Captain of the Crew - Ralph Barbour

Ralph Henry Barbour

Captain of the Crew

In this, as in the two preceding volumes of the series The Half-Back and For the Honor of the School an attempt is made to show that athletics rightly indulged in is beneficial to the average boy and is an aid rather than a detriment to study. In it, too, as in the previous books, a plea is made for honesty and simplicity in sports. There is a tendency in this country to-day to give too great an importance to athletics to take it much too seriously and it is this tendency that should be guarded against, especially among school and college youths. When athletics ceases to be a pleasure and becomes a pursuit it should no longer have a place in school or college life.

Many inquiries have been received as to whether Hillton Academy really exists. It doesnt. It is, instead, a composite of several schools that the author knows of, and is not unlike any one of a half dozen institutions which are yearly turning out hundreds of honest, manly American boys, stronger, sturdier, and more self-reliant for just such trials and struggles as in the present volume fall to the lot of Dick Hope.

To those readers who have followed the varying fortunes of Joel March, Outfield West, Wayne Gordon, and their companions, this book is gratefully dedicated by

Philadelphia, June 19, 1901.

CHAPTER I

THE BOY ON THE BOX

Hillton! Hillton!

The brakeman winked solemnly at the group of boys in the end seats, withdrew his head, slammed the door and crossed the swaying platforms to make a similar announcement to the occupants of the car ahead. From the left side of the train passengers caught a glimpse of a broad expanse of meadow upon which tiny flecks of red flared dully in the winter sunshine; of a distant grand stand, bleak and desolate, against whose northern shoulder a drift of snow snuggled as though seeking protection from its enemy the sun; of two pairs of goal-posts gravely watching each other from opposite ends of a long field; of a bit of country road, a slowly rising hill, a little army of leafless elms, and, last of all, crowning a promontory below which the frozen Hudson sparkled, a group of old red brick buildings, elbowing each other with friendly rivalry in an endeavor to gain the post of honor and to be first seen of the outside world that traveled by train. That was Hillton Academy.

There was a long warning shriek from the engine, echoed back by the wooded slope of Mount Adam; a momentary reverberating roar as the train crossed the little viaduct; the whistle of air brakes; and then, as the train came to a stop, a babel of boys voices. Some twenty youths of assorted ages and sizes, laden with every description of luggage, from golf bags and valises down to boxes of figs and caramels purchased from the train-boy and still uneaten, pushed and scrambled their way to the station platform. The last trunk was slid from the baggage car, and the conductor, portly and jovial, sang All aboard! and waved a smiling good-by to the boys.

Good-by, Pop! See you later! Dont forget that anti-fat, Pop! And then, when the train had gained speed, a slim junior danced along the platform waving a bit of pasteboard exultingly under the conductors nose and just out of his reach: Hey, Pop! You didnt get my ticket! Stop the train! Stop the train! An old joke this, that never failed of applause. The conductor shook his fist in simulated wrath, and the next instant, with a farewell shriek of the whistle, the train was lost to sight.

Beside the platform waited the coach, from the box of which Old Joe, the driver, smiled a toothless welcome. Each year held three red-letter days for Old Joe, namely, the days preceding the commencement of the three school terms, when the students, refreshed by recess or vacation, returned in merry troops to Hillton noisy, mischievous, vexing, but ever admirable to the old stage-driver and taxed the capacity of the coach to the utmost, and Old Joes patience to the limit. This was the first of the red-letter days of the present year, which was as yet but forty-eight hours old, and all day long the boys who had been so fortunate as to return to their homes for the Christmas recess had been piling from the trains to the stage and from the stage to the steps of Academy Building. And Old Joe, who loved the excitement of it all, and worshiped everything, animate or inanimate, that belonged to Hillton, was in his glory.

Now, then, you young terrors, get aboard here. Cant wait all afternoon for you. This aint no commodating train, and

Hello, Joe, old chap; hows your appetite? Still able to sit up and take your meals, Joe? Say, fellows, Old Joes looking younger every day. Give me a hand up, Joe, and Ill show you how to drive those old plugs of yours. Please, Joe, you said I could sit on the box with you this trip, dont you remember?

Have to be next time, youngster; seats full aready. How do, Mister Hope? Scramble out o here, sir, an give Mister Hope your seat. Oh, is that you, Mister Nesbitt? Well

No, Ill sit back here, answered the boy addressed as Hope. I can jump off quicker when we upset.

Hark to that, growled the driver in pretended anger; an me forty-two years on this road an never no accident yet. All aboard there! No, ye dont, sir; no more room atop. Trunksll go up next trip, sir. All right now. Tlk! Get ap!

The two stout grays, known popularly as Spring Halt and Spavin, settled into their collars, and the big stage, swaying comfortably on its leather springs, lumbered around the corner into Station Road. From the interior of the coach, where twelve youths had managed to pack themselves into a space designed to hold but nine, floated out a wild medley of shouts and laughter. On top, two boys had secured the much-coveted places beside the driver, while on the seat behind three others were perched. When the little stone station had been left the boy who occupied the other end of the drivers seat, and whom Old Joe had called Mister Nesbitt, leaned across the intervening youth and addressed the driver:

Now, Joe, lets have the lines, old chap, and Ill show you a bit of fancy driving thatll open your eyes. Come now, like a nice old Joe.

Now, dont be askin for the reins, Mister Nesbitt, sir. You know its agin the rules for the boys to drive.

What! Oh, rot, Joe! I never heard of such a rule. Did you, Williams?

Never, replied the third occupant of the box. Joe dreamed it.

Of course you did, Joe. Come on, now; just let me have them to the corner there. Dont be a duffer, man. Why, I can drive a pair bang up. Old Joe cast a deeply suspicious glance at the youth and was lost. Trevor Nesbitt assumed a look of angelic innocence and sweetness and pleaded so eloquently with his blue eyes that the driver grudgingly relinquished the lines.

Mind ye now, Mister Nesbitt, just to the corner you said.

Meaning around it, Joe, of course, replied Nesbitt as he adjusted the lines knowingly between his gloved fingers. Come, Spavin, cheer up, old laddie! Williams, who had been holding the long-lashed whip, now handed it to Nesbitt, who sent the lash swirling over his head, and with a quick movement snapped it loudly a few inches from Spavins head. The result was instantaneous. The off horse snorted loudly and leaped forward, and the other followed suit. Old Joe snatched at the reins, but Nesbitt held them out of reach.

Dont whip em, sir, cried the old man, please dont whip em; they aint used to it, sir. Nesbitt laughed gaily.

Dont you worry, Joe, Ill not hurt them. But we cant put on side, old chap, unless we just touch them up a bit.

Crack went the long lash again.

For several years the grays had traveled the road from station to school and thence to the Eagle Tavern without other persuasion than a cheery chirp or a sharp whistle from Old Joe, or, upon rare occasions, a half-hearted snap of the whip in no startling proximity to their ears. To-day there was plainly something wrong, and so, after a moment of bewildered consideration, they broke into a long ungainly gallop, to the joy of the boy with the reins and to the terror of Old Joe.

By Jove, Williams, this is something like, eh? Nesbitt sat up straight on the seat, tightened the lines and grinned delightedly at his companion. Old Joe was pleading excitedly for the whip.

Please, sir, give me the whip now. Im afeared for you to have it. You might hit em, sir, accidental, an theres no telling what theyd do. Mister Williams, sir, just you hand it to me. Stop him! But he had spoken too late. Nesbitt brought the lash down smartly on the broad back of the off horse, and the gallop changed to a plunging run, the coach swaying awkwardly from side to side. Old Joe reached forward desperately to wrest the lines from the boy, but Williams interfered.

Hands off, Joe, cried Nesbitt, or youll have us over. Keep him quiet, Williams.

From inside the stage came a babel of shouts, the exclamations of alarm half drowned by the noise of the beating hoofs and the protesting creaks of the leather springs. The horses with heads down, frightened at length by the unwonted use of the whip, galloped madly. Nesbitt, smiling and cool, sat straight and handled the lines with skill, which at any other time would have won loud commendation from Old Joe. But just at present that worthy was too terrorized to appreciate aught but the fact that the grays were apparently running away. He had a frightful vision of an overturned coach, of mangled bodies, and of everlasting disgrace. Yet he recognized the fact that to take the lines away from Nesbitt by force, even had such a thing been possible, would be the surest way to bring about the very catastrophe he dreaded. And then he glanced ahead down the frozen road and saw the sharp turn but a short distance away.

The three youths on the seat behind had been watching affairs at first with amusement and now with apprehension. The boy in the center frowned and turned to one of his companions.

Who is that chap? he asked in a low voice.

What! dont you know Is Ighness?

His Highness? No, I dont. Who is he; one of our class?

No; hes an upper middle chap; Trevor Nesbitts his real name. The fellows call him Is Ighness because hes English. Hes a good sort, all right, but I wish hed let driving alone.

So do I, responded the boy at the other end of the seat, but a note of admiration creeping into his dubious tones he knows how, all right!

But, I say, Hope, cried the previous speaker, look there; weve got to go around that corner! Lets say our prayers. Hopes brows contracted as he glanced ahead; then he slid from the seat, rested himself on his knee, clinging tightly the while, and leaned over the back of the seat ahead.

Look here, can you get them around that turn?

Whos that, Williams? asked Nesbitt without looking around.

Dick Hope; he wants to know

Tell him to shut up and sit down, Williams, interrupted Nesbitt calmly. Hope flushed angrily, but said no more, crouching in his place between the seats with an idea of lending a hand in case of disaster, although in just what way he could be of use was far from clear. Nesbitt raised to his feet, propping himself firmly, the reins tight wrapped about his hands.

Hold tight all, he warned, and bear to the right!

With the turn but a few yards away he brought his weight to bear on the lines, swaying from side to side with the lurching coach, settling farther and farther back as the horses lowered their heads to the command of the tugging bits. Hope thought of Old Joe at that moment, and glanced across at him. The stage-driver was silent now, his cheeks white, his face drawn. Williams, too, was pale, and his rigid attitude told more plainly than words that the fun had ceased for him. Nesbitt alone of the three occupants of the box appeared at ease. Hope could see the warm color playing on his cheek, and

Easy, boys, easy! Nesbitt called slowly, soothingly to the horses, and then Well, Hope was clutching desperately at the boards in the grating; he saw the backs of the straining animals turn at an angle to the stage, heard the great wheels slur-r-r across the frozen ground, felt the body of the coach sway far to the left, as though it were on its way across the fence at that side, and opened his eyes again to find a straight road ahead of them, and to see Nesbitt settle himself into his seat once more. Old Joe muttered an exclamation of relief. Hope again leaned across Nesbitts shoulder.

I think youve shown off enough for to-day, he said. Now pull those horses down if you can.

Nesbitt glanced back into the others face, an angry light in his blue eyes.

Will you kindly attend to your own affairs? he asked with suspicious sweetness. Hope smiled in spite of his anger.

If you dont think its my affair, he replied, maybe youll acknowledge that the gentlemen ahead have something to say about it. Nesbitt looked up the road and whistled.

Just my bally luck! he murmured. Professors! With straining arms he bore back on the lines. Little by little the horses slackened speed, and at last dropped into a trot, but not before the coach had swept by two very serious-faced Hillton professors out for a walk, whose sharp glances presaged trouble. Nesbitt handed over the lines and whip to Old Joe.

My luck again, he sighed.

An serves you right, grunted the driver.

Hope crawled into his seat again. His companions were busy explaining the course of events to the inhabitants of the interior of the coach, or as many of them as could get their heads out the doors, and ere the latter had run out of questions the stage turned into the academy grounds and crawled sedately up to the steps of Academy Building.

Hope leaped from the coach and hurried off to his room, while the other boys, laughing and joking, clustered about Nesbitt. Wheels wont do a thing to you, one lad assured him with a grin.

Well, dont let it trouble you, Tommy, he answered gaily. But, I say, Williams, who was that meddlesome chap on the back seat?

It was Williamss turn to grin.

The fellow you told to shut up, you mean? Nesbitt nodded.

Oh, no one much; just Dick Hope, captain of the crew.

CHAPTER II

INTRODUCING DICK HOPE

The sun was almost out of sight as Dick Hope crossed the yard toward Masters Hall, and the shadows of the buildings, stretching far over the ground, seemed to harbor many little gusts of icy wind, and looked dark and dismal in contrast with the broad expanse of golden, sun-bathed marsh across the river. Dick pulled his coat closer about him, ran up the old, worn granite steps of the dormitory, and gained the hallway with a sense of comfort and homecoming.