Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу автора  For the Honor of the School: A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport

Ralph Henry Barbour

Ralph Henry Barbour
For the Honor of the School: A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport

TO THAT SCHOOL,

WHEREVER IT MAY BE,

WHOSE ATHLETICS ARE PUREST,

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

CHAPTER I
THE CROSS-COUNTRY RACE

“This way, Hillton!”

In response ten boys dressed in white shirts bearing the crimson H, white running pants, and spiked shoes disentangled themselves from the crowd about the dressing-room door and assembled at the corner of the grand stand. The youth who had uttered the command was the captain of the Hillton Academy Cross-country Team, and, with the runners clustered close about him, he gave his last instructions before the race in low and earnest tones:

“Fellows, we must win this, you know. It’s going to be hard work; House and Beaming, of St. Eustace, are difficult men to beat, but I think we can do it. Northrop and I will try to attend to them. The rest of you must try your best for the next places. I don’t believe there is a dangerous runner in Shrewsburg’s team; at all events, there aren’t four. If they get less than four in ahead of us it won’t matter. Save yourselves for the last three quarters of a mile, and don’t try to leap the ‘combination jump’ or the ‘Liverpool’; get over by the side railings or run up the braces, as you’ve done in practice. It’s not style over the obstacles that’s going to win this race, but good hard running and lots of wind at the end. Keep your strength till you need it most. Don’t try to get ahead at the start; let the other fellow make the pace. And right now, while I think of it, do try not to take off too soon at the water jump. Moore, you try to remember about that, will you? And be sure before you start that your shoes are all right; it’s mighty tough work running with a scraped heel, I can tell you. That’s all; only keep yourselves moving, fellows, until the line-up.”

In obedience to the warning, shoes were looked after again and the cotton wool stuffed carefully between them and the ankles to preclude chafing, and the boys limbered up their legs and kept the blood circulating by stepping gingerly about the track on their toes – for all the world like a band of Indians performing a war dance. Presently the dressing-room door was flung open and twenty other boys trotted out and followed the example of the Hillton team. Of the twenty, ten bore on their sleeveless shirts the blue monogram of St. Eustace and ten the great green S of Shrewsburg High School. The distance judges had already taken themselves off to their posts of duty about the course, and the other officials were gathered in consultation at the starting line.

It was a bleak and cheerless Saturday afternoon. Overhead leaden clouds hung low, and the fluttering red flags that marked the course of the coming contest alone lent color to the gray November landscape.

“Smells like snow, Wayne,” said the Hillton captain to a runner who stood – or rather danced – beside him. “I hope it won’t. The ground’s slippery enough now.”

“Rather wish it would, myself,” was the reply. “If I could get decently stuck in a snow bank I’d like it a heap better than finishing last in the race.”

“You won’t do that, you know. Lots of those Shrewsburg chaps are slow men. I wish I was as certain that we’d win the race as I am that you’ll finish well.”

“Well, I’ll do my best, Don, but you mustn’t expect too much,” said the other boy anxiously. “I wouldn’t have gone into it if you hadn’t said that it didn’t much matter whether I came in first or last.”

“And it doesn’t; but I am certain, Wayne, that if you try you can finish well up in the bunch. I think you’ve got the making of a good runner. Of course, three weeks of training – that is, the kind of training you’ve done” – the other lad grinned – “doesn’t amount to a great deal when it comes to a four-mile race. After the first round pick some St. Eustace fellow and stick to him; you’ll be surprised to find how much better it goes if some one is making pace for you. By Jove! I do hope we can win to-day! This is your first term, Wayne, and of course you don’t know how the fellows feel about it; but I tell you we’d rather down St. Eustace than – than eat!”

“They won last year, didn’t they?”

“St. Eustace? Yes, that chap Beaming over there, the little chap that looks like a fox terrier, came in first and won the individual championship. Then House finished next about three yards behind, and I got in ten yards or so back of House. Then they got two more men in before another Hillton runner was in sight. Oh, it was a regular walk-over, Wayne. Come on, they’re ready.”

And Donald Cunningham and Wayne Gordon hurried to the starting line. The former was a tall, lithe youth with not an ounce of superfluous flesh over the firm muscles. The pink hue of his bare arms and legs told of perfect physical condition and his thin face showed energy and resolution. His dark eyes – rather thoughtful eyes they were – had a habit of looking very straight at you as he spoke, and lent an expression of serious dignity to the countenance.

His companion was in appearance and temperament a notable contrast. While scarcely an inch shorter than the captain of the Cross-country Team, Wayne Gordon, by reason of much unnecessary flesh, appeared lower in stature, and lacked the fitness that comes of rigorous training. His muscles, despite some spasmodic practice for the day’s event, were still soft. While Donald’s face showed energy, Wayne’s told of careless good humor and, especially about the lower part, of pertinacity which might under certain conditions develop into stubbornness. The eyes were brown, frank, and honest, and at this moment were gazing before him in smiling tensity.

The starter had cocked his pistol and the referee was warning the runners as to the penalty for starting before the signal. The onlookers, fully two hundred of them in all, were assembled along both sides of the cinder track, and were adding their voices to the referee’s, to the total overwhelming of the latter. The runners were formed in two lines across the track, their shoe spikes griping the earth and their bodies poised forward.

“Has every one got his number?” asked the referee. “Remember, the judges can’t register you if they don’t see your numbers.”

Several fluttering papers were repinned to the white shirts and the starter raised his voice.

“Are you ready?” A moment’s silence ensued.

Bang! The pistol cracked sharply and the runners swept in a bunch around the corner of the cinder track, gained the turf, and headed toward where the red flags indicated the first obstacle.

Of these obstacles the course held six, as follows: A “Liverpool,” a “combination,” two hedge jumps, a bank jump, and a water jump. The first consisted of a four-foot dry ditch in front of a five-foot rail fence, followed, in turn, by a broad and high hedge. The “combination” consisted of a low bank surmounted by a two-foot hedge and followed by a four-foot dry ditch. The hedge jumps differed only in height, the first being three feet and the second three feet six inches. The bank jump was four feet high. All these were comparatively easy of surmountal in comparison with the water jump. The hedges and bank might be scrambled over, the “combination” could be fallen over – one didn’t mind a few bruises – and the “Liverpool” could be climbed over or surmounted by means of the fences on either side or the stays which held up the rails. But the water jump defied every method save a long, clean jump. An eighteen-inch hedge was constructed on the bank of a brook that came under the railway track and crossed the golf course to the lake. The brook was here eight feet broad and several feet deep in the middle, and constituted a very pretty obstacle in the way of a youth tired out by a one- or two-mile run and the conquest of all the lesser obstacles. Only on the last round of the course was the water jump omitted.

The distance to be run was four miles, or three times around the course. Starting at the grand stand on the campus the red flags guided the runners across the end of the golf links near Home Hole, then bore away south along the bank of the Hudson River, crossing the brook over the little rustic bridge, and taking the railroad track at a right angle between Railroad Bunker and Academy Hole. With a short turn the course then swept back across the railway again to the water jump, High and Track Bunkers, the campus, the grand stand, and the yelling groups of spectators.

The plan of the course here reproduced was made by Donald Cunningham for the use of the Cross-country Team, and will, perhaps, aid the reader to a better understanding of what follows. Paddy cast aspersions on this effort, but Don was always very proud of it.

Each competing school entered a team of ten boys. Points were apportioned according to the position of the runners at the finish: thus, the first one completing the three rounds of the course scored one; the second, two; the third, three; and so on down to the last, only the leading four in each team being considered. Besides a prize for the winning team, a silver cup, the first runner in was awarded the individual trophy, a bronze medal. Cross-country running requires speed, strength, endurance, and pluck – especially pluck. The course presents an infinite variety of surface: slippery turf, loose gravel, mud, and sometimes sand in which the feet sink to the ankles. Unlike the ordinary running surface, the cross-country course delights in inequality: a level width of turf is followed by a sharp rise; a stretch of muddy road by a gully whose steep sides require the utmost exertion from the panting runner.

The course at Hillton was no exception; in fact, it was more than usually severe. Besides the artificial obstacles – such as the hedges, the bank, and the water jump – the railroad track, fenced on either side, and three golf bunkers added their terrors to the race. To-day the ground, which had been frozen hard the week before, was soft and treacherous from the noonday thaw, and even spiked shoes found slow and difficult going.

Six hundred yards from the start the field of runners had spread out into three divisions. Fifty yards ahead House and Beaming, the two St. Eustace cracks, led Donald Cunningham by a stride, while close upon their heels ran Moore, of Hillton, and two Shrewsburg boys. Back of them came a little group of a dozen whose shirts showed the crimson H, the blue monogram, and the green S in about equal proportions. Farther to the rear the rest of the thirty struggled and straggled along the course, already practically out of the race so far as their effect on the final score was concerned. At the “Liverpool” the St. Eustace leaders took the ditch at a bound, gained the top of the fence, balanced themselves a second, and cleared the hedge. The Hillton captain and Moore used other tactics. Without lessening his speed each planted one spiked toe on a brace that helped to support the fence, gained the top bar in two strides, and cleared the hedge. The Shrewsburg runners tried neither of these styles, but climbed the fence, squirmed across the hedge, and dropped helter-skelter to the ground, to find themselves farther behind the four leaders. As each runner surmounted the “Liverpool” the distance judges stationed there registered his number.

From the grand stand every foot of the far-stretching course was plainly in sight, and now the first men looked like white specks as they took the turn, scrambled over the second hedge jump, and headed toward home. Many of the watchers deserted the finish line and clustered about the water jump, loudly expressing the hope that some one would “take a bath.” They climbed on to the fences that led up to the obstacle and waited impatiently for the runners to appear. Suddenly two white-clad figures were for a moment seen sharply against the gray of the hills as they took the railroad track in a bound; then they were climbing the fence and speeding toward the watchers. Simultaneously three others came into view, followed a moment later by a fourth.

“Cunningham’s closed up!” cried the Hillton supporters joyfully. “House has dropped back!”

The two captains of the rival teams bore down on the jump, their faces flushed with exertion, but their legs moving gracefully as they put yard after yard behind them. Neither Beaming nor Cunningham slowed down perceptibly at the hedge; each found the take-off at the same moment and swept cleanly over the water side by side amid the plaudits of the spectators. House, Moore, and a Shrewsburg lad followed in the next minute, gained their applause, and went on to the grand stand a dozen yards behind the leaders. A second Shrewsburg runner, plainly in distress, lessened his pace at the water jump, took off too soon, and landed knee-deep on the muddy margin of the brook. But he was out in a moment and gained a hearty cheer by the spirited spurt he made after the others.

Then the watchers had a moment of waiting ere the next group of runners reached them. They came pouring over the railroad track and fence by ones and twos, helter-skelter, with a St. Eustace man a bare yard to the good and a Hillton runner, Northrop, trying hard to reach him. Over the hedge and water they went – the St. Eustace man, Northrop, a Shrewsburg runner, another wearer of the blue monogram, and another Shrewsburg boy – all clearing the difficult jump in good style save the latter, who plumped squarely into the middle of the brook, and so delighted the watching lads that many of them fell from the fences in sheer joy. Wayne Gordon came next and received a shower of spray in his face as he cleared the brook and sped onward. A St. Eustace boy followed the example of the unfortunate Shrewsburg chap, and when the rest of the bunch had passed the two crawled out and took up the running once more with disgusted looks and spiritless gait.

By this time the leaders had reached a point across the field and halfway around the second lap. Donald Cunningham and Beaming, of St. Eustace, still fought for first place, and House had left his Shrewsburg rival behind and was close upon their heels, Moore, of Hillton, a few paces off. Shrewsburg seemed out of the race. Her first two men were now but a yard ahead of the leaders in the second group, one still running easily and well, the other laboring at every stride. Northrop managed to come up to the third St. Eustace runner at the “combination jump,” and by superior work over the obstacle drew several yards ahead. Wayne Gordon moved up to the front rank of the followers, and the race momentarily gained in interest to the spectators.

Again the leaders made the turn at the far end of the course and headed back toward the water jump, overtaking several of the slower runners who were still struggling on their first round. Cunningham, Beaming, and House were practically side by side as they approached the jump, and the cheers from the onlookers increased in volume. Beaming spurted and took the leap in exhibition style, and Cunningham and House took off almost ere he had set foot to earth. The latter landed well and sped on, but the former, to the consternation of the Hillton throng, while he cleared the water, stumbled on the bank and dropped to his knees. In an instant he had gained his feet and taken up the race again, but his first stride proved to the dismayed supporters of the crimson that he was out of the running. One – two – three steps he took; then he swerved to the side of the course, and would have fallen but for the ready arms that were stretched toward him. He struggled from them.

“Let go, fellows,” he panted. “I’m all right; just – turned my ankle.”

The boys drew back and he started on, limping woefully. A dozen yards he traversed ere he gave up and threw himself on the turf. A lad in disreputable football attire was the first to reach him.

“What’s the matter, Don? Are you hurt?” he cried anxiously.

There was no answer, and he leaned down and drew a bare arm from before a face whereon the tears were trickling.

“Keep the fellows away, Paddy,” whispered Don huskily. “I’ll – be all right – in a minute. I – I – my ankle’s sprained, I guess; I can’t run – a step; and – and, oh, Paddy, we’ve lost the race!”

CHAPTER II
WHAT A LAUGH DID

A few minutes later Don was sitting in a corner of the grand stand, smothered in a pile of blankets and with his injured ankle bound in wet bandages. Beside him were two boys of about his own age, one of whom, the lad whom he had addressed as Paddy, was solicitously slopping cold water from a tin can over his ankle at frequent intervals. Nothing serious, Professor Beck had decided, only a strained tendon; and so Don had been helped to his present position, from where he could watch the race run out. He looked pale and woe-begone; but he managed to smile now and then in answer to Paddy’s sallies.

“Paddy” Breen – his real name was Charles – had been given his nickname two years before, when he was a little red-headed junior too small to resent it had he been so inclined. Paddy’s forbears had been Irish a generation or two back, and although there was little about the boy to suggest the fact, barring his red hair and gray eyes and sunny nature, the name was somehow distinctly appropriate, and it had stuck to him through his junior and lower middle years and promised to stick forever. Paddy played center on the first eleven, a position for which his broad shoulders and hips and great strength eminently fitted him. To-day he was attired in a faded and torn red sweater, a pair of equally disreputable moleskin trousers, two red and black striped stockings whose appearance told a story of many battles, a pair of badly scuffed tan shoes, and a golf cap of such bold and striking tones of brown, green, and scarlet as to stamp it at once as brand-new.

The lad who sat on the other side of Don was of even more generous build than Paddy Breen. Dave Merton’s shoulders were broad and set well back, giving him a look of great power. He was, perhaps, the least bit overgrown for his seventeen years, for he topped Paddy by an inch and Don by two. But he looked very healthy and happy, and was as good-natured a fellow as any at the Academy. His hair was black and his eyes dark, giving him a more somber coloring than his bosom companion, Paddy, but, like the latter, he preferred smiling to frowning. Dave had two great ambitions in life at present – namely, to throw the hammer farther than any other Hilltonian and to excel at study. The latter seemed quite within the range of possibility, but as for Dave’s hammer throwing it was a school joke at which even Dave could laugh. Paddy Breen was a brilliant pupil; Dave Merton a hard-working one. Paddy was an excellent football player; Dave an indifferent performer with the weights. Both were leaders in their classes – Dave was a senior – and popular throughout the school. Their friendship was as much a joke as Dave’s hammer throwing and the two were inseparable.

“Beaten?” Paddy was saying scornfully. “Never, me boy. Sure ’tis only beginning we are; just wait till we git our breath!” Paddy, as though to lend indorsement to his nickname, at times dropped into a brogue acquired with great labor from such classics as Charles O’Malley and Tom Burke.

“I only wish we had begun earlier in the race, Paddy,” answered Don hopelessly. “Who is ahead in the bunch there, Dave – can you make out?”

The leaders, House and Beaming, were now far up the course and the next group of runners were some distance behind. Farther back of them other contestants straggled. Two runners were out of the race. A Shrewsburg boy had given up on the second round and was philosophically watching the contest from the top of a distant bank, and a Hillton fellow, Turner, had gone to the dressing room suffering with an attack of cramp. In answer to Don’s question Dave studied the distant runners for a space in silence.

“Well, that’s Northrop in the lead all right, Don, and the next two fellows are St. Eustace men. Then Moore and a Shrewsburg chap, and another St. Eustace man, and – and one of our team – I can’t make out who.” Dave looked frowningly across the field.

“Which one?” asked Paddy. “The fellow with the long legs just taking the hedge? Why, man, that’s Wayne, of course; no mistaking him.”

“So it is,” answered Don. “He’s doing well. It would be queer if he managed to keep his present place and got in third, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, he won’t,” said Dave, “for Jones has passed him. Good old Jones! Just look at him spurt!”

“Those two men just behind Northrop are Keller and Gould, of St. Eustace,” said Don. “Well, I guess we’re dished. House and Beaming are sure of first and second place; Northrop ought to get third; then either Gould or Keller is pretty certain to finish ahead of Moore – perhaps both will; that would make the score something like twelve to twenty-four, supposing we got three men in after Keller and Gould.”

“There’s a good half mile to cover yet, my lad,” said Paddy cheerfully. “There’s lots may happen in that distance. Look there; those fellows are changing all around. And, by Jove, fellows, look at Beaming!”

Beaming was dropping back and House was alone at the turn of the course. And some one – it seemed as though it must be Northrop, of Hillton – was closing up the long gap between the leaders and the next group at a fabulous pace. And even as the three boys on the grand stand strained their sight a second runner left the group as though it were standing still and shot after Northrop – if it was Northrop. The runners were too far off to allow of the watchers being certain as to their identity, but a look of hope crept into Don’s face. There seemed nothing to do save wait until the runners appeared at the railroad a third of a mile away, until Paddy spied a pair of field glasses in the hands of a boy in the throng below and unceremoniously gained possession of them. He passed them to Don, and the latter, leaning for support on Dave and Paddy, swept the course with them.

“Northrop’s ahead of Beaming!” he cried. “And Jones is almost up to him! House is leading by forty yards or more! A Shrewsburg fellow is running even with Keller and Gould! Paddy, we’ve still got a show!”

“Where’s Wayne?” asked Dave.

“And Jones?” asked Paddy.

“Wayne? I – can’t – see him. Hold on; yes, there he is! He’s at the back of the bunch; a Shrewsburg fellow’s passing him hand over fist. Jones is gaining, Paddy; he’s creeping up. There they go over the bank jump. Some fellow’s done up – it’s Keller; Jones has passed him.” Don excitedly turned his glasses toward a point nearer home. “House still leads and is spurting, hang him! Northrop’s fifty yards behind him, and Beaming – no, fellows, it’s Moore! Moore’s in third place!”

“What?” cried Dave. “What’s up with Beaming?”

“Don’t know; he looks tuckered. Hello!”

“What is it, Don? Talk out; don’t be so plaguey slow!”

“A Shrewsburg chap has gained fifth place and looks as though he were going to beat Beaming in the next twenty yards. What do you think of that? Jones and Wayne are both gaining. By Jove, fellows, we may get it yet! Let’s go down to the finish; help me down, Dave.”

“If only Jones and Wayne can last,” said Paddy, “we could win, couldn’t we? But Wayne – ” Paddy shook his head as they descended from the stand and went toward the finish line. “Do you think he can hold out, Don?”

Don shook his head dubiously.

At that moment Wayne was wondering the same thing. He had surprised himself by staying in the race up to the present moment. He had entered the contest only to oblige Don. “I don’t ask you to hurt yourself,” the latter had explained. “Drop out when you are tired. It will be good practice and will save us from entering with only nine fellows.” So Wayne had laughingly consented. As he had passed runner after runner in the first two rounds of the course he had begun to ask himself what it meant. Don had told him that he had the making of a good long-distance man, but he hadn’t given much heed to the statement; apparently Don was right. After the first mile he had begun to suffer a little, and now, with the race almost over, he would like to have dropped out and spent about ten minutes lying on his back, but it seemed a poor thing to give up so near the end, and so he found himself still pounding away, with his legs very stiff and his breath apparently about to fail him at every effort. He realized that the ground had become softer and more slippery and that snow was falling. Then he crossed the track and struggled on toward the next obstacle, a three-and-a-half-foot hedge.

Wayne hated the hedges. He was too heavy to hurdle them well, and he invariably jumped short and lost precious time getting his feet untangled. Luckily he was done with that nightmare the water jump, since on the last round it was avoided and the course led over the brook by the railroad and thence straight down to the finish. As he approached the hedge Wayne drew himself together for a last effort, and at the take-off put all his strength into the leap. But unfortunately the turf was bare at that spot and his foot slipped as he jumped.

“Thank goodness!” he thought, when he had stopped rolling. “Now I can lie here decently until the whole thing’s over with!”

But his sensation of joyous relief was rudely dispelled. Over the hedge leaped a boy with a blue monogram on his shirt, who, as he caught sight of Wayne’s predicament, grinned broadly. In a trice Wayne had struggled to his feet and had taken up the chase race again, rage in his heart.

“He laughed at me, hang him!” he panted. “I’ll just beat him out if I die for it!”

The St. Eustace boy was several yards ahead already, but Wayne threw back his head and ran desperately. A roar of voices from down the field told him that the first man had finished. He put every ounce of strength into the struggle, thinking nothing of who was winning, only determined to beat the chap who had laughed at him. And as he crossed the railroad the knowledge that he was gaining on the St. Eustace runner brought joy to his heart.

Down at the finish line the air was filled with the cheers of the St. Eustace supporters, who, though few in number, were strong of voice. House had finished first and captured the individual championship and prize. And now, almost side by side, and struggling valiantly for second place, came the two Hillton men, Northrop and Moore, and the wearers of the crimson went wild with joy and shouted until both runners had crossed the line, Northrop in the lead, and had been led away to the dressing room.

Don was busy with pencil and paper now, while Paddy looked over his shoulder and Dave scowled up the course and waited impatiently for the next runner to swing into sight around the corner of the little knoll that hid the railroad track from the finish line. Then two white figures broke into view almost simultaneously.

“A Shrewsburg fellow and a St. Eustace fellow!” cried Dave. “I think the last is Beaming. Yes, it is!”

The runner with the green S won the line a good three yards ahead of the almost breathless Beaming, and a little group of Shrewsburg High School fellows broke into applause. Beaming had to be well-nigh carried from the course, although protesting faintly that he could walk.

Don’s paper now held the following figures:

“Two men each and we’re one figure ahead,” whispered Don. “There’s some one, Dave – three fellows. Who are they?”

“St. Eustace fellow ahead,” answered Dave.

“It’s Gould!” cried a voice from near by, and the supporters of the down-river academy cheered wildly.

“Hurrah!” yelled Paddy. “Erin go bragh! There’s good old Jones! And a Shrewsburg fellow hot after him.”

Don tried to jump, but found he couldn’t because of his strained ankle and contented himself with a hair-raising yell. Then he added a 6 to the St. Eustace score, an 8 to that of Shrewsburg, and a 7 to Hillton’s row of figures. For Gould, Jones, and the Shrewsburg runner crossed the line in the order given amid the cheers of the three rival contingents.

“It’s a tie so far,” shouted Paddy, as he added up the few figures. “St. Eustace has twelve points, Dave, and so have we. By Jove! it all depends on the next man, Don, doesn’t it? Can you see any one, Dave?”

“No one in sight yet. Let’s hope the first will be a Hillton chap, fellows. But even if it isn’t the score’s bound to be close. Wonder what’s become of ‘Old Virginia’?”

That was a nickname that Paddy had bestowed upon Wayne Gordon in allusion to the latter’s native State.

“I’m afraid Wayne’s dropped out of it,” answered Don, with a tremble in his voice, “but still – ”

“St. Eustace wins!”

Half a dozen voices took up the cry as a fleet-footed runner whose breast bore the blue monogram came quickly into sight. The three boys groaned in unison. St. Eustace’s fourth man was speeding toward the finish.

“Done for,” whispered Dave.

“Wait a bit!” cried Paddy. “There’s two of them there. Who’s the second chap?”

Paddy was right. Directly behind the St. Eustace runner sped a second youth, so close that he seemed to be treading upon the former’s heels.

“It’s one of our fellows, Don!” cried Dave.

“I don’t think so. I – oh, why doesn’t he come out so that we can see!”

“I’m afraid it’s another Shrewsburg chump,” said Paddy dolefully. “Oh, hang the luck, anyhow!”

“Wait!” cried Don. “He’s coming out! There – there he comes! He’s trying to pass, and – and – ”

“It’s Wayne!” cried Dave and Paddy in unison.

And Wayne it was. Slowly, doggedly, he drew from his place back of the St. Eustace man and fought his way inch by inch alongside. The cheering spectators saw the wearer of the blue glance swiftly at the Hillton runner and throw back his head. But the boy beside him refused to be thrown off and down the course they came together, their tired limbs keeping time to the frenzied cheers of the throng.

“St. Eustace wins! Keller’s ahead!”

“Hillton’s race! Gordon leads!”

And then, high above the babel of a hundred voices, sounded a mighty shout from Paddy:

“Come on, ‘Old Virginia!’”

Wayne, racing along stride for stride with the St. Eustace runner, heard the cry and made a final, despairing effort.

And then the crowd was thick about him, Dave and Paddy were holding him up, Don was hugging him ecstatically, and the fellows were laughing and shouting as though crazy; and Wayne, panting and weak, wondered what it all meant.

It only meant that Hillton had won by a yard and that the final score stood: Hillton, 21; St. Eustace, 22; Shrewsburg, 43.

CHAPTER III
IN 15 BRADLEY

It was getting dark in the study of No. 15 Bradley Hall, and Wayne laid his book down on the window seat and fell to looking idly out of the window. The broad expanse of the Hudson River was visible for several miles, and its quiet surface reflected all the tones of gold and crimson with which the western sky was aglow. Far to the left a little dark spot marked the location of the railway station, and the steel rails, stretching to the southward, caught the sunset glint here and there and looked like shafts of fire. The meadow and the campus were still green, and the station road was blotched with the purple shadows of hedge and tree. To the left a tiny steamer was creeping from sight beyond the island and the far-stretching marsh across the water was brightly yellow with autumn grass.

Inside the room the shadows were beginning to gather wherever the glow from the two windows failed to reach. They had already hidden the bookcase near the hall door and Don’s armchair was only a formless hulk in the gloom. The door to the bedroom was ajar and through it the shadows were silently creeping, for that room was on the back of the building and its one window gave but scant light at sunset time. The study was a comfortable-looking den. There was a big green-topped table in the center, flanked by easy-chairs, and holding a student lamp, an ornamental inkstand, a number of books, and a miscellaneous litter of paper, pens, golf balls, gloves, and caps. A lounge, rather humpy from long and hard usage, disputed a corner of the apartment with a low bookcase whose top afforded a repository for photographs and a couple of hideous vases which for years past had “gone with the room.” There was a fireplace on one side which to-day held no fire. The mantel was decorated with more photographs and three pewter mugs, Wayne’s trophies of the cinder track. Some tennis racquets, three broken and repaired golf sticks, and a riding whip were crossed in a bewildering fashion above a picture of an English rowing regatta, and on either side hung framed “shingles” of the Senior Debating Society and the Hillton Academy Golf Club. Other pictures adorned the walls here and there; two businesslike straight-backed chairs were placed where they could not fail to be fallen over in the dark; and a bright-colored but somewhat threadbare carpet was on the floor. There were two windows, for No. 15 was a corner study, and in each was a comfortable seat generously furnished with pillows. At this moment both seats were occupied. In one lounged Wayne; in the other Don was still trying to study by the fading light. His left foot was perched carefully on a cushion, for the injured ankle was not yet fully strong, although nearly a week had elapsed since the cross-country run and his accident. Finally Don, too, laid aside his book.

“Want to light up, Wayne?”

“No, let’s be lazy; it’s so jolly in the twilight. I like to watch sunsets, don’t you? They’re sort of mysterious and – and sad.”

“Hello!” laughed Don. “You must be a bit homesick.”

“No, not exactly, though the sunset did look a bit like some we have down home. I wish you could see a Virginia sunset, Don.”

“Aren’t they a good deal like any other sunset?”

“No, I don’t think so. From our house at home the sun always sets across a little valley and back of a hill with a lot of dark trees on it. And there’s always a heap of blue wood smoke in the air and the woods are kind of hazy, you know. Wish I was there,” he added, with a tinge of melancholy in his voice.

“Cheer up,” said Don. “You’ll feel better after supper. You’re homesick. I used to be, my first year. Used to think I’d give most anything for a sight of the Charles River and the marshes, as they look from the library window at home. But I got over it. When I began to feel sad and virtuous I’d go out and swat a football or jump over things. That’s the best way to get rid of homesickness, Wayne; go in for athletics and get your blood running right. You don’t have much chance to think about home when you’re leaping hurdles or trying to bust your own record for the hundred yards.”

“I should think not,” laughed Wayne. “I know I wasn’t homesick the other day when I was chasing around country and jumping over those silly hedges; but I reckon I’d rather be a bit homesick than have my legs ache and my lungs burst.”

“They won’t when you’re in training,” answered Don. “But you did great work that day; we were awfully proud of you.”

“So you say, and I suppose it’s all right, only I keep telling you that I wasn’t trying to win the team race; I was just trying to beat that blamed St. Eustace chump who laughed at me when I was sitting comfortably on the ground there. Just as though any fellow mightn’t fall over those old hedges, hang him!”

“Well, don’t you mind,” answered Don soothingly. “He isn’t laughing now, you can bet; that laugh cost his school the race.”

Wayne made no reply. He had gathered the pillows in a heap under his head and was lying on his back nursing his knees. It was almost dark outdoors and in the room the shadows held full sway. Across from Don’s window the lights in Masters Hall were coming out and throwing dim shafts upon the broad gravel path.

“Wayne, I wish you’d go into training for the track team,” continued Don. “All you need is some good hard practice to make you a dandy runner. Why don’t you?”

“What’s the good?” asked Wayne carelessly. “I have hard enough work as it is trying to learn my lessons without losing a lot of time running around a track. Besides, it’s so tiresome.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” answered Don. “You have hard work with your lessons because you won’t study, and you know it. You could do a lot of training in the time you spend now in loafing. And, look here, Wayne, if you go in for athletics you can study a lot better; really. I know; I’ve tried both ways. And besides, you won’t have to run around a track much until long after winter term begins; hard work doesn’t start until February. Of course, if you’ve made up your mind to be a duffer, I won’t say anything more about it. But I’m captain of the track team, and I know you would make a bully runner and I want you to help me out if you will. We’re going to have a hard time next spring to find good men for the mile and half-mile events, and if we don’t win one of them I’m afraid St. Eustace or Collegiate is sure of first place. I wish old Hillton might come out on top next year. Think of it, Wayne, this is my second year as captain, and my last, for I shan’t take it again, and if we are beaten next spring it will be a nice record to leave behind, won’t it? Two defeats and no victories! Hang it, we’ve got to win, Wayne!”

Wayne laughed lazily.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Don rather crossly.

“You – you’re so serious. The idea of caring so much about whether we get beaten or not next spring. Why, it’s months away yet. If you’ve got to worry about it, why not wait awhile?”

Don was too vexed to reply and Wayne went on in his careless, good-natured tones.

“You fellows up North here are so crazy about athletics. Of course, they’re good enough in their way, I reckon, but seems to me that you don’t think about much else. I don’t mean that you don’t study – you’re all awful grinds – but you never have any time for – for – ”

“What – loafing?” asked Don sarcastically.

“No, not exactly that, but – but – oh, hunting and riding and being sociable generally. Do you shoot?”

“Not much; I’ve potted beach birds and plovers once or twice.”

“Well, that’s the kind of sport I like. Down home we shoot quail, you know; it’s right good fun. And next month the fox hunting begins.”

“I think I should like that,” exclaimed Don eagerly, forgetting his ill humor. “I’ve never ridden to hounds. Isn’t it hard jumping fences and things?”

“Hard – on a horse? Shucks! Compared to leaping over hedges on your feet it’s about the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is to sit still.”

“Well, it sounds easy,” answered Don dubiously, “but I should think sitting still on a horse that was plunging over a rail fence would be rather difficult; seems to me that the easiest thing would be to fall off. Did you ever fall?”

“Twice. Once I hurt my shoulder a little. Of course we boys don’t do any hard riding; dad won’t let me go out very often, and when he does he always goes along. You see, once I went fox hunting instead of going to school, and he found out about it.”

“What kind of a school was it you went to?”

“Oh, a little private school kept by an old codger who used to be a professor at the University. We fellows had a pretty easy time of it; when we didn’t want to study we didn’t, which was mighty often.”

“Well, you won’t find it so easy here,” said Don.

“Oh, I’ve found that out already,” answered Wayne ruefully. “We have so many studies here I can’t begin to keep track of them all. I never know whether I ought to be at a recitation or fussing with dumb-bells in the gymnasium.”

“Well, you’ll get used to it after a while and like it immensely, and think that there isn’t another place in the world like Hillton. And when you do you’ll care more whether we win or get beaten at athletics and football; and then – ”

There came a loud hammering at the door.

“Enter Paddy and David!” cried Don.

Dave Merton alone entered, and closing the door behind him promptly fell over an armchair.

“Confound you fellows! why can’t you keep your room decent? A chap’s always breaking his shins when he comes here. Where’s Paddy?”

“What, have you become separated?” cried Don. “Light the gas, Wayne, and let us view the unaccustomed sight of Dave without Paddy.”

“He said he was coming up here after he dressed. I left him at the gym.” Dave stumbled against a straight-backed chair, placed it on its back just inside the door, and groped his way to a seat beside Don. “Hope he’ll break his shins too, when he comes,” he said grimly.

“What have you two inseparables been up to this afternoon?” asked Don.

“Oh, Paddy’s been doing stunts with a football, and he’s awfully annoyed over something, and I’ve been tossing a hammer around the landscape; that’s all.”

“And did you manage to break another goal post?”

“No; couldn’t seem to hit anything to-day, although I did come within a few yards of Greene.”

Another thunderous knocking was heard, and, without awaiting an invitation, Paddy came in, and the sound of breaking wood followed as he landed on the chair.

“I’m afraid I’ve bust something,” he said cheerfully, as he struggled to his feet. “And serves you right, too. Is Dave here?”

“Haven’t seen him,” answered Wayne.

“Wonder where the silly chump went to. Where are you, you fellows?” Paddy felt his way around the table and gropingly found a seat between Don and Dave. “He said he was coming up here before supper.” A faint chuckle aroused his suspicions and the sound of a struggle followed. Then Paddy’s voice arose in triumphant tones.

“’Tis you, yer spalpeen. There’s only one ugly nose like that in school.”

“Ouch!” yelled Dave. “Let go!”

“Is it you?” asked Paddy grimly.

“Yes.”

“Are you a spalpeen?”

“Yes, oh yes. Ouch!”

“All right.” Paddy deposited Dave on the floor and arranged himself comfortably in the window.

“Dave says you’re annoyed, Paddy. Who’s been ill-treating the poor little lad?” asked Don, when the laughter had subsided and Dave had retreated to the other window seat.

“Don, it’s kilt I am intoirely,” answered Paddy. “For thirty mortal minutes Gardiner had me snapping back the ball to that butter-fingered Bowles. If he doesn’t put another quarter-back in soon I shall hand in me resignation. And to make things worse Gardiner stayed up all last night and thought out a most wonderful new trick play, and to-day he tried to put us through it. And, oh dear! I wish you could have seen the backs all tearing around like pigs with a dog after them, bumping into each other, getting in each other’s way and all striking the line at different places and asking, please wouldn’t we let them through! Oh dear! oh dear! And that chap Moore, who plays center on the second, got me around the neck twice and tried to pull my head off. If he doesn’t quit that trick I’ll be forced to forget my elegant manners and slug him.”

“And he’ll wipe the turf up with you, and I hope he does,” said Dave, rubbing his nose ruefully.

“And the St. Eustace game only two weeks off,” continued Paddy, heedless of the interruption. “We’re in an awful state, fellows. I wish we had Remsen back to coach us. Gardiner’s all right in his way, but he doesn’t begin to know the football that Stephen Remsen does. We’re goners this year for sure.”

“Oh, cheer up,” answered Don. “You can do lots in two weeks. Look at the material we’ve got.”

“Yes, look at it,” said Paddy. “There isn’t a man in the line or back of it that’s played in a big game except Greene and myself.”

“But St. Eustace has a lot of new men this year, too.”

“Don’t you believe it, my boy. That’s what they say, but Gardiner told me yesterday that St. Eustace has five fellows on the team that played against us last year.”

“Does the game come off here?” asked Wayne.

“No, it’s at Marshall this year. We’re all going down, aren’t we, fellows?” asked Dave.

“Of course,” answered Don. “We will go and see Paddy slaughtered. Wayne will go along and we’ll teach him to sing ‘Hilltonians.’ By the way, I’ve been trying to persuade him that he ought to take up training for the track team. He will make a first-class runner. But he’s so terribly lazy and indifferent that it’s like talking to a football dummy.”

“Of course you ought to, Wayne,” exclaimed Paddy earnestly. “It’s your duty, my young friend. Every fellow ought to do everything he can for the success of the school. I’d try for the team if I could run any faster than I can walk.”

“Oh, well,” said Wayne, “I’ll see about it.”

“You ought to jump at the chance,” said Dave, in disgust. “It isn’t every chap that gets asked by the captain of the team. And, let me tell you – Hello! Six o’clock, fellows. Who’s for supper?”

“Every one,” cried Don, jumping up. “But I’ve got to wash first. Some one light the gas if they can find the matches.”

“Well, I’m off,” said Paddy.

“So’m I,” echoed Dave. “I say, Don, I’m coming over after supper to see if you can help me with that trigonometry stuff.”

“All right,” answered Don from the bedroom between splashes. “If you know less about it than I do I’ll be surprised.”

“Come on,” cried Paddy impatiently from the doorway —

 

“‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,

‘To eat of many things;

Of apple sauce and gingerbread,

Of cake and red herrings!’”

 

CHAPTER IV
THE REVOLT BEGINS

Wayne lounged down the steps of the Academy Building, a little bundle of books under his arm, and listlessly crossed the grass to the wall that guarded the river bluff, from where an enticing panorama of stream and meadow and distant mountains lay before him. The day was one of those unseasonably warm ones which sometimes creep unexpectedly into the month of November, and which make every task doubly hard and any sort of idleness attractive. The river was intensely blue, the sky almost cloudless, and the afternoon sun shone with mellow warmth on the deep red bricks of the ancient buildings.

Wayne tossed his books on the sod and perched himself on the top of the wall. The last recitation of the day was over and he was at a loss for something to do. To be sure, he might, in fact ought to study; but study didn’t appeal to him. Now and then he turned his head toward the building in hope of seeing some fellow who could be induced to come and talk with him. Don was doing laboratory work in physics and Dave and Paddy were undoubtedly on the campus. At a little distance a couple of boys whom Wayne did not know were passing a football back and forth as they loitered along the path. A boy whom he did know ran down the steps and shouted a salutation to him, but Wayne only waved his hand in reply. It was Ferguson, who talked of nothing but postage stamps, and Wayne had outgrown stamps and found no interest in discussing them. Ferguson went on around the corner of Academy Building toward the gymnasium, and with a start Wayne recollected that at that moment he should be making one of a squad of upper middle-class fellows and exercising with the chest weights. He looked doubtfully toward the point where Ferguson had disappeared. What right, he asked himself, had a preparatory school, where a fellow goes to learn Greek and Latin and mathematics, and such things, to insist that a fellow shall develop his muscles with chest weights and dumb-bells and single sticks? None at all; the whole thing was manifestly unjust. Schools were to make scholars and not athletes, said Wayne, and he, for one, stood ready to protest, to the principal himself if need be, against the mistaken system.

The moment for such protest must be drawing near, thought the boy, with something between a grin and a scowl, for he had already twice absented himself from gymnasium work, and only yesterday a polite but firm note from Professor Beck had reminded him of the fact. Well, he was in for it now, and he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. He gathered his books together and started along the river path toward the campus in search of Paddy or Dave. He wanted to tell some one about it.

Wayne had been at Hillton two months, and was apparently no nearer being reconciled to the discipline and spirit of the Academy than on the day he entered. He found the studies many and difficult and the rules onerous. Everything was so different from what he had been accustomed to. At home he had attended a small private school where laxity of discipline and indifference to study occasioned but scant comment. The dozen or so scholars studied practically what they pleased and when they pleased, which in many cases was very little. Wayne’s mother had died when he was five years of age; his father, who had labored conscientiously at the boy’s upbringing, had erred on the side of leniency. Wayne had been given most everything for which he had asked, including his own way on many occasions when a denial would have worked better results. A boy with less inherent manliness might have been spoiled beyond repair. Wayne was – well, perhaps half spoiled; at all events unfitted for his sudden transition to a school like Hillton, where every boy was thrown entirely on his own resources and was judged by his individual accomplishments.

Wayne envied Don and Paddy, and even Dave, their ability to conquer lessons with apparent ease. He was not lazy, but was lacking in a very valuable thing called application, which is sometimes better than brains. And where Don mastered a lesson in thirty minutes Wayne spent twice that time on a like task. It had required two months of the hardest coaching to fit Wayne for admission into the upper middle class at the Academy, and now he was making a sad muddle of his studies and was beginning to get discouraged. He wished his father hadn’t sent him to Hillton; or, rather, he would wish that were it not for Don – and Paddy – and Dave – and, yes, for lots of other things. Wayne sighed as he thought of what a jolly place the Academy would be if it wasn’t for lessons – and chest weights! And this brought him back to his grievance, and, having reached the campus, he looked about to find some one to whom he might confide his perplexities and resolves.

But both Paddy and Dave were too busy to heed any one else’s troubles. Paddy, in a disreputable suit of football togs, his face streaming with perspiration, was being pushed and shoved about the gridiron, the center of a writhing mass of players, while the coach’s whistle vainly proclaimed the ball not in play. Dave, his good-natured face red with exertion, was struggling with his beloved hammer amid a little circle of attentive and facetious spectators.

“Say, Dave, you ought to stop, really you had,” one of the onlookers was saying as Wayne joined the circle. “If you keep at it much longer you won’t be able to throw that thing out of the circle.”

“Three feet four inches short of the first mark,” said a youth with a tape as he rose from measuring the last flight of the weight. “Better rest a bit.”

“Why don’t you take the hammer off, Dave, and throw the handle?” asked a third boy.

“Well, I wish you’d step up here and have a try at it,” answered Dave good-naturedly.

“Oh, but I’m not a strong man like you. If I was half as big I’d throw the old thing twice as far as that.”

“Well, perhaps you’ll grow in time, Tommy. Hello, Wayne,” he continued, as he caught sight of that youth, “why don’t you say something funny? I don’t mind; go on.”

“Can’t think of anything right now,” answered Wayne. “The funniest thing I know of is tossing an iron ball around when it’s too warm to move. You look like a roast of beef, Dave.”

“Do I? Well, I’ve been roasted enough; I’m going to knock off. Besides, I’m in poor form to-day. Let’s go over and watch Paddy, poor dub. I guess he’s having a hard time of it, too.”

Dave picked up his sweater and hammer and the two strolled over to the side-line and sat down. The first and second elevens, the latter augmented by several extra players, were putting in a hard practice. Less than a fortnight remained ere the game of the season would be played with St. Eustace Academy, and hard work was the order of the day. The head coach, an old Hillton graduate named Gardiner, was far from satisfied with the team’s showing. As Paddy had pointed out, he and Greene were the only members of the first eleven who had the experience that participation in a big game brings. Greene was the captain and played right end, and to-day he was visibly worried and nervous, and was rapidly working his men into much the same state when Gardiner called time and allowed the almost breathless players to strew themselves over the field on their backs and pant away to their heart’s content. Paddy caught sight of the two boys on the side-line and crawled dejectedly over to them on all fours, his tongue hanging out, in ludicrous imitation of a dog.

“It’s awful, my brethren, simply awful. We are probably the worst lot of football players in the world. Greene will tell you so – and glad of the chance, bad luck to him! He’s got the ‘springums.’”

“What are those?” asked Wayne.

“Oh, those are nerves; when you can’t keep still, you know. That’s what’s the matter with Greene to-day. And I don’t much blame him; the weather’s unfit for practice, and every chap on the team feels like a sausage, and the St. Eustace game’s a week from Thursday. I heard March tell Gardiner – ”

“Is Joel March here?” asked Dave.

“Yes; see him over there talking to ‘Pigeon’ Wallace? He said to Gardiner a few minutes ago, ‘There’s one great trouble with that eleven, Mr. Gardiner, and that is that it’s not the kind that wins.’ He didn’t know I could hear. Of course I wouldn’t tell Greene for a house and farm. But March is right; I’ve felt that way all the fall. And if March says we can’t win, we’re not going to.” Paddy sighed dolefully.

“Tommyrot, Paddy!” answered Dave. “Joel March isn’t infallible, and the team may take a big brace before Thanksgiving.”

“Who’s Joel March, anyway?” asked Wayne.

“Joel March? Why, Joel March is – is – Say, haven’t you ever heard of March?” exclaimed Dave, in deep disgust. Wayne shook his head.

“I reckon not; if I have I’ve forgotten it. What did he do – run a mile in eighteen and three-fourth seconds or throw an iron ball over Academy Building?”

“Neither, my sarcastic and ignorant young friend from the Sunny South,” answered Paddy, with asperity. “But he’s the finest half-back in college; and if you knew anything about the important affairs of the day you would know that he made the only score in the Harwell-Pennsylvania game last Saturday, and that he ran over fifty-five yards to do it! Also, and likewise, and moreover,” continued Paddy, with great severity, “when I was a little green junior, two years ago, I sat just about here and watched Joel March kick a goal from the field that tied the St. Eustace game after they had us beaten. And I yelled myself hoarse and couldn’t speak loud enough at dinner to ask for the turkey, and Dave ate my share before my eyes! That’s who Joel March is.”

“You don’t say,” responded Wayne, without displaying the least bit of awe. “And who’s the swell with him?”

“That’s West, his chum. West is the father of golf here at Hillton,” answered Dave, with becoming reverence. “I used to follow him when he went around and wish that I could drive the way he could. He was a member of the team that Harwell sent to the intercollegiate tournament last month. Is March going to coach the backs, Paddy?”

“Don’t know; but they could stand it. There’s going to be a shake-up next half, I’ll bet. Gardiner says if the second scores on us again before Thanksgiving he’ll send it to Marshall instead of the first. Gardiner’s a great jollier. Here we go again like lambs to the slaughter,” added Paddy as the whistle blew.

“You remind me of a lamb,” said Dave; “you’re so different.”

Paddy playfully pommeled the other’s ribs and then cantered off to the center of the gridiron, where Gardiner, Greene, and March, the old Hillton half-back, were assembled in deep converse.

“Want to go back,” asked Dave, “or shall we stay and see the rest of the practice?”

“Let’s stay,” said Wayne. “I suppose Paddy is sure of his place, isn’t he? I mean they won’t put him off, will they?”

“No; I guess Paddy’s all right for center. But the big chap next to him, at left-guard, is sure to go on the second, I think. They ought to have made Paddy captain last fall. Greene’s an awfully decent fellow, but he’s liable to get what Paddy calls the ‘springums.’ He’s too high-strung for the place. Watch Gardiner now; he’s doing things.”

The head coach was a big, broad-shouldered man, with a face so freckled and homely as to be attractive. Many years before he had been a guard on the Hillton eleven and his name stood high on the Academy’s roll of honor. As Dave had said, he was “doing things.” Four of the first eleven players were relegated in disgrace to the ranks of the second, their positions being filled by so many happy youths from the opposing team. Wayne noted with satisfaction that Paddy’s broad bulk still remained in the center of the first eleven’s line when the two teams faced each other for the last twenty minutes of play. Joel March, with coat and vest discarded, took up a position behind quarter-back and from there coached the two halfs with much hand-clapping and many cheery commands. Greene appeared to have recovered his equanimity, and the first eleven successfully withstood the onslaught of the opponents until the ball went to Paddy and a spirited advance down the field brought the pigskin to the second’s forty-yard line and gave Grow, the full-back, an opportunity to try a goal from a placement. The attempt failed and the ball went back to the second, but the first’s line again held well, and a kick up the field sent the players scurrying to the thirty-five-yard line, where, coached by March, Grow secured the ball and recovered ten yards ere he was downed. Later the first worked the ball over for a touch-down, from which no goal was tried, and the practice game ended without the dreaded scoring by the second eleven, much to Paddy’s relief.

The three boys hurried back together, and Wayne, parting from his companions at the gymnasium, sought his room, reflecting on the athletic mania that seemed to possess every fellow at the school.

“I’ll have to do something that way myself,” he thought ruefully, “or I’ll be a sort of – what-yer-call-it? – social outcast.”

Then he recollected that he had forgotten to consult Dave regarding his proposed declaration of right, and was rather glad that he had; because, after all, he told himself, Dave Merton was not a chap that would sympathize with a protest against gymnastics and such things. But that evening, as the two sat studying in their room after supper, Wayne told his plans to Don and asked for an opinion. And Don looked up from his Greek text-book and said briefly and succinctly:

“Don’t do it!”

“But, I say, Don, I’ve got some voice in the business, haven’t I? What right has Professor Beck or Professor Wheeler or – or any of them got to make me develop my muscles if I don’t want my muscles developed? When it comes to study, you know, why, that’s another – ”

“Well, if you’ll take my advice you’ll stop worrying about your rights and obey the rules.”

“But – ”

“Because if you don’t, Wayne, you’d much better have stayed at home. I – I tried asserting my rights once and it didn’t pay. And since then I’ve tended to my own affairs and let the faculty make the laws.”

“Just the same,” answered Wayne, with immense dignity, “I don’t intend to put up with injustice, although you may. I shall tell Professor Wheeler just what I’ve told you, and – ”

Don looked up from his book with a frown.

“Wayne, will you shut up?”

“But I’m telling you – ”

“But I don’t want to hear. It’s all nonsense. And, besides, if you’re going to say it all to ‘Wheels’ what’s the good of boring me with it? Talk about injustice,” groaned Don, “look at the length of this lesson!”

Wayne opened his book and, as a silent protest against his friend’s heartlessness, began to study.

CHAPTER V
PRINCIPAL AND PRINCIPLES

Wayne’s opportunity to protest came earlier than he expected. When he entered Bradley Hall in the middle of the forenoon to get his French grammar he found an official-looking note in the mail box. It proved to be from the principal and requested Wayne’s presence at the office at noon. The latter made hard work of the French recitation, and took no interest in the doings of Bonaparte in Egypt for thinking of the approaching interview and strengthening the arguments which were to confuse the principal and put the iniquitous school law to rout.

He found the principal’s secretary and two pupils, who assisted in the work, occupying the outer office. Professor Wheeler was engaged, but would see him in a moment. Wayne took a chair, resenting the delay which required him to nurse the state of virtuous indignation into which he had worked himself. The quiet of the room, disturbed only by the scratching of the pens or the rustling of paper, presently exerted a depressing effect, and he felt his courage oozing out of him. Then the secretary arose and went into the inner room. When he returned a moment later he left the door ajar and Wayne caught a glimpse of a warm-toned apartment, a portion of a high bookcase, and the corner of a broad mahogany desk. From within came a slight shuffling of uneasy feet and the noise of a turned page. Then came the sound of a closing book, and a voice, which Wayne recognized as belonging to the principal, broke the silence:

“Now, my boy, I’ll speak with you. What is your name?”

“Carl Gray, sir,” answered a very boyish voice.

“Ah, yes; you’re in the lower middle class?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have received a complaint from Porter, in the village. He informs me that you have owed him a bill since last term and that he can not get his money. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy spoke in low tones, and Wayne, without seeing him, knew the state of trepidation he was in and wondered if he would behave so cravenly when his turn came.

“You knew the rule about such things?” asked the principal. “You knew that pupils are not allowed to contract debts?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why did you do it, Gray?”

“I – I wanted some things, and so – Porter said that he would trust me – ”

“Let me see. You played on one of the nines last spring, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir; on the junior class nine.”

“Yes. Well, Gray, when you knock a good clean base hit what do you do? Do you run over toward the grand stand and then back toward the pitcher’s box and so on to first base, or do you go there as directly and as speedily as you know how?” A moment of silence followed and Wayne grinned.

“Directly, sir,” said the boy inside finally.

“Yes, I should think so. Well, now, when you start to make an explanation apply the same rule, my lad: go just as directly and quickly as you can to the point. As a matter of fact, you knew that you were disobeying the rules of the Academy, and preferred to do that than to go without some things that you wanted. Isn’t that so?”

“I – No, sir, I didn’t – ”

“That isn’t just the way you would put it, Gray, but isn’t it correct?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so.”

“Do you have an allowance, Gray?”

“Yes, sir; fifty cents a week.”

“But you don’t find it large enough?”

“I wanted some baseball things and some clothes. We had to have uniforms.”

“I see. Did you think when you had the things charged to you that you could pay for them?”

“Yes, sir. I meant to pay a quarter every week, but somehow, sir – ”

“The quarter wasn’t there when you wanted it; I see. Well, Porter must be paid. He is not blameless in the affair; he knew what the rule is about giving credit to the pupils, and I shall see that he gets no more of the school trade. But that doesn’t alter the fact that you owe him the sum of twelve dollars. Can you pay it?”

“No, sir, not right away. I will pay him fifty cents a week. I offered to do so a week ago and he said he must have the whole amount, and I was saving it up.”

“H’m! How much have you saved?”

“A – a dollar.”

“Slow work, Gray. Now, I shall settle this bill and send the account to your parents. Have you anything to say about that?”

“Oh, sir, please don’t! I’ll pay it as soon as I can, sir; I will give him every cent I get. Only please don’t send it home!”

“Your family is not well off, Gray?”

“No, sir. I have only a mother, and she couldn’t pay it without – without missing the money dreadfully, sir. If only you will not let her know!”

“You should have thought of that before, Gray. I should like to spare your mother as much, perhaps, as you; but the rules are strict and I can’t see my way to making an exception in your case. I shall have to send the bill to your mother, sir. Let it teach you a lesson. There are lots of things in this world, Gray, that we think we must have, but which we can do very well without if only we realize it. It is hard sometimes to see others possess things that we want and can not have. But luckily the world doesn’t judge us by our possessions, but by our accomplishments. I don’t believe that the football clothes which you got from Porter enabled you to play better ball or stand better in your class, and it’s very unlikely that any of the boys thought you a finer fellow for having them. In future live within your income – that is, your allowance – and if you want to pay off the debt save your money instead of spending it, and when the amount is saved return it to your mother. That would be an honest and a manly act. That is all I have to say to you, my boy.”

“I will, sir,” answered the culprit earnestly. “But won’t you – couldn’t you please, sir, not send – ”

“That can’t be altered, Gray,” answered the principal kindly. “I am sorry. Good day.”

A slender and very white-faced boy passed out with averted eyes, and a moment later Wayne found himself in the inner office. The principal was leaning back in his big armchair thoughtfully polishing his glasses. He did not look up at once, and Wayne had an opportunity to study the man who for over twenty years had wisely directed the affairs of one of the largest preparatory schools of the country, and who in that time had gained the reverence and affection of thousands of boys. Wayne saw a middle-aged, scholarly looking man, whose brown hair was but lightly frosted about the temples, and whose upright and vigorous figure indicated the possession of much physical strength. There was an almost youthful set to the broad shoulders, and Wayne was certain that the muscles won years before in his college crew were still firm and strong. Indeed, those muscles, although Wayne did not know it, were kept in perfect condition by as much bodily exercise as the principal could crowd into a busy life, and his prowess with a golf club was a matter of pride and admiration among the boys. There was a kindly look in the brown eyes that were presently turned upon the waiting lad.

“Are you Wayne Gordon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re in the upper middle, aren’t you, and this is your first year at Hillton?”

Wayne again assented.

“And I dare say you are not perfectly acquainted with the rules of the Academy yet; I can understand that. It takes some time to learn them, even though we try not to have very many. Professor Beck tells me, Gordon, that you have been absent on three occasions from gymnasium work and have failed to make any excuse. I presume you had some very good reason for not attending on each occasion, did you not?” The tone and manner were so kindly that Wayne found himself wishing that he had some presentable excuse; but in the next moment he remembered his purpose and answered uncompromisingly:

“I stayed away on three days, sir, because it was not convenient to attend. I don’t consider that you – I mean the faculty – has any right to compel a fellow to – to do gymnasium work unless he wishes to.”

“Indeed!” was the quiet reply. “And how do you arrive at that conclusion?”

Whereupon Wayne very earnestly and at much length presented his views on the subject, maintaining a respectful but undoubtedly rather irritating tone of complacency. Once or twice the listener frowned, once he smiled, as though in spite of himself, at some high-sounding phrase from the boy. When Wayne had finished, a little breathless, the principal spoke:

“Are you a member of the debating club, Gordon?”

“No, sir,” answered Wayne, surprised into an expression of ordinary curiosity quite unbecoming a great reformer.

“You should join. I think you have the making of a very lucid and convincing speaker.” The boy strove to detect an expression of irony on the master’s face, but saw none. “Unfortunately, in the present case you have selected a side in the debate that is not defensible. And, also unfortunately, I have neither the time nor the inclination to enter the lists with you. But I will say one or two things on the subject. In the first place, it is a waste of your time to consider whether or not the faculty has the right to make the rule regarding physical training; the indisputable fact is that the faculty has made the rule. For the sake of argument – although I said I would not argue – let us assume that the faculty has not the right. What can you do about it? The rules are not altered, after ten years, on the demand of one scholar out of a school of some two hundred. If the pupil stands firm and the faculty stands firm what is going to be the result? Why, the two must part company. In other words, the pupil must leave. Do you think it is worth it?”

“But it’s wrong, sir, and if I accept the – the arrangement I am indorsing it, and I can’t do that.”

“But maybe it isn’t wrong; we only assumed it to be, you remember. You don’t care for athletics?”

“Not much, sir; I like riding and shooting and fishing, but I don’t see the good of fussing – I mean exercising – with dumb-bells and chest weights and single sticks; and it tires me so that I can’t do my lessons well.” The principal raised his eyebrows in genuine astonishment.

“Are you certain of that? Maybe you have not given the thing a fair trial. We believe here at Hillton that it is just as necessary to keep a boy’s health good as his morals, and our plan has worked admirably for many years. The rule regarding ‘compulsory physical education,’ as you call it, is not peculiar to Hillton; it is to be found at every preparatory school in the country, I feel sure. A capability for good studying depends on a clear brain and a well body, and these, in turn, depend on a proper attention to exercise and recreation. The first of these we demand; the other we encourage and expect. Who is your roommate?”

“Donald Cunningham, sir.”

“Indeed! And does he have very much trouble with his studies?”

“No, sir; but he has been at it for two years – the gymnasium work, I mean. I’m not used to it, and I find the studies difficult, and if I am tired I can’t do them.”

“If gymnasium work tires you it is undoubtedly because you have not had enough of it. And it shows that you need it. Professor Beck is very careful to require no more in that direction from a boy than his condition should allow, and to render mistakes impossible the physical examination of every pupil is made when he enters, and again at intervals until he leaves school. Now, I will speak to Professor Beck; maybe it will seem advisable to him to make your exercise a little lighter for a while. But I expect you to report regularly at the gymnasium, or, if you are feeling unfit, to tell me of the fact. We won’t require any boy to do anything that might be of injury to him. Will you promise to do this?”

“I can’t, sir. It is the principle of the thing that is wrong.”

“I can’t discuss that with you any longer, Gordon; I’ve done so at greater length than I intended to already. You must obey the rules while you are here. If you do not you must go elsewhere. When is your next gymnasium day?”

“To-morrow, sir.”

“Very well; I shall expect you to be there. If you are not I shall be obliged to put you on probation, which is a very uncomfortable thing. If you still refuse you will be suspended. I tell you this now so that you may labor under no illusions. I do not complain because you hold the views which you do – they are surprising, but not against discipline – but I must and do insist that you obey the rules. Think it over, Gordon, and don’t do yourself an injury by taking the wrong course. If you want to see me in the morning, after you have slept on the matter, you will find me here. Good day.”

“Good day, sir, and thank you for your advice; only – ”

“Well?”

“I don’t think I can do as you wish.”

“But,” answered the principal earnestly, “let us hope that you can.”

CHAPTER VI
WAYNE PAYS A BILL

“I want two dollars, Don.”

Don glanced up with a smile.

“So do I; I was thinking so just this morning. I need a new pair of gymnasium shoes, and – But please, Wayne, come in and shut the door; there’s a regular cyclone blowing around my feet.”

“But, look here. I want to borrow two dollars from you, Don; I must have it right away,” said Wayne peremptorily, as he shut out the draught.

“Sorry, because I haven’t got fifty cents to my name, and won’t have until Monday. What do you want to do with it? Going to start a bank?”

“That’s none of your business,” answered Wayne; “and if you can’t lend it to me I can’t stop chinning here. I’ll try Paddy, I guess.”

“Paddy!” exclaimed Don, with a grin. “Why, Paddy never has a nickel ten minutes after his dad sends him his allowance, which is the first. If he had I’d be after him this minute; he’s owed me eighty cents ever since September. Dave might have it. Have you had dinner? Where did you go to?”

“Dinner? No, I forgot about it. What time is it? Am I too late?”

“Of course; it’s twenty after two. What have you been doing?”

“Oh, I’ve – ” Wayne’s face grew cloudy as he jumped off the end of the table and went to the door. “I’ll tell you about it later. I’m busy now. Has Dave got a recitation on?”

“What’s to-day – Thursday? I’m sure I don’t know. I never can keep track of his hours; seniors are such an erratic, self-important lot.”

“Well, I’ll run over and see. Er – by the way, do you know a chap called Gray, a rather pasty-looking lower middle fellow?”

“Gray? No, I don’t think so. What does he do?”

“Do? Oh, I think he’s a baseball player, or something like that.”

“Don’t remember him. Are you coming up here after four?”

“Yep; wait for me.”

Wayne clattered off downstairs and crossed the green back of the gymnasium and the principal’s residence. As he went he drew a little roll of money from his vest, supplemented it with a few coins from his trousers’ pocket, and counted the whole over twice. He shook his head as he put the money away again.

“Nine dollars and forty-two cents,” he muttered, “and I can’t make any more of it if I count it all day.”

He ran up the steps to Hampton House, pushed open the broad, white door and entered the big colonial hallway. At the far end a cheerful fire was cracking in a generous chimney place, lighting up the dim gilt frames and dull canvases of the portraits of bygone Hilltonians that looked severely down from the walls. Hampton House is a dormitory whose half dozen rooms are inhabited by a few wealthy youths who find in the comfort of the great, old-fashioned apartments and the prestige that residence therein brings compensation for the high rents. Wayne turned sharply to the right and beat a tattoo with his knuckles over the black figure 2 on the door. From within came the sound of a loud voice in monotonous declamation. Wayne substituted his shoe for his knuckles and Paddy’s voice bade him enter.

“Where’s Dave?” asked Wayne. Paddy, who had been tramping up and down the apartment with a book in his hand, and declaiming pages of Cæsar’s Civil War to the chandelier, tossed the volume aside and tried to smooth down his hair, which was standing up in tumbled heaps, making him look not unlike “the fretful porcupine.”

“Dave’s at a recitation; German, I think. Want to see him?”

“Yes, I want to borrow some money from him.”

“Don’t think he has any. You see, I borrow most of his money as soon as it comes; he never has any use for it himself, and it grieves me to see it laying round idle. How much do you want?”

“Two dollars. Have you got it, Paddy?”

“’Fraid not; let’s see.” He pulled open a table drawer and rummaged about until several pieces of silver rewarded his search. Then he emptied his pockets, and the two counted the result.

“Eighty-five cents,” said Paddy regretfully. “Hold on; perhaps Dave has some change left. Sometimes I leave him a few cents for pocket money.” He went to his chum’s bureau and in a moment returned with a purse which, when turned up over the study table, rained from its depths four quarters and a nickel.

“Oh, the desavin critter!” cried Paddy. “Now, where did he get all that wealth? Let’s see; that’s one dollar and ninety cents. If we could only find another dime – ”

“That’ll do,” answered Wayne, as he pocketed the coins. “I’ll write home to-night and pay you back as soon as I get it. I’m awfully much obliged.”

“Don’t mention it. Is there anything else I can do for you to-day?”

“Have you got anything to eat? I lost my dinner; forgot it until a minute ago.”

“I’ve got some crackers,” replied Paddy dubiously, “and a tin of some kind of meat. It’s been opened a good while, but I guess it’ll be all right after I scrape the mold off.”

“Bring them out, will you? I’m in a hurry, Paddy; I’ve got a recitation at 3.15.” Paddy whistled.

“In a hurry! Whisper, Wayne, are yez ill?”

“Shut up. Where’s the meat?”

The delicacies were produced and Wayne ate ravenously. As Paddy had predicted, the tinned beef was extremely palatable to the hungry boy after a half inch of mold had been detached with the paper cutter.

“Do you know a chap named Gray?” asked Wayne, with his mouth full of cracker.

“Aisy, me boy!” cried Paddy. “Don’t choke yersilf. Wait till your tongue has more room. Gray, did you say? I know a youngster by that name in the lower middle. He played ball on the junior nine last year when they beat us by one run in twelve innings.”

“That’s the fellow. Where does he room?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll soon tell you.” Paddy found a school catalogue and turned the leaves. “Here we are: Gray, Carl Ellis, Buffalo, N. Y., W. H. Vance’s.”

“Whereabouts is Vance’s?” asked Wayne, as he scraped the bottom of the can.

“Just around the corner from the post office; a big, square, white house with green blinds and a cat-colored roof.”

“A what?”

“Cat-colored roof – kind of a Maltese color, you know.”

“Well, I’m off. Thanks for the stuff! Tell Dave – ”

“Hold on and I’ll go with you. What’s up?”

“No, you won’t; I’m going alone. I’ll tell you about it later – perhaps.”

“Well, if it’s a lark, you’re mighty mean not to let a chap into it.”

“It isn’t a lark at all. By!”

Wayne hurried out and Paddy grumblingly closed the door and watched him from the window.

“He’s mighty secret-like, I’m thinking, and mighty hurried. I haven’t seen him move so fast since he came. Must be something important. Wish I knew, bad cess to him!”

Wayne trudged off up the village road and soon found the boarding house with the “cat-colored roof.” Gray’s name adorned a door on the second floor, and Wayne’s knock elicited, after a moment, a faint “Come in!” The room was a cheerful one with four big windows, but the furnishings were tattered and worn and the walls were almost bare of pictures. The floor was partly covered by a threadbare ingrain rug and the green leather on the student desk in the center was full of holes and spots. The boy whom Wayne had seen in the principal’s office arose from a chair at the desk as Wayne entered, and a half-written letter before him told its own story. Gray’s eyes were suspiciously red and the lad looked embarrassed and ill at ease. Wayne, with a sudden recollection of Professor Wheeler’s advice, plunged at once into the subject of his visit.

“You’re Carl Gray, aren’t you? Well, my name’s Gordon; I’m in the upper middle. I happened to be in Wheeler’s outer office when you were in there. The door was partly open and I couldn’t help hearing what was said, and – and I’m awfully sorry, of course. But you see it wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m sorry you heard it,” answered Gray, looking piteously embarrassed; “but of course you – it wasn’t your fault.”

“No – was it?” asked Wayne eagerly. “So I thought that perhaps I could help you, and – ” He stepped forward and placed the money on the table. “There’s eleven dollars there. I couldn’t get hold of any more, but you said you had a dollar, you know, so perhaps that’ll be enough.” Gray looked helplessly from Wayne to the money and back again. Once he opened his mouth, but, as he apparently could find no words, Wayne went on: “I haven’t a mother myself, you see – she died when I was just a youngster – but if I had I’d feel as you do about the bill; and of course Professor Wheeler won’t send it to her if you pay this money to Porter to-day and tell him about it.”

“But I don’t see why – why you should lend me this,” said Gray, at length. “You don’t know me and – and I can’t pay you for a good while. I don’t get much of an allowance, and – ”

“I know,” replied Wayne cheerfully. “Fifty cents a week. But pay me back when you can; I’m in no hurry. And – and you might come and see me sometime; I room in Bradley – No. 15.”

“I’ll pay you fifty cents every week until it’s all returned!” cried Gray. “Why, I’d have done – done anything to keep mother from knowing about it and having to pay it! I was such a fool, wasn’t I? Bought clothes and gloves and lots of things that I didn’t need just because Porter said I could charge them and that he wouldn’t ask for the money until I could pay it.”

“He ought to be kicked!” exclaimed Wayne angrily.

“He didn’t act decently,” continued Gray. “If he’d only told me last year I could have had it almost paid by now; but I thought there was no hurry, and – and – ” He stopped and dropped his gaze; then he went on in lowered tones: “I wish I could make you understand how glad I am and how much I thank you – ”

“Oh, dry up!” said Wayne, backing toward the door and searching with his hand for the knob. “It’s all right, and I understand. And – well, I must hurry – got a recitation, you know – may be late now.”

He had found the knob and the last words were spoken from the hallway.

“But, I say, Gray, I wish you wouldn’t try to pay fifty cents a week to me. I don’t need it, you know, and it’s all your allowance, and – ”

“I think I’d rather, if you don’t mind,” answered the younger lad resolutely. He was smiling now and looked quite healthy and happy; but something was glittering in the corner of his eye, and Wayne seeing it, bolted downstairs three steps at a time.

After Wayne left Hampton House Paddy went dejectedly back to his Latin, but at the end of twenty minutes found that he had remembered nothing of what he had gone over, and so tossed his book aside, yawned, glanced at the clock, and sallied forth in the direction of Academy Building. As he turned the corner he caught sight of Don coming down the steps and gained that youth’s attention by a war whoop. Don was looking unusually thoughtful as Paddy overtook him.

“Why, you look serious enough to have been visiting ‘Wheels’!” cried Paddy.

“That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“What – you? What’s the trouble?”

“I’ll tell you. It’s Wayne. He won’t attend gym work and he’s told ‘Wheels’ as much, and ‘Wheels’ has threatened to put him on probation if he doesn’t report to Beck to-morrow.”

“But – ”

“‘Wheels’ sent for me and asked me to use my persuasive powers on the silly dub. But what can I do? Wayne’s as stubborn as a mule, and he declares he won’t attend; says it’s an injustice – that faculty hasn’t any right to compel him to do gym work unless he wants to.”

“Do you mean that he told all that rot to ‘Wheels’?”

“Every word, and a lot more, I guess.” Paddy whistled.

“Well, he is a chump. Where is he? He came over and borrowed some money awhile ago. What’s he up to now?”

“Don’t ask me,” responded Don helplessly. “What I want to know is, how can we keep the fellow from being put on probation or suspended, for ‘Wheels’ declares he’ll do both?”

“Why, we’ll get Dave, and the three of us will reason with him.”

“Pshaw! we might as well save our breath. I’d just as soon reason with a lamp-post,” answered Don, in disgust.

“Hello! there he comes now,” said Paddy. “He’s been to the village to see some fellow by the name of Gray. Shall we walk down and try our arguments now?”

“No; let’s wait. You and Dave come up to the room to-night and we’ll see what we can do with him,” said Don. “I hate to have him get into trouble, because, after all, he’s a good chap.”

“Of course he is,” answered Paddy heartily, “and we’ll look after him all right. Why, if he won’t go and take his gym work like a little man, after we’ve reasoned with him, we’ll – ”

Paddy stopped, grinning broadly, and slapped Don triumphantly on the shoulder.

“I have it!” he cried.

“Have what?”

“A way, my lad.”

“What is it?” asked Don eagerly.

“Why, if he refuses to go to gym to-morrow, we’ll just – But I’ll tell you later. Here he is. Hello, Old Virginia! where’ve you been?”

“Oh, just to the village,” answered Wayne vaguely.

“And did you spend all that money?”

“Every cent of it.”

“Well, pony up. Where are the goodies?” demanded Paddy.

“Why, I – well, the fact is – ”

“Cut it out. What did you buy?”

“Nothing. Fact is I – I paid a bill.”

CHAPTER VII
THE REVOLT ENDS

The sun came up from behind Mount Adam, the chapel bell rang, some two hundred boys leaped, crawled, or rolled out of bed, and life at Hillton began the next morning as though the day was of no more importance than any of the five which had preceded it that week; in fact, as though Wayne Gordon was not heroically resolved to sacrifice himself upon the altar of principle.

While the unfeeling sun was coming up Wayne was going through a most remarkable adventure. Plainly he had won Professor Wheeler to his side, for together they were besieged in the school library and had barricaded the doors and windows with books, while from convenient loopholes they maintained a rapid and merciless fusillade of ancient and modern history, Greek and Latin text-books, geometries, and algebras upon the heads of the besiegers, who retaliated with chest weights, dumb-bells, single sticks, and Indian clubs until the air was dark with the flying missiles and the battle cries of the foes shook the building. Wayne and the principal had just clasped hands and sworn to perish side by side, fighting grandly to the last gasp for the right, when a whole covey of chest weights came through a window and smote Wayne on the head, and he awoke to see Don with a second pillow poised, ready to throw.

“Get up, Wayne; bell’s rung!”

Wayne yawned, pitched the pillow back at Don, and arose. He hadn’t slept well, and wished that Don wouldn’t always insist on his getting up so early. And he told him so. But Don was good nature itself that morning and refused to argue or get cross, and Wayne was perforce obliged to recover his wonted gayety, much against his inclination, and trudge off arm in arm with Don to chapel. And after he had got through with a hearty breakfast, even the thought that probation awaited him on the morrow failed to dispel his excellent spirits.

For, as Don had feared, the combined efforts of the three friends had failed to shake Wayne’s resolution. Don had pleaded, Paddy had begged, Dave had threatened; and Wayne had reiterated passionately his desire to suffer martyrdom on account of his principles, and had utterly and absolutely and finally refused to attend gymnasium work to-day or to plead illness in extenuation. The three friends had not appeared cast down – a fact at which Wayne wondered not a little. It looked as though they didn’t care whether he was put on probation or not, and he had gone to bed deeply pessimistic on the subject of friendship.

Wayne’s hour for physical training in the gymnasium began at three, and when, five minutes before that time, he issued from Academy Building resolved to proceed to his room and put in the momentous hour at hard study, he found Don and Dave and Paddy on the steps. The two latter youths at once locked arms with him, much to his surprise, for Dave especially was little given to such expressions of friendliness, and the quartet moved toward Bradley Hall.

“Why aren’t you and Dave on the campus?” asked Wayne.

“Oh, we didn’t like to leave you alone this afternoon,” answered Paddy, with a smile. “You see, we have your welfare at heart, my boy, and we are going to see that you don’t act silly and get put on probation, and not be able to go to Marshall with us next week.”

“If you mean not going to the gymnasium when you say ‘acting silly,’” replied Wayne, with much dignity, “why, then, I’m going to act silly.”

“Oh, no, you’re not,” said Dave.

“What do you mean?” demanded Wayne, striving to withdraw himself from his friends’ clutches. They had almost reached the steps of Bradley, and now they stopped and faced about.

“Just this,” said Dave. “We’ve tried persuasion and – and – ”

“Entreaty,” prompted Don.

“And entreaty – and both have failed. So now we’re going to use force. If you don’t agree to go to the gym and do your work peaceable, we are going to take you there.”

Wayne struggled violently, only to suddenly find his feet off the ground, his arms held fast, and himself being borne, kicking wildly, toward the gymnasium.

“Let me go, Dave! Paddy, you – you beast, put me down!”

“Aisy, me child,” answered Paddy soothingly. “’Tis for yer own good.”

“Don, make ’em let me go!” pleaded Wayne. But his chum shook his head.

“Go you must, Wayne, so you’d better promise and we’ll let you walk.” Wayne made no answer, only struggled the harder.

“You’ll have to take his legs, Don,” panted Paddy. “’Tis mighty unaisy he is.” They were crossing the green now, and several fellows were hurrying nearer to see what was going on. A group of boys on the steps of the gymnasium were watching.

“It’s – it’s an outrage!” panted Wayne, his face white with anger.

“Maybe it is,” said Dave calmly, “but we’re getting you there.” Struggle was useless, and Wayne for a moment lay quiet in the grasp of the three boys. Then he caught sight of the watchers. It was public degradation! He temporized.

“I’ll walk, fellows,” he said.

His bearers stopped and let him down.

“Will you promise to go to the gym?” asked Don.

“Yes,” growled Wayne. “But I’ll not do any work, and nobody can make me!”

“Up with him!” cried Dave, and once more Wayne was fighting in the arms of the three and being borne on toward the gymnasium.

“What’s the fun, Paddy?” yelled one of the fellows who were hurrying to meet them.

“Oh, we’re just taking exercise,” answered Paddy carelessly.

“What – what are you going to do with me?” asked Wayne, in meeker tones.

“Carry you to the locker room, change your clothes, take you upstairs, and give you, like a bundle of old rags, to Professor Beck,” answered Dave.

“Let me down, then, and I’ll agree.” Once more he found his feet, but the others took no chances and still stood guard.

“Promise to do your work?” asked Don.

“Yes,” growled Wayne.

“Honest Injun?”

“Honest Injun,” echoed the other.

“All right,” replied Dave. “Then let’s proceed.”

They walked on, Wayne striving to look at ease under the inquiring gaze of many eyes as they passed up the steps and into the building. In the locker room Dave and Paddy left him to get into their own clothes and to hurry away to the campus, while Don stood by and listened patiently to all that Wayne had to say, which was much, and not altogether polite or flattering. Then the two proceeded upstairs and Wayne went through a long siege with the dumb-bells and the chest weights. Professor Beck made no sign, and Wayne wondered resentfully if he was aware of his presence. He was, for after awhile he came to the boy, watched him tugging the cords over his shoulders for a moment in silence and then said:

“Don’t get yourself too tired, Gordon. Stop when you think best.”

Whereat Wayne scowled, tugged the harder at the weights, and resolved to stay until the class was dismissed, hoping resentfully that he would injure his spine or some other portion of his anatomy, and that Professor Wheeler and Don and Paddy and Dave would be sorry and would regret their treatment of him. This so cheered him up that he was quite ready to forgive and forget when he had dried himself after his bath, and so met Don with almost a smile; for that youth, hoping for a reconciliation, had abandoned a French recitation and had waited patiently outside. Neither mentioned the recent affair as they strolled off together, and by mutual consent the subject of physical training was tabooed in their conversation for several weeks. And Dave and Paddy evinced the utmost tact, and were in turn forgiven on the morrow.

Professor Wheeler, however, was not so silent on the subject nor so considerate of Wayne’s feelings. He summoned the boy before him on the following day and earnestly and kindly thanked him for his action in attending the gymnasium; and Wayne, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, heard him through and then broke out with:

“But I didn’t, sir!”

“Didn’t what?” asked the principal.

“Didn’t voluntarily attend the class.”

“But Professor Beck himself told me that you were there.”

“Yes, sir, I was there; but – but – ” And Wayne told the circumstances of his attendance, and the principal smiled broadly when he had finished.

“Well, well, that’s one way to persuade. I asked Cunningham to see what he could do with you, but I didn’t suppose he would use such – ah – heroic measures.”

“I don’t think it was his idea, sir,” answered Wayne. “I believe Paddy was at the bottom of it.”

“Paddy? Oh, yes – Breen. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was.” Professor Wheeler was smiling again. “Well, it wasn’t so hard yesterday, was it, Gordon?”

“No, sir, not very hard; but the principle – ”

The professor held up his hands in simulated despair.

“Gordon, it’s a reckless thing to say, but let us forget our principles for once. If I were you I’d try to keep out of all trouble if for no other reason than to please three such good friends as Cunningham and Breen and – er – Merton have proved to be. I’d even put principle aside, I think, and only consider that I was pleasing my chums. Now, don’t you think you can afford to do that?”

Wayne thoughtfully smoothed the carpet with the toe of his shoe.

“Yes, sir,” he said, at length, “I think I can.”

“And you’ll attend the ‘compulsory physical education’ class in future?” Wayne scowled and tried the effect of the other shoe for a moment.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “I’ll do gymnasium work, but not because I think it is right, for I don’t. I still think it’s wrong. But I’ll do it to please Don and Dave and Paddy and – and – ”

“And me,” said the principal smilingly.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s right. By the way, Carl Gray came to me yesterday and told me about that money, you know. It may please you to hear that the account will not be sent to his mother.”

“I’m very glad, sir,” responded Wayne heartily. “It seemed too bad to have her know, didn’t it, sir?”

“Yes,” said Professor Wheeler gravely. “I feel sure that you don’t want thanks for the kindness, but I’d like to tell you that it has made me very nearly as happy as it has Gray; I disliked my duty greatly. Well, that’s all, I think, Gordon. Come and see me sometimes. I’m always glad to see you boys at any time, and especially on Saturday evenings. I wish more of you could find time to come then. Oh, by the way, you said the other day that you were having hard work with your studies. Which ones bother you most?”

“Greek and mathematics are the worst.”

“Perhaps you could get a little help from some one for a while. Have you tried?”

“No, sir, I – I didn’t like to own up; all the other fellows get along so well.”

“Not all, Gordon; there are others in your fix. Take my advice and go and see Professor Durkee. He rooms in your building. You’ll find him quite willing to help you all he can; and he’s an excellent Greek man. He’s a little – ah – well, crusty, Gordon, on the surface, but you’ll find him kindness itself underneath. Try him.”

“Thank you, sir, I will.”

“Yes. And it’s all settled about the ‘compulsory physical education,’ is it?”

“Yes, sir, only – ”

“What, have we struck a snag already?”

“No, only I’d like it understood that I’m doing it under protest, sir.”

“That,” answered the principal gravely, “is of course understood. Shall we shake hands on it?”

And they did.

CHAPTER VIII
THE FOOTBALL GAME

Thanksgiving recess began the following Wednesday, to last until Friday evening, and many of the boys whose homes were near by departed by the noonday train, superciliously sympathizing with less fortunate friends whose turkey and cranberry sauce were to be eaten in the school dining hall. Paddy and Don had both received boxes of canned and sugared delicacies from home, and a supplementary feast, to follow the six o’clock repast in the hall, was arranged to take place in Paddy’s room, and that youth, who was to break training after the St. Eustace game, promised himself to atone for two months of healthful diet by a veritable orgy on indigestible luxuries.

Wayne, Don, and Dave, together with more than fifty other Hilltonians, boarded the morning express and were transported to the little down-river town of Marshall, where their arrival was enthusiastically welcomed by several score of St. Eustace fellows, headed by a brass band, who escorted them twice through the village, and finally left them, to recover their breaths before lunch at the hotel. Hillton’s band was already on the ground, having accompanied the football team the evening before, and with the arrival of the wearers of the crimson a day of hard work began for it. The band’s repertory was limited, but its energy tremendous, and the Marshall population gathered in front of the hotel to hearken to it and to be mercilessly guyed by the Hilltonians who thronged the broad veranda.

The game was to be called at 2.30. An hour before that time Don and Wayne – Dave having taken up with a St. Eustace acquaintance for the while – started across the bridge to the far side of the river, where, hidden almost from sight, the rival academy nestled amid its trees. The field was already bright with blue banners when the boys arrived and the St. Eustace band was busily at work.

“What I don’t understand,” said Wayne, “is why we don’t have to pay any admission.”

“That,” answered Don, “is because Hillton, when she signed the athletic agreement with St. Eustace six years ago, made it one of her terms that no charge should be made for admission to any of the athletic events between the two schools. Instead, a number of invitation cards are printed. The home school gets two thirds of them for distribution and the visiting school the balance. Of course, it puts the cost of keeping up the eleven and the nine and the other teams on the fellows and the grads, but they seem willing enough to meet it. And, besides, as I know from personal experience, it makes the captains and coaches think more about economy; and we don’t very often travel in parlor cars nor put up at the swellest hotels, but we’ve managed to turn out a winning eleven two years out of every three for a long time.”

“But other schools charge admission,” objected Wayne.

“I know. St. Eustace does for every game except this one. But the idea is ‘Wheels’s.’ He thinks that playing football or baseball for the gate receipts smacks of professionalism; ‘sport for sport’s sake,’ says ‘Wheels.’ And I think he’s right. Look at the big colleges; some of them make from ten to fifteen thousand dollars as their share of an important game.”

“But why shouldn’t they?” asked Wayne.

“Because they’re not professionals; they’re college fellows – the players, I mean – and have no business going around country like a lot of – of – circus folk, showing off for money. And, besides, it’s bound to hurt college sport after awhile. If a captain of a big team knows that by having a winning eleven he can secure a game with another big college, and get eight or ten thousand dollars, why, in lots of cases it’s going to make that captain careless about little things. He isn’t going to inquire too closely into the standing of the fellows that make up the team; he’s going to excuse a lot of laxity as regards training; and he’s going to overlook lots of dirty playing, and all that hurts the college in the end. No, I think ‘Wheels’ is right; and so does Remsen and lots of the old fellows.”

“But, look here,” argued Wayne. “When a team makes eight, or ten, or fifteen thousand dollars, you know, that money doesn’t go to the players, does it?”

“Gracious, no!” exclaimed Don. “It’s generally turned into the general athletic fund, and helps meet the expenses of the crews and other teams that don’t pay their way. But don’t you see that it’s a big feather in a fellow’s cap if he can say that he made fifteen thousand dollars for the athletic association! And the oftener a college team makes a big pot of money the richer the association gets, and the first thing you know it’s sending its football and baseball teams around the country in a private car, with a small army of rubbers and coaches and a cook who prepares all the meals, just as though they were one of those foreign opera companies! It’s all wrong, Wayne. It isn’t good, honest sport; it’s – it’s tommyrot – that’s what it is!”

“Well, maybe it is,” answered the other boy thoughtfully. “Anyhow, I shan’t kick, you know; it’s saved me a dollar, I dare say.”

“No, it hasn’t, Wayne, because you’ll have to pay that dollar, and maybe another like it, into the crew’s pocket, or the baseball nine’s pocket, or the track team’s little treasury in the spring.”

“Oh, I see. The idea is to have the school – that is, the fellows and the graduates – meet the athletic expenses, and not to ask the public for help.”

“That’s it,” answered Don heartily. “But here comes Hillton.”

A little squad of youths in crimson sweaters, headed by Gardiner and followed by the Hillton band, defiled on to the field, and the occupants of the stand where Wayne and Don sat were instantly on their feet cheering lustily. The band paraded with ludicrous dignity about the field, and at last found seats near by and for the fifth time began its programme. A moment later the St. Eustace players entered and were greeted with acclaim from hundreds of wearers of the dark blue and their friends, and received a cheer from the rival contingent. The two teams and their substitutes went busily to practicing, and Wayne watched Paddy, large of bulk and quick of action, snapping back the ball and forming the apex of numerous little wedges that grew and dissolved under the tuition of the coach.

The seats about the broad expanse of faded turf were filled now, and many spectators had taken up positions on the ground just inside the ropes that guarded the side-lines. Blue was the prevailing color, and only on one small section of the stand did the crimson of Hillton flutter. Presently the substitutes trotted off the gridiron and squatted, Indian-like in their blankets, along the sides, a coin was tossed, the teams took their positions, and Paddy sent the new ball corkscrewing toward the St. Eustace goal, where it was gathered into the waiting arms of the St. Eustace full-back on the thirty-yard line and advanced by him over two white bars ere the Hillton ends downed him.

During the six years in which the athletic agreement had been in force between the two academies Hillton had won three of the football contests and tied one. Last year, and again the year before, her eleven had triumphed over the blue, and St. Eustace, with two consecutive defeats rankling in her memory, was this year determined upon victory. And it was the very general opinion that she would win it. To be sure, Hillton had played the usual number of games throughout the fall and had no defeats behind her. Westvale Grammar School had been beaten to the tune of 27 to 0; the local grammar school had been whitewashed by a monotonously big score; the neighboring military academy had managed to play a tie; and Shrewsburg High School had accepted defeat after a close and exciting contest, in which Greene had snatched a victory by a spirited forty-yard run for a touch-down. But those who knew shook their heads when the subject of the St. Eustace game was mentioned, and talked vaguely of a “lack of the right stuff,” a term which conveys nothing to the mind of any one save a football player, but which means everything.

The preceding Saturday evening the four friends, with numerous other boys, had obtained permission to go to the village and learn the result of the Harwell-Yates game, and when, in the telegraph office, the report that Yates had been the victor greeted them Paddy had sighed dolefully.

“That settles it,” he had said. “We don’t always win from St. Eustace when Harwell wins from Yates, but we’ve never beaten when she hasn’t. It’s St. Eustace’s game.” And no amount of argument could shake his conviction.

Wayne and Don voted the first half of the game dull. The teams were apparently evenly matched in defensive playing, and nearly so in offensive work. The ball oscillated from one twenty-five-yard line to the other, Hillton and St. Eustace both looking for an opportunity to send a back around for a run and finding none. Line-bucking made up the most of the play, and at this each team held its ground stubbornly when on the defensive, and attacked gallantly when it had the ball. It was only at the end of the half that anything exciting occurred. With but three or four minutes to play, and the pigskin near Hillton’s thirty-yard line in St. Eustace’s possession, the backs drew away from the line, and amid a tense silence the ball was passed to full for a try at goal. But Paddy it was who frustrated the attempt by breaking through St. Eustace’s line and receiving the ascending ball on his broad chest. Don and Wayne were sitting on the lowest tier of seats so that the former might lead in the cheering, and as the ball disappeared under a heap of wildly scrambling players he was on his feet, cap in hand, and the Hillton section was responding nobly to his appeal; the fellows delighted at a chance to applaud something worth applauding. The half ended with the ball in the arms of the Hillton full-back.

During the intermission Dave turned up, and the three boys stamped about the ground to keep their feet warm and sang “Hilltonians” vociferously to show their joy. And the band did wonders.

“Looks like a tie, Dave,” said Don.

“Well, I don’t know,” responded that youth, with his usual caution. “Paddy’s dreadfully used up; he’s been playing center and left-guard and right-guard and half the team. And if Paddy goes out – well, we might as well go home and read about the game in to-morrow’s paper.”

“Bowles seems to be running the team well,” mused Don.

“Yes, he’s braced up wonderfully; he’s all right. Gardiner’s delighted with him. Two weeks ago he couldn’t hold a snapped ball.”

“Oh, have you seen Gardiner? What’s he say?”

“Nothing, but he looks cheerful. That’s a bad sign. When Gardiner looks cheerful, it means that he’s worried. Hello! here they come again. Let’s get these stuffed images to cheer.” Dave turned to the seats: “Now, fellows, you’ve been doing some of the worst cheering that I ever heard outside of a girls’ school. We’re going to win, but we’ve got to use our lungs. So let’s give ’em nine long Hilltons, as though we were glad we’re living.”

The response was all that Dave desired, and he and Don and “Pigeon” Wallace, president of the senior class, kept the cheers going until the ball was aloft and the game was on again.

St. Eustace forced the playing at once. Down the field they came by short rushes, and ere the watchers on the stand knew what was happening, the ball was on the Hillton ten-yard line and the blue-stockinged backs were massed close behind their line for a tandem on guard. A yard resulted from this play. “Second down!” cried the referee. “Four yards to gain!” The Hillton boys were on their feet, cheering at the top of their lungs. Another massed attack, and but two yards was needed by the St. Eustace eleven. But those two yards were beyond accomplishment, for Paddy led the crimson line in a sturdy, desperate resistance, Hillton took the ball on her seven-yard line, and a moment after it was sailing down the field from Grow’s nimble foot, and Wayne, Dave, and Don were yelling frantically and pounding each other enthusiastically over the head.

But back came the ball as before, St. Eustace’s steady short rushes being supplemented once by a stirring run around Hillton’s left end that brought the blue’s champions to their feet in a mighty burst of noise. Past the middle of the gridiron went the charging St. Eustace players, and the ball was down on Hillton’s forty yards ere another five minutes had flown by. Then the whistle piped shrilly and Dave clutched Don’s sleeve.

“Paddy’s laid out!” he cried hoarsely.

And so it was; and there was a deal of anxiety in that little throng until the plucky center climbed to his feet again and broke away from the trainer’s hands. Then all Hillton shrieked joyously and the game went on. But it was plainly to be seen that Paddy was suffering, and it was equally evident that there was good reason; for he had not only to play his own position, but to help the guards as well, and now, to make his difficulties greater and to increase his troubles, the opposing team had decided upon a plan of play that made Dave writhe impotently in his seat, and which caused even Wayne’s careless good temper to revolt. Time after time the full force of the St. Eustace backs was thrown upon Paddy. For long he stood it doggedly, holding his temper in check under every fresh assault; but there is an end to all endurance, and now, with fifteen minutes of the second half gone, Paddy was visibly weakening, and every successive plunge at the center of the Hillton line resulted in a greater gain.

“There’s slugging going on there, Don!” cried Dave. “That St. Eustace right-guard struck Paddy then. You watch this time!”

The line-up was directly opposite the boys’ seats and but a few yards from the side-line, and they watched attentively as Paddy was helped to his feet and groped his way to his place. “Tackles back!” called the St. Eustace quarter, “78 – 36 – 76 – 16 – ” Then the two lines met with a shock, there was a rasping of canvas, and ere the Hillton line gave and the St. Eustace backs piled through, a clinched hand rose and fell twice, and Paddy fell weakly to his knees and slowly stretched himself out on his face. Not only the three boys saw the blows struck, but almost every fellow in the immediate vicinity, and a veritable wave of hisses drowned the applause of the St. Eustace cheerers. And at the same moment Wayne, with blazing cheeks and angry eyes, leaped from the stand, darted through the throng about the rope, and strode menacingly toward the St. Eustace right-guard. But before his upraised fist reached the surprised player his arm was seized and in a moment he was struggling in the grasp of two of the Hillton team. Half of the Hillton crowd had impulsively followed Wayne’s lead, and now an indignant horde broke through the ropes and invaded the field with loud cries for vengeance.

It was a time for action, and Gardiner, Greene, and several more of the wearers of the crimson resolutely stemmed the tide, pleading and threatening in a breath.

“Fellows! Fellows!” cried Gardiner. “Go back! It’s all right; don’t disgrace the school!”

“Get off the field, fellows!” shouted Greene. “I swear I’ll knock down the first fellow that comes any nearer! You’re acting like a lot of kids!”

“Make ’em take him off, then!” was the reply from dozens of throats, as the crowd wavered and gave back unwillingly.

“Yes, it’s all right – it’s all right,” said Gardiner soothingly. “Only go back to the stand, like good chaps.”

The boys withdrew beyond the wrecked ropes again, but did not immediately return to their seats. Many St. Eustace fellows had drawn near and were glaring threateningly toward them. Wayne, in the grasp of his friends, was dragged off the field, trembling with anger and doggedly promising the offending St. Eustace guard a licking after the game. Paddy, with a badly bruised eye, was supported to a place by the ropes, and the belligerent St. Eustace player was ruled out of the game. The Hillton contingent cheered lustily for Paddy and groaned derisively at his assailant, and went slowly back to their places, while the St. Eustace fellows were dispersed by some of the older lads. Then some one caught sight of Wayne, held in his seat by Don and Dave, and shouted, “Bully for Gordon!” which cry was taken up by others and prolonged until Don jumped up and faced the stand.

“Fellows,” he pleaded, “shut up, please! Everything’s all right now. Only keep still, will you?”

Laughter and cheers greeted him and good humor came back to the crowd. A small junior shrilled, “We’ll beat them, anyhow!” and the sentiment was applauded to the echo.

But victory for Hillton was too much to expect with Paddy no longer in line. Burton, who took his place, was a fair center, but far from heavy enough to stop the opponent’s triumphant advance down the field, and though Hillton worked desperately for the next ten minutes the ball was at length within scoring distance of her goal, and again the St. Eustace full-back dropped back for a punt.

“Can’t be done from there,” whispered Don breathlessly. “It’s forty yards, I’ll bet.” But Dave shook his head.

“That full-back’s a wonder, they say, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him do it. If only we can get through!”

But the St. Eustace line held like a wall, the ball sped back, the full caught it neatly, and with admirable care poised it in his palm before dropping it. Then his toe caught it on the rebound and up it sailed, straight and unwavering, cleanly between the posts and over the bar! And blue flags waved and cheers for St. Eustace filled the air, and Dave and Don looked sorrowfully at each other and groaned in unison. Only Wayne in all that throng seemed not to heed or care; he was watching vindictively a boy who was waving a blue sweater on the far side of the field.

There was no more scoring done, although the Hillton team, to all appearances undismayed, returned to the game with hammer and tongs, as it were, and forced the ball to her opponents’ twenty yards ere she lost it for holding, and afterward stubbornly and heroically contested every inch of turf ere yielding it to the victorious foe. But the whistle soon sounded, the two teams gathered breathless in mid-field and cheered each other, the St. Eustace band paraded the gridiron, followed by a shouting, dancing train of ecstatic youths with blue flags, and Wayne, still pining for vengeance, was dragged willy nilly to the village and on to the train and borne back to school under strict guard and in dire disgrace – a disgrace that did not deter many a mistaken fellow from clapping him on the shoulder, and whispering a hearty “Good boy, Gordon!” into his ear.

CHAPTER IX
PAINFUL LESSONS

“Pass a fork, Dave.”

“Haven’t one; use your knife.”

“Can’t get pickles out with a knife, silly. Can’t you – ”

“Here’s one,” said Wayne. “I was sitting on it. When will Paddy get here?”

“Ought to be here now. Wish he’d hurry; I’m getting most powerful hungry, as Old Virginia there says.”

“Will he be elected?” asked Wayne, as he struggled with the cover of a biscuit tin.

“Sure to be,” answered Dave, who was arranging the spread on the study table of No. 2 Hampton, now denuded of its customary litter of books, paper, and rubbish. “And he’ll be here pretty quick; I told him we’d wait until nine, and if he wasn’t here then we’d start in.”

“Thunder!” yelled Don, suddenly leaping up and dancing around the table.

“What?” cried the others, in a breath.

“Where’s the water? All the mustard in those pickles got on top and – ” He buried his face in the pitcher that Dave held out.

“Serves you right,” grinned Wayne. “Had no business tasting things.”

“I like your cheek,” said Don indignantly. “You’ve been sitting there eating biscuits for five minutes. Look, Dave, he’s eaten the whole top layer off!”

“Pig!” cried Dave, and rescued the tin, placing it on the table, where it was flanked by sheets of writing paper in lieu of dishes holding potted duck, mince tarts, a pineapple cheese, and preserved figs, the latter overflowing in sticky streams on to the table top.

“What’ll we crack the nuts with, Dave?” asked Don.

“Nuts? Find one of Paddy’s football brogans in the closet. Crack ’em on the hearth and stuff the shells in Paddy’s bed. Too late, though – he’s coming, and he’s got some one with him. Let’s welcome ’em.”

Paddy and Greene entered amid a fusillade of walnuts and cork stoppers, and by concerted action ran Dave into a closet and turned the key on him.

“Are you It?” asked Don eagerly.

“I’m It,” replied Paddy, striking an attitude. “And Greene’s a back number – aren’t you, Greeney? And I can pommel you all I want and not lose my place on the team, can’t I?”

“Hooray!” It was the muffled tones of Dave from the closet.

“Shut up, you! Greene withdrew and so I got the captaincy. He could have had it again if he’d wanted it.”

“Rot!” said Greene. “I was out of it, and I knew it. Besides, I didn’t want it again. Three times is too much. I’m awfully glad it went to Paddy. He’ll make a good captain, Cunningham; don’t you think so?” Don’s reply was interrupted by the sound of breaking wood. Dave emerged from the closet in a heap, and, picking himself up, seized Paddy and forced him into a wild dance about the room.

“Hooray for Paddy – Captain Paddy!” he shouted. In the dance Paddy’s nice white bandage came off and exposed a very black eye, which lent a thoroughly desperate and disreputable look to the countenance of the newly elected captain of the football team.

“By the way, Greene, do you know Gordon?” asked Paddy, as the boys found seats about the table and without further ceremony began the feast. Greene didn’t, and very graciously shook hands.

“You’re the fellow that got spunky to-day, aren’t you?” he asked smilingly. Wayne nodded, looking bored.

“Wayne doesn’t like the subject,” said Dave. “It’s a matter of lasting regret to him that he didn’t reach that chap Kirkwell.”

“Well, don’t worry, my boy,” said Paddy, as he filled his mouth with cracker and jam. “I reached him once. I didn’t do it the way I should have liked to, of course, because I was seeing double and having hard work to keep my pins, but I fetched him a very decent little jab on the neck. He got me four times before I gave up – hang him! Mind you, fellows, I don’t believe in slugging, and I never did it before – that is, since I have been on the team – but to-day I got tired of having him bang me every time there was a mix-up, so I forgot myself.” And Paddy grinned reminiscently and tried to wink his damaged eye at Wayne.

“Kirkwell’s a dirty player,” said Greene. “Pass some of that cheese, will you? – He played last year, you know, and Jasper caught him slugging once in the game with the Yates freshmen and put him off. Jasper’s St. Eustace’s captain,” he explained to Wayne. “He’s an awfully decent chap, too, and he promised me to-day that Kirkwell shouldn’t play again if he could help it.”

“Dave, Wallace was up yesterday to ask about the hockey team – wants you and me to join again. He’s got seven games arranged; one with St. Eustace and one with a high school club at Troy, or somewhere. Want to go in?” And Don poised a tart in front of his mouth and waited a reply.

“I guess so. You going to try, Paddy?”

“I might. There’s lots of time to decide. There’ll be no decent ice on the river, I dare say, for a month yet.”

“I’m going to try for it,” continued Don. “We had lots of fun last year. Can you skate, Wayne?”

Wayne hesitated and munched a sandwich.

“Yes, I can skate,” he said finally. “But – ”

“Then you’d better report next Saturday in the gym,” said Don. “Greene, are you trying for a scholarship this term?” Greene sighed.

“Trying? Oh, yes, I’m trying; but I haven’t the least idea of making it. But I’m going to buckle down now and put in some hard licks at grinding. I suppose you’re sure of one, aren’t you, you lucky beggar?”

“No, I’m not at all sure; but I may win a Master’s. Paddy’s the only fellow here, I suppose, that’s certain of a scholarship.”

“Indade an’ I’m not certain at all at all,” said Paddy. “I’ve done well with Latin and fairly well with Greek, but, whisper, English has me floored. And old ‘Turkey’ has been putting the screws on me all term, bad scran to him. But,” continued Paddy, with beautiful modesty, “me deportment has been of the best.”

“Well, we’ll all know in a month; and there’s no good in worrying,” said Dave. “Somebody have some more of everything.”

“I can ate no more,” answered Paddy sorrowfully. “It’s out of practice I am altogether.”

“And I’ve had enough,” said Don.

“Same here,” echoed Greene. “I must be getting home. It’s ten o’clock, and I’m dog tired. Good night, fellows; and better luck next year, Paddy. Any one going my way?”

Wayne and Don arose, and the three said good night and picked their way out through the darkened hall and across the dimly lighted green toward their dormitories.

“By the way, Gordon,” said the ex-captain of the football team, breaking the silence, “that was well meant to-day, you know – your jumping on that St. Eustace fellow – and nobody blames you; but – well, it isn’t just the thing, you see – we don’t do it at Hillton. You – you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” answered Wayne gloomily. “I see what you mean, but I don’t understand – Never mind, though, I’ll remember next time.”

“Glad you take it that way,” said Greene. “It’s not my place to mention it to you, only – being a chum of Cunningham’s – and your first term here – Well, good night, fellows.”

Wayne had almost fallen asleep, when he was aroused by a muffled chuckle from the direction of Don’s bed.

“What’s up?” he asked sleepily.

“Nothing,” was the response. “I just remembered that I put the walnut shells in Dave’s boots.”

When Wayne told Don that he could skate, he had not been quite truthful.

“He asked me, ‘Can you skate?’” reasoned Wayne; “not ‘Do you skate?’ And of course I can if I try hard enough!”

But the argument didn’t quite satisfy him, and he set out to lend veracity to it by purchasing a pair of half-clamp skates in the village and seeking an unfrequented pond fully a mile from the school. About Wayne’s home in Virginia skates were seldom seen and more seldom used. But the boy had been ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance before the others who did so many things well. He had been about to qualify his assent by adding that he could not skate very well when Don interrupted him.

To learn to skate without instruction is almost as difficult as to learn to swim unaided, and Wayne’s troubles began on the first afternoon that he eluded his friends and sneaked off through the village. The pond was hidden from the road by willows, and he had little fear of interruption. After a struggle of several moments he at last managed to affix his skates – he put the left one on the right shoe, and vice versa– and stepped on to the ice. The immediate result was as surprising as it was disappointing, for his first step resulted not in progress but in prostration, his head coming in violent contact with the frozen earth at the margin of the ice. He arose with a thumping headache, and after a moment of painful bewilderment turned his steps homeward, with a vastly increased respect for the art of skating and a heightened dislike for it as the result of his first lesson.

But he was back again the next day. He found a friendly branch leaning out over the ice, and with its aid experimented on his runners, making numerous remarkable discoveries in the next ten minutes. He found that it was necessary to place the rear foot at an angle while he advanced the front one, and that as long as the center of gravity of his body remained in advance of one foot he was in little danger of falling. But as soon as the branch was discarded he sat down just where the ice was hardest, and it took him a whole minute of the most careful management to get his feet under him again; and when that was accomplished he discovered to his dismay that he was sliding, as though propelled by invisible force, toward the very middle of the pond, his skates gradually parting company and his body held as though in the act of sitting. The thing was so disconcerting that he was heartily glad when he did take a seat, even though it was at a disheartening distance from shore. He first considered crawling back to terra firma on his hands and knees, but that would seem too much like giving up; so he again went through the remarkable contortions necessary to recover his equilibrium, and finally reached the shore after a series of exciting adventures, during which one skate became detached at the toe and his breath forsook him entirely. Four more falls completed that day’s lesson, and he went back to the school with his head buzzing like a hive of bees and his body covered with bruises.

A thaw set in that night, and for the next few days he had to content himself with studying the art from a volume of the Badminton Library. The book wasn’t much of a help. It seemed as though the famous skater who had written the chapter headed First Principles of Skating, and Suggestions to Beginners, had been so overpowered by the magnitude of his task that he had given up in despair before he had begun. The few facts of practical value which he had mentioned Wayne had already discovered by painful experience.

But two weeks before Christmas, and a week before the end of the fall term, the ice on the ponds again froze to a respectable thickness, and Wayne continued his self-instruction. Six excursions had been made to the little pond, and the boy had attained to a degree of skill which allowed of his circling the ice without falling, and he was fast becoming both fond of the sport and proud of his ability. But pride goes before a fall, especially in skating. One afternoon Wayne had twice encompassed the pond, and was seriously considering an attempt at skating backward, when one runner encountered a twig imbedded in the surface, and he took a most undignified tumble. His wounded feelings were in no measure relieved by the peals of boisterous laughter that issued from across the pond, where, hidden by the willows, Paddy and Dave had crouched, interested spectators of his disaster.

“Bully for Old Virginia!” bawled Paddy.

“I say, Wayne,” shouted Dave, “do that again, won’t you? I didn’t see the first of it!”

And then, as Wayne strove to recover his feet and his dignity, their gibes took a new turn, and Dave asked Paddy with elaborate politeness what the young gentleman on the ice was doing; and Paddy assured him that he wasn’t at all certain, but thought that the young gentleman was looking for something he had dropped; whereupon Dave thanked Paddy ceremoniously, and explained that he had supposed, judging from the fact that the young gentleman wore skates, you know, that the latter was skating; and Paddy assured him that he was mistaken, oh, quite mistaken, and that the young gentleman had no idea of skating; and Wayne floundered dejectedly up and sat down meekly on the bank, and told them mournfully that he didn’t mind, only they might just cut out a little of it!

When Don was gleefully informed of the affair by Paddy, he grinned delightedly.

“That’s just like Wayne,” he exclaimed. “Pluckiest and obstinatest chump in school.”

CHAPTER X
GRAY GOES INTO BUSINESS

The end of the fall term at Hillton is a busy time. The examinations occur then, and the award of scholarships is made on the last day of school. The less said about Wayne’s performance at the examinations the better for any good opinion the reader may entertain of that youth. He struggled through; let that suffice. The highest scholarship for the upper middle class, the Goodwin, went to “Charles Fitzgerald Breen, New York city,” and Paddy, blushing like a veritable junior, awkwardly bowed his thanks and received a salvo of most flattering applause. Don came in for the Carmichael scholarship, the next in importance, and Wayne cheered loudly, until kicked into silence by his chum. Dave’s name was not mentioned, but he declared cheerfully that Paddy’s success was “glory enough for all,” and displayed neither disappointment nor envy. Wayne, you may be sure, expected no honors, and so was not one of the many youths who took their way out of the school hall in deep dejection.

Wayne was to spend the winter vacation with Don at the latter’s home in Boston; Paddy’s holidays were to be observed in New York; and Dave, alone of the four, was to remain at school during the recess. Dave’s only near relatives – for his father and mother were both dead – lived in California, and a visit to them was out of the question. Both Don and Paddy extended invitations, but Dave was shy of strange people and houses and preferred to eat his Christmas dinner in the academy dining hall; and so one bright and cold morning he said good-by to his three friends at the station, waved a golf club cheerfully after the receding train, and loitered back to Hampton House, whistling bravely but feeling very lonesome.

The winter vacation lasted two weeks, and Don and Wayne enjoyed every instant of it, and returned to Hillton when the new year was already a week old, refreshed in body and mind, Don full of plans for the track team and a victory for the crimson, and Wayne with his head crowded with admirable resolutions regarding study. Acting upon the suggestion of the principal, he had paid several visits to Professor Durkee, whose rooms were on the first floor of Bradley Hall, and the result had been most encouraging. The professor of English was a lean and wrinkled little man, well past middle age, whose crabbed manner and stern enforcement of discipline had gained for him the dislike of many pupils and the sobriquet of “Turkey.” He was a hard taskmaster but a just one, and many a boy could have told a tale of leniency and kindness in which the little professor would have figured well. Wayne found him goodness itself under his crusty exterior, and a most patient and lucid instructor in the studies that bothered the boy most. And even after Wayne no longer needed the professor’s assistance he continued his occasional visits to the quiet study, and the two became firm friends.

Adhering to his resolves, Wayne spent more time at lessons, threatening to become, according to Paddy, a regular “grind.” Paddy professed to feel the wildest alarm over Wayne’s conduct, and suggested the infirmary as a suitable residence for a while; but Wayne didn’t mind, and before long even Don was forced to acknowledge that his roommate was exhibiting a most commendable studiousness. Alone in the study one afternoon, before a comfortable fire, and doggedly struggling with Greek, Wayne was interrupted by the entrance of Carl Gray. Ever since the latter had accepted Wayne’s loan he had punctually appeared each week with the promised fifty-cent payment, and a certain intimacy had sprung up between the two as a result of the visits. To-day he accepted the chair that Wayne shoved forward and put his wet shoes up to the blaze. But, contrary to custom, he did not at once bring forth his half dollar, and his host thought he detected signs of embarrassment on the younger boy’s countenance and in his manner. They talked for a few minutes about school topics and the prospects for skating on the river. Then Gray edged uncomfortably forward in his chair and cleared his throat.

“‘Wheels’ told me, that day you were in the office, Gordon, that when you have an explanation to make the best way is to go at it straight.” He paused and seemed to be looking for inspiration in the glowing fire.

“Hang it, Gray,” exclaimed Wayne, “I don’t know what you’re driving at; but if you’re trying to tell me that you haven’t – that it isn’t convenient for you to pay that old money to-day – why, cut it out! I’ve told you already that I don’t need it. How many more times do you want me to tell you?”

“Well, that’s it,” responded Carl Gray, breathing easier and looking grateful for the assistance. “But I’d like to explain about it. When I promised to pay you fifty cents a week I wanted to do it and meant to, and I still want to. I shan’t forget the – the kindness – ”

“Cut it,” warned the other.

“Well, but I couldn’t know that – the fact is, Gordon, that I didn’t get any allowance this week, and, what’s more, I don’t think I’ll get any next week. My mother writes that she has had to spend a lot of money on – on something she hadn’t foreseen. And she says she knows I won’t mind very much, since I have probably got a little saved from what she has sent before.” The boy paused and sighed. “I – I never told her, you know.”

“Of course not,” said Wayne cheerfully. “But don’t bother about my little old fifty cents, Gray. Tell your mother that you have gobs of money – just rolling in it; and if you don’t mind taking a loan – ”

“No,” cried Gray sharply. “I’m not going to borrow any more money. But it’s awfully good of you – indeed it is. I don’t need any money – much; at any rate, I’m not going to take any more from you. But I wanted to tell you how it was, so that you’d understand that the reason I didn’t pay you anything this week was because I didn’t have it.”

“All right. Only don’t bother about it. Are you lower middle fellows in the Anabasis?”

“Yes, the first book. But there is something else I wanted to – to ask you about, Gordon. You see you’re almost the only chap in the upper classes that I know; in fact, I don’t know very many fellows, anyhow; and I thought that if you could help me you would.”

“Of course I will,” answered Wayne heartily. “What is it?”

“I want to earn some money. Not for myself exactly, but I’d like to pay you, and I’d like to send a little to my mother. I guess it would be a lot easier for me to send her money than it is for her to send it to me. I was hoping I’d get a master’s scholarship, Gordon, but I suppose that affair of Porter’s bill spoiled that; it would have been awfully nice.”

“Yes, it would. But how can you earn any money, Gray?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I might make a little in this way. Do you play golf?” Wayne shook his head. “Well, fellows that do play have to give about thirty cents for balls; they’re expensive little things, and after they have been used a bit they’re likely to be dented and out of shape. Then they need to be remolded. Of course, remolded balls are never quite as good as new ones, but they’re all right for ordinary use and good enough for lots of the fellows here.”

Wayne had jumped up and now returned to the fireside with a handful of damaged golf balls, collected from various parts of the room.

“Are those the things?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Gray. “I can remold those. I learned how last year. A fellow I know has loaned me his press and I have everything else necessary. I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind speaking to the fellows you know, just telling them that I’ll remold their old balls for ten cents apiece, and do it well. Then, if they had any for me I could call and get them. Don’t you think that would be all right?”

“You bet,” said Wayne. “That’s a jolly good idea. I’ll get lots of balls for you to fuss with. And you can take these along with you now. Let’s see – two, four, six, nine of ’em in all. They’ll do to practice on.”

“But, I say, Gordon, they’re not yours, are they?”

“Mine? Great Jupiter, no! What would I be doing with the silly things? They’re Don Cunningham’s.”

“But will he want them remolded?” asked Gray doubtfully.

“Of course he will, when I explain it to him. Here, put ’em in your pockets. And to-morrow, Gray, come around here about this time and I’ll let you know what can be done. I think it’s a jolly good scheme, and there are so many fellows here that play golf that we ought to be able to find heaps of old balls. If we could get hold of, say, a hundred, that would mean ten dollars, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, only it wouldn’t be all profit, you know. Gutta percha costs quite a bit and so does paint. But it would be a lot of money, just the same; though if I could get fifty balls I’d be satisfied, Gordon.”

“Fifty? Pooh!” said Wayne. “We’ll get lots more than that. Just you wait and see.”

“You’re very good to help me; it will be a bother, I know; and you are so busy with your lessons, too.”

“Oh, I’ll find time between recitations, you know,” replied Wayne. “Come up about this time to-morrow. So long.”

“Good-by,” answered Gray, “and – and thanks awfully, Gordon.” Wayne scowled.

“Say, Gray, I wish you weren’t so full of ‘thank you’s.’ You just tire me to death with them.” Gray smiled from the doorway.

“All right; I’ll try to remember. Good-by.” He closed the door behind him, and Wayne turned back to his book. “I’ll bet Dave’s got a lot of old golf balls,” he muttered as he found his place. “I’ll speak to him to-night if I see him.”

But Dave didn’t turn up that evening, and the next afternoon, as soon as the last recitation was over, Wayne took a pad of paper and a pencil and started out to drum up trade. His first visit was to Hampton House, where he discovered both Dave and Paddy writing fast and furiously at the table, an atmosphere of excitement about them. Paddy stopped long enough to explain what was up.

“We’re going to have a grand spectacular skating carnival on the river next Wednesday. All the fellows are going in for it. Wallace and Greene and I are the committee, and – ”

“What committee?” asked Wayne.

“Oh, just a committee, you know, to get up the programme and arrange for the prizes and all that. We’re going to have a lot of races, handicap, novice, class, and a hurdle race. Say, will you enter the novice?”

“I reckon so. – Are you going to try, Dave?”

“Yep,” answered Dave, looking up for a moment from his work. “I’m down for everything.”

“But how do you know that there’ll be any ice by Wednesday, Paddy?” asked Wayne. Paddy nodded gleefully toward the front window.

“Look at the thermometer, my lad; it was only twenty above a minute ago, and it’s been going down steadily since noon. Oh, don’t you worry about the ice. That’s all right.”

“Well, just as you say, Paddy. – Dave, have you got any old golf balls?”

“Yep, somewhere. Why?”

“I want ’em.”

“Well, look about the place. There’s one or two in that mug over there.” Wayne searched the mantel and what drawers he came across, and soon had seven badly battered little globes before him. He shook his head.

“Those aren’t nearly enough,” he muttered. He looked around and his eyes lighted on Dave’s closet. The boys at the table were too busy to heed him as he opened the door and brought out a box containing eight brand-new Silvertowns. At the hearth he laid his find down and picked up the fire shovel. Placing one of the immaculate white balls on the hearth he proceeded to knock dents in it. It was hard work, but he at last managed to disfigure six of the eight and was hammering at the seventh when a glancing blow sent the little ball whizzing into the air to the table where it landed with a bang under Dave’s nose.

“What in thunder?” he cried, staring at Wayne.

“Beg pardon, Dave,” said that youth, as he attacked the last ball with the fire shovel.

“But what – what are you doing, you idiot?” shrieked Dave.

“Why, you see, I could only find seven old ones, Dave, and I had to have lots more than that.” Then he explained about Carl Gray, and Paddy forgot the skating carnival, for laughing at Dave’s dismay at sight of his new balls. But the latter was soon won round to what Wayne called a proper view of it, and consented to pay ten cents apiece to have the fifteen balls remolded, and Wayne took himself off with his pockets bulging out as though each had the toothache. In the next hour he paid innumerable calls on his acquaintances – he was surprised to find how many he had – and at five o’clock returned to Bradley with a list which ran thus:

Cooper, 25 Masters, 3.

Benson, 36 Turner, doesn’t know how many.

Moore, 30 Masters, 6.

Duane, 8 Bradley, 2.

Harrington, Goodrich’s house, lots of balls.

Greene, 17 Warren, 10. Wants to know if you can mend a club; told him thought you could. Call at noon.

Bradford, 4 Turner, 6. Call after chapel.

There were as many more entries on the list, and Gray was delighted and full of gratitude to Wayne. When he saw some of the fifteen balls that Wayne produced from his overcoat pockets he examined them curiously.

“These eight are awfully queer-looking balls,” he said. “Look as though they’d been kicked about in a coal bin.”

“Oh, you can’t tell what Dave may have been doing with them,” Wayne answered. “I dare say he’s been trying to burn them in the grate. But don’t you care; take ’em along and fix ’em up, and if they’re harder to do than the others, why, charge fifteen cents for them.”

“They won’t be,” said Gray, laughing. “There isn’t much wrong with them, and a coat of paint will do for several. And I’ll take the list around to-morrow and get the balls. I think I can fix that club of Greene’s; perhaps I could find others to mend. Really, Gordon, I’m awfully much ob – ”

“Get out of here!” shrieked Wayne savagely. Gray got out, but in the hall he stopped.

“O Gordon!” he shouted.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Then he scuttled downstairs.