The telegram despatched, he made his way to a nearby drug store, seated himself on a stool and asked for a peach-and-cream. The freckle-faced, lanky youth behind the counter shook his head sadly. Aint got no peach today. I can give you vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, rasp
I didnt mean syrup. Havent you any fruit? I want a peach-and-cream.
Dont know what that is. Anyway, we aint got it. How about a chocolate sundae with puffed rice? Lots of the fellers call for them.
No, thanks. Myron descended from the stool and went out, more than ever assured of the undesirability of Parkinson School as a place of sojourn. Think of a town where you couldnt get a peach-and-cream! Why, even the smallest shops in Port Foster knew what a peach-and-cream was! He cast contemptuous looks upon the modest stores and places of business along Adams Street, and even the new Burton Block over on the corner of School Street, six stories high and glittering with broad glass windows, only drew a word of derision. Suppose they call that thing a skyscraper, he muttered. Huh! Puffed rice!
Returning, he went through School Street to Washington Avenue. The south side of that shady thoroughfare, called Faculty Row, presented a pleasing vista, in each direction, of neat lawns and venerable elms and glowing beds of flowers. Here and there a sprinkler tossed its spray into the sunlight. Myron had to acknowledge, albeit grudgingly, that Port Foster had nothing prettier to offer. Facing him, across the Avenue, since School Street ended there, was the main gate to the campus, and straight ahead a shady tunnel roofed with closely-set linden trees led the eyes to the gleaming façade of Parkinson Hall, which, unlike the other school buildings, was of light-hued sandstone and was surmounted by an imposing dome. From the gate in front of him two other similar paths led diagonally away, and choosing the right-hand one Myron found grateful relief from the sun. He removed his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with an immaculate handkerchief, and when he had finished returned the handkerchief to his breast pocket very carefully, allowing a corner it happened to be the corner bearing the embroidered monogram to protrude carelessly.
As he neared Sohmer he passed a group of four boys lying on the grass beneath the trees. Their conversation dwindled as he approached, ceased entirely as he came abreast and then went on again subduedly after he had gone by. His former irritation returned. What was there about him to make fellows stare or giggle or smile? Even down town he had noticed it, and now, although he could not hear what was being said behind him, he felt that he was being discussed. He was conscious of being better dressed than any of the boys he had seen yet, there was nothing unusual in his looks so far as he knew and he believed that he carried himself and walked in an ordinary manner. He decided again that they were all a lot of savages or small town gykes. He was glad he was leaving them tomorrow.
Back in Number 17, he found that Dobbins had gone out. In the bedroom that remarkable youths suit of rough red-brown material it was much too heavy for summer wear and reminded Myron somewhat of a horse-blanket that he had worn on his arrival lay carelessly tossed across a bed. It was the bed that Myron had chosen for himself, and he distastefully removed the clothes to the other one. As he did so he looked for the makers tag inside the collar and smiled ironically when he read Bon Ton Brand.
Ready-made, he murmured.
Dobbins had decorated the top of his chiffonier with two photographs and Myron examined them. One was a group picture of four persons; a woman rather thin and angular but with a kind and sweet face, a girl of some fourteen years, awkward and staring, and two younger girls, the littlest perhaps six. All were dressed in their finest and all, at least to Myrons sophisticated sight, were dowdy. He concluded that the persons were Dobbins mother and sisters. The second photograph was a more ambitious affair and showed a man of about forty years. He had a square, much seamed face from which two keen eyes looked straight at the beholder. A funny little patch of beard adorned the chin and above it a wide mouth was drawn severely down at the corners. In the photograph the man looked stern and hard and even cross, Myron thought, but there was something nice about the countenance in spite of that, something suggesting that behind the weathered face were clean thoughts and kindliness.
Thats the Spruce Gum King, he reflected. I guess if he hadnt been scared at the camera hed have looked rather a fine old chap, in spite of the little bunch of whiskers. He looks something like Dobbins, too: same sort of eyes and and same expression about the chin. Only Dobbins is more lazy and good-natured, I guess.
Later, his trunks came there were two of them and he had the expressman set them behind the door, one atop the other. There was no sense in opening them, for his kit-bag provided all he needed for the night. By that time it was nearing the supper hour and there was a rustling in the leaves of the lindens and the air was cooler. He told himself that whether Dobbins ever returned was nothing to him, and yet he found himself listening for the others heavy tread in the corridor. He wondered where Dobbins had gone, and rather resented his absence. The magazine which he had been reading beside the open window ceased to hold his attention and he glanced at his watch. A quarter to six. The supper hour was six oclock. He had looked that up in his copy of the school catalogue. And you ate in Alumni Hall, which, as the plan of the school showed, was the building on the extreme left of the line. Finally Myron stripped to his waist and had a good splurge with soap and water. Some kindly soul had supplied a towel and it wasnt until he was through using it that he saw the inscription Dobbins on one end.
Well, how was I to know? he grumbled. Maybe Id better dig into the trunk and get out a few of my own.
But after supper would do, and just now he was feeling decidedly hungry, and washing up had refreshed him and made life look more pleasant. He hoped there would be something fit to eat, but he didnt expect it. He was getting back into his clothes when the approach of his temporary room-mate was announced from some distance down the hall by the clump-clump of heavy shoes. Dobbins was peculiarly ungentle with doors. He flung them open and didnt care what happened to them afterwards. In the present case the door crashed back against the trunks behind it with a most annoying bang, but Dobbins didnt appear to have heard it. He was strangely attired, was Dobbins, and Myron, one arm in his shirt, gazed in astonishment and for a moment forgot to go on with his dressing.
A faded yellowish-brown jersey with half of the left sleeve missing and the other torn and mended and torn and not mended was surmounted by a canvas football jacket held together down the front with a black shoe-lace and a piece of twine. The jacket was so old and stained that Myron could easily believe it an heirloom, something handed down through generations of football-playing Dobbinses! A pair of rather new khaki pants, woollen stockings of brown twice ringed with light blue that well matched the jersey in condition, and scuffed and scarred football shoes completed the costume. Dobbins hair was every which way and there was more or less dirt on his broad countenance through which the perspiration had flowed in little rivulets with interesting results.
Hello, kiddo! Dobbins greeted jovially. Hows the grouch coming on? Say, theyve got a swell gridiron here; two or three of em, in fact. Wonderful turf. Its a pleasure to fall on it, honest! Hear from your old man yet?
Hello, kiddo! Dobbins greeted jovially. Hows the grouch coming on? Say, theyve got a swell gridiron here; two or three of em, in fact. Wonderful turf. Its a pleasure to fall on it, honest! Hear from your old man yet?
Hardly, replied Myron drily. What have you been doing?
Me? Sweating, son, mostly. Practising football some, too.
Oh! I didnt know you played.
Me? That guy Camp and I wrote the rules! Looks like we had enough fellers to build forty teams. Must have been most a thousand of em over there. Every time I turned around I trod on some one. You didnt go over, eh?
No, I I was busy. Besides, I didnt know they were holding practice today. I supposed theyd start tomorrow.
Been at it three days already, I hear. Got a coach here that looks like he knew his business, Foster. Ever try football?
Ive played some, answered Myron, with a smile that seemed to combine patience and pity. I expect to go out for it when I get settled somewhere.
Still thinking of leaving, are you? Youre going to lose a mighty good school, son. I sure do like this place. Well, Ive got a hunger like a river-boss. Guess Ill get back to store clothes and find the trough. You going now?
Yes, I think so.
Well, tell em to save a little of everything for me. Dobbins voice came muffled from above the basin in the bedroom, and Myron, remembering the towel, hurried out.
CHAPTER IV
MYRON DECIDES TO STAY
At dining hall it appeared that places had not yet been assigned and Myron was conducted to a seat between a large, stout youth who seemed afflicted with asthma and a shy, red-cheeked boy who promptly upset his glass of milk when Myron asked for the biscuits. Rather to his surprise, the food was excellent and plentiful. There were many tables, each seating ten boys, and most of them were filled when Myron reached the hall. There was a good deal of noise, as was natural when nearly four hundred normally healthy boys were being fed. At Myrons table no one appeared to be acquainted with any one else and in consequence there was little conversation. The asthmatic youth wheezily ventured a remark, but Myrons reply was not encouraging and the youth gave all his attention again to dropping bits of biscuit in his stewed pears and salvaging them noisily. Myron was glad when the stout chap, finding nothing else to devour, sighed heavily and left the table. His place was filled again, however, a moment later by a clean-cut fellow of about nineteen years, a good-looking, neatly-dressed boy of what Myron mentally called his own sort. Conversation with him seemed natural and desirable, and Myron broke the ice by offering the biscuits. The newcomer accepted one, said Thanks politely and cast a brief and appraising glance over his neighbour.
Theyre not bad, said Myron.
No, they never are, answered the other. I wonder if you can reach the butter.
Myron could and did. Not up to the biscuits, he offered.
No? What seems to be wrong with it?
Too salty for me.
I see. Well, youd naturally like it fresh.
Myron shot a covert and suspicious glance at the other. It seemed to him that there had been a faint emphasis on the word fresh. Perhaps he had only imagined it, though, for his neighbours expression was quite guileless. He was leisurely buttering a portion of the biscuit and appeared to have forgotten Myrons existence. Myron felt faintly uncomfortable and applied himself silently to his food. Across the board another chair was pushed back and, almost before its occupant was out of it, again taken. Myron observed rather annoyedly that the new occupant of the place was Dobbins. He nodded across and dropped his eyes to his plate. He hoped that Dobbins wouldnt try to converse. Somehow, he didnt want the chap at his right to think him a friend of Dobbins. But Dobbins, after an approving look about the table, did just what Myron had hoped he wouldnt do.
How you making out, Foster? he inquired. Grub meeting your approval?
Yes, thanks, responded Myron coldly.
Thats good. I see you Hello!
Hello, said the boy at Myrons right affably. How do you feel now?
Great! It sure was hot, though. Bet you I dropped five pounds this afternoon. But Ill get it back right now if theyll give me half a chance! Dobbins chuckled and Myrons neighbour smiled responsively. Myron wondered how Dobbins and this chap beside him happened to be so chummy. He wondered still more when, a minute later, his neighbour changed his seat for one just vacated beside Dobbins, and entered into an animated conversation with him. Myron couldnt catch more than an occasional word above the noise of talking and clattering dishes, but he knew that the subject of their discourse was football. He was glad when he had finished his supper and could leave the table.
There was a reception to the new students that evening at the Principals residence, but Myron didnt go. What was the use, when by noon tomorrow he would have shaken the dust of Warne from his shoes and departed for a school where fellows of his station and worth were understood and appreciated? Joe Dobbins, however, attended and didnt get back to the room in Sohmer until nearly ten oclock, by which time Myron had exhausted all the reading matter he could find and, pyjama-clad, was sitting at a window and moodily looking out into the dimly lighted yard. Joe entered in his usual crash-bang manner and breezily skimmed his hat toward the table. It missed the table and went to the floor, where, so far as its owner was concerned, it was allowed to stay. Myron reflected that it wasnt hard to account for the battered condition of that hat.
Heard from your old man yet? asked Joe, dropping into a chair and stretching his long legs across the floor.
Meaning my father? asked Myron stiffly.
Yep. Has he telegraphed?
No, unless hes sent a night message. He might. Sometimes he doesnt get back from the yard until rather late.
Yard? What sort of yard?
Shipyard. He builds boats.
Oh, boatyard, you mean. I know a fellow in Portland has a boatyard. Makes some crackajack sloops.
We build ships, corrected Myron patiently. Battleships, passenger ships, cargo carriers and such. Some of them are whopping big ones: sixteen and eighteen thousand tons.
Gosh! Id like to see that place. I suppose youll be going to work with him when you get through here.
Not exactly. I shall go through college first, of course.
Oh! Well, say, honest injun, Foster, do you think a college course cuts any ice with a fellow? The old man says I can go to a college if I can get in, but I dont know. I wouldnt get through until I was twenty-two or twenty-three, and seems to me thats wasting a lot of time. What do you think?
Depends, I suppose, on on the individual case. If you feel that you want to get to work in the chewing-gum factory and cant afford to go through college
Where do you get that chewing-gum factory stuff? asked Joe.
Why, I thought you said your father made spruce gum.
No, the Lord makes it. The old man gathers it and sells it. Spruce gum is the resin of spruce trees, kiddo.
Oh, said Myron vaguely. Well, I dare say he will need you to help him gather it. In your case, Dobbins, going through college might be wasting time.
Joe laughed.
Whats the joke? asked the other suspiciously.