RIVALS FOR
THE TEAM

[“‘Go it, you Winslow.’”]

RIVALS FOR
THE TEAM

A STORY OF SCHOOL
LIFE AND FOOTBALL

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “DANFORTH PLAYS THE GAME,” “THE PURPLE
PENNANT,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
C. M. RELYEA

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1916

Copyright, 1916, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

RIVALS FOR THE TEAM

CHAPTER I
AFTER PRACTICE

“I’d hate to live up here in summer, Bert,” said Ted Trafford, carefully easing his five feet and ten inches of tired, aching body to the window-seat and turning a perspiring face to the faint breeze that entered. “It must be hotter than Tophet.”

“Well, it’s up high enough to get the air, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s high enough, all right! If I had to climb those three flights of stairs a dozen times a day——”

“Wonder why slate stairs seem harder than others,” said Nick Blake, fanning himself with a magazine.

“Because they are harder, naturally.” Ted looked about the study. “It isn’t so bad, though, when you get here. And I dare say it’ll be fine in winter. You haven’t an open fireplace, though.”

“I had one last year in 19. It was only a bother. If I had a fire the ashes got all over the shop. Besides, it was always so warm in the room that when I wanted one I had to keep all the windows open. There’s dandy steam heat in Lothrop.”

“There is in Trow, but——”

“Oh, get out, Ted!” interrupted Nick. “I’ve been in your study when the thermometer wasn’t over fifty! Everyone knows that Trow’s a regular barn in cold weather.”

“Well, some days, when the wind’s a certain way——”

“Trow’s older than this, isn’t it?” asked Bert Winslow. He had yielded the window-seat to his visitors and was stretched out on the leather cushions of a Morris chair, the back of which he had lowered to the last notch. It was very warm in Number 29, for the study was on the top floor of the building and overhead the September sun had been shining all day on the slate roof. Then, too, since the Fall Term did not begin for two days yet, all but a few of the rooms were closed and what little breeze there was found scant circulation. Bert had opened the door and windows of 32, across the corridor, and that helped to some extent, but Lothrop Hall seemed to have caught all the heat of the past summer and to be bent on hoarding it on the top floor.

“Why, yes,” Ted was replying. “Trow was the first of the new buildings. It’s been built about twelve years, I think. I dare say the heating is better here and in Manning. Still, I never have any trouble keeping warm. You chaps over here are a pampered lot, anyway, with your common room and your library and your recreation room and—and your shower baths and all the rest of it! Sybarites, that’s what you are!”

“Don’t judge us all, Ted, by this palatial suite,” begged Nick. “Some of us live in monastic simplicity, in one bare little room.”

“I’ve seen your bare little room,” replied Ted, smiling. “You’re a lot of mollycoddles, the bunch of you. What time is it?”

Nick, stretched at the other end of the seat, his cheek on the windowsill and his gaze fixed on the shadowed stretches of the campus below, moved his hand toward his fob only to let it fall idly again.

“Look yourself, you lazy beggar,” he murmured.

“Seventeen to five,” said Bert, dropping his watch back with a sigh. Ted digested the information in silence for several minutes. Nick continued his somnolent regard of the campus and Bert thoughtfully tapped together the toes of his rubber-soled shoes.

“More than an hour to supper,” said Ted finally. “Not that I’m particularly hungry, though. It’s too hot to eat. Honest, fellows, I believe it’s hotter up here than it is in New York! If this last week is a sample of New England summer weather I don’t see why folks come here the way they do.”

“It’s the fine, pure air,” muttered Nick.

“Air! That’s the trouble. There isn’t any. This place is hotter than Broadway on the Fourth of July!”

“There’s a breeze now,” said Nick. “Get it?”

“Sure; it almost blew out the door,” replied Ted sarcastically. “Come on over to my place. It’s a heap cooler, I’ll bet.”

“I’m too tired to move,” protested his host. “We can go downstairs, if you like. I dare say it’s cooler in the common room.”

“Who’s with you this year?” asked Ted, his gaze traveling to the open door of the bedroom at the left.

“Fellow by the name of Ordway, or something. Comes from Maryland. Upper middler, I think.”

“How’d you happen to go in with him? Thought you liked rooming alone.”

“So I do, but I’ve had my eye on this suite ever since I came over from Manning. Gus Livingstone and I had it all fixed to take it together and applied last fall for it. Then, when Gus didn’t come back after winter vacation, I tried to get Nick to come in with me, and——”

“I wanted to hard enough,” said Nick, without turning, “but my dad kicked like a steer. He said seven hundred was too much for his pocket.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Ted. “Is that what this stands you? Seven hundred each?”

Bert nodded. “Yes, it’s high in price and elevation too.”

“What do you pay downstairs, Nick?”

“Three hundred. That’s what you pay, isn’t it?”

“Two-fifty. Seven hundred for room and board, a hundred and fifty for tuition and a couple of hundred for incidentals; total, ten hundred and fifty a year! Say, Bert, I’ll bet your old man will be mighty glad when you’re through here!”

“Then it’ll be college,” answered Bert, “and I guess that won’t be much cheaper. We do cost our folks a lot of money, though, don’t we?”

“We’re worth it, though,” said Nick. “At least, some of us are.”

Ted Trafford laughed. “I’m worth two-fifty and you’re worth three, eh? And Bert’s worth seven. Well, it’s a peach of a suite, all right, Bert, but I’d just as lief have my dive. Besides, I’ve got it to myself. When you have another chap with you he always wants to cut up when you want to plug. Not for mine, thanks!”

“Single blessedness for me, too,” murmured Nick. “When I was in Manning in junior year I roomed with young Fessenden and we nearly got fired because we were always scrapping. He was a quarrelsome little brute!”

“What happened to him? Did you kill him finally?”

“No, but I wanted to lots of times. He quit the next year. Went to some school in Pennsylvania. His folks wanted him nearer home, he said. I don’t see why they should!”

“Hope you like your new chum, Bert,” said Ted. “Broadway’s a funny name, though, eh?”

“Ordway,” Bert corrected. “I dare say we’ll get along. I have a nice disposition.”

Nick giggled and Bert gazed across at him speculatively. “Of course everyone knows why Nick rooms alone,” he added. “He’s too mean to live with.”

Nick raised his head to answer, but thought better of it. A vagrant breeze crept through the windows and the boys said, “A-ah!” in ecstatic chorus.

“Listen,” said Nick, suddenly propping himself up on the cushions. “I’ve got a good scheme!”

“Shoot!” replied Ted, yawning widely.

“After supper we’ll beat it down to the pool and go in! Will you?”

“Ugh! Mud and frogs!” said Bert.

“Mud and frogs your eye! It’s dandy if you don’t go to wading around. We don’t have to stay in the pool, anyway. Rules don’t apply before term begins. We can go in the river. No one will see us.”

“Safest thing,” said Ted, “is to find a canoe and upset, the way we did a couple of years ago. Pete used to go crazy and threaten to report us, but he couldn’t prove it wasn’t an accident.”

“Aren’t any canoes out yet, I guess,” said Bert. “And the boat house is locked.”

“Never mind your old canoes,” said Nick. “That’s an underhand scheme, anyway. Fair and open’s my motto! Oh, say, but that water’s going to feel good!”

“That isn’t such an awfully rotten idea,” said Ted. “I’m blessed if I know where to look for my trunks, though.”

“You don’t need ’em. It’ll be dark by half-past seven.”

“Not with a moon shining, you silly chump,” said Bert. “You can take a pair of running trunks of mine, Ted. Only, worse luck, I’ll have to unpack that box over there.” He pulled himself from the chair with a sigh of resignation and kicked experimentally at the lid of the packing case. “Wonder where I can find a hatchet,” he muttered. “Got anything I can bust this lid off with, Nick?”

“Got a screwdriver I use on my typewriter,” responded Nick helpfully.

“What time is it?” inquired Ted again.

“Find out, you lazy beast,” replied Bert. “Tell me how to get this thing open, you chaps.”

“Pick it up and drop it on the floor a few times,” said Ted.

“Bore a hole and put a dynamite cartridge in,” suggested Nick.

“Oh, all right, then you go without the trunks,” said Bert, returning to his chair. “I’d like to know why I pounded a million dollars’ worth of nails into it, anyway.” There was no solution forthcoming, it seemed. Nick had returned to his study of the world outside and Ted had picked up the discarded magazine and was idly looking at the pictures. Bert sighed again and stretched his arms overhead. Then he said “Ouch!” suddenly and loudly and ruefully rubbed a shoulder. Ted looked over and grinned.

“Sore?” he asked.

“Sore as a boil! You wouldn’t think a fellow would get so soft in summer, swimming and playing tennis and everything. I wish Bonner would let us off tomorrow. I think he might. It wouldn’t hurt him to give us a day’s rest.”

“He’s going to give us the afternoon off,” replied Ted. “Only morning practice tomorrow. You can thank me for it, Bert. It was my pretty little thought.”

“He wouldn’t have seen me on the field tomorrow, anyway,” remarked Nick. “I’m going down to the junction to meet Guy at three-something. Come on with me.”

“I wouldn’t make that trip in this weather for the King of England, much less Guy Murtha,” responded Bert impressively.

“I’ll buy you ice cream,” tempted Nick. Bert shook his head.

“Will you come, Ted?” asked Nick.

“I will—not! I love Guy like a brother, but——”

“Oh, you fellows make me weary!” sighed Nick. “No sporting blood at all! No——”

“Is that your idea of sporting?” jeered Ted. “Get on a hot, stuffy little one-horse train and dawdle down to Needham Junction, four miles away, in something like half an hour? I’ve made that trip once this fall and, Fortune aiding me, I shan’t make it again!”

“Come on to supper,” said Bert. “It’s almost a quarter of. It will be cooler over there on the steps than it is here, too.”

“Just when I was beginning to get comfortable,” mourned Nick. “Say, Ted, did you do this last year?”

“Sure! Do what?”

“Come up for early practice.”

“I did. And we had ten days of it last fall instead of only a week. You fellows needn’t kick!”

“I do kick, though, Teddy, old scout! Look here, you! I gave up a whole week of the best sort of fun at Deal Beach to come up here and frizzle and fry in my juices and chase a contemptible football over a sun-smitten cow-pasture! Needn’t kick, eh? Why, man, back there there’s a nice cool breeze off the ocean and a band playing moosics and piles of eats and—and nothing to do but play around! And just because I’m—I’m patriotic enough and unselfish enough to leave all that you lie there like a ton of bricks and tell me I needn’t kick! I do kick! I’m kicking!”

“I hear you,” murmured Ted. “Go on kicking. Nobody’s going to miss you if you go back to Deal Beach tomorrow. We could have got on well enough without you, anyhow. You were simply asked because we thought you’d feel hurt if you weren’t.”

“I like your nerve!” gasped Nick. “My word! Who’s been doing the work for five days out there? Trying to get drive into you chaps is like pulling teeth! Why, you miserable sandy-haired——”

“Oh, come on,” begged Bert. “I’m getting hungry. Anyone want to wash up? Come along if you do. You’ll have to wipe your hands on your handkerchiefs, though. They haven’t given us any towels yet.”

“What’s the good of washing if we’re going in swimming later?” asked Nick, sprawling off the window-seat.

“Because for once, old son, you’re dining with gentlemen,” Ted answered, gripping the smaller youth by the shoulders and propelling him towards the door in the wake of Bert.

“Honest?” wailed Nick. “I’d much rather dine with you, Ted!”

CHAPTER II
PLAYERS AND COACH

A few minutes later the three boys were crossing the campus unhurriedly and with an impressive disregard of “Keep Off the Grass” signs. And three good-looking, healthy, well-set-up youths they were. Their bare heads—there wasn’t a hat among them—showed three distinctly different colors. Ted Trafford’s hair was sandy, Bert Winslow’s black, Nick Blake’s reddish-brown. Between sandy hair and brown lay a matter of four inches in height, with black hair halving the difference. In build the trio were again at variance. Ted was a big, broad-bodied chap, Bert was slenderer, without being thin, and Nick was at once short and slight. Although Nick was only five months Bert’s junior—and Bert was seventeen—his smallness made him appear much younger. He had a thin face, deeply tanned, and gray eyes. Nick’s usual expression was one of intense, even somber, thoughtfulness. He had, in fact, the appearance of a boy with a deep and secret sorrow. But in his case appearances were deceptive, or, if he had a sorrow, it was merely that there are only a certain number of ways to create mischief and that he had pretty well exhausted them all.

Bert Winslow was a very normal-looking fellow with good features, a healthy color under his tan and a pair of eyes so darkly blue that they seemed black. Ted’s features were more rugged, like his body, and, if such a thing is possible, his complexion was as sandy as his hair. He had a wealth of freckles and two rather sleepy-looking brown eyes very far apart. Ted’s countenance expressed good nature first, and after that a sort of quiet purposefulness. One wouldn’t have expected brilliant mental feats of Ted, but one would have expected him to succeed where physical strength and dogged determination were demanded. Ted thought slowly, reached conclusions only after some effort, and then stuck immovably to his conclusions. He had been three years at Grafton School and during that time his great ambition had been to captain the football team in his senior year. He had attained that ambition and had now substituted another, which was, to put it in his own words, “Knock the tar out of Mt. Morris in November!” Having accomplished or failed in that, Ted would undoubtedly drag another ambition from the recesses of his mind. But at present that was enough. With Ted it was always “one thing at a time.”

Between them, the three boys loitering across the grass represented just three-elevenths of the Grafton School Football Team. Captain Trafford played right tackle, Bert Winslow was left half-back and Nick Blake was quarter. Ted had played on the School Team ever since he had entered the lower middle class, which meant two years. Bert, who was now an upper-middler, had made his position only last season, beating out Siedhof in the final contests. Nick had been second-string quarter-back last year and now, owing to the graduation of Balch, had automatically succeeded to the position. Barring unforeseen and unexpected accidents, each of the trio was certain of playing the coming season through as first-choice.

At Grafton the school buildings stood in a row midway across the campus, a three-acre expanse of level turf intersected by gravel paths shaded by elms and surrounded by an ancient fence of granite posts and squared timbers, the latter thoughtlessly set with an angle uppermost. In shape the campus was a square with one corner rounded off where Crumbie Street changed its mind about continuing northward and swung westward to River Street and, a half mile beyond that, the station. River Street marked the westerly limits of the school property all the way to the river, which, in its turn, formed the southerly boundary. The campus proper ended at School Street, but successive purchases had added many more acres between it and the Needham River, so that now the school property extended in an unbroken strip some two blocks wide from Needham Street, at the back, all the way down to the river. What was virtually a continuation of the campus lay to the south of School Street, but, since it was of later acquisition, it was, for some unknown reason, called “the green.” A tree-bordered path led through the middle of the green to Front Street, and, across that quiet road, an ornamental gateway of old brick and sandstone and lacy ironwork. Set in the right-hand pillar was a bronze tablet bearing the inscription: “Lothrop Field. In Memory of Charles Parkinson Lothrop, Class of 1911.”

Beyond the gateway the land sloped gently to the river, and here was the Field House, near at hand as one entered, the tennis courts to the right, the diamond beyond them, the running track to the left of the gate, with the School Team gridiron inclosed in the blue-gray ribbon, and, further toward the river, the practice field. Beyond that again, near where Crumbie Street crossed by an old covered bridge on its way to Needham, stood the boat house.

But we are too far afield, for our present destination is that of the three boys whom we left crossing the campus. At one corner of the green, where River and School Streets intersect, stood two old-fashioned white dwelling houses. The one nearer River Street had been just there when the land was bought by the School, but the second had stood at the other end of the green and had been moved to its present location to make room for tennis courts. When, however, a few years later, Lothrop Field had been presented to the School the tennis courts were transferred thither and now, save for the two white-clapboarded, many-dormered houses, the green was only a pleasant, shady expanse of close-cropped sward. The old houses, used now as dormitories since the buildings in the campus failed to meet the requirements of the ever-increasing student body, still retained the names of their former owners. The larger one, nearer the side street, was known as Morris House, the other as Fuller.

At a few minutes before six this afternoon the front steps and the adjacent turf—there was no such thing as a porch or piazza on either dwelling—were sprinkled with boys. There seemed to be at least two dozen of them. As a matter of fact, until Ted, Bert and Nick joined them, they numbered exactly seventeen. In age they varied from sixteen to twenty, although only one of them, John Driver, commonly known as “Pop,” had attained the latter age. Pop was, as he laughingly explained it, “doing the four-year course in six.” That was a slight exaggeration, for Pop had been at Grafton only four years, was now a senior and would undoubtedly be graduated next June whether he was willing or not! He was big and slow; slow to move, slow to speak and slow to anger. He played right guard in a steady, highly-satisfactory if not brilliant fashion.

Since this was Tuesday, the fellows who had gathered from various and, in some instances, distant parts of the country for early football practice, had been at Grafton six days. Those six days had been busy ones. There had been morning and afternoon sessions on each day and the weather had been almost unreasonably hot. More than one of the candidates showed the result of those strenuous days in his tired face and fagged movements. Not one of the twenty who had been bidden had, however, failed to respond. Those summons meant a week less of vacation time and an added week of hard labor, but it also meant honor, for only the most likely of last year’s first and second players had been called on. While the fellows were occupying their rooms in the dormitories, neither of the big dining halls in Lothrop and Manning were open and so they were being served with meals at Morris where, in a room and at a table designed to accommodate only the dozen or fourteen residents of the two houses, they were packed in like sardines in a box.

However, none minded that so long as there was plenty of food on the dishes and plenty of milk in the big pitchers. Mr. Bonner, the coach, arrived just as the crowd had squeezed themselves to the two tables and had begun their onslaught. Somehow he didn’t look quite like the popular conception of a football coach. He was of only medium size and height and had the preoccupied expression of a business man with his mind on the day’s sales. In age he was twenty-eight or -nine, had a somewhat narrow face, brown hair and eyes and wore a closely-trimmed mustache that was several shades lighter than his hair. The reason for the mustache was apparent when, on close observation, what seemed at first to be a natural crease running from one corner of his mouth was seen to be a deep, white scar. The mustache didn’t hide the whole of that scar but it concealed the most of it. David Bonner had acquired it in a certain hard-fought game when he was playing end in his junior year at Amherst, and there was a story at Grafton to the effect that his opponent in that contest had subsequently fared much worse than Mr. Bonner had. However, as the coach was a remarkably even-tempered man, that may have been merely an invention of someone’s imagination.

Supper proceeded with as much and probably no more noise than is usual when twenty fairly hungry youths are left to their own devices at table. There was a good deal of loud talk, some far from silent mastication, much rattling and clashing of dishes and, it is not to be denied, some horse-play toward the end of the meal. Two capable if not over-neat waitresses flitted in and out and did their best to supply the demands on the kitchen. Now and then Coach Bonner’s voice was raised in warning, but for the most part that gentleman attended closely to the business of consuming his supper, and it was not until cold rice pudding had appeared as the final course that he entered into the conversation to any extent. By that time many of the fellows, having either picked the raisins from their portion of the dessert or engulfed it with the aid of much milk and sugar, had moved back from the tables to loll more comfortably half in, half off their chairs. The four windows were wide open and a slight breeze was swaying the curtain-cords, but the heat of the day still lingered.

“I’ll trouble you for the milk, Willard,” said the coach, eyeing his pudding with but slight enthusiasm. “Thanks. Traf, I’ve been thinking that maybe it would be well to cut out practise tomorrow. You fellows have been at it pretty hard and this weather is trying. I thought it might be cooler tomorrow, but that sunset says not. What do you think?”

“Oh, we ought to be able to stand a little work in the morning, if we don’t do any in the afternoon. Still, it’s just as you like, Coach. It is awfully hot for football, and that’s a fact.”

“Have a heart, Ted!” implored Derry.

“That’s the scheme, sir,” exclaimed Nick Blake. “It’s going to be hotter than ever tomorrow.” Nick expertly thrust some bread crumbs down Pop Driver’s neck. “We’d all be better for a rest, sir. Just look at Pop here! Overcome by the heat, Mr. Bonner!”

Pop, squirming and muttering, really looked as if something was vastly wrong with him, but the coach didn’t seem inclined to accept Nick’s theory. He studied Pop’s spasms a moment in thoughtful silence and then pushed back his chair.

“We’ll cut it out for tomorrow, then,” he announced as he stood up. “And, by the way, Mrs. Fair will give us our breakfasts in the morning, but we’ll have to shift for ourselves at noon.”

“They’re going to serve cold lunch in Manning at noon, sir,” said one of the boys. “I guess we can get in on that.”

“All right. Next practise, then, will be Thursday at three-thirty. Traf, you look me up tomorrow evening, will you? There are one or two things—and bring Quinn along with you, please. Don’t stay around here, fellows. Give Mrs. Fair a chance to get these tables cleaned off. Good night.”

CHAPTER III
A MOONLIGHT PLUNGE

Coach Bonner passed out briskly and the fellows, with much scraping of chairs and good-natured horseplay, followed. Twilight was settling over the world. The sun had just dropped behind the distant spires and tree-tops of the village and on Mt. Grafton, the sugar-loaf hill behind the school, its last rays rested on the spindley observatory crowning the rocky summit. The campus was fast filling with shadows, and along the streets and walks the lamps made lemon-yellow points in the purple dusk. In Manning and Trow and Lothrop lights glowed wanly at the entrances, but School Hall and the gymnasium were dark. Doubtless there were lights, too, in the Principal’s residence, far to the right, but the clustering maples hid all of that but the roof. A faint breeze fluttered from the southwest, but the evening was still oppressively hot. By twos and threes and in larger groups the fellows wandered away, some turning their steps toward the village, a half-mile distant, others seeking the dormitories. Bert, Nick and Ted, however, still loitered on the steps of Morris, waiting for the moon to rise, and with them loitered Pop Driver.

“It’s frightfully hot over in my room,” observed the latter, sprawling his big form over the steps. “I’m on the wrong side of the building tonight.”

Bert prodded Nick with his foot. “Guess I’ll bunk in with you, old man,” he said.

“You’ll bunk on the window-seat, then. Why don’t you sleep in one of the rooms across the hall? No one would care.”

“Perhaps I will. Where’s that moon? Coming along with us, Pop?”

“I guess so. I’d like to stay in the water all night.”

“There’s the moon now, isn’t it?” asked Ted lazily.

“Someone lighted up in Fuller,” replied Bert. “Let’s go along down. We don’t have to have the moon, anyhow.”

“It’s a lot more fun,” said Nick drowsily, settling back against Bert’s knees. “Say, fellows, isn’t it nice that school begins day after tomorrow? Aren’t you all tickled to death?”

“Let’s not talk about it,” yawned Pop.

“No, come on and get that swim,” agreed Ted, getting to his feet and ungently tousling Bert’s hair. “If we wait for the moon we never will get in. And I’m hot and uncomfortable and——”

“Something’s happened to the moon,” murmured Nick. “Probably got a hot-box.”

“What about towels?” Bert got up, letting Nick subside violently against the steps.

“We can dry off on the float,” said Ted. “Come on. All in!”

Nick, rubbing the back of his head, arose with groans and protests and draped himself against Pop Driver.

“Nick wants to be carried,” he whimpered. “Pop, please carry Nick. He’s so ’ittle!”

Pop complacently gathered the other in his big arms and bore him away around the corner of the house, Nick babbling nonsense. “Pop likes to carry his ’ittle Nick, doesn’t he? Pop loves his ’ittle Nick.”

“Pop loves him to death,” grunted Pop, depositing him suddenly in a barberry hedge. There arose a piercing wail from Nick as he came into contact with the thorns, the sound of cracking shrubbery and the thud of Pop’s feet as he hurried off into the darkness.

“Oh, you big brute!” shouted Nick. “You wait till I get hold of you! I’m full of stickers! Which way did that big, ugly hippopotamus go, Ted?”

“Straight on into the engulfing gloom,” answered Bert. “Look out for that clothes-line, Nick.”

“Pop!” called Nick sweetly. “Pop, come back to me, darling! Honest, Pop, I haven’t a thing in my hands! I just want to love you!”

“I’m busy,” responded Pop from the darkness ahead. “I got some of those old thorns myself.”

“Oh, Pop, I’m so sorry! Do they hurt, Pop? Come back here and let me drive them in for you!”

Peace was restored by the time they were passing the tennis courts. Eastward, above the trees beyond the little river, a silvery radiance heralded the moon. They skirted the running track and made their way to where, dimly, the dark form of the boathouse loomed ahead of them. When they reached it Pop experimentally tried all the doors, but found them fast. They disrobed in the shadow of the building and then, making certain that there were no passers on the road, a few rods distant, they raced down the float and plunged into the water with whoops of glee. When their heads emerged the moon had topped the trees and, save where the shadow of the covered bridge lay across it, the stream was bathed in silver. The water was warm, but far cooler than the air, and Pop grunted ecstatically as he rolled over on his back and floated lazily, blinking at the moon. It was then that Nick obtained his revenge. Sinking very quietly, he swam across under water, emerged behind the unsuspecting Pop, and—

“Glug-gug-gug!” observed Pop, as his head went suddenly under and his feet flashed white in the radiance. When he arose again, sputtering and gasping, Nick was far across the stream, paddling gently and crooning a little song.

“There was an old man and his name was Pop.

His head went down and his feet went up!”

Stirring moments then, ending in the terrestrial flight of Nick, Pop begging him to come back and be drowned! Finally they all gathered under the bridge and lolled on a crosspiece and dabbled their legs in the cool water and talked. Once a team went past overhead, and once an automobile sped across, roaring fearsomely and threatening to bring the old structure down on top of them. Then quiet again, and the winding stretch of the river below, black and silver. With the rising of the moon the little breeze had found courage and now blew cooler from the west. Nine o’clock struck in the village and they splashed back into the water and swam to the float. Half an hour later they parted in front of Trow, Ted and Pop turning in there and Bert and Nick going on to Lothrop.

Nick turned off at the top of the second flight and Bert continued to his room. But when he had donned pajamas the latter descended again, the slate steps gratefully cool to his bare feet, and he and Nick stretched out on the window-seat and talked while the breeze blew past them and softly rustled the papers on the table. Ten o’clock struck. The conversation became fitful. Once Nick snored frankly and then jerked himself awake again, and replied brightly to an observation of Bert’s made five minutes before. Through the window they could look for nearly a mile over fields and tree-bordered roads. A little way off the buildings of a small farm were clustered about the black shadows of a group of elms. Beyond that two streaks of silver glittered where the moon glinted on the railroad tracks. Bert wondered if, after all, the view from this side of the building was not more attractive than that from the front, wondered what sort of a chap this new roommate of his would turn out to be, wondered if he had not taken a pretty big chance in accepting him sight-unseen, wondered why Nick didn’t wake himself up with his own snoring, wondered—

Some time in the early morning he disentangled himself from the encumbering Nick and groped his way down to his own room. He didn’t remember much about it afterwards, though.

CHAPTER IV
“I’M ORDWAY”

Bert, for one, found himself at a loose end the next morning. He lingered as long as possible over breakfast, but the day promised to be even hotter than the one before, and his appetite was soon satisfied. He and Nick sat for a while in the shade of the trees near the middle gate, but the heat soon drove them indoors, and Bert climbed up to Number 29 and unenthusiastically wrenched the lid from the packing case there and set about the distribution of the contents. The few pictures were deposited against a wall, since it was best to see what his roommate was bringing before deciding as to the disposition of them. His books he found place for and he laid some extra clothing in the dresser drawers in the bedroom on the right. He had selected that room in preference to the one on the other side since Lothrop stood at right angles to the other buildings in the row and from “29b” one had an uninterrupted view along the fronts of Trow, School and Manning. Only the gymnasium, hiding behind the shoulder of the last dormitory, was out of sight. From the other bedroom, “29a,” much of this view was cut off by a corner of Trow, and Bert acted on the basis of “first come, first served.”

The study was a good-sized square room, lighted by two windows set in a dormer, beneath which was a wide and comfortable seat. A bright-hued rug occupied the center of the floor and the walls were papered attractively to the height of the picture molding in tones of golden-brown. Above the molding was a foot of white plaster, and two plastered beams ran the length of the ceiling. The furniture was of brown mission; two study desks, a table in the center of the room, a Morris chair upholstered in brown leather beside it, two armchairs, two sidechairs, and a settle. The desks were supplied with green-shaded droplights.

The bedrooms were identical. Each had a single dormer window. Blue two-tone paper covered the walls and a rug flanked the single white iron bed. A dresser, a washstand and a chair completed the furnishings. There was generous closet room.

Bert was glad when Nick came in at eleven and gave him an excuse for stopping his half-hearted labors. Nick was down to a pair of soiled flannel trousers, supported by a most disreputable leather strap that scarcely deserved the name of belt, a white tennis shirt, open at the throat, and a pair of brown canvas “sneakers.” And he looked as though he thought he still had far too much on as he stretched himself out on the window-seat, sprawled one foot over the edge, and hung the other across the sill.

“Four or five fellows came a while ago,” he announced. “Leddy and Ayer and some others. Hairwig, too. Hairwig looks like he’d been sitting in the sun all summer. Tanned to beat the band.”

Hairwig’s real name was Helwig, and he was instructor in physics and chemistry. Being a German, the boys had at first called him Herr Helwig, and later had shortened it to Hairwig. The news of his advent didn’t, however, greatly interest Bert, who inquired:

“Any of our masters shown up?”

“Haven’t seen any. I told you, didn’t I, that I ran across Smiles in New York one day? He was all dolled up. Said he was going out west somewhere to teach at a summer school. He seemed real glad to see me, too. Smiles is a good old sport.”

“He isn’t old.”

“N-no, but Latin instructors always seem old. They know so plaguey much! Who do you think will be proctor up here this year?”

“Cathcart, I suppose. He’s the only senior on the floor. Wonder if we’re going to have a big junior class.”

“Whopping, I heard; eighty-something. Know anyone coming up?”

Bert shook his head. “No, and I’m glad I don’t. You always have to look after them, and they’re nuisances.”

“You’ll have to do the guide and mentor act for your friend Ordway,” reminded Nick, with a malicious grin. “Did you say he was an upper middler?”

“Yes.”

“I’d hate to enter a school in the middle like that,” reflected Nick. “I should think it would be hard.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Well, you don’t know anyone, in the first place. It would take most of the year to get acquainted, and then you’d only have one year left. Going to put him up for Lit?”

“I suppose so, if he wants me to. You have to do that much for a roommate, I guess.”

“When’s he coming?”

“Don’t know and don’t care. Want to buy a good racket?”

“How much?”

“Dollar and a half.”

Nick accepted the proffered article and viewed it dubiously.

“I’d have to have it restrung.”

“Why would you? There’s only one string gone. Take it along and try it.”

“Give you a dollar.”

“I guess you would! It cost seven. Hand it over here, you Shylock.”

“Dollar and a quarter, then.”

“Cash?”

“Dollar down and the balance——”

“Some time?”

“No, next month; honest.”

“All right, but you’re getting it dirt cheap. Where’s the dollar?”

“Downstairs. You don’t think I carry all that money around with me, do you?”

“All right, but we’ll stop in for it before you forget it. Are you really going over to the Junction to meet Guy?”

“Surest thing you know! Want to come along?”

“I wouldn’t make the trip on that hot, dusty old train for a thousand dollars!”

“You ought to, though. You ought to go over and meet your new chum.”

Bert grunted. “I’m likely to! I’ve been wondering if he will bring any pictures and truck like that. I hope, if he does, he won’t have the usual rot. This is too good a study to fill up with chromos. Something tells me, Nick, that I’m an awful idiot to go in with some fellow I’ve never seen. Bet you anything he will be a fresh kid.”

Nick chuckled. “I decline the wager, Bert. Also, I agree with you that you’re taking a chance. Still, you can’t tell. Where does he come from?”

“Somewhere in Maryland.”

“Baltimore? I knew a fellow who lived in Baltimore, and he was a crackajack.”

“No, some place I never heard of. I forget it now. I suppose that makes him a Southerner, doesn’t it?”

“Of course. Anything against Southerners?”

“No, only they’re a bit stuck up. If he tries it with me I’ll shut him up mighty quick!”

“Bert, your disposition is entirely ruined. I guess it’s the weather. I’m glad I’m not What’s-his-name, Ordway.”

“If you’d had the decency to come in with me——”

“Don’t blame me, old scout. Write to dad about it. I wanted to, all right. Put something on and let’s do something.”

“What is there to do?”

“I’ll play you a set of tennis. It won’t be bad if we take it easily.”

“Tennis! I see myself racing around a court a day like this! How hot is it, anyway?”

“About two hundred in the shade. Then why stay in the shade? Say, Bert, what sort of a captain is Ted going to make?”

“Good.”

“I wonder!”

“Don’t see why not. He’s popular, and he’s a good player——”

“Yes, but he isn’t awfully—oh, you know what I mean; he isn’t exactly brilliant, eh?”

“He doesn’t need to be. Bonner will look after that part of it.”

“Well, I never saw any sparks flying from Bonner, for that matter,” returned Nick dryly.

“What’s the good of being brilliant, as you call it? In football, I mean. It’s knowledge of the game that does the business. And Bonner certainly knows football; and so does Ted.”

“Yes, that’s so. All right. We’ll hope for the best. Come on down and I’ll find that old dollar. Then we’ll go over and see Leddy. He’s probably trying to unpack, and he oughtn’t to do it in this weather.”

They managed to kill time until luncheon was served in Manning, and after that they joined a crowd in the common room there and remained until it was time for Nick to go to the station to take the train for Needham Junction. Mr. Russell, Greek instructor, having arrived, Bert went over to Trow to consult him about his new work. Greek had been hard sledding for Bert the year before and he viewed the first four books of Hellenica with misgiving. The consultation in the master’s study in Trow took up the better part of a half hour, for “J. P.,” as Mr. Russell was called, was not to be hurried. When he finally got away Bert climbed up to Pop Driver’s room on the floor above and found Ted Trafford and Roy Dresser in possession. Roy was Pop’s roommate. Pop, he explained, had gone to the village to buy some lemons. They had drawn lots and Pop had lost. If he didn’t die of sunstroke before he got back there was going to be a lemonade of magnificence. Bert decided to wait around.

But Pop tarried and after awhile Ted discovered that it was after four o’clock and hurried out. They could hear him taking the stairs three at a time. Bert abandoned hope of that lemonade and followed Ted, Roy Dresser apologizing for Pop and adding that if Bert would keep his ears open he, Roy, would yell across when the lemons arrived.

It seemed a trifle cooler in the campus and the shadow of Lothrop stretched far along the red brick walk that ran, the main artery of travel, along the fronts of the buildings. A locomotive shrieked despairingly a mile or so away and Bert knew that the first of the two trains on which the bulk of the returning students would arrive was nearing the station. Again his thoughts reverted to Ordway and again he wondered pessimistically what sort of a youth fate was going to impose upon him. Ordway might not come until six-thirty, however; many fellows didn’t; and Bert rather hoped he would be of their number. He was disposed to postpone the inevitable.

The rooms in Lothrop had been thrown open, doors and windows alike, and the corridors were far cooler than they had been since he had taken possession of Number 29. Quite a draft of air was blowing down the staircase well. In the study, he put away the last few belongings, placed the packing-case outside for removal to the store-room, and finally, lowering the shades at the windows through which the afternoon sun was shining hotly, took up his schedule and, stretching himself on the window-seat, studied it dubiously. Mathematics 4, Greek 3, English 4, French 1, History 3a; eighteen hours altogether, aside from Physical Training. From the latter, however, he was exempt so long as he was in training with the football team. Eighteen hours was the least required for the third year, and he was expected to select another study. He mentally pondered the respective merits of physics and chemistry. Physics was known as a “snap course,” but Bert was in favor of leaving it for his senior year. The same with chemistry. He rather leaned toward German, but Mr. Teschner, or “Jules,” as he was usually called, was a hard taskmaster and his classes were not viewed with much enthusiasm. Still, unless he took physics or chemistry it would have to be German, and after a few minutes of cogitation he wrote German 1 on the card in his hand. The schedule had yet to be approved and he wondered whether he would be allowed to go in so heavily for languages. The schedule was a bit top-heavy in that way, with thirteen hours of the twenty-one given to Greek, German, and French. Probably they would make him substitute physics for German. He slipped the card in his pocket, with a sigh for the vexations of life, and became aware that Lothrop Hall was at last inhabited. Steps scuffed on the stairs, voices sounded, bags and trunks thumped. The invasion had begun in earnest. Half inclined to go down and see if Guy Murtha had arrived, he nevertheless found himself too lazy to stir and so when, a few moments later, footsteps drew near the open door he was still sprawled on his back.

“This must be it, Bowles,” said a voice. “Yes, twenty-nine. Oh, I beg your pardon!”

Bert sat up and slid his feet to the floor. In the doorway stood a slim, pleasant-faced youth, and behind him a very serious-looking man held an extremely large kit-bag, an umbrella, and a folded gray overcoat. The youth advanced toward Bert, smiling and removing a gray glove.

“I fancy you are Winslow,” he said. “[I’m Ordway.] I believe we share these quarters, eh?”

[“‘I’m Ordway.’”]

Bert shook hands. “Glad to know you,” he replied. “Beastly hot, isn’t it? That’s your room over there.” He glanced inquiringly at the second arrival who, still holding his burdens, had paused just inside the door. But if he looked for an introduction none was forthcoming. Ordway, who had now removed both gloves and tossed them nonchalantly to the table, evidently had no thought of making his companion known.

“Ripping view from here,” he said, glancing from the window. Then, turning: “In there, Bowles,” he directed, and nodded toward the open door of the bedroom. “Just dump them, will you? I’ll look after them myself.”

Bag and coat and umbrella disappeared, Bert’s gaze following their bearer curiously. Ordway had thrust his hands in his pockets and was leisurely examining the study. His manner was a queer mixture of quiet assurance and diffidence. When he had shaken hands he had reddened perceptibly, but now he was looking the place over just as though, as Bert silently told himself, he had ordered the whole thing. “I like this,” he said, after a moment. “Rather jolly, isn’t it?”

Bert was spared a reply, for just then the mysterious Bowles appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Shan’t I unpack the bag, sir?” he asked.

“No, never mind it, thanks.” Ordway consulted a watch. “I fancy you’d better beat it, Bowles. Your train leaves in fifteen minutes, you know.”

“Yes, sir, but there’s another one, sir, a bit later.”

“Are you sure of that?” Ordway glanced inquiringly at Bert. “He’s wrong, eh?”

“Yes, the next one doesn’t go until seven-five. If he wants to get this one he will have to hustle. It’s a good ten minutes’ walk to the station.”

“Thanks. This gentleman’s right, Bowles. You’d better start along. You know your way, eh? Tell mother I’m quite all right; everything’s very jolly.” The boy walked to the door with the man and pulled a leather purse from his pocket. “Better treat yourself to a bit of a jinks when you get to town. You’ll have four hours to wait, you know. Good-by, Bowles.”

“Thank you, Master Hugh. Good-by, sir. I hung the coat in the closet, sir, and the keys are on the dresser.”

“Right, Bowles. Now beat it or you’ll miss that train. Good-by.”

Ordway sauntered back to the study, smiling. “Bowles always gets time-tables twisted,” he chuckled. “Rum chap that way. Bet you anything you like he will miss that train.”

“He’s got twelve minutes,” said Bert. “Is he a—a servant?”

“Bowles? Yes, he’s been looking after me ever since I was out of the nursery. He’s a little bit of all right, Bowles.” Ordway seated himself on the farther end of the seat, looked interestedly about the campus, no longer silent and empty, and finally turned his gaze to Bert. Again the color crept into his cheeks and he said diffidently, almost stammeringly:

“I say, Winslow, I hope you’re going to like me, you know.”

CHAPTER V
HUGH FINDS A WORD

Half an hour later, having left his new roommate to the business of unpacking his trunk, Bert was in Number 12, and he and Nick and Guy Murtha, their host, were talking it over.

“We saw him on the train just after we left the city,” Guy was saying. “Some of us had been in the diner and when we came back through the parlor car we saw this chap and the man with him. They had a table and the kid was eating a lunch out of a box and the chap in the derby hat was waiting on him, or, anyway, that’s how it looked. He’d take a sandwich out of the box and put it on the kid’s plate and then he’d move the mustard nearer and sort of fuss over the table. He wasn’t eating a thing himself. I suppose he ate at second table!”

Guy was a tall fellow of eighteen, a senior and captain of the nine. He was not a handsome youth; rather plain, in fact; but he had so many likable qualities that one soon forgot that his nose was short and broad, that his heavy eyebrows met above it, that his mouth was large and somewhat loose and that his pale eyes, of a washed-out blue, were too small. He had a jolly laugh and a pleasant, deep voice that won friends.

Nick chuckled. “When they got off at the Junction the man got confused and tried to get back on the express again, and your friend stood in the middle of the platform, with his hands in his pockets, and shouted: ‘Bowles, you silly ass, came back here!’ Everyone laughed like the dickens.”

“He’s English,” said Bert dismally.

“Bowles? Rawther!”

“Ordway, too. I asked him. He was born in England; I forget where; is there a place called Pants?”

“Not in England, dear boy,” remonstrated Nick. “It would be Trousers.”

“Hants, you mean,” said Guy. “Somewhere in the south of England.”

“That’s it, Hants. His father is English, he says, and his mother American. They live in Maryland now.”

“Nice-looking chap,” said Guy.

Bert nodded. “Yes,” he agreed doubtfully. “Yes, he’s a nice-looking kid, but——” His voice dwindled to silence. Nick laughed.

“Cheer up, old scout! He can’t be awfully British if he has an American mama and lives in ‘Maryland, my Maryland.’ Bet you the sodas he will be singing ‘Dixie’ when you get back!”

“More likely ‘Rule Britannia’ or ‘God Save the King,’” replied Bert ruefully. After a moment: “He’s got awfully smooth manners,” he added grudgingly. “Makes me feel like a—an Indian.”

“Wish he might have kept Bowles here with him,” said Nick regretfully. “It would have given Lothrop a lot of class!”

“I liked what I saw of him,” said Guy, “and I guess you’ll take to him when you know him better, Bert. Anyway, he’s a gentleman. You might have been saddled with a regular mucker, you know. We get one now and then.”

“Stop looking at me,” said Nick.

“Oh, he’s a gentleman, all right,” laughed Bert. “That’s the trouble. I’ve got to live up to him, don’t you see? I dare say he will put on a dinner jacket and stuff his handkerchief up his sleeve. He makes me feel like an awfully rough, uncivilized sort of fellow.”

“Does he wear a wrist watch?” asked Nick.

“No, he has it on a fob. And, say, fellows, if you want to see some swell things, come up and give his dresser the once-over! Solid silver everything! Crest, too. Oh, we’re going to be pretty classy in 29 this year, I can tell you!” And Bert sighed.

“I’ll have to look up my crest,” observed Nick thoughtfully.

“Your crest!” jeered Bert.

“That’s what I said. I’ve got a peachy one. Dad had someone make it for him and put it on the automobile doors. It was the proper caper that year to have your crest on your auto, and Dad doesn’t let anyone put anything over on him. I told him I thought a cake of soap, rampant, surrounded by the motto, ‘Won’t dry the skin,’ would be rather appropriate, but he didn’t like it. Dad makes soap, you know.”

“Yes, I do know,” replied Guy. “I tried some of it once. And it didn’t dry the skin, either. It took it off.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to wash your hands with laundry soap,” said Nick. “Of course, if you’re used to that sort, though, and don’t know any better——”

“I suppose,” said Guy gravely, “you’ll have to sort of look after Ordway, Bert, now that he hasn’t any valet; lay out his things in the morning, you know, and put his studs in, and all that.”

“Fine!” approved Nick. “Maybe he will give you a tip now and then. Say, did you pipe the gray suede gloves he wore? Think of gloves on a day like this! Still, noblesse oblige, eh, what?”

“I noticed the stunning Norfolk suit he wore,” said Guy. “I’ll bet that wasn’t cut out by any village tailor down in Maryland.”

“Rawther not!” drawled Nick. “I fawncy he goes across every year and gets togged out in Bond Street. What ho, old top!”

“Well, I guess I’ll go back and pilot him down to supper,” said Bert. “Mind if I bring him down here afterwards, Guy? Or, say, you fellows come up, will you? I—I sort of funk the job of talking up to his level all evening!”

“You bet we’ll come,” agreed Nick. “I want to meet him. Something tells me that he and I have a lot of mutual acquaintances amongst royalty in dear old England.”

“Well, don’t come up there and act the fool,” warned Bert. “He’s new yet and not used to our simple, democratic ways.”

“Oh, I won’t shock him,” chuckled Nick. “Nothing like that, dear boy, ’pon honor. You’ll see that he and I will get along like a house on fire. Say, what’s his front name, the one you take hold by?”

“Hugh,” answered Bert from the doorway, “Hugh Brodwick Ordway. Some name, what?”

“Rawther!”

“Cut it,” laughed Guy, “or we’ll all be talking that way! I feel it coming on. We’ll come up after supper, Bert, and help you entertain, although when I’m going to get my things unpacked——”

“I’ll help you, Guy,” Nick volunteered. “I’m a remarkable little unpacker. A misplace for everything and everything misplaced, is my motto. Bye-bye, Bert. Give my love to Broadway—I should say Ordway. Tell him I’ll be around later and cheer him up!”

Hugh Ordway was not, however, singing either ‘Dixie’ or anything else when Bert got back to Number 29. He was sitting at the window, attired principally in a bathrobe, gazing a trifle disconsolately, or so Bert thought, out over the campus. He turned as Bert entered.

“I say, Winslow, what about a bath?” he asked. “Is there a tub on this floor?”

“Yes, but it’s five minutes to supper time, Ordway. You’d better leave it till afterwards.”

The other reflected. “Very well,” he said. “And, another thing.” He hesitated. “Do I put on—er—do I dress, you know?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go down in that thing,” said Bert gravely.

“No, but just regular things, eh? You see, I really don’t know much about American prep schools. I dare say I’ll make an awful ass of myself,” he added ruefully.

“Wear whatever you like. Sweaters are the only things barred. I’ll wait for you and show you the way.”

“Thanks,” was the grateful reply. “That’s decent of you. I won’t be a minute.” He disappeared into the bedroom and, judging from the sounds, managed a very good substitute for that prohibited bath. Still, although he wasn’t back in a minute, Bert didn’t have long to wait. Ordway returned in a blue serge suit and patent leather shoes. He was certainly, thought Bert, a mighty good-looking chap; straight, well formed, with a clear, fair complexion, nice brown eyes and hair of the same color. His nose was a bit aquiline and his chin was at once round and strong looking. Bert, studying him as he paused to make certain that he had placed a handkerchief in his pocket, decided that he was far more American than English in appearance, whatever his character might prove.

Bert moved to the door, while Ordway was securing the missing article of attire, and pulled it open. “All right?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks.”