DOUBLE PLAY

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

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[“The next moment saw a lad ... leap high into the air in the path of the speeding ball.”]

DOUBLE PLAY

A STORY OF SCHOOL AND BASEBALL

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL,” “THE
HALF-BACK,” “WEATHERBY’S INNING,”
“FORWARD PASS,” ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1909

Copyright, 1909, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published September, 1909

TO

D. M.

FROM

O. L. R.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

DOUBLE PLAY

[CHAPTER I]
BACK TO SCHOOL

Dan Vinton returned to Yardley after the Christmas vacation on an afternoon of one of those bright, warm days which sometimes happen along in the middle of Winter. As the train rumbled over the bridge, Dan caught a fleeting glimpse of Long Island Sound sparkling in the sunlight and pricked out here and there with a white sail. On his way up the winding road to the school—he had the station carriage to himself save for the unobtrusive presence of a homesick Preparatory Class boy—he saw clean russet meadows aglow in the mellow light, and, farther inland and across the little river, Meeker’s Marsh a broad expanse of reeds and grass and rushes shading from green-gold to coppery red. So far, although it was the third of January, there had been no snow storm worthy of the name in the vicinity of Wissining, and, save that the trees were bare of leaves, one might have thought himself in Autumn. It was as though a careless, laughing October day had lost its place in the procession and now, after a two months’ truancy, had squirmed and crowded itself back into line again. Dan cast a glance toward the athletic field, half expecting to see the brown footballs hurtling up against the sky.

The carriage skirted The Prospect and began the steep ascent which ends with the plateau on which the school buildings stand. A freight train rumbled by through the cut a few rods below and Dan watched the white steam as it wreathed upward until a movement by the boy in the farther corner of the carriage drew his attention. The lad was digging a gloved knuckle into his eye, his head averted in an effort to hide the threatening tears. Dan smiled. But the next moment, as he recalled how near to tears he had himself been on more than one occasion only some four months previous, the smile disappeared and he leaned forward.

“Well, kid, glad to get back?” he asked kindly.

The lad—he looked to be no more than twelve years of age—turned and glanced at the questioner shyly, bravely trying to summon a smile as he shook his head.

“Oh, well, you will be in a day or two,” responded Dan heartily. “What’s your name?”

“Merrow, sir.”

“Well, buck up, Merrow; and never mind the ‘sir.’ I dare say you chaps are pretty comfortable in Merle, aren’t you?”

“Yes, s—, yes, Mr. Vinton.”

“Oh, so you know me, do you?” laughed Dan. The boy nodded and smiled bashfully.

“I guess every fellow knows you,” he murmured.

“Well, don’t call me Mister, please. Where do you live when you’re at home?”

“Germantown, Pennsylvania, s—, I mean—”

“Well, that isn’t very far away, is it?” asked Dan cheerfully.

“N—no, not so very,” replied the other doubtfully.

“I should say not. I dare say you left home only three or four hours ago, eh?”

“Twelve o’clock.”

“Well, I started yesterday afternoon,” said Dan. “I had to come all the way from Ohio. That beats you, doesn’t it?”

The younger boy nodded. Then:

“We have a fellow in our house who comes from California,” he announced proudly.

“And that beats me,” laughed Dan. “Well, here we are.” He took up his bag and clambered out. “Come over and see me this evening, Merrow, if you get too lonesome; 28 Clarke’s my room. Cheer up.”

He left his bag on the steps of Oxford while he sought the office to register.

“Back early,” said Mr. Forisher, the secretary.

“Yes, sir,” answered Dan. “We’ve got some dandy snow out our way and I thought I’d better start early in case the trains got tied up. Not many fellows back yet, are there?”

“Only a few. The next train will bring most of them. Nice weather we’re having.”

Dan agreed that it was and turned toward the door. But:

“By the way, Vinton,” said the secretary, “you have a new roommate with you this term, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, Gerald Pennimore.”

“Exactly. Well—er—we want to make young Pennimore’s stay with us as pleasant as possible, Vinton, and so—anything you can do to—er—smooth the way for him will be—er—appreciated at the Office.”

“Yes, sir. I’m going to try and look out for him, sir.”

“That’s right. I suppose he will be along pretty soon.”

“He and his father are coming on the six o’clock, sir. I had a letter from him a couple of days ago.”

“Ah, that reminds me, Vinton! Mr. Collins left word that you were to join Mr. Pennimore and his son at the Doctor’s table this evening. He thought that would make it pleasant for the boy.”

Dan smiled as he closed the Office door behind him.

“It pays to be a millionaire,” he thought. “I rather wish, though, for Gerald’s sake, that his father wasn’t coming along. The sooner the fellows forget that Gerald’s John T’s son the better it’s going to be for Gerald.”

He rescued his bag and made his way to Clarke Hall where he climbed two flights of well-worn stairs and let himself into a corner room on the front of the building. There he sat down his bag, threw off his hat and coat and, crossing to the windows, sent them screeching upward. The sun had passed from the front of the building but a thin shaft of amber light entered the side window and fell upon the bare top of the chiffonier nearby. Dan thrust his hands into his pockets and looked about him. Then he shook his head.

“It’s going to be funny here at first without Tubby,” he muttered. “Tubby wasn’t what you’d call an ideal roommate, but I was sort of getting used to him. I suppose a fellow misses even a boil if he has it long enough!”

Twenty-eight Clarke was a large room, well lighted and airy. It was comfortably if plainly furnished. Each side of the room held its bed, chiffonier, washstand and chair. An ingrain carpet covered most of the floor and the shallow bay window was fitted with a window-seat piled with cushions. In the center of the room stood a broad-topped study table and a comfortable arm-chair flanked it at either side. On the clean gray-tinted walls hung a few good pictures. There was a good-sized closet on each side of the door. Being in a corner room there was an end window as well as the bay in front.

Dan hung his gray overcoat and derby hat in the closet, swung his bag to the table and began to unpack it. And while he is engaged let us have a good look at him.

Dan Vinton was fifteen years of age, rather tall, lithe, and long of limb. He had a quickness and certainty of movement—exhibited even in the way in which he stowed his things away—that impressed the observer at once. Alertness was a prominent characteristic of Dan’s; he never shilly-shallied, nor, on the other hand, was he especially impulsive. He had the faculty of making up his mind quickly, and, his decision once reached, he acted promptly and with little loss of effort. Dan’s course between two points was always a straight line. All this may have had something to do with the fact that he played an extremely good game of football at the end of the line.

I don’t want to give the impression that Dan was one of the thin and nervous sort; on the contrary he was well-built, if a trifle large for his fifteen years, while his limbs were not all bone even if they were long. And nerves were things that never bothered him. He was good-looking, with steady brown eyes, a short, straight nose, brown hair, and a pleasant mouth which hinted of good temper. Dan had entered Yardley Hall School the preceding Fall and was in the Third Class. He had won a place for himself on the football eleven and had scored the winning touchdown in the final contest against Yardley’s rival, Broadwood Academy. One cannot ordinarily do a thing like that without becoming pretty well known in a school of some two hundred and seventy students or without gaining some degree of popularity, and Dan was no exception. He had received enough praise and adulation to have turned a less well-balanced head. To Dan the School’s homage had brought pleasure but not pride. He had many acquaintances but only a handful of friends. But the friends were worth having and the friendship was real.

Having emptied the bag he tossed it onto the closet shelf and wandered to the window, glancing at his watch on the way.

“Ten minutes to five,” he murmured. “That train ought to be in.” At that moment there was a shriek from a locomotive whistle and Dan threw open one of the front windows and craned his head and shoulders out. It was just possible to see the corner of the station, nearly a half-mile away, and there was the big engine puffing black smoke clouds from its diminutive stack. A moment later it had taken up its journey again and Dan watched it and the ten cars slip across the open track and plunge into the long cut through the school grounds below The Prospect. It would be ten minutes at least before the carriages would arrive, and Dan settled himself in his arm-chair and took up a book. But the arrival of his trunk from the station interrupted him a moment later, and after the porter had gone he decided to do his unpacking now and get it over with. The trunk was only a small one and didn’t keep him busy very long, but before he had finished the carriages had begun to unload their noisy passengers at the front of Oxford Hall and Dan decided to finish his task before seeking his friends. So it was nearly a quarter of an hour later that he set his cap onto the back of his head and ran down the stairs. The station carriages were making their second trips and the front of Oxford was sprinkled with fellows. Dan returned salutations here and there without stopping as he cut around the corner of Clarke and made his way to Dudley.

[CHAPTER II]
IN 7 DUDLEY

There was no need to knock at the door of Number 7, for the portal was wide open and Loring and Dyer and a third person whom Dan didn’t know were in plain sight. Dan stood for an instant in the doorway, but for an instant only, for Alf Loring caught sight of him, gave a shout, hurdled a suit-case and dragged him into the room.

“Hello, you old chump!” he cried. “When did you get here? We looked all through the train for you. How are you? Isn’t it great to get back again? I want you to know my brother Herb. Herb’s going to stay over night with us. Herb, this is Dan Vinton.”

Dan shook hands with the elder brother and with Tom Dyer, Loring’s roommate. Dyer only said “Hello, Dan,” in his slow, quiet way, but his hand-clasp and the smile that accompanied it said a lot more. Alf Loring talked on breathlessly as he threw bags out of the way and told everyone to find a seat.

“Herb’s on his way to New Haven, Dan. He’s coming here in the Fall to help turn out the dandiest team old Yardley’s ever had, aren’t you, Herb?”

“Maybe,” answered his brother smilingly. “If you fellows want me.”

“Of course we want you!” cried Alf. “What have I been telling you all along?”

“Well, I don’t know how your coach would like it, Kid. He may not want anyone butting in.”

“Payson? Don’t you believe it! Payson’s a dandy chap, Herb; he’ll be pleased to death to have someone take a hand. Won’t he, Dan?”

“I should think he ought to be,” Dan replied. “Especially a man like Mr. Loring.”

The Yale man acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a laugh. “I don’t know much about coaching, though,” he said. “I’ve never tried it.”

“Oh, well, you know how to play football,” said Alf, “and that’s more than some coaches do. You’ll be all right. With me to help you,” he added as an afterthought. At which they all laughed, even Dyer. Herbert Loring was a big, broad-chested, handsome fellow who looked a little bit spoiled. He was in his junior year at Yale and was one of the star half-backs. It was evident that Alf thought this big brother a very fine and important person, and equally evident that big brother wasn’t denying it. But in spite of the fact that he seemed a trifle too well pleased with himself, Dan quite liked him.

For a time the talk dwelt on football, football past and future, football at Yale, and football at Yardley. Tom Dyer’s part in the discussion was slight, he preferring to get his bag unpacked and his things put away. But it was Tom who finally switched the conversation away from football.

“That protegé of yours shown up yet, Dan?” he asked, pausing on his way to the closet with a pair of shoes in each hand.

“Not yet. He and his father are coming on the six o’clock train, I believe.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Alf. “I’d forgotten all about Little Lord Fauntleroy. Poor old Dan!”

“Who’s Little Lord Fauntleroy?” asked Herbert Loring.

“Dan’s new roommate and protegé. I told you about him, don’t you remember?” Big Brother shook his head and taking one knee into his clasped hands leaned back comfortably against the cushions of the window-seat.

“No, you didn’t, Kid. Who is he? Let’s hear about him.”

“It’s all just like a story in a book,” said Alf, with a grin at Dan. “It happened last Fall. You know who John T. Pennimore is, don’t you?”

“The man they call the Steamship King? He lives around here, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, you can see his place from out front. Sound View he calls it; and it’s a dandy; there’s eight acres of it, with a regular palace of a house, stables, kennels, gardener’s lodge, hot-houses, and all that sort of thing. They say he’s worth a hundred millions.”

“They say a whole lot of rot,” said his brother witheringly. “He probably has ten or fifteen millions.”

“Is that all?” murmured Tom. “Wonder how he lives!”

“Well, anyhow, he’s rich, all right. And he’s done two or three things for the school, they say; given money, I suppose; shouldn’t wonder if he owned some stock in it. Does he, do you think, Dan?”

“I never heard him say anything about it,” Dan replied. Herbert Loring looked across at him with surprise and interest.

“Do you know him?” he asked.

“Know him?” scoffed Alf. “Why, they’re as thick as thieves, aren’t you, Dan? I wouldn’t be surprised if they called each other by their first names.”

“Well, where’s the story?” asked his brother impatiently.

“Coming right along. John T. has one son, a kid of about—how old, Dan? Fourteen? Yes. And of course the old gentleman thinks a whole lot of him. Well, one day last Fall our hero—” with a bow to Dan—“was walking through the woods to the beach by the path that leads along John T’s fence when he heard a dickens of a yowling; sounded like a dog having its tail cut off. So our hero investigates.”

“Cut out the ‘hero’ business,” begged Dan.

“Pardon me! Mr. Vinton investigates and finds that on the other side of the fence is a play-house and that the dog is shut up in the play-house and that the play-house is on fire. I say, Dan, it’s always been a mystery to me how that thing got on fire.”

“It was funny,” responded Dan carelessly.

“Well, anyhow,” continued Alf, “Dan climbs the fence and finds this young Pennimore kid, breaking into the house with an axe to rescue the dog. He tries to make him behave but the kid insists on rescuing Fido. So in he goes. By that time the house is full of flames and smoke and such things. Dan waits a minute and the kid doesn’t come out again. Then Dan ties a handkerchief around his mouth, girds up his loins and dashes into the seething cauldron—”

“That’s water,” interrupted Tom disgustedly. “You mean ‘the sea of flames.’”

“All right, Tom; dashes into the sea of flames and pulls out the kid and the dog, too, and gets nicely baked in the process.”

“Nonsense!” said Dan. “I only got a couple of little burns on my leg and arm.”

“Who’s telling this story?” demanded Alf. “You dry up! Well, old John T. comes along with some of his servants and finds them and takes them up to the house and has them put to bed and gets the doctor for them. Whether he offered Dan half his kingdom I don’t know; Dan’s awfully tight with his details; but I’ll bet he could have had anything he’d wanted, say half a dozen steamships. John T. keeps him at his house until noon next day, sends word to Toby, that’s our Principal here, you know, that Dan’s made a jolly hero of himself and that he isn’t to be licked for staying away from school. Of course the kid’s grateful, too, and between them they come pretty near spoiling little Daniel; automobile rides, trips on John T’s big ocean yacht, dinners and luncheons and all the rest of it! Oh, Dan’s the whole works at Sound View!”

“Bully for you!” laughed Herbert Loring with a glance of admiration at Dan.

“But the best part of the story is to come,” said Alf. “Old Toby has always been eager to get John T. to send his son to school here; he’s been after the boy on the quiet for a couple of years; but John T. was afraid something might happen to little Gerald if he got up here with all us great rough rowdies—”

“Come now, Alf, that’s a whopper,” interrupted Dan warmly. “You can’t blame Mr. Pennimore, I think, for being soft over the boy. His wife’s dead and Gerald’s all he’s got to be fond of.”

“That and fifteen millions,” muttered Tom gravely.

“Well, anyhow, he wouldn’t think of it. Had a private tutor for Gerald and watched him every minute. Broadwood Academy wanted to get the kid, too, Herb. I guess that’s one reason Toby wanted him here; we always like to get ahead of Broadwood, you know. Well, to make a long story short, as they say, Dan has the cheek to tell John T. that if he wants to make a man out of his boy the only thing to do is to send him to Yardley. And John T. thinks it over awhile and finally agrees to do it if Dan will take Gerald to room with him and look after him; warm his milk for him and cover him up at night, and all that sort of thing, you know. And now the question before the meeting is; Who is the joke on?”

“I should say it was on Vinton,” laughed his brother. “I’m afraid you’re in for a hard time of it.”

“You ought to know better than to believe all Alf tells you,” replied Dan untroubledly. “Mr. Pennimore didn’t ask me to let Gerald room with me. That was my idea. My roommate had left school and I thought I might as well take Gerald in. He’s not a milksop at all, in spite of what Alf says. He’s been spoiled a bit, but a month or so here will knock all that out of him. Mr. Pennimore is as fine a man as I ever met and I’m mighty glad to do anything for him I can. I don’t propose to warm Gerald’s milk for him, as Alf puts it, but I intend to be decent to him and see that he has a fair chance. Lots of the fellows will be down on him at the start just because he is John T. Pennimore’s son. That isn’t fair. He can’t help it if his father is a millionaire. Lots of fellows here have fathers who have plenty of money, only they’ve never been talked about in the papers.”

“There’s something in that, Dan,” Alf allowed. “Here’s Tom here. Tom’s father owns about everything in his part of New Jersey, so they say, but Tom isn’t half bad when you get to know him.”

Tom only smiled.

“Glad you think that way,” said Dan earnestly, “for I want you two fellows to be nice to Gerald and help me all you can.”

“You do, eh?” asked Alf. “Well, we’ll do it for your sake, Dan. Bring the kid around some time and we’ll look him over. What class is he going into?”

“Fourth. He could have made the Third easily if it hadn’t been for math.”

“Why doesn’t he live at home?” asked Herbert Loring.

“The winter home is in New York,” Dan explained. “Sound View is just a summer place. Besides, Mr. Pennimore is going abroad pretty soon for several months, I believe. That’s one reason he was willing to let Gerald come here; he said he guessed he’d be safer here than all alone in New York with just the servants.”

“Oh, I dare say the kid isn’t as bad as Alf makes out,” said the elder Loring. “I don’t envy you your job, though, Vinton. If you’ll take my advice, and I know what I’m talking about, you’ll let him hoe his own row. I dare say a few hard knocks are only what he needs.”

“And I’ll bet he will get them,” observed Tom thoughtfully.

“Whatever happens,” counselled Alf, “make him understand that he’s got to take things as they come and that the sooner he forgets that his dad has any money the better it’ll be for him.”

“I’m going to,” answered Dan. “Or, at least, I’m going to try. He isn’t a bad sort at all, and I don’t want him to make a mess of things here, especially after persuading his father to let him come.”

“Well, don’t you worry,” said Alf. “We’ll help you out all we can. I guess he will get on all right. He must have some sense or he wouldn’t be John T’s son!”

“Must be supper time,” said Tom. “Something tells me so, and it isn’t my watch either.”

“That’s right, it’s five minutes after six. Come on, fellows. I’ll find a place for you at our table, Herb. Are you hungry?”

“Sort of. Well, glad to have met you, Vinton. Come and see me if you get up to New Haven. Alf will tell you where I live.”

“Oh, you’re not through with Dan yet,” laughed Alf. “He sits at our table.”

“But not to-night,” replied Dan, as they went out. “Toby’s invited me to his table. Mr. Pennimore and Gerald will be there, you know.”

“Well, what do you think of that?” cried Alf.

[CHAPTER III]
DAN BEGINS RIGHT

“Well, son,” said Mr. Pennimore, “I guess everything’s all right. You’ve got a nice, clean, pleasant room here and Dan to keep you from getting homesick.”

“They don’t put very much in the rooms, do they?” asked Gerald Pennimore a trifle dubiously.

Supper was over and Mr. Pennimore and the two boys, after a visit to the Office, had come up to 28 Clarke. Mr. Pennimore was returning to New York on the nine-thirty-eight train, in spite of the fact that Doctor Hewitt, the Principal, had pressed him to spend the night at Yardley.

“Well, I don’t see but what you have everything that you need,” replied Gerald’s father, adding with a smile, “You must remember, son, that you’re here to study and work.”

Mr. John T. Pennimore was about fifty-two or -three years of age, rather under than above average height, a very well-bred looking gentleman with a kind if somewhat thoughtful face. His eyes were very black, very bright and keen. His hair was just a little grizzled at the temples, and he wore a dark beard, trimmed short, and a mustache. His manners were charming and his voice pleasant. Dan had never seen Mr. Pennimore when he was not immaculately dressed. He always looked, to use a familiar expression, as though he had just stepped out of a band-box.

The resemblance between father and son was not yet very striking. What there was depended more on tricks of voice, and little mannerisms than on looks, although when Gerald laughed the resemblance was slightly apparent. Gerald promised to grow into a larger man than his father, although just at present he appeared far from robust. He was fourteen years old, but scarcely looked it. He was slightly built, and his very blue eyes, pink and white skin, and corn-colored hair gave him a somewhat girlish appearance which of late had been troubling him a good deal. For Gerald admired strength and virility, and his greatest ambition was to make a name for himself on the athletic field, an ambition that, judging from present indications, seemed scarcely likely to be attained.

Gerald’s mother had died so soon after his birth that he couldn’t recall her at all. Since then he had been in charge of nurses and tutors, had been given well-nigh everything he wanted and had been as carefully guarded as the heir-apparent of a throne. Mr. Pennimore had tried hard not to spoil him, but Gerald was an only child and it would have been strange indeed if Mr. Pennimore had been quite successful in his effort. Dan and Gerald had known each other only three months but were already quite close friends. Gerald’s liking for the older boy was closely akin to hero worship; and the day on which he had learned that he was to go to Yardley Hall School and room with Dan was one of the happiest of his life. On the other hand, Dan liked Gerald less for what he was than for what he believed he was capable of being. The boy had never had a fair chance, he thought, and it was no wonder that he was a trifle selfish and self-centered. And as for his flat chest and weak muscles, why, what could you expect of a boy who had never had any real playmates and whose most violent exercise consisted of driving in carriage or automobile or pasting stamps in a stamp book! Dan believed that a couple of years at Yardley would work a change.

“Oh, I’ll have to study all right,” responded Gerald to his father’s reminder. “It’s going to be hard, I guess. But I don’t care,” he added with a shy smile at Dan. “I’d a lot rather be here than at home studying with one of those silly old tutors.”

Mr. Pennimore smiled.

“If it weren’t for those tutors, Gerald, you wouldn’t be here now.” Then he turned to Dan. “Now, Dan,” he said, “tell me what you do all day. When I’m away I shall often be wondering what this boy of mine is up to. Tell me something about your life here.”

“Well, sir, we get up about seven and go to Chapel at half-past,” responded Dan. “We have prayers and Old Toby—I mean Doctor Hewitt—reads a chapter in the Bible and Mr. Collins reads the announcements. Then we have breakfast at eight. I’m going to try and get Gerald a place at our table, sir, but I’m afraid there isn’t room.”

“Perhaps one of the fellows will change with me,” suggested Gerald hopefully. But Dan smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t believe so,” he answered. “It doesn’t matter much which table you’re at, though; you get mighty good feed everywhere. That’s one thing Yardley’s good at, Mr. Pennimore, feeding the fellows. They give us all we want, and it’s good, too. Recitations begin at nine and continue until twelve. Dinner’s at one, and then, from two to four, there’s more recitations. At four there’s gymnasium for the Prep and Fourth Class fellows. After that there’s nothing to do except study in the evening from eight to nine. Lots of fellows don’t do that; if you haven’t many recitations during the day you can do most of your studying then.”

“That sounds a whole lot, doesn’t it?” asked Gerald anxiously of his father.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like an idle life,” laughed Mr. Pennimore. “But I dare say it will go smoothly enough after you’ve once got into the routine, son. Method lightens toil. But there’s plenty of play, I take it, Dan?”

“Yes, sir, lots. We have a mighty good time. There are two societies, Cambridge and Oxford. Most every fellow belongs to one or the other. I’m going to get Gerald into Cambridge; that’s the one I belong to; but I can’t get him in until May.”

“Are these secret societies?” asked Mr. Pennimore with a trace of anxiety.

“No, sir, we haven’t any of those. Faculty won’t let us. Our societies are debating clubs, or, at least, they’re supposed to be, and we do have debates; there’s one every Saturday night. But they’re more social than anything else. Both societies have nice rooms where the fellows can get together and talk or play or read. Then, of course, a fellow can have lots of fun out of doors. There’s golf and hockey now, and after awhile there’ll be baseball and tennis and other things. And then there’s basket-ball, too; a good many fellows go in for that.”

“I’m going to play baseball,” announced Gerald decisively.

“Well, we will see about that,” replied his father. “It’s a long way to Spring yet. You keep up with your studies for a couple of months and we will talk about baseball later.”

“You must see Mr. Bendix to-morrow,” said Dan, “and take your physical examination. He will tell you what sports you can go in for.”

“Does he have the say?” asked Gerald anxiously. Dan nodded.

“You’d better believe he does! If he says you can’t play baseball or football you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. But he’s square, all right, is ‘Muscles,’ and you want to do just as he tells you. He’s a wonder!”

Gerald considered this in silence a moment. Then:

“If a fellow can’t play baseball and things I don’t see any use of coming here,” he murmured.

Mr. Pennimore laughed.

“So that’s your idea, is it, son? Well, let me tell you that you’re here to fit yourself for college. You wanted to come here, Gerald, and you’ve had your way. Now there must be no backing down, my boy. Life isn’t all play, as you’ll find out when you get older, but you can make it seem like play by taking an interest in work. You mustn’t think that because I’ve got money enough for us both that you’re going to sit down and twiddle your thumbs and watch the procession go by. No, sir! You’re going to march with the rest, and I want to see you marching at the head. Work’s one of the best things life has to offer, if we only realize it, and the man who loves his work is the man who does it best and gets the most out of life. Well, you’ll think me a tiresome old codger if I lecture any longer. Just you put the same amount of enthusiasm into work that you do into play, Gerald, and you won’t have much trouble. Now I must get down to the station if I’m going to catch that train.”

“Are you going abroad soon, sir?” asked Dan.

“In about two weeks. Gerald’s coming up to town to see me a day or two before I sail, and I’d like to have you come along, Dan, if you want to. I sail on Tuesday. You boys might come up Friday evening and stay until Sunday. We’ll fix it up later with Doctor Hewitt.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Dan. “I’d like to come very much if I won’t be in the way. I’ve never been to New York except just to come into the station and go out again.”

“Well, we will have to show him some of the sights, eh, son? Take him to a theater or two.”

“That’ll be fine!” cried Gerald. “Will you go, Dan?”

“You bet I will, if I can get off!”

“I’ll write to the Doctor next week and see,” said Mr. Pennimore. “I think I can persuade him to let you go. Now get your cap, son, and walk a little way with me. Good-bye, Dan. I’ll see you in town before I sail. Keep an eye on this worthless boy of mine and see that he writes to me twice a week. If he doesn’t I’ll shut down on his allowance. I guess that will bring him to terms,” laughed Mr. Pennimore.

Dan went with them to the head of the stairs, shook hands again with Mr. Pennimore and returned to his room. Gerald’s big trunk, which had arrived an hour before, stood in front of the door. Dan bent over and unbuckled the strap. It wasn’t an easy task and Dan had to put all his strength into it. When it was done and he had slipped down the catches he stood off and ran his fingers through his hair in a way he had when puzzled. Then he shook his head slowly, fastened the catches again and, after a deal of hard work, restrapped the trunk, working the buckle into the last possible hole.

“Might as well begin right,” he murmured as he dropped panting into his chair and took up a book.

[CHAPTER IV]
GERALD IN GRIEF

Yardley Hall School[1] stands on a small plateau about a half-mile from the shore, and commanding a broad view, of Long Island Sound, about half way between Newport and New Haven. The Wissining River, from which small stream the tiny village takes its name, curves around the back of the school grounds, separating them from the wide expanse of Meeker’s Marsh, flows beside the village, and empties into the Sound. Across the Wissining lies Greenburg, a considerable manufacturing town, and beyond Greenburg and some two miles from the water is located Yardley’s time-honored rival, Broadwood Academy.

[1] Readers who desire a more detailed description of Yardley Hall School are referred to Chapter V of Forward Pass, the preceding story in this series.

There are six buildings at Yardley, most of them quite modern; the school is not old, as New England schools go, having been founded by Doctor Tobias Hewitt in 1870. There is Oxford Hall, containing the Office, the Principal’s living rooms, laboratories, recitation rooms, library, assembly hall, and the rooms of the rival societies, Oxford and Cambridge. Oxford Hall is one of the older buildings. The other is Whitson, which elbows it on the East and which contains the dining-room, or commons as it is called, on the first floor, and dormitories above. Clarke is a dormitory entirely, as are Dudley and Merle, the latter being reserved for the boys of the Preparatory Class. The Kingdon Gymnasium completes the list of buildings if one excepts the heating plant and the boat house.

From the back of the gymnasium the ground slopes down slowly to the tennis courts, the athletic field and the river. Here, too, but further upstream is the golf links, a nine hole course that is well maintained and well patronized. In front of Oxford Hall is an expanse of lawn known as The Prospect. From this a flight of steps leads to the lower ground and joins a path which crosses the railroad cut by a rustic bridge and leads to the woods beyond. Through these various paths wind deviously to the beach and the Sound. Between the woods, which are school property, and at the mouth of the river, lies the Pennimore estate, eight acres of perfectly kept lawn and grove and shrubbery, with a long stone pier running out into the water for the accommodation of the “Steamship King’s” big yacht on which, in the summer time, he makes his trips to and from New York.

From the upper floors of the Yardley buildings one may see for miles up and down the Sound, and even, on clear days, catch a glimpse of Montauk Point across the water. It would, I think, be difficult to find a finer site for a school than that occupied by Yardley. Although still under forty years of age, Yardley Hall has won a name for itself in a part of the country where famous schools are many, and you will never be able to persuade a Yardley man to acknowledge that any other school approaches it in excellence. As for Broadwood—well, I never could do justice to a Yardley man’s opinion of that institution!

On an afternoon about a week subsequent to the opening of the winter term Dan dropped in at Number 7 Dudley. The bright weather continued, but there was no hint of Autumn in the air to-day. A shrill east wind charged around the corner of the building, and boys crossing the yard kept their heads down into their collars and their hands in their pockets and took short cuts across the winter turf in brazen defiance of regulations. But Number 7 was warm and cozy as Dan closed the door behind him and tossed his cap onto a chair. The steam pipes were sizzling drowsily and in the grate a bed of coals glowed warmly.

“Gee,” said Dan, “I wish we had fireplaces in Clarke.”

“You ought to be glad you haven’t,” answered Alf Loring from the window-seat. “Every time you have a fire it costs you ten cents for a hod of coal. Tom’s always kicking about the expense.”

Tom Dyer, seated at the study table writing a letter, grunted ironically without looking up.

“Come on over here and stretch your weary limbs,” said Alf, cuddling his feet under him to make room and tossing a pillow at the visitor. Alfred Loring was seventeen years old and was captain and quarter-back of the football team. He was a nice, jolly looking fellow with a pair of merry brown eyes and hair of the same shade which he wore parted in the middle and slicked down straightly on either side of his well-shaped head. Alf was in the Second Class, as was his roommate, Tom Dyer. Tom, however, was a year older, a rangey, powerful looking youth, rather silent, rather sleepy-looking, but good-natured to a fault. Tom wasn’t a beauty, by any means, but his gray eyes and his expression when he smiled redeemed the rather heavy features. Tom played on the Eleven at left half and had just been elected captain of the basket-ball team in place of a First Class fellow who had failed to return in the fall.

“Ain’t it cold?” asked Alf as Dan snuggled against the pillow. “If this keeps up we’ll have ice on the river in no time. Do you skate, Dan?”

“Not much. But I’m going to get some skates and try it.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” laughed Alf, “you’re so modest. I dare say you can skate all around me.”

“No, honest, Alf, that’s the truth. I can’t skate much. I never seemed to be able to learn.”

“That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d try for the hockey team. But you get some skates and get busy. You’d better come out for the team, anyway. You’ll have plenty of fun, even if you don’t make it.”

“And probably break my silly neck!”

“Well, don’t do that; we need you too much next fall. But you might try for goal. You don’t have to skate much to play goal.”

“Don’t have to do much of anything,” observed Tom dryly, “except stand up there and be hit with a hunk of hard rubber that feels like paving block. I’ve tried it; played on Whitson team two years ago. We played Clarke for the School Championship.”

“Did you win?” asked Dan, scenting a story.

“No, we lost,” replied Tom, going on with his writing.

“Tell him how, Tom,” said Alf with a chuckle.

“Dead easy,” answered Tom with a reminiscent smile. “The first half ended three to two in our favor and we were feeling pretty cheerful. But when we began again one of our fellows—Nickerson—he was playing cover-point—did something that didn’t please the referee and got put off for the limit; two minutes, I think it was. Then Clarke got down to business and made things hot around goal. I stopped about four shots in as many seconds and then there was a mix-up in front of the net and someone laid open my head with his stick. When I came around again I found they’d scored on us. I tried to go back and play but I was too dizzy to stand up and they made me quit and put in a sub named Baxter. Baxter meant well, but he was so excited that he couldn’t see straight. And along toward the end of the half, with the score tied, Clarke rushed the puck again and took a shot. Baxter stopped it with foot and it got stuck between his skate and his boot. Instead of calling for time or doing anything sensible he just stood there and shook his foot like a hen with mud between her toes. Well, at about the sixth shake the puck came out and flew into the net. That gave Clarke one goal to the good. We all called Baxter names, and that got him more excited and nervous than ever. And then, with about a minute to play the puck came down again with everyone squabbling over it. Baxter’s eyes just stood out of his head and he made a dash out of goal, got the puck somehow or other and deliberately swiped into his own goal! Oh, he made quite a hit that day for a sub!”

“I’ll bet he did!” laughed Dan. “I suppose you fellows all loved him to death.”

“We did—not,” grunted Tom. “It was funny about Baxter, though,” he added thoughtfully. “He graduated last year, and about a month later he was going over from New York to Boston with his folks on that steamer that caught fire; what was its name, Alf?”

“Independence.”

“Yes. The fire didn’t amount to a whole lot in the end, but for awhile things looked a bit bad. Well, the papers the next day made a regular hero of Baxter. According to them he was the life of the party. Had a fine time and enjoyed every minute of his visit. He bossed folks around, strapped life-preservers on fat old ladies, helped launch the boats and was as cool as a cucumber. It just shows that you never can tell, don’t it?”

“Where is he now?” asked Dan.

“Oh, he’s a dead ’un now; he’s gone to Harvard,” answered Tom.

“What did he want to go there for?” asked Dan, who had already decided on Yale, quite indignantly.

“Search me! What does any fellow want to go there for?”

“Well, it’s lucky for Yale some fellows do go,” laughed Alf. “If they didn’t we wouldn’t have anyone to beat!”

“Well, there’s something in that,” grunted Tom. “But I’ll tell you fellows one thing, though. Some day those Harvard Johnnies will take their hands out of their pockets, work up a coaching system like they have at Yale and everlastingly wallop us for keeps!”

“Oh, you run away and play!” scoffed Alf.

“All right. You just wait and see,” replied Tom unruffledly, returning to his letter.

“What’s Tom think he’s doing?” asked Dan of Alf.

“He thinks he’s a little Hague doing the arbitration act,” replied Alf, “but what he’s really doing is making a mess. Rand—you know Paul Rand?—he’s basket-ball manager, or thinks he is. Well, he tried to make dates with Broadwood for three games and got high and mighty and tried to dictate things with the result that Broadwood refused to have anything to do with us. And I don’t blame her. We won last year, you know, and so Rand thought we could lay down the law. Broadwood didn’t see it that way. So Tom is trying to make a noise like a Dove of Peace. He’s writing to the Broadwood captain, and I’ll bet he gets sat on for his trouble.”

“That’ll be all right,” replied Tom, folding and sealing his letter. “I’ve offered them their choice of dates for the second game and told them we’d play the third anywhere they liked. They’ll come down and make terms. And when they do—” Tom put the stamp on with a bang of his fist—“we’ll lick them so hard that they won’t know whether they’re coming or going!”

“That’s Tom’s idea of Peace!” laughed Alf.

“Well,” growled his roommate, “I’ve got to have some satisfaction for grovelling under their feet and rubbing my head in the mud.” He tossed the letter aside distastefully. “Say, Dan, how’s the kid getting on?”

“Yes, how is little Geraldine?” asked Alf.

“All right,” replied Dan not very enthusiastically. “I was going to bring him along, but he hadn’t shown up when I left the room. I dare say he’s gone over home.”

“Sound View?” asked Alf. “I thought the place was closed up.”

“It is, but some of the servants are there, and he’s got a dog he’s awfully fond of; the one that ’most got burned.”

“I heard some of the Prep kids calling him ‘Young Money-Bags’ the other day,” said Tom. “I’m afraid he isn’t going to be popular, Dan.”

“I don’t see why not,” answered Dan warmly. “He isn’t a snob by any means; doesn’t even act like one. The fellows here wouldn’t think of looking down on a chap because he had no money. Why should they look down on him because he has?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s exactly that,” mused Alf. “The trouble is, Dan, that Toby and Collins and the Faculty generally are so blamed proud of him. You’d think he was a young prince.”

“They aren’t proud of him,” answered Dan. “They’re proud of getting him; proud of beating Broadwood.”

“Well, that’s a commendable pride,” said Alf with a yawn. “The best way to do, as Brother Herb said the other day, is to just let him fight it out alone. If the School finds you sticking up for him too much they’ll take more of a grudge than ever to him.”

“Oh, I’m letting him do his own fighting right enough. So much so that Gerald thinks I’ve gone back on him, and looks at me pathetically when he thinks I don’t see him. Makes me feel sort of like a brute, you know. He’s been a bit homesick, too, I guess, although he hasn’t said anything about it.”

“Well, that’s promising,” said Alf. “Shows he isn’t a cry-baby. Does he know anyone yet?”

“I don’t think so; except you fellows. It’ll take him time, I suppose.”

“Bring him around here whenever you want to,” said Tom. “I don’t mind him. I know what it’s like to be homesick and out of it myself.”

“You!” exclaimed Dan.

“Sure! Don’t you think I’ve got any feelings? I went to a boarding school for two years before I struck Yardley; one of those motherly places where they advertise a nice home life for the kids. The first month I was there I thought I’d die. Lonesome? Gosh, that isn’t any word for it! I was sort of quiet and shy, I guess, and the fellows thought I was stuck-up and left me pretty much alone except when they picked on me.”

“Did you get over it?” asked Dan.

“Had to. I stood it until I couldn’t have stayed there any longer and then I picked out the biggest fellow in my class and put it up to him. ‘I’ve been here a whole month,’ I told him, ‘and you fellows haven’t spoken decently to me yet.’ (I was only thirteen and was half crying.) ‘You’ve either got to take some notice of me,’ I said, ‘or fight, and I don’t care which it is.’ The chap looked at me in a funny sort of way for a minute, and then he laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Fight!’ he said. ‘Why, I don’t want to fight you, kid. You’re all right. You come along with me.’”

“Well?” Dan asked eagerly.

“Oh, I went.”

“Yes, but did he—what did he do?”

“Nothing; just walked with me across the playground. It was in the afternoon after school and almost every fellow was there. That was all he had to do. They gave me a chance after that and I made good.”

“If he’d accepted your invitation and licked you, though,” said Alf, “I don’t see that it would have helped you much.”

“He wouldn’t have licked,” said Tom quietly, “not the way I was feeling that day.”

“You, you old duffer,” scoffed his roommate, “why, you couldn’t lick a postage stamp!”

Tom pushed his chair back, arose, and approached Alf with a broad smile. Alf got his legs from under him and prepared for battle. Dan removed to a safer vantage point, and the trouble began. [It was a fine “rough-house” while it lasted.] The cushions were soon on the floor and the combatants speedily followed them, bringing along a curtain pole and two curtains. It was the pole that produced a cessation of hostilities. In falling it came end first and Alf’s head happened to be in the way. There was a yell, and when Tom removed himself from the recumbent form of his chum, Alf was feeling of his head disgustedly.

[“It was a fine ‘rough-house’ while it lasted.”]

“That fool thing always does that. I’ll bet my brain is just full of holes.”

“Well, there’s something the matter with it,” laughed Tom.

Then they went at it again, around the study and up against the table where the ink bottle was upset and a portion of its contents distributed over the letter Tom had just written.

“There!” gasped Tom. “Look what you’ve done! Spoiled the stamp! And I’ll have to address a new envelope.”

“You did it yourself, you clumsy brute,” answered Alf, rearranging his attire. “But I’ll give you another stamp. It’s worth that much to wallop you!”

“Huh! A lot of walloping you did!”

“I made you look like thirty cents, all right. Didn’t I, Dan?”

“I declare it a draw,” laughed Dan. “And I’m going to get out before you do any more damage.”

“Oh, don’t go,” begged Alf. “Wait and see me lick him again. I’ve only just begun on him.”

“Huh!” Tom grunted, seating himself at the table. “Say, Dan, wait a second, like a good chap, and drop this in the mail for me. I’ll take that stamp, Alf.”

“Haven’t got it just now. I’ll give you one some day, though. I always pay my debts sooner or later.”

“I’ve got one,” Dan offered. “Toss me the letter.”

“There you are. Remind me that I owe it to you, Dan. That was the last one I had. I can’t keep stamps. I believe Alf must eat them.”

“Well!” exclaimed Alf indignantly, “I’d just like to know who buys all the stamps that are used in this room.”

“Not you, you old miser!”

“Tom, you must apologize for that, you really must!”

“Who to? Now, look here, sonny, if you start this again—!”

Dan made a hurried leap for the door and escaped the rush.

“Good-bye, you fellows!”

There was no answer, but as he closed the door behind him there came the crash of an overturned chair. He paused, smiling, a little way down the corridor and waited. From beyond the closed portal of Number 7 came sounds resembling those of a small riot. Presently Dan walked heavily back and rapped sharply on the door. Instantly the commotion ceased.

“Come in,” said a polite voice.

Dan opened the door. Alf, breathing heavily, was reading on the window-seat and Tom was seated in a corner nonchalantly nursing one knee.

“What’s all this noise I hear?” asked Dan, trying to imitate the gruff tones of Mr. Austin, one of the instructors who roomed in the building. There was a howl of rage from the occupants of the room and Dan turned and fled. The joke kept him chuckling all the way around to Oxford, where he posted Tom’s letter. Then he climbed the stairs to his room in Clarke, threw open the door and paused on the threshold in consternation.

In front of the washstand stood Gerald sopping his face with a blood-stained towel. His nose was swollen and bleeding, his knuckles were skinned and he was crying.

“Why, Gerald! What’s the matter?” cried Dan.

“N-nothing,” muttered Gerald, turning away.

“Nothing! Nothing be blowed! You’re a sight!” He drew the towel away from the boy’s face. “Why, you’ve been fighting! Who hit you and how did it happen? Here, let me take the towel. You sit down there and I’ll fix you up. Who did it?”

“T-Thompson.”

“Who’s Thompson? And what did he hit you for?”

“I hit him fu-first.”

“Well, what was it about? Let’s see your hand. I should say you did hit him! You’ll need some court plaster on those knuckles, my boy. Does your nose hurt very much?”

“Yu-yes,” answered Gerald, struggling with his sobs.

“Well, never mind; don’t cry any more; it’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

“I’m not cr-crying because it hurts,” sobbed Gerald, “I’m cr-crying because he li-licked me!”

[CHAPTER V]
ALF TAKES A PUPIL

Presently, when Gerald’s wounds were dressed, Dan persuaded him to tell his story. He had got over his tears and was looking rather depressed and ashamed of himself.

“I was coming up the hill toward the gymnasium,” began Gerald.

“What were you doing down there?” Dan asked.

“I—I was just taking a walk along by the river,” answered Gerald evasively.

Dan nodded. “Homesick,” he thought.

“I’m sorry you didn’t come back to the room,” he said. “I waited here for you some time. I wanted to take you over to see Loring and Dyer.”

“I don’t want to go there,” answered Gerald. “They don’t like me.”

“You’re mistaken. Tom asked me this afternoon to bring you over often. They’re nice fellows and I want you to like them. But never mind about that now. What happened when you were coming up from the river?”

“I met four or five fellows just this side of the tennis courts, near the little red building, you know.”

Dan nodded again.

“And one of them said something about ‘Miss Nancy.’ I didn’t pay any attention and just kept right on. Then this fellow Thompson—”

“Hold on! What sort of a looking fellow is Thompson?”

“He—he’s kind of heavy, with dark hair, and wears a plaid cap.”

“Sort of sallow, with a mole on his cheek? I think I remember him. But he’s bigger than you, isn’t he?”

“A little,” said Gerald grudgingly.

“All right. What happened?”

“He said ‘No, that’s Little Money-bags,’ and the other fellows laughed, and one of them said something I didn’t hear. Then Thompson said: ‘Oh, yes, his father’s got lots of money, but if folks knew where he got it he’d be in prison.’”

“And then what?” asked Dan sympathetically.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No, I—I just hit him!” Dan smiled.

“That wasn’t a very good thing to do, Gerald. We don’t go in for that sort of thing here at Yardley.”

“I don’t care. What right had he to say that? I did hit him and I’ll do it again if he talks that way about my father!”

“Well, you hit him. Then, I suppose he hit you?”

“No. He was going to, but some of the other fellows ran in and said we’d be seen. Then Thompson asked if I wanted to fight, and I said I did, and we went back of the little red building and—and—fought.”

“How long?”

“Just a minute. I couldn’t do anything, Dan. He knew how to fight and I didn’t.”

“Well, but your knuckles—”

“I hit him once on the chin,” acknowledged Gerald with satisfaction, “but that’s about all. Then he hit me on the nose.”

“And that ended it?”

“Yes. I wanted to go on, but they wouldn’t let me. One of them gave me a handkerchief—I couldn’t find mine. It’s on the stand there. Then I came up here.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t meet anyone but a couple of fellows in front of Oxford. I don’t care if they did see me.”

“Well, it’s just as well that you didn’t run across any of the Faculty,” said Dan dryly. “Faculty doesn’t like scraps. How’s the nose feeling?”

“All right now; it’s just sore. It—it felt as though it was broken at first. Did you ever have a real fight with another fellow, Dan?”

“Oh, I’ve had two or three scrimmages,” replied Dan carelessly, “but not here. And I guess you’d better make up your mind to let this be your last one, Gerald.”

“I’m going to learn to box,” said Gerald determinedly. “And when I know how I’m going to lick Thompson.”

“Well,” answered Dan soothingly, “maybe you won’t want to by that time.”

“Does it take long? Is it hard to learn?”

“Boxing? N-no, I guess not, but I don’t know much about it: I never took any lessons.”

“Will you box with me sometimes in the gym?”

“Perhaps,” answered Dan, “but you’d better get Alf Loring to show you; he’s a dandy at it, they say.”

“Do you think he would?”

“Yes, but I’d forget about Thompson, Gerald. I dare say he’s sorry for what he said. Did you make up afterwards?”

Gerald shook his head.

“He wanted to shake hands, but I wouldn’t. He’s got to apologize for what he said about my father, every word, before I’ll make up with him.”

“The best thing to do is to leave him alone and forget all about it,” counseled Dan. “That’s what I’d do.” Gerald shook his head.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he said sagely, and Dan thought it best not to argue the matter.

“Shall you see Loring again soon?” asked Gerald.

“I’ll see him to-morrow, I suppose. Why?”

“Will you ask him about boxing? Would you mind?”

“No, but it would be much better if you asked him yourself. We’ll drop around there this evening for a few minutes.”

“All right,” said Gerald, “but I’m afraid he’ll think it’s awfully cheeky of me.”

“No, he won’t. Now let’s get fixed up for supper. Let’s see how your nose looks. Well, I guess most anyone would know that you’d been in some sort of a mix-up, but it doesn’t look very bad. You’d better look the other way, though, when you meet any of the Faculty. How are the fellows at your table, by the way?”

“All right, I guess. I don’t know any of them very well, except a little chap named Merrow.”

“Merrow? Seems to me I know him. Oh, yes, I met him coming up from the station the other day. Is he nice?”

“Yes, but he’s just a kid.” Presently Gerald paused in his ablutions long enough to announce; “I’m going to try for the Clarke hockey team, Dan.”

“Are you? Did Bendix say you could play hockey?”

“Yes, on the dormitory team. Hockey and tennis. I don’t see why I can’t play baseball, do you?”

“N-no, but I suppose Muscles has his reason. How are you getting along at the gym?”

“All right. It’s mostly dumb-bells and wands now, though. But it’s pretty good fun, isn’t it? Next week we’re going to do stunts on the bars and things like that. I think I’ve got more muscle now than I had when I came, don’t you? Look.” And Gerald pulled his sleeve up, exposing a pathetically thin arm, and brought his clinched hand up to his shoulder, watching Dan anxiously.

“Hm, yes, I believe you have,” said Dan gravely. “You keep on, Gerald, and you’ll be mightily surprised at the result. It’s wonderful what you can do in the gym. I’ve only been here about three months and I’ve increased my chest expansion almost two inches.”

“Really? Mr. Bendix said I was awfully flat chested, and I guess I am. I wish I had your muscles, Dan.”

“You keep on and you will have. All ready? Come on, then. Are you hungry?”

“Not very. I’m never very hungry, Dan. Even at home I don’t eat much.”

“You wait until you’ve been here a little longer,” laughed Dan, “and you won’t talk that way!”

After supper they went over to Dudley.

“Here he is!” cried Alf as Dan opened the door of Number 7. “What shall we do to him, Tom? Hello, Pennimore, how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you,” replied Gerald politely. Alf grinned at Dan.

“Glad you’re bringing him to be respectful,” he whispered in Dan’s ear as Gerald spoke to Tom. “Well, find seats, my worthy guests. Hello, Pennimore! What’s happened to your face? Sort of out of drawing, isn’t it? If I didn’t know you for a peaceable citizen I’d say you’d been—er—mixing it up a bit.”

Gerald looked diffidently at Dan.

“Tell your own story,” laughed Dan.

“I—I got hit,” muttered Gerald.

“Oh!” said Alf, suppressing a grin.

“Who hit you?” asked Tom.

“A fellow named Thompson. We—we had a sort of a fight.”

“The dickens you did! What about?”

Then Gerald found courage to give an account of the incident. Tom nodded approvingly.

“You did just right,” he said. “Sorry you didn’t hurt him a bit worse. He’s a fresh kid, anyway.”

“Still,” interposed Dan, with a meaning glance at Tom, “I tell Gerald we don’t go in for scrapping here.”

“That’s right,” answered Tom. “We don’t—except when it’s necessary. When a chap says things about your parents, though, it’s necessary. Just remember that, Pennimore. Don’t you take any fellow’s dust. If he’s too big for you, just you come and tell me; understand?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Gerald. “I—I didn’t want to fight, but there wasn’t anything else I could do, was there?”

“Not a thing!” said Tom heartily. “Oh, you may frown all you want to, Dan, but I’m right, and you know it, you old hypocrite.”

“You’ll get Gerald into trouble if you give him advice like that, though,” Dan objected. “Faculty won’t stand for fights, and you know it.”

“Yes, but Collins won’t be hard on a fellow for sticking up for the honor of the family, so to speak. He’s human, Collins is. And I guess we three know that as well as anyone. Ever fought before, Gerald?”

“No, I never have,” answered Gerald apologetically. Alf laughed.

“Well, don’t apologize. After all, in spite of Tom, we’re not all sluggers here.”

“I’d like to know something about fighting, though,” said Gerald with a beseeching look at Dan.

“He’s got a favor to ask of you, Alf, and he’s afraid you’ll think he’s cheeky,” explained Dan.

“Of me? What is it? Let’s hear. I promise now not to think you cheeky, Pennimore. Want me to re-shape your nose for you?”

“I—I wondered whether you’d mind giving me a few lessons in boxing,” said Gerald soberly.

“By Jove, I like your grit! Want to be ready for the next one, eh?” Gerald didn’t reply.

“Fact is,” laughed Dan, “he wants to learn how to fight so he can lick Thompson. I tell him he’d better call it quits, but—”

“Oh, Alf will teach you, all right,” interrupted Tom. “If he doesn’t I’ll make him.”

“You! You couldn’t make a cat sneeze!” jeered Alf. “I’ll be very glad to show you what I know, Pennimore,” he added kindly. “We’ll get together some day real soon. We can use the boxing room in the gym Saturday afternoons, I guess. As to Thompson—well, you’ve shown him you won’t stand for his nonsense, and I guess he will let you alone after this. But boxing is mighty good exercise and it will do you good.”

“I’m awfully much obliged,” murmured Gerald. “I guess you will find me pretty stupid, though.”

“That’s all right. You’ll learn. You’re light on your feet and you look quick. Here, don’t rush off, Dan.”

“Must. Gerald and I have got studying to do.”

“Well, so have I, but you don’t see me worrying about it, do you?” laughed Alf. “Sit down and be sociable.”

“Can’t, honest!” replied Dan. “Good night, you fellows.”

After they had gone Tom looked across at Alf.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“He isn’t such a sissy after all, is he?”

“Who? Little Geraldine?” asked Alf with a laugh. “Oh, he will get on in time. Say, though, doesn’t Dan remind you of old Mrs. Mother Hen with her one chick?”

And Alf went off chuckling to find his books.

[CHAPTER VI]
A VISIT TO NEW YORK

On the following Friday Dan and Gerald, suit-cases in hand and ulsters on arm, climbed aboard the express at a little before five o’clock and set out for New York. It was a cloudy afternoon, still and moderately cold. The river had been frozen for several days, and as the train crossed the bridge the boys could see the skaters moving about through the twilight up near Loon Island. They had their supper on the train—although it was really dinner—and did their level best to eat some of everything on the menu. In this effort they were not quite successful, but they managed to consume enough to interfere seriously with their comfort. Luckily they had a full hour—and it really was a full one—in which to recover before the train rolled into the Grand Central Station, by which time they were able to take up their luggage and traverse the platform without more than an occasional groan.

Mr. Pennimore had half promised to meet them, but when Gerald had discovered the electric brougham, the driver, a very smart looking youth in trim livery, reported that Mr. Pennimore had telephoned from downtown that he wouldn’t be able to reach the station in time, but would meet the boys at dinner.

“Dinner!” groaned Dan, casting a reproachful look at Gerald. “Why didn’t you tell me we were to have dinner after we got here?”

“I thought it would be lots more fun to eat on the train,” replied Gerald. “You can eat at home any time. Besides, we were hungry, Dan.”

“Well, that’s so. But I’m not hungry now, and I know I shan’t be able to even look at the table.”

They sped softly across town, only the low buzz of the motor and the occasional jangle of the bell penetrating to the interior of the carriage. Overhead a light set behind ground glass cast a soft glow over the rich upholstery. Dan looked and marveled. At his feet an electric heater gave warmth, in front of him a little silver clock ticked away the minutes. The seat, upholstered in dark blue leather, was as comfortable as a bed, and Gerald was making the most of it. But Dan was too excited to loll back in his corner. Instead, he sat on the edge of the cushion and peered interestedly out of the window. The brougham slowed down and turned into Fifth Avenue, then buzzed its way uptown past a steady stream of southward bound vehicles, automobiles, hansoms, broughams, taxicabs, electrics, with now and then a smart delivery wagon. Dan turned in bewilderment.

“Where’s every one going?” he asked.

“Theater, I suppose,” answered Gerald listlessly. “It’s most eight o’clock.”

“Oh,” said Dan. He had never seen so many carriages before in his life, nor so many lights, nor so many persons. They were held up for a moment at an intersecting street, and he watched admiringly the majestic traffic policeman, and wondered where every one could be going! Then they went on again and the lights along the sidewalks grew fewer. Shops gave way to residences, and soon, through the window on Gerald’s side, he saw the Park. He heaved a sigh.

“Gee, this is a big old place, Gerald,” he said hopelessly.

“I hate it,” answered Gerald, arousing from his drowsiness. “I have lots more fun at Sound View than I do in New York. I wish father would live at Sound View all the year. He says he’s going to some day. Here we are, Dan.”

The brougham rolled slowly up to the curb and stopped with a final peal of its bell. The door of a white stone residence opened and a man in livery came out and seized the bags and coats. Dan followed Gerald into the house, stepped dazedly into a tiny room which turned out to be an elevator, stepped out again and discovered Mr. Pennimore awaiting them at the door of a big library, evening paper in hand. After that events followed each other so quickly that it was all rather hazy to Dan. There was a moment’s chat in front of a glowing fire, another excursion in the elevator, a hurried preparation for dinner, followed by a survey of Gerald’s bedroom and sitting room which adjoined the apartment assigned to Dan, a descent to the first floor, and—well, then Dan found himself eating again just as though he hadn’t already had one hearty dinner that evening!

“What’s the matter, Gerald?” asked Mr. Pennimore presently, interrupting himself anxiously. “Has coming home spoiled your appetite?”

“No, sir, but we had our dinner on the train.”

“On the train! Well, well, that’s unfortunate! Couldn’t wait, eh? But do the best you can, boys. When I was your age I could always eat. Parker, hand the vegetables to Mr. Vinton.”

When dinner was over it was much too late to go anywhere, Mr. Pennimore decided. Gerald was disappointed, but Dan was secretly glad enough to sit down in a big, sleepy chair in front of the library fire and just let the comfort and hominess of the place soak in. Mr. Pennimore found lots of questions to ask, and it kept the two boys busy answering them.

“You see, son,” said Mr. Pennimore, “your letters are very interesting, but you’ve got an exasperating way of paying no attention to the questions I ask in mine. Have you been homesick, Gerald?”

Gerald shot a glance at Dan, but that youth was studying the flames as though he hadn’t heard the question.

“Some, sir,” answered Gerald, “once or twice.”

“Getting over it now, though, I presume? That’s right; just realize that Yardley’s to be your home for the next few months and get settled down. Have you made the acquaintance of any more of the boys?”

“I—I don’t know any of them very well yet, sir.”

“Of course not; all that takes time, I suspect. You spoke of two of the boys in one of your letters. What were their names?”

“Loring and Dyer,” answered Gerald. “They’re—they’re Second Class fellows, and so I don’t know them very well.”

“Oh, I gathered from what you wrote that you did.” Gerald looked uneasily at Dan.

“Well, Loring’s going to give you boxing lessons,” he said. “You know him well enough for that. Gerald has an idea that fellows don’t care about him unless they come right out and say so,” Dan explained.

“Boxing lessons, you said?” inquired Mr. Pennimore. “Isn’t boxing rather—er—strenuous for a boy of your age?” He looked anxiously from Dan to Gerald.

“Oh, no, sir,” answered Dan promptly. “It isn’t hard at all. It’s one of the regular exercises in the Second Class. Gerald just thought he’d like to take it up now, and Alf Loring said he’d show him how. It’s good exercise, sir.”

Gerald breathed easier. He had pledged Dan to secrecy in regard to his trouble with Thompson, and Dan’s unthinking reference to boxing had brought his heart into his mouth.

“Well,” said his father doubtfully, “be careful. Don’t try to learn everything the first year, son.”

The next forenoon was given over to sight-seeing. Gerald acted as guide and showed Dan as many of the points of interest as there was time for, and Dan enjoyed himself hugely. They had luncheon with Mr. Pennimore at his club. Afterwards he handed them tickets for one of the theaters and sent them off in a hansom.

“I’m sorry I can’t go with you,” he said, “but I’ve got a great deal to do this afternoon. We’ll have dinner early and see a show together to-night.”

That was Dan’s first visit to a real theater, for out in Graystone, Ohio, where he lived, the local playhouse, known as the Academy of Music, was little more than a fair-sized hall, and the attractions which visited it seldom met with the approval of Dan’s parents. To Gerald, on the contrary, theaters and plays were an old story, and he found half of his enjoyment in watching Dan and in displaying his own knowledge and experience of things theatrical. After the final curtain had fallen Dan didn’t say anything until the boys were out on the street. Then he drew a long breath, sighed deeply, and exclaimed:

“Gee, that was great!”

“It wasn’t a bad show,” replied Gerald indifferently.

“Bad! It was simply elegant! I’ll bet if I lived in New York I’d be at the theater every day! I’d like to see that play again to-night!”

But instead he saw another one and voted it even better, and would have kept Gerald up the rest of the night talking about it if Gerald had allowed it. Even as it was, it was long past mid-night when they fell asleep. The next forenoon they went to church with Mr. Pennimore. The church was a new source of wonderment to Dan. He had never imagined that a church could be so beautiful as was that one, and if he missed a great deal of the service, it was only because his eyes and thoughts were busy with the great altar, the wonderful stained glass windows, and all the architectural marvels and color before him.

Dinner was at two o’clock on Sunday, a long-drawn-out repast of many courses. It wasn’t altogether a success to-day, for every one was rather silent. The impending return to school brought no joy to the boys, while Mr. Pennimore was saddened by the thought of having to part with Gerald for several months. At a little before four the electric brougham rolled up to the curb in front of the house, and good-byes were said. Mr. Pennimore was to sail early Tuesday morning. Gerald begged to be allowed to remain in town and see him off, but his father wouldn’t allow it.

“No, no,” he said smilingly, “that wouldn’t do, son. Why, I might lose my courage at the last moment and take you with me!”

“I wish you would,” said Gerald dismally, clinging tightly to his father’s hand.

“What? And take you away from school? Oh, that wouldn’t do at all. No, we’ll say good-bye now, Gerald. You write me regularly and send your first letter to the address I gave you, so that I’ll find it when I get to London. Good-bye, Dan. Take good care of yourself. We three are going to have some good times this summer, and I want you well and strong. And keep an eye on this boy here; don’t let him get into too much mischief. And write me a letter yourself some day and put it in with Gerald’s. Now, you’ll have to hurry if you’re going to catch that train. Good-bye, Gerald. Be a good boy, and don’t forget to write to me. Remember me to the Doctor when you see him. Good-bye, good-bye!”

Then they were rolling away to the station, Gerald rather tearful, and Dan feeling a little bit blue himself, without being able to find a good reason for it. But by the time New Haven was reached the spirits of each had risen considerably, and they were able to take some interest in the things which the waiter placed before them in the dining car. Neither had eaten much dinner in New York, and so they found that they had very fair appetites. It’s wonderful what food will do in the way of cheering one up! When they tossed their bags into the carriage at Wissining and climbed in after them they were as merry as you please. A sprinkle of snow had fallen while they had been on the train, and there was a jolly feeling of winter in the air. Ahead of them, on the hill, the windows of the school buildings twinkled a welcome to them.

“Getting back isn’t so bad, after all, is it?” asked Dan. And Gerald agreed that it wasn’t.

They hurried to the Office to register their return, and then scampered up the stairs of Clarke. And when Dan had lighted the drop-light on the study table and the familiar objects in the room met their gaze, why, it was quite like getting home!

[CHAPTER VII]
THE SNOW BATTLE

The snow held off that winter until the last week in January. Then, as though to make up for its neglect, it came down steadily for three days together and covered the Prospect and the Yard two feet deep. Of course, I don’t mean that the snow confined its attentions to the vicinity of the school; the world was white as far as one could see, save on the Sound; and there were days when you couldn’t catch a glimpse of that for the scurrying flakes. But it was around the school that the fellows were best able to judge of its depth. Of course, Mr. McCarthy, the janitor, whose real name was Owen, and not McCarthy at all, fought valiantly with his helpers to keep the paths clear, but just as fast as they shoveled snow away, more fell. There was little wind, and so there were no drifts, a lucky circumstance for Mr. McCarthy. Skating for the time was spoiled, and just when the hockey clubs were finding their ice-legs, to coin an expression. But snow-battles took the place of ice sports, and there were some fine contests in the Yard. The principal battle of that campaign was one which took place at half-past four one afternoon, and lasted until darkness imposed a truce. It started out in a very small way.

Gerald was crossing from the gymnasium to Clarke. Over in front of Dudley a handful of older boys were good-naturedly pelting each other with snowballs. Back of Whitson, Thompson, the youth with whom Gerald had tried conclusions a fortnight ago, was vainly trying to throw a snowball in at the window of one of the third-floor rooms, where a friend of his laughed defiance from behind the curtain. Gerald had reached the sun-dial in the center of the Yard before Thompson spied him. Then:

“Oh, see who’s here,” shouted Thompson gleefully to his friend. “Watch me soak him, Joe.”

The first missile passed harmlessly by Gerald’s head, but the second was better aimed, and lodged uncomfortably against Gerald’s neck. Gerald brushed it away and tramped on. He recognized his enemy, but so far he had had but one lesson from Alf, and wasn’t yet ready for Mr. Thompson. Unfortunately, every step toward Clarke brought him nearer Thompson, and as Thompson was a rather good shot, progress became instantly more difficult. He thought of dropping the bundle of books which he carried and retaliating, but he knew himself for a poor shot, and was sure that such an engagement would end in undignified rout on his part. So he shielded his face as best he could and went on. It’s no joke to get a well-made snowball, thrown from a distance of sixty feet, against your head, and that’s what happened to Gerald more than once after he had passed the corner of Dudley. He wanted to run, but was too proud. Encouraged by the laughing applause of his friend at the window above, Thompson advanced to meet his prey, a particularly well-moulded snowball ready to throw.

But he didn’t throw it. For at that moment his cap went off, his ear was filled with snow, and he staggered aside from the shock and unexpectedness of the attack. It was a long shot, and a lucky one, and I doubt if the small boy standing on the back porch of Merle could have duplicated it in twenty tries. But it accomplished its purpose, for it allowed Gerald to reach the safety of Clarke Hall. Thompson swung around with a laugh of annoyance, and spied his new adversary.

“Hello, kid!” he shouted. “Want yours, do you? Well, you stay there and you’ll get it.”

Harry Merrow stayed, not because he wanted to very much, but because, like Gerald, he was too proud to run. It was an unequal conflict, for Thompson, advancing steadily along the walk, scored three hits to the younger boy’s one. The group in front of Dudley had paused and were watching the fray, applauding Merrow loudly.

“Give it to him, kid! You’re all right! Now’s your chance! Take your time!”

But the battle would have ended disastrously for Merrow had not another Merle Hall boy, attracted by the shouts, put his head out of an upstairs window and seen what was going on. Now, there’s a fine spirit of camaraderie among the Preparatory Class. For one thing, the boys of that class all room together in Merle, and get to know each other thoroughly. And in the present case esprit de corps came to the rescue of Merrow. The boy at the window disappeared quickly, and a minute later the back of Merle was black with boys.

“Merle, this way! Merle, this way!” was the cry.

Thompson held out for a moment, and then, the target for dozens of snowballs, retreated toward Whitson. But the fellows in front of Dudley could remain neutral no longer.

“Rush the kids!” was the cry, and the battle was on. Five minutes later almost every fellow in school was ranged on one side of the Yard or the other. The new arrivals neither knew nor cared about the merits of the controversy. They simply joined whichever army was nearest. Alf and Tom and Dan, gathered in Number 7 Dudley, soon heard the noise of battle and joined the fray, Tom in his shirt-sleeves.

“What’s it all about?” asked Alf of another boy.

“I don’t know. Merle started it, they say. They’ve been fighting like little fiends, the kids have. Look out! Just missed you! Let’s rush ’em again!”

There were plenty of rushes in which the opposing sides, or the more valorous of them, met in the middle of the field of battle and fought at close quarters. Out there there was little time to make snowballs. One must simply scoop up snow and hurl it at his adversary, grapple with him, perhaps, and roll him over and “wash his face,” or stuff snow down his back and into his ears and mouth. It was hand-to-hand out there, and many brave deeds were done and many gallant rescues performed. One ate snow and breathed it and was blinded by it, and wallowed in it, and picked himself out of it gasping and shouting. Then, as though by mutual understanding, the opposing armies drew apart, still hurling snow and shouting defiance, to view their casualties and draw breath for a renewed attack.

Gerald, drawn from his room by the shouting and laughter, looked on for a minute, and then dodged around the Yard and joined the forces in front of Merle. The next moment he was rolling snowballs and firing with the best of them, the ardor of battle taking possession of him.

“Hello, Pennimore!” cried a voice at his ear. “Isn’t it fun? They tried to rush us three times, and we beat them back!”

It was Harry Merrow, his cap off, his sweater crusted with snow, his cheeks flaming, and his eyes afire with excitement. Dan, had he been at hand to see, would have had difficulty in recognizing in the person of this young warrior the tearful, homesick lad he had met in the carriage.

“That was a dandy shot of yours,” said Gerald gratefully. “Did he hurt you?”

“Who? Thompson? I guess not! I’m not afraid of him! There they go! Come on!”

And Gerald was caught, willy nilly, in the forward surge of the little army and swept out into the field. Then snowballs were flying thick and fast, boys went down left and right, assailant and assailed rolling over on the trampled field of battle. Twilight was coming fast, and already it was difficult to tell friend from enemy. Gerald had lost sight of Harry Merrow, and, for that matter, scarcely knew whether he was attacking his comrades or his opponents. But he scooped up snow and dashed it wherever he saw a face, dodged in and out of the mêlée, and was having a lovely time, when something happened. His heels went into the air, his head bumped into the snow, and then, struggle as he might, he was being dragged feet-foremost toward the enemy’s line. He disputed every inch of the way, his hands groping blindly for something to hold to, and his face plowing up the snow. And then, just when he was certain he would suffocate the next moment, he was released and rolled over.

“You’re captured, kid,” laughed a familiar voice. “Will you fight on our side?”

Gerald, sputtering and choking, looked up into the face of Dan.

“No, I’m on the other side,” he gasped heroically.

“Why, it’s Gerald!” cried Dan. He pulled him to his feet. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not a bit,” said Gerald, rubbing his wet face against a wetter sleeve. Hurt! Of course he wasn’t hurt; he never felt finer in his life! What if his nose did seem to have been scraped to the bone? It was all glorious!

“Well, you’re prisoner,” laughed Dan. “If you won’t fight with us you must give your parole.”

“What’s that?” asked Gerald, as Dan, a hand on his arm, led him back toward Dudley.

“Why, agree not to fight again,” Dan explained. “You stay over there on the steps.”

“But I want to fight!” cried Gerald.

“All right, then, fight. Hello, Alf! Did you get any?”

“Yes, we got nine altogether.”

“Where are they?”

“Oh, here somewhere. They’re going to fight with us.”

“Is it right to do that?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“Of course! That’s the way we play the game here.”

“Then I’ll fight,” said Gerald.

“Hello!” cried Alf, coming up, “where’d you get Gerald?”

“Oh, I fished him out of the bunch,” laughed Dan. “I didn’t know who he was until I’d dragged him half-way across the Yard. He’s going to join our side.”

“That’s right,” said Alf. “We’ll get a lot more next time. They got Tom, though.”

“Not really! Think of old Tom getting caught! Let’s rush ’em again before it gets too dark.”

Then Alf and Dan and Gerald and almost a hundred others dashed forward again with a yell, and from the other side of the Yard the enemy came to meet them, and it was all a grand turmoil in the half darkness. Both sides were out for prisoners now, and there was less throwing of snow and more good, hard tussles. So far as Gerald could see, no one lost his temper, or, if he did, he found it again the next moment.

“You’d better keep back,” panted Alf, “or some one will grab you, Gerald.”

But Gerald didn’t care about that. In fact, he rather wanted to be grabbed. He wanted to match his strength against some one, friend or foe. And so he rushed into the thick of battle, fell, picked himself up, was caught around the waist and wriggled free, seized a boy almost twice his size in a vain endeavor to make a prisoner of him, and found himself with his face in the snow and the battle raging fiercely above him. He crawled out of there quickly, for it wasn’t pleasant to be walked on, staggered to his feet and drew breath. The Merle side was giving ground. Behind him at least a dozen prisoners were being hurried away. But the combat still raged, and the shouting continued. Suddenly, out from the enemy’s ranks darted a form and grappled with a boy who, standing almost at Gerald’s side, had, like himself, paused to take breath. Down they went together, there was a moment’s tussle, and then the enemy, having cunningly seized his victim’s feet, started back with him. Both sides were now drawing off, and for an instant Gerald hesitated. Then, with a shrill cry of challenge, he darted forward and threw himself against the captor. The next moment Gerald and the boy he had rescued were running back toward Dudley. The captor, surprised by the unexpected attack, didn’t think of pursuit until too late.

“Much obliged,” panted the rescued youth, as he and Gerald reached safety.

“That’s all right,” said Gerald carelessly. But secretly he was immensely proud of his exploit. At that moment they stepped into the circle of light thrown by the lantern over the door of Dudley.

“Hello!” cried the other. “If it isn’t Pennimore! What do you think of that? Why, you and I started this scrap!”

It was Thompson. Gerald viewed him doubtfully.

“You mean you did,” he answered rather stiffly. Thompson laughed and clapped him on the back.

“That’s so, I guess I did. Well, say, Pennimore, I’m sorry I snowballed you. But we’re quits now, aren’t we?”

And with another laugh and a nod Thompson turned away, leaving Gerald at a loss and a little indignant. What’s the good, he asked himself, of having a grudge against a fellow who makes apologies to you and claps you on the back? It was perfectly absurd! He looked aggrievedly in the direction taken by Thompson, and frowned. Then, thrusting his wet, aching hands into his trousers pockets, he turned and walked moodily toward Clarke. At the corner of the dormitory he looked back. Plainly, the combat was over. A few desultory snowballs arched across the Yard, and an occasional taunting cry or shout of defiance followed. But the two armies were dwindling away fast. It was quite dark now, and the battleground was illumined only by the streams of warm, yellow light which came from the dormitory windows. Gerald climbed to his room, feeling as though the zest had been suddenly taken out of life. Dan found him there a few minutes later, when, wet and glowing, he threw open the door.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Gerald?” he asked in surprise. “You look as though you were waiting to watch your funeral go by!” He walked over and laid his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “Look here,” he said anxiously, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” answered Gerald dully.

“Then what’s—”

“It’s Thompson,” burst out Gerald.

“Thompson? Again? What’s he done now?” And Dan’s gaze examined Gerald’s face anxiously for evidences of recent encounters.

“He hasn’t done anything,” muttered Gerald.

“Then what—”

So Gerald told his trouble, and Dan laughed until it hurt. And after a while Gerald managed to smile, too.

“But I don’t see how that makes us quits, Dan,” he said seriously. “He snowballed me all across the Yard, and then I ran in and rescued him from some big chap who was making him prisoner. I don’t see that he’s done anything to make it quits, do you?”

“No, I can’t say I do,” laughed Dan. “But it’s funny, just the same, the cheek of it. Thompson must have a keen sense of humor, Gerald.”

“He had no business to hit me on the back and say we were quits,” said Gerald stubbornly.

“Well, he did it; apologized, too. You can’t fight a chap for that, Gerald, I guess.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.” Gerald was silent a moment. Then: “But I’m going to keep on learning to box, Dan, just the same,” he declared.

“Well, there’s no harm in that,” replied Dan, getting out of his wet clothes. “It’s a good thing to know, boxing.”

“Yes,” said Gerald hopefully, “because maybe he will do something else some day, and then I’ll be ready for him!”

[CHAPTER VIII]
GERALD REVOLTS

Gerald wasn’t getting on very well with his studies. With English and Latin he was having little trouble, but French was a stumbling block, while as to mathematics—well, Gerald and algebra weren’t friends. And the worst of it was that Kilts, as Mr. McIntyre was called by the students, had got it into his head that Gerald wasn’t really trying to get along. This, at first, wasn’t true. But by the middle of February it must be acknowledged that Gerald had taken such a dislike to algebra, and Kilts, too, for that matter, that the latter had good reason for his suspicion. Kilts was a severe disciplinarian, and had small sympathy for boys who were not willing to work. He could forgive dullness, was often patience itself with a student who tried to learn and couldn’t, but he could make life very unpleasant for any member of his classes who didn’t try. And by the middle of February affairs were at an acute stage between Kilts and Gerald.

“Tell me, Mr. Pennimore,” he asked one morning with his best sarcasm, “is there any subject I could substitute for algebra that would interest you?” As Gerald made no reply—having learned by this time the wisdom of declining McIntyre’s challenges to debate—but merely sat with red cheeks, listening to the suppressed giggles of the fellows around him, Kilts construed the boy’s silence to please himself.

“Ah, there is, then! Now, tell me what it is, sir, and I’ll bring the matter up in Faculty Meeting, and perhaps we can make the change. Would it be embroidery—or jack-straws—or puss-in-the-corner? Would it be any of those, Mr. Pennimore?”

Gerald sat silent with burning cheeks.

“Come, come, Mr. Pennimore! Let us hear it, pray. Don’t be afraid to speak up. What would it be, now?”

“Manners!” blurted Gerald, trembling with anger. Mr. McIntyre’s little Scotch eyes blazed and the class sobered instantly. But the instructor’s voice was surprisingly gentle as he replied:

“Ah, an excellent choice, sir, an excellent choice. I ken ye know your own requirements, and I’ll see what we can do for ye. (Mr. McIntyre was liable to fall back into Scotch brogue on occasions, occasions which the boys who knew him well were prone to dread.) Ay, ay, manners are what ye need, doubtless.”

Mr. McIntyre smiled gently and took up his book again. Some one ventured to laugh nervously, but the look which he received killed his mirth instantly. Proceedings were resumed, and for the rest of the half-hour Kilts took no notice of Gerald. When class was over Gerald hurried out of the room and over to Clarke with blazing eyes, half beside himself with anger. Dan happened to be in the room, and to him Gerald poured forth his tale. But if he expected sympathy or indignation, he was doomed to disappointment. Dan heard the story calmly.

“Well, I guess it’s you for the Office, Gerald,” he said with a frown. “What made you be such an ass as to say that to Kilts? Don’t you know he’s got a temper like a ginger-jar?”

Gerald stared in amazement.

“But—but see what he said to me!” he gasped. “Do you think I’m going to sit quiet and take that, Dan? I guess not! What right had he to insult me before the whole class? He—he’s nothing but a Scotch beggar, anyway!”

“He’s one of the best mathematicians in the country,” replied Dan quietly, “and no matter what else he is, he’s your teacher and you ought to treat him politely. If he was impolite to you, that’s no reason for you to answer back, Gerald.”

“Well, I did it!” cried Gerald hotly. “And I’ll do it again if he ever says things like that to me.”

“Maybe you won’t have a chance,” replied Dan dryly. “You’d better wait until you’ve seen Collins. You’ve got yourself into a nasty hole, Gerald, and you might as well realize it. Fellows have been suspended here for less than what you’ve done.”

“Let them suspend me, then,” said Gerald hotly. “I don’t care what they do! I’m sick and tired of this place, anyway. Every one’s down on me, the teachers and every one else! And you don’t care, either. You’re just like Loring and Dyer and those fellows. I hope they send me home! I’d rather be there than here!”

“And how about your father?” asked Dan gently. “Think he’d be pleased, Gerald? Now, look here!” Dan laid a hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t make any more of a mess of it, Gerald. You were wrong in answering back, and you must see that. Why, it’s sort of as though you were in the army, Gerald. Kilts is your superior officer, you see, and it’s your place to take what he says and keep your mouth closed. And you know as well as I do that you haven’t been pegging at algebra lately the way you ought to. You’ve got it into your head that you can’t do it, and now you don’t try. And Kilts sees that and doesn’t like it. He’s got a sharp tongue, has Kilts, and I dare say he said things he shouldn’t have said, but that’s not for you to bother about. What you want to do is to knuckle down and see that he doesn’t have a chance to get after you again. I’ll say one thing for Kilts, and that is, if he sees a fellow is trying to get along he will help him all he can. I’ve seen that myself, lots of times.”

“He’s a brute,” muttered Gerald rebelliously.

“No, he really isn’t. He’s awfully human, and he’s got a temper. Look at the way he acted last Fall when Jones painted up the front of Dudley that time! When Toby came along Kilts was out there with soap and water trying to wash out the paint so the fellow who did it wouldn’t get into trouble. He’s hard to get along with, but he’s pretty fair in the long run. Now, you listen to what Collins has to say, and tell him you were angry and excited and didn’t mean to insult Kilts. Then you take your medicine and buckle down and make up your mind to show Kilts that you are just as smart as any other fellow in your class. Maybe Collins will let you down easily this time. But you don’t want to talk to him the way you’ve talked to me, Gerald. That won’t do at all. Let him understand that you’re sorry and—”

“I’m not sorry,” declared Gerald. “I’m glad.”

“Well, you’ll get over it, then,” said Dan, a trifle impatiently. “Don’t try to ride the high-horse with Collins, or you’ll be down and out in no time. I know you have had a rather tough time of it in some ways since you came, but now, just when things are getting better, don’t go and spoil it all. Why, you made the hockey team last week, and you’ve met a lot of fellows who will be nice to you if you’ll let them. Don’t spoil it all now and disappoint your father, Gerald.”

Gerald made no answer, and after waiting a moment, Dan took up his books and moved toward the door.

“Well, I must be off,” he said. “See you after dinner, Gerald.”

Gerald nodded sullenly.

But after dinner Gerald was not to be found, and the two didn’t meet again until just before supper. Dan had been skating on the river, and was feeling fine until he entered Number 28 and caught sight of Gerald’s glum face bending over a book.

“Hello,” he said, peeling off his sweater, “where were you at noon?”

“Office,” answered Gerald shortly.

“Who did you see? Collins? What did he say?” asked Dan anxiously.

“Oh, he said a lot,” replied Gerald disgustedly. “Lectured me for half an hour, I guess.”

“Well? It’s all right, eh? He didn’t punish you?”

“Didn’t he?” asked Gerald bitterly. “He says I’ve got to stay in bounds for two weeks, and I can’t play on the hockey team.” Dan gave a sigh of relief.

“Well, that’s good. I was afraid he’d suspend you. But Collins is a pretty good sort. You got off easy, all right.”

“Easy! I’m glad you think so. I suppose it doesn’t make much difference to you, though,” said Gerald bitterly. “You’ll have your fun just the same, you and Loring and Dyer! No one cares how badly I get—get stung!”

“That’s nonsense,” said Dan. “Of course I’m sorry he put you on probation but it might have been lots worse, Gerald. I was afraid he’d send you home for a couple of weeks, and that would have been the dickens!”

“I wish he had sent me home!”

“Don’t be silly,” begged Dan. “Two weeks on probation isn’t much. It’ll be gone before you know it. And there’ll be plenty of hockey left for you.”

“Oh, it’s easy enough for you to talk! You haven’t lost your place on the team!”

“Yes, I suppose that does queer you there,” mused Dan. “Still, you’ve got three years yet, Gerald, and what does it matter if you don’t make a dormitory team this year? Just you practice all you can and then, maybe, next year you can get on the Varsity. And that’s more than I’ve been able to do!”

“I don’t want to wait until next year,” answered Gerald irritably. “I want to play now. And I don’t think it’s fair to say I can’t play just because Kilts insulted me, and I answered back. And what’s more, I won’t stand it!”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” replied Dan impatiently. “It’s no use going to Toby; he always stands by Collins.”

“I don’t intend to go to Toby,” replied Gerald.

“That’s right,” said Dan cheerfully. “Buck up and take your medicine. Have you written your father to-day?”

“No.”

“You’re going to, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Gerald.

“You’d better. You tell him just how it all happened, and I’ll write a note, too, and you can put it in your letter. You see, Collins is sure to write to him and report the matter, and he will think it’s much worse than it is if you don’t explain. Now, come on and let’s eat.”

At dinner Dan promised Alf to go over to the latter’s room later in the evening.

“I guess I’ll bring Gerald along, if you don’t mind,” he said. “He’s feeling rather down in the mouth.”

“Of course, bring him along,” answered Alf.

But when the time came Gerald refused to go.

“I don’t care to go where I’m not wanted,” he declared, and all of Dan’s persuasion failed to move him. In the end Dan went alone, feeling rather guilty at leaving Gerald there in the dumps.

Events proved that Dan would have done better to have remained at home that evening, for Gerald was in a bitter mood. He really believed that he had been treated unjustly by the Faculty in the persons of Mr. McIntyre and Mr. Collins, and was jealous of Alf and Tom. It seemed to him to-night that nothing but trouble had fallen to his lot since his advent at Yardley. The fellows had shown that he wasn’t wanted, he had been insulted by Thompson and Mr. McIntyre, and, worst blow of all, Dan was tired of him and spent more of his time at Number 7 Dudley than he did in his own room. Gerald gloomed for a while, and then took paper and pen and tried to write his mid-week letter to his father in England. But the sentences wouldn’t shape themselves, and he soon gave up the effort. He tried to study, but could make nothing of that, either. So he started to think things over again, and the more he thought the worse everything appeared to him, until, at last, with an exclamation of defiance, he strode to his closet and pulled down his suit-case from the shelf. For the next ten minutes he was busy packing such of his things as he could take from his chiffonier without endangering his secret. His brushes and comb, and things of that sort, he would have to leave until morning, but it wouldn’t take a moment to drop them in. His preparations completed, he put the bag back on the shelf and got ready for bed, cheerful and excited. When Dan returned, just before ten, Gerald was in bed, and apparently fast asleep.

[CHAPTER IX]
GERALD LEAVES SCHOOL

In the morning Dan was glad to find that Gerald had evidently quite recovered and was himself again.

“Alf and Tom were sorry you didn’t go over last night,” said Dan. “Alf says you’re not to forget your boxing lesson Saturday. He says with about two more lessons he will fix you so you can go and knock spots out of Kilts.”

Gerald smiled.

“I won’t forget,” he said. “Maybe, though, I’ll give up boxing. I don’t believe there’s going to be—be any necessity for knowing how.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve decided to call it off with Thompson,” said Dan. “I guess he means to behave himself now.”

“I’m going to call it off with other folks, too,” remarked Gerald; with which cryptic utterance he went off to breakfast.

Dan looked puzzled.

“Now, what did he mean by that?” he asked, half aloud. “I wonder if he has some new foolishness in his mind.”

To-day, as it happened, Dan’s recitations kept him away from the room all the morning, except for a half-hour between eleven and eleven-thirty, at which time, as he knew, Gerald had Latin with Mr. Collins, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that the first suspicion reached him. Then, in front of Oxford, he ran across Joe Chambers. Joe was one of the sub-editors of the school weekly, The Scholiast, a Third Class fellow who wore glasses, looked cultured to the best of his ability, and was always on the watch for news for his paper. He buttonholed Dan at once.

“Say, Vinton, what’s up with Pennimore?”

“Nothing that will make ‘copy’ for you, Chambers. He got into trouble in class yesterday, and Faculty put him on probation. How did you hear of it?”

Chambers looked puzzled.

“I didn’t hear of it at all,” he replied. “I didn’t mean that. But I met him this morning with a big bag, and asked him where he was going, and he said ‘Home.’ I thought maybe there was something up, you know; somebody sick or something of that sort. Is there?”

For a moment Dan didn’t answer. He was thinking hard. Then:

“No, there’s nothing wrong at home. What he meant was that he was going down to Sound View. He took a lot of things over there to get them out of the way. The closets in Clarke are so tiny that there isn’t room for much of anything. Well, I must be getting on. Of course, you needn’t say anything about Gerald’s being on probation. He’s sort of thin-skinned, you know.”

“I won’t mention it,” answered Chambers earnestly. “Much obliged.” Dan nodded and Chambers hurried away.

For a moment Dan stood there at a loss. He had not the least doubt that Gerald had left school. He recalled his manner before breakfast, that mysterious remark of his. But he could easily make certain. He hurried across to Clarke and raced up the stairs. The top of Gerald’s chiffonier was clear of toilet articles, many of his shirts and undergarments were missing from the drawers, his suit-case was gone from the closet shelf. Dan looked at his watch, went to his top drawer and took out a little japanned tin box which he unlocked with a key on his watch chain. From the box he took a little roll of money. Placing this carefully in a vest pocket, he made his way downstairs again. Once outside he walked slowly and loiteringly to The Prospect and turned into the path leading across the railroad track and through the woods. But once out of sight of the school he broke into a trot. Where the wood paths diverged he kept to the right, and was soon hurrying along beside a high rustic fence which marked the boundary of the Pennimore estate. Presently he reached a spot where a number of the palings had been torn away. In the Fall Gerald and he had used this route to and from the school as it was much shorter than the way which led around by the roads. Dan squirmed through the hole and sped across the turf. Presently he was on the drive and the big stone residence was in front of him. The curtains were down at all the windows and the place looked utterly deserted, but he crossed the terrace and rang the bell beside the wide door. After a while the door opened and a wrinkled caretaker put her head out.

“I’m looking for Gerald,” Dan explained. “I thought maybe he was here: Is he?”

“No, sir, he ain’t here. I ain’t seen him since last week.”

“You—you’re sure?” asked Dan anxiously.

“Yes, sir. He couldn’t get in without my knowing it, sir. There ain’t nothin’ happened to him, sir, has there?”

“No, no, but I couldn’t find him, and one of the fellows said he’d seen him coming this way. I’m much obliged.” And Dan turned toward the main drive which led to the Lodge and the gates, and so to the village road. At the Lodge he asked again, but the gardener’s wife declared that Gerald hadn’t entered the gates that day.

“Well, if you should see him, I wish you’d tell him that I want to see him on a very important matter. I’m his roommate at school, you know.”

“Yes, sir, very well, sir, I’ll be sure and tell him.”

Dan hurried through the gates and along the road which leads to the station. He had not expected to find Gerald at Sound View, and so was not disappointed. He looked at his watch and increased his pace. Some distance away the noon express whistled for the station. Dan reached the train just as the conductor raised his hand in signal to the engineer. He sank into a seat in one of the day coaches and got his breath back. When the conductor came through Dan paid his fare, and asked when the train was due in New York.

“Three-thirty,” was the reply.

It would be quick work, thought Dan. He must get to Gerald’s house, persuade Gerald to return, and then reach the station in time for the five o’clock train back to Wissining. That would bring them to the school at about a quarter before eight and if all went well there was no reason why any one should suspect their absence. But to take a later train would be to court disaster, since they would reach the school long after ten o’clock, and would be almost certain to be discovered. An hour and a half was mighty little time, Dan thought anxiously, in which to reach the Pennimore house, show Gerald the error of his ways, and return to the station. But he believed he could do it. If only the train was on time! Dan pulled out the rest of his money and counted it over. There wasn’t a great deal of it, but it ought to do. He was good and hungry by now, and the waiter’s announcement of “Dinner now ready in the dining car!” found at least one sympathetic listener. But dinner in the dining car meant parting from a whole dollar, and Dan’s finances wouldn’t stand that. At New Haven, however, he jumped out and bought a cup of coffee, a sandwich and three bananas. He managed to get through with the coffee and sandwich while the train waited, but the bananas were taken on board and lasted for several miles. After that he felt more cheerful and looked forward quite optimistically to his task ahead. He squandered another ten cents on a magazine and managed to pass the rest of the journey without difficulty. The train rolled into the big station just on time, and Dan was off it and racing up the platform before it had come to a stop. There was no time to lose.

His plans were all made, and it only remained to carry them out. During his visit to the city with Gerald he had made the acquaintance of taxicabs, and now he climbed into one with a nonchalant air, and gave the driver the address. But, although he lolled back in the seat as though taxicabs were an everyday occurrence with him, he kept an anxious eye on the meter as they sped uptown. It was simply scandalous the way that thing acted! Every time he turned his head away for a moment it added another ten cents to his indebtedness! But he made the trip for a dollar and twenty cents, not including the ten cents he gave the driver, and was delighted to find that it was still only ten minutes to four when he rang the door-bell.

“Will you ask Gerald if I can see him, please?”

The man, who remembered Dan, smiled discreetly and conducted him into the little reception room. Then he went away, and Dan, left to the depressing silence of the house, tried to nerve himself for the encounter.

Gerald was upstairs in the library trying to write a letter to his father. He had been home three hours, had lunched all alone in the big dining room, had unpacked his bag, and was now far from happy. It promised to be very lonely there, with only the servants to talk to. There were moments when he heartily wished himself back at school, but he had no intention of returning. His pride wouldn’t allow that. Just now he was trying, in his half-written letter, to persuade his father to let him join him abroad, something he was quite certain his father would not do. He had written a truthful, if somewhat biased, account of the events leading to his flight from school, and all the time he was wondering uneasily what his father would think of him. He was pretty sure his father wouldn’t insist on his returning to Yardley, and he didn’t quite know whether to be glad of this or sorry. If he didn’t go back to school and didn’t join his father abroad, what was to become of him? It wasn’t at all likely that he would be allowed to remain alone here with the servants. The only alternative Gerald could think of was a visit to some distant relations in Virginia. And that—why, that would be worse than school.

He wondered whether Dan had discovered his absence yet; wondered what he would think and do; whether he would be sorry. Gerald accused Dan of being tired of him, and he almost meant it, but he knew well enough that Dan would feel badly about his leaving. Probably there would be a letter from Dan in the morning, thought Gerald, brightening up a little. That was something to look forward to. He was mighty fond of Dan, and if Dan had only not deserted him for Loring and Tom Dyer— But that was all over with now. He had tried to write a note to Dan before leaving, but it had proved a difficult task, and he had finally abandoned it. But he would write this evening. He began to consider what he would say. He would be very dignified in it. Dan must understand that he was no longer a baby, and that when he once made up his mind he stuck to it. Perhaps he would begin the letter “Dear Vinton,” just to show Dan that all was at an end between them. Perhaps, however, Dan might not like that, and would get huffy and not come to see him any more! On second thoughts, he guessed he wouldn’t start it that way. But he would let Dan understand that it would be quite useless for the latter to try and persuade him to return to Yardley. Of course, if Dan cared to write to him now and then, Gerald would be glad to hear what was going on at school, and would reply and tell Dan about the fine times he was having in New York.

Gerald paused there in his thoughts and looked out of the two great, heavily-draped windows. It was a gray afternoon, hinting of snow, and the view of the roofs and chimneys was cheerless and dispiriting. It suddenly came over him that he hated New York and everything in it, and—and yes, he did! He wished like anything that he was back at Yardley!

“Mr. Vinton to see you, Mr. Gerald.”

“What?” cried Gerald, amazed and delighted. “Who, Thomas?”

“Mr. Vinton, sir; Mr. Dan; the young gentleman who—”

Gerald leaped from his chair and started toward the door. Then he remembered. He stopped and went back to his seat at the big, broad-topped table.

“Ask Mr. Vinton to come up here, Thomas,” he said with great dignity.

“Very good, sir,” replied Thomas impassively. But outside in the hall he grinned.

Gerald waited with fast-beating heart. Dan had come after him! Why had he done that unless—unless he did care, after all? Perhaps, though, the Faculty had sent him to bring him back. Gerald hardened his heart again. He heard the elevator door open and then quick steps came along the corridor. Thomas held aside the curtains.

“Mr. Vinton,” he murmured.

“Hello, Dan,” greeted Gerald. He tried to speak carelessly, but his voice trembled in spite of his efforts. He got up leisurely from his chair and leaned against the table, smiling, awaiting Dan.

Dan crossed the room briskly, his watch in his hand. The time was five minutes to four.

“Hello,” he replied in business-like tones. “Have you unpacked your things yet?”

“Why, yes.”

Dan turned. Thomas, who had lingered discreetly at the door, was just disappearing.

“Wait a bit,” called Dan. “What’s his name?” he asked Gerald.

“Thomas,” replied Gerald in surprise.

“Thomas, will you please pack Mr. Gerald’s suit-case again as soon as you can? [He’s going back with me on the five o’clock train.]”

[“‘He’s going back with me on the five o’clock train.’”]

“Yes, sir,” replied Thomas.

“And is there anything we could have to take us to the station, Thomas?”

“There’s the electric, sir. Shall I telephone for that? About twenty minutes of five, sir?” Thomas looked inquiringly from Dan to Gerald. But it was Dan who was giving the orders. Gerald’s presence of mind seemed to have deserted him.

“Please do,” answered Dan. “Better say twenty-five minutes of, though, Thomas. Thank you.”

Thomas gave another doubtful glance at Gerald and disappeared. The curtains fell behind him. Dan turned to Gerald.

“There’s plenty of time to get that train,” he said briskly. “It will get us in Wissining at seven-thirty, and we can be back at school by a quarter to eight. No one will know we’ve been away unless we tell them.”

“I’m not going back,” said Gerald sullenly.

Dan paid no heed.

“What did you do such a stupid thing for, Gerald?” he asked gently. “You might have got into all sorts of trouble.”

“Trouble!” sneered Gerald. “I guess I’ve had trouble, haven’t I? I guess a little more won’t matter. Besides, they can’t do anything to me here. I’ve left school.”

“Oh, no, you haven’t. You can’t leave school just by running away. Faculty can bring you back, Gerald, if it wants to. Until your father withdraws you from Yardley, you are a Yardley student and under the control of the Faculty. Of course I don’t know that they will want to bring you back. They’ll probably just expel you. But that won’t do. You don’t want them to do that. Your father would be awfully broken up about it. If you really must leave, the better way is to go back now before they find it out, and then write to your father to withdraw you. It will take a couple of weeks, but I guess you can wait that long, can’t you?”

“I’m not going back,” reiterated Gerald stubbornly. Dan made a gesture of impatience.

“You are going back,” he replied. “I’m going to take you back. You’re going back if I have to carry you all the way, and if it takes from now till Sunday.”

The two boys looked at each other a moment. Then Gerald’s eyes dropped. There was silence for a moment. Then:

“They’ll know I ran away,” he muttered.

“No, they won’t; not if we go back on the five o’clock train. Joe Chambers saw you, you know, but I told him you were just going to Sound View. He will forget all about it. Even if he suspects he will never say anything. You’ll have to explain missing recitations but you can do that all right.”

There was another silence. Gerald dug holes with the pen in the blotter. Finally:

“Faculty didn’t send you after me?” he asked.

“Great Scott, no!” answered Dan impatiently. “I came as soon as I found out. I went to Sound View first to make sure you weren’t there. Then I caught the noon train.”

“I don’t see—” began Gerald.

“You don’t see what?” asked Dan as he paused.

“I don’t see why you take so much trouble,” said Gerald.

“Why shouldn’t I?” asked Dan. “Wouldn’t you do as much for me? If you thought I was making a mighty big mistake and getting myself into a heap of trouble and disappointing my folks, wouldn’t you take a little trouble, Gerald?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing! It’s all settled. It’s almost half-past, and I’m as hungry as a bear. Do you suppose there’s anything to eat downstairs? I didn’t have much money on hand and couldn’t afford dinner on the train.”

“Of course there is,” cried Gerald. “I’ll tell Thomas to get something. How much time is there?”

“About twelve minutes before we need to start. Here’s Thomas now.”

“The bag’s all ready, Mr. Gerald. I took it down,” announced Thomas.

“That’s all right,” said Gerald eagerly. “And, Thomas, Dan didn’t have any luncheon. See if you can find something, and bring it up here right away. There’s only about ten minutes.”

“Very good, sir. Some cold meat, sir, and a glass of milk and some fruit? Shall I have them make tea or coffee?”

“No, thanks,” replied Dan. “A slice of meat and some bread and butter will be fine; and the milk. Much obliged, Thomas.”

“Yes, sir. I telephoned to the garage, sir, and the brougham will be here at twenty-five minutes of. But, begging pardon, sir, it won’t take more than twelve minutes to get to the station.”

Thomas hurried noiselessly away.

“Have you got any money, Gerald?” asked Dan.

Gerald took out his purse and examined the contents.

“Only eight dollars,” he said.

“That’s plenty,” replied Dan. “I’ve only got about three, and we’ll have to have supper on the train.”

“That’ll be dandy!” cried Gerald. “Remember the bully feed we had going home the last time, Dan?”

“Yes, and I remember that we both ate too much. You’d better finish that letter, Gerald, and get Thomas to post it.”

Gerald hesitated a moment. Then he sat down again, seized the pen and added three hurried lines to his epistle.

“Dan just came, and wants me to go back. He says no one will know anything about it. So I’m going. I guess I was a fool. Lovingly, Gerald.”

[CHAPTER X]
A VISIT FROM KILTS

It began to clear off about sunset time that evening. To the westward, beyond Meeker’s Marsh, beyond the distant rolling hills, a gleam of crimson dispelled the gray for a brief moment. Later, one by one, the stars came out, and a little wind brushed the sky clear of clouds. It was a cold, crisp evening, and Mr. McIntyre, looking out for a moment before he drew the shades in his study, felt the attractions of fresh air and exercise. Getting into a heavy plaid ulster, settling his funny round cloth hat on his head, and taking his big Scotch oak walking stick in hand, Kilts turned down his light and left the building.

He had been expecting some books by express for several days, and now he would just walk down to the station and see if they were there. He was a good walker, and once clear of the school grounds, he swung his stick and stepped out vigorously. Overhead the millions of stars sparkled whitely in a purple-black sky, shedding a faint radiance over the snowy road and fields. Perhaps memory brought recollections of just such tingling nights at home in the lowlands of Scotland, for he paused once for a long while at the edge of the road and gazed off across the fields and sighed ere he went on his way again.

At the station he found that his package had not yet been received. As he turned to retrace his steps a long whistle reached him through the silence, and he paused at the corner of the station to watch the train come in. He always enjoyed that. He liked to see the glare sweep down the track, listen to the mighty breath of the great iron monster hurling itself out of the night, watch the lighted windows as they flashed by, and wonder, as folks will who are quite out of the world of travel, who were beyond them and why. Even an instructor of mathematics may have imagination. But instead of thundering by, the train slackened pace and came to a stop. Only a handful of travelers alighted, and they were soon swallowed up in the semi-darkness outside the radius of the station lights.

But two of the alighting travelers interested him. They were boys, and Kilts believed that he recognized one of them. This one, the taller and larger of the pair, passed not far from where Kilts stood. He carried a suit-case into the station, and presently emerged without it. Then he joined his companion, who was awaiting him in the shadow at the farther end of the platform, and together they passed around to where the carriages stood. Kilts, with no idea of spying, but merely to satisfy a mild curiosity, went around the station at the other end and walked down the asphalt there until he was within a few yards of the carriage into which the two boys were clambering. He was right. The larger of the two was Vinton. He wondered where that youth had been to be returning to school so long after supper time. He recollected, too, that Vinton had been absent from his class that afternoon. It was quite likely, however, that he had permission to leave school, Kilts reflected. Then the incident of the bag presented itself. Why had Vinton left his bag at the station, since he had ridden up in a carriage? That looked suspicious. Kilts wasn’t one to look for trouble, but it seemed to him that here was something that would bear investigation. He resolved to stop at the Office on his way to his room and see whether Vinton had received permission to sign off.

Meanwhile the carriage containing the boys was rattling along over the snowy, rutted road. Dan seemed suddenly very silent, and Gerald, who, ever since his capitulation, had been in the highest spirits, wondered, and presently asked the reason. After a moment’s hesitation Dan answered:

“Kilts was down there at the station, Gerald, and I’m pretty certain he recognized me.”

“Do you think he will tell?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“I don’t know. He saw me take your bag into the station. He was standing at the corner. I didn’t notice him until I came out, and I wasn’t certain then who he was. But he followed us around to the carriage. I hope he didn’t see you to know you.”

“So do I,” said Gerald. “He’s got it in for me badly enough as it is. But I hope you won’t get into trouble.”

“It won’t matter as long as he doesn’t find out who you are,” Dan replied. Then he moved forward and engaged the driver in conversation, swearing that worthy to secrecy. They dismissed the carriage at the foot of the hill and walked up to school by way of the path. Their precaution, however, proved unnecessary, for no one was in sight as they made their way to Clarke. Nor did they meet a single person on their way up the stairs and through the hall. Dan heaved a sigh of relief as he closed the room door behind him. If Kilts didn’t prove troublesome everything was all right.

“Jove!” he said as he took off his coat and looked curiously around the room. “It seems like two or three days since I was here last. And I’ve only been away eight hours! Get your things off, Gerald, and we’ll get to work. What’s going to trouble you most to-morrow? You missed all your recitations to-day, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Gerald answered, “but algebra is the only thing I’m afraid of.”

“All right. Get your books together and sit down. We’ll go over the lesson together. I suppose you’ll have about five pages more to-morrow, eh?” Dan brought his chair around beside Gerald’s. “This doesn’t look awfully difficult. I don’t believe you really get your mind on it, Gerald. Here, try this one and see how it goes. While you’re doing it I’ll glance through my French.”

They were both studying very hard when, some twenty minutes later, there came a knock at the door.

“Come,” called Dan, darting an apprehensive glance at his companion. The door opened and in walked Kilts. The boys jumped to their feet.

“Good evening,” said Dan. “Will you sit down, sir?”

Kilts was tall and lean, his clean-shaven face surmounted by an unruly shock of iron-gray hair. His eyes—they might have been gray or blue—were deeply set and sharp as two gimlets. In age he was about fifty. He still wore his queer old plaid ulster, without which he was seldom seen abroad, no matter the season, and carried his cloth hat and his stick in his hand. He answered Dan’s greeting, bowed to Gerald and took the chair offered, settling his stick across his knees and laying his hat carefully atop. Then with a glance about the room he smoothed one lean cheek with his hand and fixed his gaze on Dan.

“I’m not wanting to be here, Vinton,” he said gravely but kindly. “But I’ve got a question to ask you. I saw you at the station awhile ago, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dan.

“You’d been away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without permission?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kilts’ gaze moved to Gerald, who, in his chair at the desk, was looking intently at his book.

“There was a boy with you?”

Dan hesitated a moment. Then:

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Who was he?”

“I’d rather not say, Mr. McIntyre.”

“Hum,” grunted Kilts. There was a moment of silence. Gerald took up a pencil and began scrawling nervously on the margin of his book. Kilts cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sorry. I’ll have to report this, Vinton. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir. And—I’m sorry, too.”

“Well, well, maybe ’twill not be so bad. If you’re sorry, now, likely—”

“What I meant was,” said Dan with a smile, “that I was sorry for you, sir.”

“Eh? Sorry for me?” Mr. McIntyre’s thick, grizzled eyebrows snapped together.

“Why, yes, sir. I know you don’t like to have to report fellows,” answered Dan.

“Hum! Well, no more I do, Vinton.” Kilts frowned, glanced at Gerald and glanced away again. “Maybe there were circumstances, Vinton, that extenuate your action,” he said finally with a hopeful note in his voice. “Maybe, now, ’twas illness in the family; maybe ’twas necessary for you to leave school suddenly—”

“It was, sir, very necessary,” replied Dan, “but it had nothing to do with my family.”

“Well, well, maybe if you’d be telling me about it, now—”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” said Dan regretfully. “I wish I could. But it concerns someone else.”

“Then you’re afraid you might get him into trouble?”

“Y-yes, sir.” He paused. Then he said frankly; “The fact, sir, is that it was necessary for me to go to New York on the noon train; I can’t tell you why it was necessary; and I only learned that I had to go just a few minutes before the train left. The train was moving when I got on it. So there was no time to get permission and sign off. I knew it was against the rules, sir, but I couldn’t very well do anything else.”

“Well, well, it’s too bad,” said Kilts, “too bad! But I’ll speak a good word for you. I would not be surprised if we were lenient, Vinton. As for the other boy, now—” Kilts very carefully refrained from even a glance toward Gerald—“why, I don’t know who he may be, and so I don’t feel called on to mention him. But he must promise not to do anything of the kind again. Do you think he will promise that?”

“I’m sure of it,” replied Dan earnestly and gratefully.

Kilts nodded.

“Good! Then I’ll say good-night. I fear I’ve kept you from study too long already.” Mr. McIntyre took up his stick and hat and prepared to rise, but Dan interrupted.

“Mr. McIntyre, sir, just a moment, please,” he begged. “I—I—there’s something else, sir.”

Kilts laid his stick back across his knees and threw aside his ulster again.

“Well?” he asked. Dan was silent a moment, formulating his thoughts. Then:

“This other boy, sir,” he said, “it’s about him.” Kilts nodded and Gerald stirred uneasily at the table. “You don’t know who he is, sir, as you say, and so he—he isn’t likely to come into the affair. But I’d like to tell you a little about him, as it can’t do him any harm.”

“Well, let me hear it,” said Kilts.

“I’ll call him—Moore,” said Dan, “but that isn’t his name. He—he hasn’t been here very long. This is his first school. He has always studied with tutors and there are some things he hasn’t got on very well with. And one of them is mathematics.”

Kilts nodded inscrutably and Gerald leaned closer to his book.

“He’s in algebra now, sir,” Dan continued, “and he’s making hard work of it. At first he really tried hard to understand it and get along, but he couldn’t seem to make a go of it. Then he got discouraged and I’m afraid he didn’t try so hard. You see, sir, there were other things that were—were unpleasant. Moore’s father is a very prominent man and a very wealthy one. And when Moore came here a good many of the fellows took a dislike to him on that account. I suppose they thought that Moore was stuck-up, although he really isn’t. But he isn’t the sort of fellow that makes friends easily, sir; he’s a little bit shy. Well, some of the fellows tried to make it unpleasant for him; called him ‘Miss Nancy’ and ‘Young Money-bags’ and things like that. Well, that wasn’t pleasant, sir; and then he didn’t have any friends, only two or three who had known him before he entered school, and he began to think he was imposed on. Then there was the algebra. He couldn’t seem to make a go at that; he fancied that the instructor was a bit down on him, too, and you know that always discourages a fellow, sir.”

“Ay,” grunted Kilts.

“So one day, when he didn’t have his lesson, the instructor lost patience with him and ragged him in front of the class and Moore answered back. He hasn’t any excuse for that, sir, and he’s sorry now. Of course he was reported and he was placed on probation. Well, he ought to have kept his nerve and steadied down. But instead he sort of went up in the air; thought everyone was down on him, nobody liked him, and that he was pretty badly treated. So he made up his mind to—to cut it out—leave school, you know.”

“Hum,” muttered Kilts as Dan paused an instant.

“The fact is, sir, he really thought that all he had to do was to go home in order to leave school. He didn’t understand that it was necessary for his father to withdraw him. He believed that when he left Wissining the Faculty had nothing more to do with him. What I’m trying to show you, sir, is that he didn’t mean to disobey rules, but just quit altogether. Well, a friend of his learned about it three hours after he had gone. This friend knew that if the Faculty heard of it they might expel him. So he—he took the first train and went to the other fellow’s home and found him and brought him back.”

“He was ready to come back?” asked Kilts.

“Yes. He wanted to come back, although he pretended he didn’t. You see, sir, he—he had an idea that this friend of his had—had grown tired of him and didn’t care about him any more. When he found that wasn’t so he was glad to come back. If it would do any good he would go to the Office and confess what he’d done, but it might result in his being expelled. He doesn’t need punishment, sir, for he’s had a pretty tough time of it already, and he won’t ever do anything of the kind again. I’ve already promised that for him,” added Dan with a smile at the professor.

For a moment there was silence. Kilts, leaning back in his chair, observed Dan steadily out of his sharp eyes. Dan stood the ordeal without a tremor. Then:

“And why have you told me this, Vinton?” asked Kilts suddenly.

“Because Moore is back here now, sir, and he intends to do the best he can in everything, especially algebra. And I wanted you to know, sir, that if he doesn’t get on very well it isn’t because he isn’t trying. I’m going to help him all I can, sir,” said Dan earnestly. “I was going over the lesson with him when you—”

Gerald’s pencil rolled to the floor and Dan brought himself up with a jerk. But the only sign from Kilts was a momentary twinkle of the deep-set eyes.

“And so he thinks the instructor is down on him, eh?” asked Mr. McIntyre.

“He did think so, but I—but his friend made him understand that he was wrong.”

“Really, and how did his friend do that? What did he say now, Vinton?”

“He said,” replied Dan gravely, “that the instructor was hard on fellows when he thought they weren’t trying to get on; that he was a good deal like anyone else, sir; had a temper—”

“Hum!” grunted Kilts.

“And lost it sometimes, like most folks. But that he was square and just and would treat a fellow white if the fellow showed that he was trying to do his work.”

Kilts seemed for the moment at a loss for something to say. Then he cleared his throat.

“Well, and what did he say?” asked Kilts, with a nod toward Gerald.

“You mean what did Moore say?” asked Dan politely.

“Yes, Moore; what did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t say much, sir; but he understood.”

“You think he did, eh? Think he believed you—I mean this friend of his?”

“Yes, sir, I’m quite sure he did.”

Kilts was silent a moment. Finally:

“Then you tell him that that instructor will give him fair-play. Tell him to do his best and not be touchy when the instructor loses that bad temper of his.”

“Thank you, sir, I will,” answered Dan gratefully. Mr. McIntyre got up with a grunt that might have meant most anything and began to button his ulster about his gaunt form. In the process his feet wandered toward the table. Gerald kept his head over his book.

“Ah—hum—that your algebra, Pennimore?” asked Kilts, pointing at the book.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Gerald without looking up.

“Been—been looking it over, have you?”

“Yes, sir, a little.”

“Hm. I didn’t see you in class this morning, did I?”

“Er—no, sir.”

“Thought so. Well, to-morrow we take—let me see.” Kilts laid his stick and hat on the table and leaned over the book. “Yes, we take four pages and a half. To here. Mark it there. That’s right. Had any trouble with it so far?”

Gerald shot a bewildered look across at Dan’s smiling countenance and read reassurance.

“Yes, sir, I have. I—I don’t seem to understand it, sir,” he added pathetically.

“Because you don’t try to!” said Kilts with a trace of asperity. “You’ve just made up your mind that algebra is something you don’t need and that you’ll just fiddle through it the easiest way; just learn enough to get your marks. I know. Half you fellows think that. You don’t any of you understand that mathematics is a grand study. Why, you talk about romance, my boy! Here it is, right here!” And he thumped the open book with the back of one big hand. “The Romance of Figures! Why, ’tis a wonderful, marvelous thing, my lad, this mathematics. ’Tis as full of romance and beauty as a garden of flowers! You don’t look beyond the surface; you don’t think! An’ ye go at it right, laddie, with open eyes and an open heart ye’ll love it!”

Kilts stopped and shook his head patiently.

“But ye won’t believe me. I know. You’re like the rest. You think I’m just an old fool with a hobby for figures, a dried-up old curmudgeon with no feelings, and no manners—”

“Oh, please, sir!” begged Gerald miserably.

“There, there, laddie! ’Twas ill said! Think no more of it!” Kilts patted the boy’s shoulder and smiled down kindly at his distressed face. “Now show me what you don’t understand.” He looked around for a chair, and Dan, anticipating his want, placed one for him. Kilts produced his glasses from his pocket, unceremoniously pushed the litter of books and papers away from in front of him so that several would have fallen to the floor had not Dan rescued them in time and drew the algebra toward him. “What is it that’s puzzling that young brain of yours, my boy?”

Dan went quietly to his chair across the table and bent over his French. But he didn’t do much studying. The voices of Kilts and Gerald broke the silence at intervals, Gerald’s apologetic, inquiring, Kilts’ patient, persuasive. Half an hour went by. Then:

“What did I say?” exclaimed Mr. McIntyre triumphantly. “Concentrate, concentrate, Pennimore! Put your mind on what you’re doing. There’s not an example in that whole book that won’t come just as easy as that one has, if you put your mind to it. Look now, laddie, that’s not just a mess of little figures; ’tis a story, a little romance waiting for you to translate it. Remember that, lad, and maybe ’twill come easier.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Gerald gratefully. “I—I don’t think I’ll have so much trouble after this, sir. Anyhow, I’m going to try very hard, sir.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” answered Kilts, patting him on the arm as he lifted his long length out of the chair. “Put your mind on it; concentrate, concentrate! You’ll do finely yet. Good-night, good-night, boys.”

“Good-night, sir,” they echoed. Dan went to the door with the instructor and held it open.

“I’ll report to the Office to-morrow, sir,” he said.

“Eh? Well, well, I wouldn’t do that,” said Kilts slowly. There was a twinkle in his eye. “Wait ’till you hear, Vinton, wait ’till you hear.” He lowered his voice. “Fact is, my boy, I’m getting along and my memory isn’t what it used to be. I might forget; there’s no telling. Yes, I might forget.”

And Kilts went off down the corridor. Dan thought that he heard a chuckle.

[CHAPTER XI]
HOCKEY AT BROADWOOD

Kilts must have forgot. For although Dan waited, the summons from the Office didn’t come; and what might have resulted in a very serious piece of business for both Dan and Gerald brought no disagreeable consequences. More than that, the episode actually benefited Gerald, and in more ways than one. It brought him and Dan closer together, increasing their companionship; it cleared the air, Gerald wisely deciding to wipe out old scores and start again with a clean slate; it worked an immediate change in the boy’s attitude toward Mr. McIntyre in particular and school authority in general; and it brought about a more sympathetic relationship between Gerald and mathematics.

I don’t mean to imply that Gerald at once became the star student in his algebra class. He never reached any such pinnacle of success. He never succeeded in viewing algebra with Mr. McIntyre’s enthusiastic eyes. But he put his mind on it with good results and soon found that it was not the dreadful bogy he had fancied. Perhaps the fact that he had discovered his instructor to be human and likable and sympathetic had a good deal to do with his success, and lots of times when he would have gladly thrown aside his algebra in despair he pegged away at it from the mere desire to please Kilts and show him that he was not ungrateful. And the instructor showed that he understood and was pleased. If the truth were known, Kilts gave more credit to the boy who worked hard for his D than to the boy who, with a natural aptitude for mathematics, secured his B with scant labor. But Kilts showed Gerald no favors when it came to marks. No one who knew Kilts would have expected it. Nor did Gerald. Gerald knew that his D’s—and very occasional C’s—were his deserts, neither more nor less. But with algebra no longer haunting him like a nightmare, his other studies came easier, and Gerald began to think that perhaps, after all, there was a place for him in the school life.

Dan had, you may be certain, given an account of Gerald’s attempted escape from his troubles to Alf and Tom. The comment of each was typical. Alf, with his impatience for all things weak and futile, immediately dubbed Gerald “a silly ass.” Tom, big-hearted and sympathetic, declared that he had showed grit if not judgment.

“Of course it was a foolish thing to do,” he said, “but lots of chaps wouldn’t have had the courage to do it. They’d have just sat around and been miserable and unhappy.”

“That’s all right,” said Alf, “but if Faculty had caught him it would have been all up. It was the craziest thing I ever heard of. Somebody’s got to pump some sense into that kid, Dan.”

“Oh, he won’t cut up that way again,” Dan replied. “I think it’s done him good. And old Kilts acting the way he did helped a lot. Gerald had got it into his head that Kilts and Collins and the whole Faculty were sitting up nights trying to devise ways to make trouble for him. Now he thinks that Kilts is just about right, and that has given him hope for the rest of them. I’m not sure, but I think Gerald’s going to settle down now and take things easier.”

“Sure to,” said Tom. “It’s like Cæsar Augustus.”

“Who’s he?” asked Dan and Alf in a breath.

“He was a dog. Now he’s a dog-angel. I had him when I was just a youngster.”

“Listen to the doddering, decrepit old idiot,” observed Alf in an aside.

“He was just a puppy when I got him; about three months old. Don’t ask me what sort of a dog he was, for no one ever knew. In fact, it was such a mystery that no one ever dared to guess. Well, Cæsar Augustus used to trouble about the cat when he first came. The cat was an old, experienced codger and used to sit on the kitchen windowsill, where the cook kept her geraniums, and blink and purr all day long. Cæsar Augustus lived under the stove, except when I dragged him out by the nape of the neck and poured milk down his throat. For we just had to make him eat. He’d sit there with his head sticking out and watch the cat for hours, and tremble and whine and get thin and pine away. You see, that cat worried him silly. He couldn’t understand her; didn’t know what she was made for, what she was good for or anything else. That went on for about a month. Then, driven to desperation one day, Cæsar Augustus crawled out from under the stove and went for the cat. Cook and I rescued him after he’d made about six trips around the room with the cat on his back. We washed the blood off, smeared his wounds with mutton tallow and fed him raw steak to heal his sorrow. Sorrow! He didn’t have any! He was happy as a lark, rolled over and played, ate his steak as though he’d been living on it for years, and was a changed dog. Never had an unhappy moment afterwards.”

“Well,” laughed Alf, “and what’s the moral—the lesson to be derived from your charming tale?”

“The moral,” replied Tom, “is; When anything troubles you take a fall out of it. It may hurt for a while, but you’re a lot better for it afterwards.”

“And you think Gerald’s like Cæsar Augustus?” asked Dan.

“Sure. The whole scheme of things here was troubling him. He didn’t understand authority; didn’t know whether it could bite or not. So he had a show-down. Now he knows where he stands. He will come out from under the stove now; you see if he doesn’t.”

“Oh, you’re an idiot,” said Alf. “The trouble is with him, Dan, he thinks he’s a blooming philosopher. But he may be right—for once. I don’t know. Anyhow, you tell Gerald to come over Saturday for his boxing lesson.”

“Well, but there’s no reason why you should be bored with him every week, Alf. If he wants any more lessons I’ll attend to him. I don’t know anything about it, but he will be just as satisfied, I dare say.”

“You think so, do you?” asked Alf indignantly. “Let me tell you that that kid is going to be a boxer. Why, he knows more about using his hands now than half the fellows in school. Don’t you worry about my being bored, old man. In a month or so I’ll have to go my hardest to keep him from knocking my head off!”

“Why doesn’t he get to know more fellows?” puzzled Tom.

“I don’t know, really,” Dan answered. “He’s sort of quiet until you know him real well, but I should think he’d get acquainted better. He meets a good many fellows every day in class and around school. I don’t believe he has more than a nodding acquaintance with any of the fellows at his table. I don’t know what the trouble is.”

“He isn’t a good ‘mixer,’” said Alf. “What we’ll have to do is to take him in hand, fellows. Look here, Dan, bring him up to Cambridge Saturday night for the debate, and we’ll introduce him to a few fellows. And Tom can have him over to Oxford now and then. The rules won’t let us introduce him more than once a month, but if Tom takes him to one meeting and we take him to another that’ll be twice.”

“I’d like to get him into Cambridge,” said Dan, “but the election doesn’t come until May, does it?”

“No,” answered Tom. “But while you’re about it, why don’t you try and get the poor chap into a decent society? If you like, I’ll propose him for Oxford.”

A howl arose from the others, both of whom were members of Cambridge, and in a moment Gerald’s welfare was lost sight of in a good-natured but fierce discussion of the relative merits of the rival debating societies.

Gerald was quite pleased at the idea of accompanying Dan and Alf to one of the Saturday night meetings of the Cambridge Debating Society, and thoroughly enjoyed the proceedings when he went. The two societies had rooms on the top floor of Oxford Hall. Actually, there was not much to choose between them, although the members of each could flaunt all sorts of arguments in favor of their own particular choice. Cambridge had of late years won a majority of the Inter-Society Debates, held in December and June of each year. But Oxford fellows made light of that claim to superiority and pointed out with pride that Oxford was the older society by a dozen years. Also, they were sure to tell you, Oxford had a real combination billiard and pool table! Whereupon, if you owed allegiance to the Light Blue, you scoffed and declared that the table was so old and its legs so weak that fellows had to hold it in their laps while they played on it!

Secret organizations were prohibited at Yardley—although now and then faint whispers of such organizations were wafted about—and so almost every fellow sooner or later accepted an invitation from Oxford or Cambridge. While they were supposed to be debating clubs, and in a measure justified the title, they were in reality far more social in character. The rooms of each society were comfortably furnished and the fellows met there during the day, but especially in the evenings, to chat, read, or play games. The debates took place on Saturday evenings, and it was to one of these that Gerald was taken.

On this occasion the subject in discussion was the elective system in colleges. It seemed something of a shame to Gerald that the presidents of the principal universities were not present, for he was certain some very brilliant things were said on both sides. Personally his sympathies were with the contestants who spoke in favor of the system, but that was because he had been introduced to Oliver Colton, last Fall’s football captain, by Dan before the meeting, and Colton was the most brilliant speaker for the affirmative side.

After the debate was over and the Judge, Doctor Frye, professor of physics, had rendered his decision in favor of the negative side, the chairs were pushed aside and the gathering became purely social and very informal. There was an impromptu concert by several members of the Musical Club, but those who didn’t want to listen didn’t have to, although Gerald thought them very impolite for talking while the music was going on. He was introduced to some of the fellows, not many, for Dan and Alf didn’t want to appear to be forcing the boy on their acquaintances. But Gerald met some four or five chaps who were worth knowing, and they were each quite as polite and interested as the occasion demanded. On the whole, he had a very pleasant evening and began to look forward eagerly to the time when he might join Cambridge.

But a week later he found himself in a quandary. For Tom Dyer took him to a meeting of Oxford, and Gerald had just as good a time—perhaps a little better, since Tom devoted every moment of his time to putting him at his ease and entertaining him; and Tom was so big and jolly and sympathetic that Gerald, who had theretofore been somewhat in awe of him, fell a captive at once. Here, too, he met new fellows. Joe Chambers, to whom he had never been introduced but who always spoke to him, it being part of Joe’s policy to know everyone, was especially kind and invited him around to his room. And lest Joe might forget the invitation, Tom took Gerald around there the next afternoon. There were three other fellows on hand when they arrived and Gerald, partly by keeping still and not appearing “fresh” or assertive, made a good impression on them. But, as I have said, this visit to Oxford left him in a quandary. He told Dan that he didn’t know which society he liked best and was so troubled about it that Dan comforted him by pointing out that he still had three months in which to make up his mind and that it was really idle to bother his head about it now.

Meanwhile February wore away with its rough winds and clouded skies, and Gerald’s period of probation came to an end, not in time, however, to allow him to get back his place on the Clarke Hall hockey team. But if he couldn’t play he could look on and shout, and he did both during the three matches played. Clarke held her own during the first two contests and was picked by the School at large to win the championship. But her pride met a fall when she faced Dudley in the deciding game, for Dudley romped away an easy winner, much to Gerald’s sorrow.

The ’Varsity Hockey Team won and lost about equally. The team got to be something of a joke that year, and it was a common thing to hear a fellow shout to another; “Oh, Jim, come on and let’s go down and see the hockey team lose!” Just what the matter was no one seemed to know, although there were plenty of theories advanced.

The players were quite as good as those of the year before, when Yardley had won seven games out of nine played, and her schedule was no more difficult. The captain was popular and worked hard. But the fellows got injured in the most unlikely ways just before a game, or a strange demoralization would seize upon the team at some critical point in a contest, or one of the stars would lose his temper for no good reason and get sent off by the referee just when his services were most needed.

Dan had had hopes of trying for the team at first and Alf had encouraged him. Alf played point on the team and was one of the steadiest of the seven. But a few days on the river had convinced Dan that he was too poor a performer on runners to make the hockey team, this year at least. He was very uncertain on his skates and was more often losing his balance or denting the ice than really skating. In the end, Alf was forced to admit that it would be as well for him to wait another year before trying for the team.

The final game was with Broadwood Academy and was played on the rival’s rink at Broadwood. Dan and Gerald and Tom were among the sixty-odd boys who accompanied the team. Broadwood has been Yardley’s principal rival for many years. To reach Broadwood from Wissining you cross the carriage bridge beyond the station and, keeping to the right, take the county road which runs inland and westward toward the hills. The academy lies some three miles from the depot at Greenburg and is perched on the slope of a long, wooded hill, with fields and farm below it and acres of forest behind. It is a comparatively new school and its buildings are handsome and up-to-date. Broadwood usually has about two hundred and thirty students, and a large proportion of her graduates enter Princeton.

The Yardley contingent traveled thither in two big “barges,” and had a merry time of it. The team went to the gymnasium to change their clothes, and the rest of the party wandered around the grounds sight-seeing. It is part of the Yardley creed to pretend to find no good in Broadwood, and so even the best of the buildings received disparaging criticisms. Of course, if there happened to be Broadwood fellows within hearing distance the criticisms were subdued; good taste demanded that much. But when their remarks could not be overheard the Yardley visitors indulged in sarcasm and disparagement to their hearts’ content.

“What’s this hovel?” asked Joe Chambers as the party drew up in front of Knowles Hall, the finest building of all. Someone supplied the desired information.

“Knowles Hall?” said Joe. “Well, Knowles ought to try again. Looks like a cross between a circus tent and a Turkish mosque. Get on to the lanterns in front, fellows! Aren’t they the limit?”

“Don’t make light of them,” begged some one.

“What is it, anyhow? A dormitory or a recitation hall?” asked Joe.

“Search me,” answered Paul Rand. “There’s a Broadwood fellow over there. Let’s ask him. He probably Knowles Hall about it.”

While the laughter elicited by this witticism was still convulsing the crowd, four Broadwood fellows came through the doorway and descended the steps, viewing the sightseers with surprise and curiosity.

“Well, it’s certainly a beautiful building,” said Joe loudly and earnestly.

“I never saw a finer one,” agreed Rand. “But then, Broadwood is full of beautiful things.”

“It’s a real privilege to live here,” continued Joe. “No wonder we see so many, many happy faces!”

The Broadwood youths frowned suspiciously as they passed, and one of them let fall a remark about “fresh guys.” But Yardley only chuckled.

“I think it’s a very fine building,” ventured Gerald in a puzzled tone to Tom Dyer. Tom laughed.

“It is,” he whispered, “but you’re not supposed to say so!”

The party passed on to view the gymnasium and one of the fellows expressed a desire to see the trophy room.

“I’ve heard a lot about the Broadwood trophy room,” he explained. “They say there’s a fine collection of croquet balls and checkers in it!”

While this joke was being passed around, the two hockey teams emerged, and the Yardley crowd followed them down to the rink, an expanse of ice secured by flooding the tennis courts. That game was a farce in more ways than one. In the first place the ice was rotten and before the game was five minutes old the surface was badly cut up and covered with loose ice and slush. Broadwood showed herself more accustomed to such conditions than her rival, and wasn’t greatly bothered. On the other hand, Yardley, used to thick, hard ice of the river, floundered about, as Tom said, like hens in a snow bank. Then, to make matters worse, Yardley was outplayed from the first whistle, and it was only the really phenomenal work of her goal-tender that prevented her from being literally swamped in the first half.

The Yardley contingent lined one side of the rink and waved its blue flags and cheered nobly, but the green of Broadwood was in the ascendant to-day. The first half ended with the score three to one for Broadwood, a score that didn’t begin to show the real superiority of the Green. Alf perched himself on the barrier beside Dan and Gerald and Tom, rueful and weary. Dan helped him into his sweater.

“Fine, isn’t it?” asked Alf with a grin.

“What’s the matter?” ventured Gerald anxiously.

“Oh, they’re playing all around us. And look at the ice! Did you ever see such a mess? Why, you can’t slide the puck at all; you’ve got to lift it every time. And your skates just sink into the ice. Still, we couldn’t lick them, anyway, to-day. Those forwards of theirs are dandies, every one of them. Their goal isn’t much, I guess, but the trouble is we can’t break through to try him.”

“You made one goal, though,” said Dan encouragingly. Alf shrugged his shoulders.

“It was just luck,” he said. “I’ll bet we don’t score again!”

If Dan had accepted the wager he would have lost. Yardley became utterly demoralized in the last half; every fellow played for himself and team work was quite forgotten. The result was that Broadwood, amidst the cheers of her adherents, piled up six more goals, and the disastrous contest ended with the score nine to one in favor of the Green. Broadwood cheered Yardley and Yardley cheered Broadwood and the visitors ran for the gymnasium. The crowd of Yardley “rooters” were sad and subdued. Joe Chambers produced the only laugh from the end of the game to the time they were rattling homeward in the barges when he declaimed mournfully:

“Oh, Yardley had a hockey team;
Its fleece was white as snow.
It went to play with Broadwood;
Oh, what an awful blow!”

[CHAPTER XII]
YARDLEY GETS REVENGE

But Yardley found her revenge in another form of sport.

Tom had succeeded where Paul Rand had failed. Although the managers of the rival basket-ball teams had failed to reach an agreement the captains were more successful. Tom had offered to let Broadwood fix her own dates and name her own grounds for the series of three games, and Broadwood had promptly got over her peevishness. The Broadwood captain had politely replied that his team would play the first game at Broadwood, the second at Yardley and the deciding game, in case of a tie, at Broadwood. And he fixed the dates to please himself, requiring that all three contests take place inside of a fortnight in early March. Rand had held up his hands in holy horror when Tom had shown him the letter and declared that Tom was several sorts of a fool to accept such arrangements.

“It’s their turn to play the odd game here,” declared Rand. “Besides, who ever heard of playing the first two games within three days of each other?”

“Oh, what does it matter?” asked Tom. “We want to play them, don’t we? Then what’s the use of haggling about it? I’ll play them any place and any time, just as I said I would.”

“But,” began Rand, a trifle haughtily, “as manager—”

“Paul,” said Tom, “you’re a good fellow, all right, but you’re a mighty poor manager.”

And Paul, who, after all, had plenty of sense, recognized the justice of the charge and said no more.

So one Wednesday evening a large part of Yardley Hall School rode over to Broadwood and saw Tom’s five defeat the green-stockinged warriors in their own gymnasium by a score of twelve to nine and came triumphantly home again in the moonlight chanting pæans of victory and making night hideous.

“Well, that was going some!” declared Alf radiantly on the way home. “On their own floor, too!”

“And when they come over here Saturday night you’ll see us do worse than that to them,” said Tom grimly. “There isn’t going to be any third game in the series this year.”

And there wasn’t.

Broadwood sent over a good big number of “rooters” armed with flags, who did noble work with their lungs. But as Yardley had turned out almost to a man, the odds were too great in a contest of noise. The gymnasium was packed and jammed, downstairs and up, and the singing and cheering began half an hour before the time set for the game. Broadwood used one of her football songs with good effect. The verses didn’t amount to much, but the refrain, howled by a hundred throats, was always effective:

“Oh, what’ll we do to Yardley, to Yardley, to Yardley?
Oh, what’ll we do to Yardley?
(An eloquent and dramatic pause.)
Well, really, I’d rather not say!”

And Yardley hurled back one of her own gridiron odes defiantly:

“Old Yardley has the men, my boy,
Old Yardley has the steam,
Old Yardley has the pluck and sand,
Old Yardley has the team!
Old Yardley can’t be beat, my boy,
She’s bound to win the game!
So give a cheer for Yardley and
Hats off to Yardley’s fame!”

Tom, captain and center, played the game of his school life that night. If one imagined him slow, one had only to watch him for a moment on a gymnasium floor between the baskets. He was the quickest slow person that ever imitated a streak of lightning! And he pulled his team along with him in a way that was beautiful to behold. Things began to happen right at the start. The first basket came less than a minute after the whistle had blown, resulting from a wonderful rush down the floor by Tom and Derrick followed by a swift shot by the latter. Then Broadwood gathered herself together and tightened up her defense. Her men for a while covered so closely that not even Tom could get away, and the ball hovered around the middle of the floor. Then one of the Yardley players was caught holding and Broadwood, amidst shouts of joy from the wavers of the green flags, scored a goal from foul. For several minutes there was no more scoring. Twice Yardley had the ball under her rival’s basket. Once a poor shot lost them the score. The next time Broadwood “mixed it up” so strenuously that there was no chance to shoot. Then a Broadwood boy stole the ball and charged down the hall almost alone. But the Yardley defense was not napping, and a blue-shirt charged into the enemy just in time to spoil the throw. After that Broadwood seemed to get rattled, for Yardley scored thrice from the floor, one basket by Tom being sent from almost half the length of the gymnasium and bringing the supporters of the home team to their feet with a roar of delight. The half ended with the score eight to one, and it looked like a pretty certain thing for the Yardley five.

But Broadwood still shouted and sang defiantly, and when the teams lined up and play began again it was soon evident that the Broadwood coach had been saying things out there in the dressing room. For Broadwood’s team play began to be in evidence again, and although for a while she played more on the defense than attack, it was plain to be seen that Yardley would have to work hard to keep from being scored on.

Broadwood’s chance came in the middle of the period. A well-arranged rush down the floor, with all her attack taking part, brought the ball to Yardley’s basket and, although the guards rushed to the rescue, a tall Broadwood youth managed to shake himself free, reach up, and almost drop the ball through the mesh. With the score eight to three, Broadwood felt encouraged and started in to add to her tally. But Yardley played desperately, if somewhat wildly, and although Broadwood was now making raid after raid on the Blue’s goal, all her tries were spoiled. But Yardley twice infringed the rules and from her two free tries Broadwood secured one goal, increasing her total to four. This was followed by a double foul, a Broadwood and a Yardley player becoming rather too enthusiastic in their efforts, and again Broadwood added one to her tally, Yardley missing the basket by a bare inch. That made the score five to eight, and Broadwood’s cheers broke forth anew and a little forest of green flags appeared. The ball went back to center. Tom clapped his hands.

“Now then, fellows, settle down! No more fouls! Break this up!”

The big round clock over the running gallery showed that something like six minutes remained as the referee blew his whistle again and the ball shot into the air. Both centers leaped and struck, and a small Broadwood youth caught the ball as it came down near the side-line, squirmed away from his opponent, dribbled a few steps, and passed across the floor. But the next man was closely covered and the ball bounded away from him and popped into the eager hands of Tom.

“Cover up! Cover up!” shrieked the Broadwood captain, as he bounded toward Tom. Tom side-stepped and let his antagonist stagger by. Then a short pass to Derrick, and the two started down the floor toward the Green’s goal. Derrick passed back and Tom caught the ball in spite of the opponents who were massing about him, wheeled, feinted, dashed through the mêlée, dribbled, and then threw to a blue-shirted youth waiting near Broadwood’s goal. It was a hard, fast throw, but the youth caught it, struggled a moment under the attack of his adversary, broke loose, and threw somewhat wildly for the basket. The ball struck the frame above and came down into the waiting hands of Derrick. Two Broadwood fellows hurled themselves toward him but not before the ball was out of his hands again. There was a moment of suspense while it rolled leisurely, undecidedly around the hoop. Then in it dropped, through the mesh and back to the floor amidst the triumphant yells of Yardley. And the two excited youngsters operating the score-board in the balcony almost fell over the railing in their endeavor to change the Yardley 8 for a 10.

Gerald, who, with Dan and Alf and Joe Chambers, had been early on the scene and had secured seats in the front row on the floor a yard back of the boundary line, let out such a shriek of delight that everyone in the hall heard and laughed. Covered with confusion then, he sank back between Dan and Joe. But no one paid any more attention to him and his blushes soon passed. He was wildly excited, and once Dan had had to hold him into his seat for fear he would go toppling out onto the floor under the players’ feet.

The ball was centered once more and the clock proclaimed but four minutes of playing time left. Broadwood became desperate. Capturing the ball near the middle of the floor, she tried a long shot that struck the frame of the basket but didn’t go through. Again she got the leather, and this time she tried to reach scoring distance, but the Yardley defense was so tight that she lost the ball. Then came another rush down the floor, with the Yardley team working together like clockwork, and another goal thrown by the Blue’s left-guard. After that the visitors went to pieces. In their frantic endeavors to score they failed to cover closely and became so strenuous that two fouls were called on them in succession, neither of which Yardley was able to convert into points. Then, with a little more than a minute to play, Yardley began to sweep her rival off her feet and to score almost at will. One goal—another—a third from a difficult angle at the side of the hall, and Yardley’s score was growing by leaps and bounds. Tom dropped out now and one by one the substitutes were put in, in order that they might get their letters. And then, with a blue-shirted youth poised for a shot, the whistle blew and pandemonium reigned. Up on the score-board the final figures stood 18 to 5.

Gerald found himself one of a seething, pushing, shouting mass of spectators out on the floor. Dan and Alf and Joe were lost to sight. The players, after cheering for Broadwood, were trying to reach the dressing room uncaptured. But none escaped. Each one was caught and borne shoulder-high from the hall. Gerald felt someone smash into him from behind, turned, and found Derrick struggling with a group of enthusiastic captors. They were trying to lift him onto their shoulders, but the crowd was packed so tightly that for a moment their efforts were in vain. Derrick, laughing and fighting, was almost squirming away when a big youth seized him around the waist and shouted to Gerald to catch hold. Gerald caught hold, somehow, somewhere, and the next thing he knew he and the big fellow were staggering through the jam with Derrick on their shoulders and a happy mob of fellows around them. Down the hall to the stairway they went, Gerald panting, struggling to keep his feet, and immensely proud.

And the next morning, when he awoke, he wondered why his back and arms ached so!

[CHAPTER XIII]
WORK IN THE CAGE

March came blustering in with cloudy skies and cold winds. But in a week it had quite changed its tune. One morning Dan awoke to find the sunlight streaming through the front windows and a new quality in the air. For a moment he lay under the covers and wondered sleepily what it was that brought the strange stirring to his heart. Then he was out of bed, had thrown the window wide open, and was leaning forth in his pajamas breathing in the warm, moist air. Spring had come in the night. All about him were signs. Above was a mellow blue sky dotted with little feathery white clouds. In the roadway beneath the snow was melting fast and the gutters were astream with trickling water. Even the stone window coping under his hands seemed somehow to hint of Spring; it was warm to his fingers and moist where a little rim of ice had melted. There was a faint, heart-cheering aroma of brown earth and greening sod released from their winter coverings. Dan gave a shout and drew his head in long enough to awaken Gerald.

“Get up!” he cried. “It’s Spring, Gerald! Get up and hear the birdies sing!”

And the birds really were singing; or, at least, they were chattering happily and noisily, which, as they were only little brown sparrows, was about all that could be expected of them. Gerald put a sleepy head alongside of Dan’s and sniffed the air greedily.

“Doesn’t it smell great?” he sighed. “Let’s get dressed and go out. What time is it?”

“Ten minutes to seven,” answered Dan. “Let’s go for a walk before Chapel. What do you say?”

For answer Gerald raced to the washstand and was soon splashing busily, and in ten minutes they were flying down stairs with Spring in their veins. Once off the stone walks it was gloriously soft and “mushy,” as Dan said. They had to keep to the sod so as not to go into the brown soil to their ankles. They crossed the bridge, waiting there a minute to watch a long freight train rumble past beneath them. A brakeman, sitting on a car roof, smoking his pipe, looked up at them, grinned and waved as he went by. Then they took the wood path and went down toward the beach, finding here and there new evidences, if any were wanting, of the advent of Spring.

In the shaded places the snow, rotted and granular, still lay in little banks fringed with ice. But tiny green spikes and leaves were pushing their way through the litter of dead leaves, while, at the edge of the beach, the grass in one sunny spot, was actually green. Even the Sound seemed to look different. The water, reflecting the clear sky, was as blue as sapphire. The sun shone radiantly on the few white sails in sight. A steamer, far out, left a mile-long trail of soft gray smoke behind it. A bird—Gerald declared joyfully that it was a robin, but Dan contradicted it—sang sweetly somewhere behind them in the woods. Dan began throwing stones into the water from sheer exuberance of spirit. Then they hurried back to school, racing half the way, and reached Oxford just in time for Chapel. Even here the new influence was apparent; there was an unaccustomed restlessness in evidence; fellows scuffled their feet and glanced longingly toward the big windows which, partly opened, let in the softly appealing scent of Spring. All that day fellows lingered about the steps of the buildings and sighed when recitation time came, and there was much talk of tennis and baseball and track work. Two enterprising chaps got a canoe out of the boathouse in the afternoon and paddled up the river.

And a week later Spring industries had really begun. In the gymnasium the track and field candidates were going through the preliminary work, the tennis courts were being rolled and raked and mended, and in the basement of the gymnasium, inside the big cage, the baseball candidates were toiling mightily. Although the outdoor season for baseball at Yardley never opens until after Spring recess is over, a full fortnight of indoor work precedes it. This indoor work is in charge of the captain, for the coach doesn’t appear until the candidates get out. This year there was an unusually large number of entries for the team, and Captain Millener had his hands full. Luckily, more than half of last year’s team remained in school, and from these fellows Millener obtained assistance.

Stuart Millener was a tall, lanky, black-eyed First Classman, with a shock of black hair and enough energy to run half a dozen baseball teams. Millener had never distinguished himself in his studies, but he had worked hard at them and had always managed to remain at peace with the Faculty. He was a fellow who was now and always would be better able to work with his hands than with his brain. And there are plenty of places for that sort in the world. As a first-baseman he was a huge success, and there seemed no reason why he should not turn out to be an excellent leader. He was highly popular and fellows believed in him. The Kingdon Gymnasium at Yardley is still one of the finest in the country and its baseball cage is roomy and light. Here every afternoon from half-past three until after five the baseball candidates practised. Fifty-seven fellows reported for work, and they were divided into three squads and each squad was given a half-hour’s work. There was five minutes’ hard work with the dumb-bells for all hands as a starter, and then the pitchers got busy under Colton’s direction, and Millener and his assistants looked after the batting and fielding. In order to leave the cage free for the latter branches of the art of baseball, the pitchers and catchers used the bowling alleys upstairs. Fielding practice was confined to the handling of grounders and slow hits, but there was plenty of room in the cage for this work, as well as for throwing and sliding to bases.

Dan was one of the first candidates to report and during the two weeks that intervened between that time and the beginning of Spring recess he toiled hard and enthusiastically. At home, on his school team, he had played at second base and had never had any trouble in keeping his place. How he would compare with the other claimants for infield positions here at Yardley remained to be seen, but Alf declared that he was sure to make the nine, if not as a baseman, at least in the outfield.

Gerald, long since released from probation, had bothered Mr. Bendix, the Physical Director, until that autocrat had given Gerald another examination, had congratulated him on his physical improvement and had finally grudgingly given him permission to play class baseball. And Gerald was mightily pleased. He bought a book of rules over in Greenburg and read it through from one blue cover to another, and asked so many questions that Dan’s head was in a whirl half the time. When Spring recess began Gerald was without a doubt the best read youth in school on the subject of baseball.

Spring recess and the month of April began almost together. Of the former there was to be just a week. Gerald’s father, writing from Berlin a fortnight before, had suggested that the two boys spend the vacation in New York. Both Gerald and Dan were delighted at the idea. Had it not been for this invitation Dan would have had to spend the recess at school, since it was hardly practicable to journey out to his home in Ohio for so short a time. He wrote to his father and received permission to accept Gerald’s hospitality. And with the permission came something quite as welcome, a check for ten dollars.

“You’ll want some money to spend,” wrote Mr. Vinton, “and so I enclose herewith check for ten dollars. You mustn’t let your friend pay for everything, you know. Have a good time, and write and tell us what you do in New York. Your mother says you are to be very careful about crossing streets and riding in the subway. I say the same. The papers are full of accidents to folks in that town. You must try and get young Pennimore to come out and visit you this summer. It won’t do to let him do all the entertaining. If you think well of this, I will write to Mr. Pennimore about it when the time comes. Your mother and sister send their love. Your mother will write Sunday. Mae says I’m to tell you to send her lots of postcards from New York, and they must be colored ones, and you are to write on them all. My regards to Gerald. Your loving father.”

“I’d just love to go out and visit you,” said Gerald, when Dan read that portion of the letter to him, “but I don’t suppose father will let me. He will be afraid that the Indians will get me.”

“Oh, the Indians are quite peaceable in Graystone now,” laughed Dan. “You just show your father that you know how to look after yourself, and I guess he will let you go. Why, a year ago he wouldn’t have thought of letting you stay in New York with just the servants, Gerald!”

“That’s so! But he thinks you’re so grand, Dan; I guess that’s why.”

“Well, I’ll be just as ‘grand’ next summer,” replied Dan cheerfully. “I’ll bet he will let you go. If he does, we can have a dandy time at home.”

But meanwhile they were looking forward to a dandy time in New York. And they had it. When they arrived at the house there was a good dinner awaiting them, a dinner which Mr. Pennimore’s chef fashioned for the delectation of two hungry boys. Strange soups and unpronounceable entrees and fancy dishes in general were omitted, and all the time they were there they had just the sort of things they liked. They were not, all of them, the things usually prescribed for schoolboys, however, and if Spring recess had lasted two weeks instead of one, it is probable that they would have had to go under the doctor’s care.

“Gee!” exclaimed Dan on one occasion, “this cream pie is simply swell, Gerald! I suppose if I make the baseball team I’ll have to go in training. So I’m going to make the most of my chances now.”

“So am I,” replied Gerald. “There won’t be much more pie for us after we get back, will there?”

“Oh, you won’t have to train if you make the class team,” said Dan. “It’s just the Varsity, you know.”

“Won’t I?” asked Gerald disappointedly.

“Well, I guess I’ll go in training, anyway. It’s good for you.”

Those were seven splendid days, and yet when the last one came neither of the two was sorry. Theaters and picture galleries and drives and walks were jolly enough, but, as Gerald sagely remarked, a fellow soon gets tired of them.

“I’d a heap rather play baseball or tennis than go to the theater,” said Gerald. “Wouldn’t you?”

Dan replied that he would, but he said it hesitatingly, for theaters and such things were more of a novelty to him than to Gerald. But he was quite as contented as Gerald when the train set them down at Wissining again. They went over to Dudley after dinner and called on Alf and Tom. Every one talked vacation for a while, and then the conversation turned to baseball and school sports.

“Payson’s coming next Monday,” announced Alf. “I saw Millener a while ago. He said that if the ground dries up enough we’ll get out on the field the first of the week.”

“Well, it’s soppy enough now,” said Dan. “And it looks like rain again.”

“Is Payson the coach?” asked Gerald.

“Yes,” Dan replied. “You remember him last Fall, don’t you? The chap that coached the football team?”

“Oh! Does he coach in baseball, too?”

“You bet he does!” said Alf. “And he’s a dandy, too. He used to catch for Cornell when he was there, and they say he was the best ever. By the way, Gerald, Dan says you’re going in for baseball.”

“Yes, Mr. Bendix said I might. Do you think I’ll stand any show for the Fourth Class team, Alf?”

“Ever played much?” Gerald shook his head sadly.

“I never played at all in a game. But I can throw a ball pretty well and catch; and I can bat a little. I had a tutor last year who used to play with me, and he said I did pretty well.”

“I dare say you’ll do as well as most of them,” said Tom. “Don’t let them think you’re a duffer, though; put up a front; tell ’em you’re one of the finest young baseball players that ever struck the Hill.”

“I guess they wouldn’t believe that,” laughed Gerald. “Don’t you play, Tom?”

“Baseball? I rather guess not! It’s a silly game.”

Alf laughed maliciously.

“No,” he said, “Tom doesn’t care for baseball, especially the batting part of it, do you, Tom?” Tom growled.

“You see,” Alf continued, smiling reminiscently, “Tom went out for the team last Spring. They thought he was big enough to be promising material. So Payson let him stay on a while. One day, just after we got out of doors, we had batting practice at the net. Colton was pitching. You know, he has about everything there is, Colton has, and he thought he’d have some fun with Tom. So the first ball he sent Tom swiped at so hard that he fell over himself and tumbled into the net.”

“Didn’t either,” laughed Tom.

“That made him mad. So he spit on his hands, got a good grip on the bat, and tried the next one. That was an in-shoot, and Tom didn’t know it. It took him plumb in the ribs. We all laughed at that, and Tom got madder than ever. ‘Put it where I can hit it!’ he yelled to Colton. ‘I dare you to!’ So Colton did it, but he sent it so fast that Tom didn’t see it until it was by him.”

“It was over my head,” protested Tom, indignantly.

“Then Colton just let himself loose, and the rest of us, standing around waiting for our turns, just laughed ourselves sick! Once Tom lost hold of his bat, and it went about fifty feet into the field, just missing Colton by a foot. Another time Tom reached out so far that he fell on his face. Then another in-shoot took him in the arm, and that was enough. Tom threw down the bat and walked off.

“‘Here, where are you going?’ asked Payson.

“‘Home,’ said Tom. ‘What’s the good of standing up there and letting him slug me with the ball? I’ve got a smashed rib and a busted shoulder, and that’s all I want. I’m no hog!’”

“It makes a good story, the way he tells it,” said Tom, when the laughter had ceased. “It’s a fact, though, that he did give me two awful whacks with that fool ball. Pshaw, I couldn’t hit it in a thousand years! I knew that, so I got out. Afterwards I tried to get Colton to stand up at the net and let me throw a few balls at him, but he wouldn’t do it. I told him he could have all the bats he wanted, too, but that didn’t seem to satisfy him.”

“I’ll bet you couldn’t have hit him,” jeered Alf.

“Couldn’t I? If he’d let me try he’d have gone to the hospital!”

“But you’re on the Track Team, aren’t you?” Gerald asked.

“Yes. There’s some sense to that.”

“Tom’s happy if you give him a sixteen-pound shot or a lump of lead on the end of a wire,” said Alf. “He won eight points for us last Spring. But you ought to see the crowd scatter when he gets swinging the hammer around.”

“Oh, you dry up,” said Tom.

“Fact, though,” laughed Alf. “Once last year when he was practising, the blamed thing got away from him and tore off about ten feet of the grandstand. Andy Ryan said it was a lucky thing the framework was of iron, or else he’d have smashed the whole stand up.”

“You fellows are having lots of fun with me,” growled Tom, good-naturedly, as he arose and took up his cap, “and I hate to spoil your enjoyment, but I promised to look up Rand this evening.”

“That’s all right,” Dan assured him, “we can have just as much fun with you when you’re not here.”

“Well, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. By the way, Gerald, want to come around to Oxford with me Saturday night? We’ve got a fellow coming over from Greenburg after the debate to do some sleight-of-hand for us.”

“I’d like to,” replied Gerald, “but—” He glanced anxiously at Dan and Alf.

“Sure,” said Alf. “Go ahead. We’re glad to have you. The more you see of Oxford, the better you’ll like Cambridge. You see, Gerald, the only way they can get the fellows to attend Oxford is by supplying them with vaudeville entertainments. In another year or so they’ll have to have brass bands and free feeds if they want fellows to go there!”

“That’s all right,” replied Tom. “We know who won the last debate. I’ll call around for you Saturday, Gerald, if I don’t see you before. Good night.”

“We gave it to you!” shouted Alf as the door closed behind his chum. “Why you haven’t got a debater in your whole society.” But the challenge was wasted, and Alf turned to Dan. “We’ll have to win the debate this Spring,” he grumbled, “or there won’t be any living with Tom!”

[CHAPTER XIV]
POLITICS AND CHESS

Payson appeared on Monday and took up his lodgings in the village. But, as events proved, he might just as well have delayed his arrival for another week, for on Sunday morning it began to rain as though it meant to flood the country, and it continued practically without interruption until Wednesday night. By that time the river was over its banks, Meeker’s Marsh was a lake, the athletic field was like a sponge, and outdoor practice was impossible. The work in the cage went on, but the fellows were getting tired of it, and longed for sod under foot and sky overhead. Payson didn’t waste that week, by any means, but, with the first game only a fortnight off, the enforced confinement to the gymnasium was discouraging.

John Payson was about thirty years of age, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. He was large, broad-shouldered, and, in spite of his weight, alert and quick of movement. He had played baseball and football in his college days, first at Cornell, and later, as a graduate student, at Yale. “Whopper” Payson was his name in those days, and for two years he had made the All-America Football team as a guard. While at Cornell he had caught for two years on the Varsity Baseball nine, and they still remember him there as one of the best. During his five years as coach at Yardley he had helped at three football and two baseball victories over Broadwood. It would be an exaggeration to say that Payson was universally popular at Yardley. He was a good deal of a martinet, had a quick temper and a sharp tongue. But he was just in his dealings with the fellows, was a hard worker, and as unsparing of himself as of his charges. The older boys, those who had known him longer, liked him thoroughly, while the younger fellows, many of whom blamed him for their inability to make the teams, called him hard names.

The baseball candidates finally got out of doors a week later than expected. By this time the April sky appeared to have emptied itself of rain, and a warm sun was busy drying up the sodden land. The fellows felt and acted like colts that first afternoon. It was bully to feel the springy turf underfoot, to smell the moist fragrance of growing things, and to have the west wind capering about the field. Even a full hour and a half of hard work failed to quench their spirits, and they swarmed into the gymnasium at half-past five as jolly as larks. The next afternoon practice ended with a four-inning game between the first and second teams, and Dan played during two of the innings in center-field. He had but one chance and accepted it. At his single appearance at bat he got to first on fielder’s choice, having knocked a miserable little hit half way to third base, and was caught ingloriously in an attempt to steal second. And yet he could congratulate himself on having made as good an appearance as any of the other dozen or so candidates for fielding positions. By the middle of the week practice had settled down to hard work, and on Friday the first cut was made. Some twenty candidates were dropped from the squad, only enough being retained to compose two nines and substitutes. Dan found himself on the second nine, playing when the opportunity offered at right or center-field. But he felt far from secure, for it was well known that a further reduction of the squad was due some time the following week.

Meanwhile Gerald had astounded Dan and the rest of his friends, not yet many in number, by winning a place on the Fourth Class team. I think Gerald must have been a natural-born baseball player, if there is such a thing; otherwise he would never, with his slight experience, have made the showing he did. Perhaps the standard of excellence required of a candidate for admission to the team wasn’t very high, but there were many fellows amongst those trying for places who had played ball for two or three years. Gerald showed unsuspected alertness in handling the ball, accuracy in throwing, and a good eye at the bat. And so, a week after the class teams had begun work, Gerald found himself playing shortstop on his nine. Naturally, he was in the seventh heaven of bliss, and talked baseball, thought baseball, and dreamed baseball. Alf amused Dan and Tom by claiming some of the credit. Personally, I think there was reason in his contention. At all events he made out a good case.

“Oh, you may laugh,” said Alf earnestly, “but it’s so. If Gerald hadn’t had those boxing lessons he wouldn’t have made good. They taught him to see quick and act quick, and they taught him accuracy. When you come to think of it, boxing and baseball aren’t so much unalike. In boxing you have a fellow’s glove to stop and your own to get away, and get away quick and accurately. In baseball you have the ball to stop and to get away. In either case it’s quickness and accuracy of eye and brain and body that does the trick.”

“Pooh!” scoffed Tom. “If Gerald ever gets to be President you’ll try to show that it was because you gave him boxing lessons when he was a kid.”

But whether or not part of the credit was due to Alf, it remains a fact that Gerald was about the proudest and happiest youngster in the whole school, with only one thing to worry him. That thing was the fact that devotion to baseball was playing hob with his lessons. It was Kilts who first drew his attention to the fact. He asked him to remain behind the class one morning.

“What’s wrong, lad?” he asked kindly. Gerald hesitated a moment, trying to find a plausible excuse. In the end he decided that the truth would do better than anything else.

“It’s baseball, sir,” he answered frankly. “I’m on my class team, and—and I guess I haven’t been studying very hard.”

“Well, well, that won’t do,” said Kilts gravely. “Baseball is a fine game, I have no doubt, but you mustn’t let it come between you and your studies, lad. Better let baseball alone a while, I’m thinking, until you can do better work than you’ve been doing the last week. Baseball and all such sports belong outdoors; they’re well enough there; but when you take them into class with you—” Kilts shook his head soberly—“you’re brewing trouble. You know I’m right, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Gerald answered. “I’ll try and—and do better.”

“That’s the lad! Youth must have its pleasures, but there’s work to do, too. Ye ken what Bobby Burns said?

“‘O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!’

“He was no the hard worker himself, was Bobby,” added Mr. McIntyre with a chuckle, “but he sensed it right, I’m thinking. Well, run along, lad, and remember, I’m looking for better things from you.”

So Gerald ran along, just as the next class began crowding into the little recitation room, and when study time came that evening, instead of leaning over his books with one hand in a fielder’s glove, as had been his custom of late, he put glove and ball out of sight behind a pillow on the window seat before he sat down. Dan saw, and breathed easier.

The second cut in the Varsity squad came, and Dan survived it. The first game, a mid-week contest with Greenburg High School, found the Yardley team somewhat unprepared. Kelsey, a second string pitcher, was in the box and was extremely erratic. Greenburg had no difficulty in connecting with his delivery, and the Yardley outfield was kept pretty busy during the six innings which were played before a sharp downpour of rain sent the teams and spectators scurrying from the field. Dan didn’t get into the game, much to his regret, for there were lots of chances for the outfielders that afternoon. Yardley managed to pull the game out of the fire in the fifth inning, and won, 8-6.

So far Dan had not flaunted his ambition to play on one of the bases. But the following Monday he found himself sitting on the bench beside Stuart Millener. Millener was watching the base-running practice, his place on first being occupied for the time by a substitute. He asked Dan where he had played before, and learned that at Graystone Dan had occupied second base.

“Well,” said Millener, “Danforth is making pretty good at second, and unless something happens, he will stay there, I guess. But there’s no harm in being prepared, Vinton, and I’ll let you see what you can do there.”

Millener was as good as his word, and when practice began Dan found himself in Danforth’s place. Of course, he was rusty, and he and Durfee, shortstop, failed to work together at first. But he made no bad plays, and shared in a speedy double with Millener. At the bat Dan was still rather weak. After practice Payson called him.

“You’ve played on second before, Millener says, and so I’m putting you down for a substitute baseman, Vinton. You’d rather play there, wouldn’t you?”

“Much,” answered Dan. “But I’d rather make good as a fielder than try for a base and not make it.”

“Well, you see what you can do. I don’t believe you’ll have much show for second, but you might possibly make third. Ever play there?”

“No, sir, but I guess I could.”

“Well, we’ll see. You want to be a little shiftier on your feet, though, Vinton. You haven’t got as much time to make up your mind in the infield as you have in the out.”

Dan told Alf of his promotion while they were dressing in the gymnasium.

“That’s good,” said Alf. “I guess Payson means to get you on third. Condit isn’t much; Lord beat him out for the place last year, and would have had it this if he’d returned. I guess Payson thinks he owes you something for pulling us out of the hole in the Broadwood game last Fall.”

“Oh, well, I don’t believe I want to get it that way,” said Dan thoughtfully.

“What way?”

“I mean I don’t want to get it by favor.”

“Piffle! Don’t you worry. If you get it, it’ll be because you deserve it. Payson may help you, Dan, but you needn’t worry about having the place presented to you on a plate. Payson isn’t that sort. He never lets his liking for a fellow influence him much. I rather wish he did. He and I are pretty good friends, and I’d rather like to play shortstop. But nothing doing.”

“It doesn’t seem exactly fair for me to step into the infield when you’ve been on the team two years,” said Dan.

“Pshaw, I was only fooling! I’m happy enough out in left field. Why, I couldn’t play short for a minute. I’ve tried it. I can catch flies and throw to base pretty well, but if it wasn’t for the fact that I can bat with the next fellow I wouldn’t hold down my place a minute. I know some schools where you can have almost anything in reason if you happen to be football or baseball captain. But the rule doesn’t work that way here. Millener couldn’t have made the scrub last fall, and he knew it, and didn’t try. And I know that the only thing that keeps me on the nine is the fact that I bat better than any one except Colton. Oh, you have to work for what you get at Yardley. A good thing, too. Over at Broadwood they have about half a dozen societies and society men have the first choice every time. Considering that, it’s a wonder they do as well as they do.”

“I should say so,” agreed Dan. “It’s about a stand-off in athletics, isn’t it?”

“It’s run pretty evenly the last ten or twelve years in baseball and football,” replied Alf, “but we win three out of four times in track games. And we’re away ahead in hockey, in spite of this year’s fizzle. They usually do us up at basket-ball, though. But who cares about basket-ball, anyway—except Tom?”

“I should think we’d go in for rowing here,” said Dan.