OUTFIELD WEST.
It was several moments before West recovered his breath enough to speak,
during which time he sat and gazed at his rescuer in amazement not
unmixed with curiosity. And the rescuer looked down at West in simple
amusement.
"Thanks," gasped West at length. "I suppose I'd have broke my silly neck
if you hadn't given me a hand just when you did."
The other nodded. "You're welcome, of course; but I don't believe you'd
have been very much hurt. What's that thing?" nodding toward the
brassie, still tightly clutched in West's hand.
"A bras--a golf club. I was knocking a ball around a bit, and it went
over the cliff here."
"I should think golf was a rather funny sort of a game."
"It isn't funny at all, if you know anything about it," replied West a
trifle sharply. The rescuer was on dangerous ground, had he but
known it.
"Isn't it? Well, I guess it is all in getting used to it. I don't
believe I'd care much for tumbling over cliffs that way; I should think
it would use a fellow up after a while."
"Look here," exclaimed West, "you saved me an ugly fall, and I'm very
much obliged, and all that; but--but you don't know the first thing
about golf, and so you had better not talk about it." He made an effort
to gain his feet, but sat down again with a groan.
"You sit still a while," said the boy in the straw hat, "and I'll drop
down and get that ball for you." Suiting the action to the word, he
lowered himself over the ledge, and slid down the bank to the beach. He
dropped the golf ball in his pocket, after examining it with deep
curiosity, and started back. But the return was less easy than the
descent had been. The bank was gravelly, and his feet could gain no
hold. Several times he struggled up a yard or so, only to slip back
again to the bottom.
"I tell you what you do," called West, leaning over. "You get a bit of a
run and get up as high as you can, and try and catch hold of this stick;
then I'll pull you up."
The other obeyed, and succeeded in getting a firm hold of the brassie,
but the rest was none so easy. West pulled and the other boy struggled,
and then, at last, when both were out of breath, the straw hat rose
above the ledge and its wearer scrambled up. Sitting down beside West he
drew the ball from his pocket and handed it over.
"What do they make those of?" he asked.
"Gutta percha," answered West. "Then they're molded and painted this
way. You've never played golf, have you?"
"No, we don't know much about it down our way. I've played baseball and
football some. Do you play football?"
"No, I should say not," answered West scornfully. "You see," more
graciously, "golf takes up about all my time when I haven't got some
lesson on; and this is the worst place for lessons you ever saw. A chap
doesn't get time for anything else." The other boy looked puzzled.
"Well, don't you want to study?"
West stared in amazement. "Study! Want to? Of course I don't! Do you?"
"Very much. That's what I came to school for."
"Oh!" West studied the strange youth dubiously. Plainly, he was not at
all the sort of boy one could teach golf to. "Then why were you trying
for the football team awhile ago?"
"Because next to studying I want to play football more than anything
else. Don't you think I'll have time for it?"
"You bet! And say, you ought to learn golf. It's the finest sport
going." West's hopes revived. A fellow that wanted sport, if only
football, could not be a bad sort. Besides, he would get over wanting to
study; that, to West, was a most unnatural desire. "There isn't half a
dozen really first-class players in school. You get some clubs and I'll
teach you the game."
"That's very good of you," answered the boy in the straw hat, "and I'm
very much obliged, but I don't think I'll have time. You see I'm in the
upper middle, and they say that it's awfully hard to keep up with.
Still, I should really like to try my hand at it, and if I have time
I'll ask you to show me a little about it. I expect you're the best
player here, aren't you?" West, extremely gratified, tried to conceal
his pleasure.
"Oh, I don't know. There's Wesley Blair--he's captain of the school
eleven, you know--he plays a very good game, only he has a way of
missing short puts. And then there's Louis Whipple. The only thing about
Whipple is that he tries to play with too few clubs. He says a fellow
can play just as well with a driver and a putter and a niblick as he can
with a dozen clubs. Of course, that's nonsense. If Whipple would use
some brains about his clubs he'd make a rather fair player. There are
one or two other fellows in school who are not so bad. But I believe,"
magnanimously, "that if Blair had more time for practicing he could beat
_me_." West allowed his hearer a moment in which to digest this. The
straw hat was tilted down over the eyes of its wearer, who was gazing
thoughtfully over the river.
"I suppose he's kept pretty busy with football."
"Yes, he's daft about it. Otherwise he's a fine chap. By the way,
where'd you learn to kick a ball that way?"
"On the farm. I used to practice when I didn't have much to do, which
wasn't very often. Jerry Green and I--Jerry's our hired man--we used to
get out in the cow pasture and kick. Then I played a year with our
grammar-school eleven."
"Well, that was great work. If you could only drive a golf ball like
that! Say, what's your name?"
"Joel March."
"Mine's Outfield West. The fellows call me 'Out' West. My home's in
Pleasant City, Iowa. You come from Maine, don't you?"
"Yes; Marchdale. It's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a
few houses. We've lived there--our family, I mean--for over a
hundred years."
"Phew!" whistled West. "Dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's
been there only forty years. Great gobble! We'd better be scooting back
to school. Come on. I'm all right now, though I _was_ a bit lame after
that tumble."
The two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. The
sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping
up from the river. The tower of the Academy Building still glowed
crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows.
"Where's your room?" asked West.
"Thirty-four Masters Hall," answered Joel March; for now that we have
twice been introduced to him there is no excuse for us to longer
ignore his name.
"Mine's in Hampton House," said West. "Number 2. I have it all to
myself. Who's in with you?"
"A fellow named Sproule."
"'Dickey' Sproule? He's an awful cad. Why didn't you get a room in the
village? You have lots more fun there; and you can get a better room
too; although some of the rooms in Warren are not half bad."
"They cost too much," replied March. "You see, father's not very well
off, and can't help me much. He pays my tuition, and I've enough money
of my own that I've earned working out to make up the rest. So, of
course, I've got to be careful."
"Well, you're a queer chap!" exclaimed West.
"Why?" asked Joel March.
"Oh, I don't know. Wanting to study, and earning your own schooling, and
that sort of thing."
"Oh, I suppose your father has plenty of money, hasn't he?"
"Gobs! I have twenty dollars a month allowance for pocket money."
"I wish I had," answered March. "You must have a good deal saved up by
the end of the year." West stared.
"Saved? Why, I'm dead broke this minute. And I owe three bills in town.
Don't tell any one, because it's against the rules to have bills, you
know. Anyhow, what's the good of saving? There's lots more." It was
March's turn to stare.
"What do you spend it for?" he asked.
"Oh, golf clubs and balls, and cakes and pies and things," answered West
carelessly. "Then a fellow has to dress a little, or the other fellows
look down on you."
"Do they?" March cast a glance over his own worn apparel. "Then I guess
I must try their eyes a good deal."
"Well, I wouldn't care--much," answered West halfheartedly. "Though of
course that hat--"
"Yes, I suppose it is a little late for straws." West nodded heartily.
"I was going to get a felt in Boston, but--well, I saw something else I
wanted worse; and it was my own money."
"What was it?" asked West curiously.
"A book." West whistled.
"Well, you can get a pretty fair one in the village at Grove's. And--and
a pair of trousers if you want them."
March nodded, noncommittingly. They had reached the gymnasium.
"I'm going in for a shower," said West. "You'd better come along." March
shook his head.
"I guess not to-night. It's most supper time, and I want to read a
little first. Good-night."
"Good-night," answered West. "I'm awfully much obliged for what you did,
you know. Come and see me to-morrow if you can; Number 2 Hampton.
Good-night."
Joel March turned and retraced his steps to his dormitory. He found his
roommate reading at the table when he entered Number 34. Sproule looked
up and observed:
"I saw you with Outfield West a moment ago. It looks rather funny for a
'grind,' as you profess to be, hobnobbing with a Hampton House swell."
"I haven't professed to be a 'grind,'" answered Joel quietly, as he
opened his Greek.
"Well, your actions profess it. And West will drop you quicker than a
hot cake when he finds it out. Why, he never studies a lick! None of
those Hampton House fellows do."
March made no answer, but presently asked, in an effort to be sociable:
"What are you reading?"
"The Three Cutters; ever read it?"
"No; what's it about?"
"Oh, pirates and smuggling and such."
"I should think it would be first rate."
"It is. I'd let you take it after I'm through, only it isn't mine; I
borrowed it from Billy Cozzens."
"Thanks," answered Joel, "but I don't believe I'd have time for it."
"Humph!" grunted Sproule. "There you are again, putting on airs. Just
wait until you've been here two or three months; I guess I won't hear so
much about study then."
Joel received this taunt in silence, and, burying his head in his hands,
tackled the story of Cyrus the Younger. Joel had already come to a
decision regarding Richard Sproule, a decision far from flattering to
that youth. But in view of the fact that the two were destined to spend
much of their time together, Joel recognized the necessity of making the
best of his roommate, and of what appeared to be an unsatisfactory
condition. During the two days that Joel had been in school Sproule had
nagged him incessantly upon one subject or another, and so far Joel had
borne the persecution in silence. "But some day," mused Joel, "I'll just
_have_ to punch his head!"
Richard Sproule was a member of the senior class, and monitor for the
floor upon which he had his room. He had, perhaps, no positive meanness
in him. Most of his unpleasantness was traceable to envy. Just at
present he was cultivating a dislike for Joel because of the latter's
enviable success at lessons and because a resident of Hampton House had
taken him up. Sproule cared nothing for out-of-door amusements and hated
lessons. His whole time, except when study was absolutely compulsory,
was taken up with the reading of books of adventure; and Captain Marryat
and Fenimore Cooper were far closer acquaintances than either Cicero or
Caesar. Richard Sproule was popularly disliked and shunned.
In the dining hall that evening Joel ate and relished his first hearty
meal since he had arrived at Hillton. The exercise had brought back a
naturally good appetite, which had been playing truant.
The dining hall takes up most of the ground floor of Warren Hall. Eight
long, roomy tables are arranged at intervals, with broad aisles between,
through which the white-aproned waiters hurry noiselessly about.
To-night there was a cheerful clatter of spoons and forks and a loud
babel of voices, and Joel found himself hugely enjoying the novelty of
eating in the presence of more than a hundred and fifty other lads.
Outfield West and his neighbors in Hampton House occupied a far table,
and there the noise was loudest. West was dressed like a young prince,
and his associates were equally as splendid. As Joel observed them, West
glanced across and saw him, and waved a hilarious greeting with a soup
spoon. Joel nodded laughingly back, and then settled in his chair with
an agreeable sensation of being among friends. This feeling grew when,
toward the end of his meal, Wesley Blair, in leaving the hall, saw him
and stopped beside his chair.
"How did you get on this afternoon?" Blair asked pleasantly.
"Very well, thanks," Joel replied.
"That's good. By the way, go and see Mr. Beck to-morrow and get
examined. Tell him I sent you. You'll find him at the gym at about
eleven. And don't forget to show up to-morrow at practice."
The elder youth passed on, leaving Joel the center of interest for
several moments. His left-hand neighbor, a boy who affected very red
neckties, and who had hitherto displayed no interest in his presence,
now turned and asked if he knew Blair.
"No," replied Joel. "I met him only to-day on the football field."
"Are you on the 'Leven?"
"No, but I'm trying for it."
"Well, I guess you'll make it; Blair doesn't often go out of his way to
encourage any one."
"I hope I shall," answered Joel. "Who is Mr. Beck, please?"
"He's director of the gym. You have to be examined, you know; if you
don't come up to requirements you can't go in for football."
"Oh, thank you." And Joel applied himself to his pudding, and wondered
if there was any possibility of his not passing.
Apparently there was not; for when, on the following day, he presented
himself at the gymnasium, he came through the ordeal of measurement and
test with flying colors, and with the command to pay special attention
to the chest-weights, was released, at liberty to "go in" for any
sport he liked.
Despite his forebodings, the studies proved not formidable, and at four
o'clock Joel reported for football practice with a comforting knowledge
of duties performed. An hour and a half of steady practice, consisting
of passing, falling, and catching punts, left the inexperienced
candidates in a state of breathless collapse when Blair dismissed the
field. West did not turn up at the gridiron, but a tiny scarlet speck
far off on the golf links proclaimed his whereabouts.
On the way back to the grounds a number of youthful juniors, bravely
arrayed in their first suits of football togs, loudly denounced the
vigor of the practice, and pantingly made known to each other their
intentions to let the school get along as best it might without their
assistance on its eleven. They would be no great loss, thought Joel, as
he trudged along in the rear of the procession, and their resignation
would probably save Blair the necessity of incurring their dislikes when
the process of "weeding-out" began.
Although no special attention had been given to Joel during practice,
yet he had been constantly aware of Blair's observation, and had known
that several of the older fellows were watching his work with interest.
His feat of the previous day had already secured to him a reputation
throughout the school, and as the little groups of boys passed him he
heard himself alluded to as "the country fellow that punted fifty yards
yesterday," or "the chap that made that kick." And when the three long,
steep flights of Masters confronted him he took them two steps at a
time, and arrived before the door of Number 34 breathless, but as happy
as a schoolboy can be.