellows here.”
“As I do, you were going to say,” laughed Rob. “I wasn’t laughing at
you, Kingsford. I dare say you can play better than a good many fellows
on the team, but I don’t think your chances are very bright, and if you
ask me why,――well, I can only say because the Riverport Eleven is what
Dad would call a close corporation.”
“What’s that?”
[Illustration: “‘I PLAY FOOT-BALL,’ ANSWERED EVAN. ‘I WANT TO TRY FOR
THE TEAM HERE.’”]
“I’ll try again,” said Rob, thrusting his hands in his pockets and
falling into the queer drawl which he affected at times. “The team
is like a very select club, Kingsford. If you know enough about
foot-ball to kick the ball instead of biting it, and stand pretty well
with――er――the manager or captain or some of the members, you can make
it. Of course they’re always glad to have you go out and ‘try for the
team’; it looks well and sort of adds interest. And of course you’re
supposed to subscribe toward expenses. And when the team goes away
anywhere to play, they allow you to go along and yell yourself hoarse.
But don’t think for a moment, my friend, that you can make the team
here by just playing good ball.”
“That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” said Evan, with a frown.
“Especially as I don’t know a single fellow here――except you.”
“Well, at least you’ve got a speaking acquaintance with one other,”
said Rob, dryly, the smile still lurking about the corners of his mouth.
“Who do you mean? The fellow who――”
“Yes, Frank Hopkins. He’s ‘the fellow who’――”
“Well, that doesn’t help any, I guess.”
“No; no, I don’t honestly think it does,” answered Rob, with a queer
look. “Because, you see, Kingsford, Hop is the captain.”
“Foot-ball captain?” cried Evan, in dismay. Rob nodded with a wicked
grin.
“Well, if that isn’t luck!” exclaimed Evan, subsiding on the foot of
his bed to consider the fact. “I guess that settles my chances all
right, Langton.” Rob nodded.
“As I don’t want to nourish idle hopes, Kingsford, I’ll just remark
that I think you’ve got the answer.”
“Shucks!” said Evan, disgustedly. “And I thought I was going to have a
great time this fall playing foot-ball. I wish I’d stayed at home, as
my fond mother wanted me to. Say, you’re not fooling, are you?”
“Not a bit. Of course I’ve exaggerated a trifle about the exclusiveness
of our foot-ball society; it isn’t quite as bad as I made it out;
but it’s bad enough. If you happen to be a crackajack player with a
reputation behind you, one of those prep school stars that come along
once in a while, you’re all right. But otherwise, Kingsford, you’ll
have a mighty hard time breaking into Hop’s foot-ball trust. I know,
for I tried it myself last year.”
“Oh, do you play?”
“I used to think so, but after working like a horse for three weeks and
then pining away for a fortnight on the side-lines, I changed my mind.
I know _how_ to play, but I don’t _play_. You catch my meaning, I hope.”
“Yes,” said Evan, gloomily. “Still, I guess I’ll have a try.”
“Of course you will,” said Rob, cheerfully. “It won’t do any harm, and
you might even have a little fun. Besides, miracles still happen; you
might get a place on the second team as third substitute. By the way,
where do you play?”
“I’ve played quarter mostly; sometimes half. I was quarter last year.”
“On your school team?”
“Yes, grammar school. We won every game except one, too.”
“Well, you might let that information leak out in Hop’s direction;
perhaps he will give you a fair show. Only thing is, I’m afraid he’s
taken a――a sort of prejudice against you.”
“I guess he has,” laughed Evan. “And, for that matter, I’m not crazy
about him. Still, if he will let me on the team, I’ll forgive him for
mashing my nose flat.”
“It doesn’t look flat,” said Rob, viewing it attentively. “It’s a
trifle red, but otherwise normal. By ginger! I wonder what time it is.
I’m getting hungry. Oh, there’s no use looking at that clock on the
mantel there. It hasn’t gone right for months. I borrowed one of the
cog-wheels last spring, and now it has the blind staggers.”
“It’s twelve minutes to six,” said Evan, looking at his watch. “When do
we have supper?”
“In twelve minutes if we get there. I’ll wash while you get your things
out. Yes, that’s your closet. There’s some truck in there that belongs
to Sandy. Pitch it out on the floor, and I’ll ask Mrs. Crow to store it
away for him. Hold on! That vest isn’t his; it’s mine. Confound that
fellow! I looked for that thing all summer. Thought I’d lost it. You
see, Sandy Whipple and I are just the same size, and so we wear each
other’s clothes most of the time. I guess you and I can’t exchange that
way, Kingsford. Your trousers would be several inches too short for
little me. How about collars?”
“Thirteen and a half,” said Evan.
“My size exactly! Thirteen and a half, fourteen, or fourteen and a
half; I’m not fussy about collars. All through here.” Rob tossed the
towel in the general direction of the wash-stand and looked around for
his cap.
“Where do we eat?” asked Evan, filling the bowl.
“Dining-hall’s in Second House. If we hurry, maybe we can get at a side
table. I’m as hungry as a bear. I forgot all about dinner this noon. I
got so interested in that silly piece of brass that they’d stolen the
dining-car before I knew it. Ready? Sometime I’m going to fix it so we
can go down by the window. It would be lots nearer than going by the
stairs, and I’ve got a dandy idea for a rope ladder!”