Barry Locke, half-back
better try for Attic. It isn’t exactly exclusive, but most of the right
sort belong. And you like literary stuff and debating, I guess. Then
there’s the Oracle. We’ll work that for you, but you won’t be elected
until February.” Barry tried to look properly grateful and wondered why
he didn’t feel so.
There was more discussion, more planning. Goof Ellingham appeared
presently, accompanied by a fellow who was introduced to Barry as
Greenwalk. Followed much football talk, for Clyde, Hal, and Goof were
all players. After a while Barry took his departure, followed to the
door by Clyde.
“Jake and Goof,” the latter confided in whispers, “are corkers. Glad
you met them. Follow it up, Barry.” Barry nodded, not so much in assent
as because Clyde’s earnestness demanded a reply. “Well, see you in the
morning,” said Clyde, and smote the other on the shoulder with friendly
approval.
It was dark when Barry got outside, and once he was through the gate
the darkness increased, for the village road was lighted by infrequent
arc-lamps and between them stretched long pockets of gloom wherein
crickets cheeped incessantly. There were lights in both the Lyle house
and the Anderson house, opposite. As he drew near, the strains of a
muted violin came from an upstairs window of the latter. It was a
wistful little air that he heard, one that faltered and died away at
a certain intricate run of tiny notes. Barry paused at the gate and
smiled in sympathy as the strains began again and again faded into
silence.
“He’s been at it ten minutes,” said a voice from the gloom of the
porch. “Persevering beggar!”
Barry stared curiously as he neared the speaker. Jones was seated on
something large, black, and formless that gradually resolved itself
into a trunk.
“What――” began Barry.
“Expressman dumped it here. Said he wouldn’t carry it upstairs for
fifty cents. If I’d been here I’d have shown him how mistaken he was,
but it was before I got back, and Mrs. Lyle is easy. So I thought I’d
better wait around and give you a hand.”
“Why, thanks,” said Barry. “But do you think we can do it? It’s awfully
heavy. There’s a lot of books in there.”
“I can carry one end and the middle if you can manage the rest of it,”
answered Jones. “Mr. Benjy wanted to try it, but I wouldn’t let him.”
“Who’s Mr. Benjy?” inquired Barry, dubiously lifting an end of the
steamer trunk as Jones yawningly rose.
“Mr. Lyle. Guess you’d better go first, Locke. Wait until I get the
screen door open. All ready? Let’s go!”
The sound of the struggle brought Mrs. Lyle from the sitting-room.
“Crawford, you’re not trying to get that trunk up by yourself?” she
demanded agitatedly. “I told you you mustn’t! You’ll strain your back
or――or hurt yourself dreadfully, and――”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Lyle. Locke’s here.”
“Oh! Well――” Mrs. Lyle retired again, and a murmur of voices came
through the open door below.
The boys got the trunk up the stairs finally, and then along the
hall and into Barry’s room, setting it down, with vast relief, in the
darkness.
“I’m awfully much obliged,” panted Barry, searching unsuccessfully for
a light-switch beside the door.
“Don’t mention it. If you’re looking for a button, there isn’t any.
Here, let me do it. I know where the thing is. At least, I think I do.
Ah, at last!”
A none too brilliant radiance appeared, accentuating the bareness of
the room. Jones surveyed the scene and shook his head.
“Really, Locke,” he protested, “don’t you know that it’s wretchedly bad
taste to overfurnish like this? I say――where’s your table?”
Barry explained, and Jones chuckled.
“Wonder he didn’t take your bureau, too! By the way, don’t be surprised
if you find garter-snakes and such harmless things wandering around in
here. Toby tries to keep them in bounds, but they will get away from
him at times. Where do you want this thing to live?” He kicked Barry’s
trunk gently.
“What do you think?” asked Barry. “If there were only some place
against the wall! But you see how it is. Every inch taken up.”
“Isn’t that the truth! Well, we might move the upholstered divan under
the front window or edge the buhl cabinet farther to the nor’east. Say,
what _is_ a buhl cabinet?”
“I don’t know,” said Barry. “I never had one before.”
“I see. Well, what do you say?”
“Over there in the corner, I guess.”
“All right. Careful not to scrape the parquetry, now. Gosh! you
careless duffer! you’ve gone and knocked a chip out of the Wedgwood
escritoire!”
“You’re pretty fairly ignorant,” sighed Barry, as they set the trunk on
end. “Wedgwood is pottery stuff. That escritoire is Heppelwhite.”
Jones observed the imaginary object intently.
“So it is!” he agreed. “A remarkably fine specimen, too. Well, I guess
you want to get unpacked, so I’ll leg it.”
Barry’s impulse was toward hospitality, but he recalled Clyde’s
warning and merely thanked Jones once more for his help. Jones
nodded cheerfully and departed and Barry attacked the trunk. Life
at Broadmoor, he reflected as he began unpacking, was going to be
complicated!
His bed was rather hard, but Barry slept like a top until a pleasant
voice called from beyond the door: “Hot water, Mr. Locke!” As it
wasn’t Mrs. Lyle’s voice, he decided, as he yawned himself awake, it
must be the maid Betty’s. Evidently her day off had left her in a very
cheerful state of mind. He crawled out, retrieved the pitcher, and
prepared for his first day of school.
CHAPTER III
BARRY MAKES A PURCHASE
That forenoon, Clyde conscientiously performed his duties as guide,
counselor, and friend, smoothing Barry’s path and sharing with him the
wisdom of one who had already traveled it. Shortly before noon Barry
took his physical examination and went out of the director’s room
in the gymnasium in possession of a gray card filled with lines and
figures and the information that three times a week he was to report
with Class K for physical training. Gymnasium work, it appeared, was
required of every student unless he was engaged in one of the major
sports. Barry regretted his nominal agreement to abstain from the
degrading game of baseball until spring!
He was introduced to at least a dozen fellows that morning, all of
whom, Clyde earnestly assured him, were the right sort. Generally
they were members of Clyde’s class, the Second; once or twice it was
a First-Class fellow who dutifully shook his hand. Toward dinner-time
Barry found himself wishing that Clyde’s friends weren’t so choice.
Being the “right sort” seemed to make a fellow rather self-satisfied
and unlikable!
When dinner was over he hurried off before Clyde could intercept him
and walked to the village to buy a table. He had a vision of something
severely plain and businesslike in oak, something with a good big
drawer and a broad, generous top. He might have found it if Fate hadn’t
drawn his gaze to the window of a shabby little shop on Main Street
in which was a crowded array of second-hand articles. A sign promised
“Antiques,” but what Barry saw scarcely deserved the name. There were
chairs without seats, mirrors without glass, broken teapots, chipped
vases, and a score of other dilapidated objects, but what drew Barry’s
eyes was a desk which, standing in the center of the window, served
as a repository for some ancient crockery, a rusty musket, and an
ivory-handled walking-stick.
It wasn’t a beautiful thing, but it captured Barry. It was of black
walnut, of a style of forty years back, with a bank of drawers down the
right side and a door on the other which, being opened, revealed three
shelves. It was worn and stained, but it looked honest and――well,
“friendly” was the word Barry thought of. Negotiations obtained it for
the reasonable price of six dollars, delivery at 104 Bridge Street
and conveyance up one flight included, and, declining a bargain in a
broken-down swivel chair, Barry turned homeward well pleased.
Stopping for a few moments at Mrs. Lyle’s, he went on to school again.
There was a conference with Mr. Stimson, professor of mathematics,
at two-thirty, and after that Barry was free for the day. He watched
tennis for a while and finally wandered farther afield, to where, on
track and gridiron and diamond, candidates were assembling. The school
was generously provided with space for athletic activities. There were
two gridirons,――one inclosed by the quarter-mile running track,――two
diamonds, and, in winter, three hockey rinks on the surface of the pond
lying in the southwest corner of the field.
The pond was formed by the East Fork River, that small but bustling
stream which skirted the farm that Barry had noticed, crossed the road
under a picturesque stone bridge, and wound through the corner of the
Broadmoor estate. Pond and stream afforded natural hazards on the
nine-hole golf-course which started and ended in home territory but
wandered back and forth along the gentle slope of a near-by hill.
Hills were all about: Pine Knob rising behind the field on the east,
Town Hill nearer the village, Crow Hill to the west, with the road
hugging its base as it turned toward The Falls and Fairmount, and
finally, two miles to the northwest, Mount Sippick, its double peak
frequently veiled by clouds. To-day the slopes showed scarcely a hint
of autumn and the acres of turf were as green as in summer.
A surprising number of football candidates had appeared by the hour
set for the first day’s practice, boys of many sizes, ages, shapes,
and degrees of promise. Barry lingered in one of the two stands for a
while and watched proceedings. He picked out Clyde and Hal Stearns and
the boy they had called Goof; and, because Clyde had indicated him that
morning, the coach, Major Loring. The Major had dropped his title with
the ending of the war, but Broadmoor clung to it proudly. Even in old
flannel trousers and a gray jersey bearing the single broad purple band
of the football squad he was a fine figure of a man.
Barry tired of the entertainment soon and crossed to the nearer
diamond and took a seat in a shaded corner of the covered stand.
Some two dozen fellows were having batting practice and a tall,
loose-jointed youth was pitching to the plate. Of those grouped near
by, each in turn selected his favorite bat and faced the pitcher
until he had delivered two hits and a bunt. Having had his turn, he
relieved one of the players in the field. One of those coming in
from the fielding looked familiar to Barry, but it wasn’t until the
broad-visored cap was momentarily relieved that Barry recognized him.
He was Crawford Jones. Barry was pleased when Jones connected with the
first offering and lined it far into left.
They didn’t appear, any of them, to be very desperate characters,
Barry reflected. On the contrary, they struck him as a particularly
nice-looking lot. He wondered if Clyde and Hal hadn’t been
unnecessarily pessimistic regarding the “baseball bunch.” Certainly
they were getting a lot more fun out of practice than the football
candidates were. There was a deal of talk and laughter, and much
good-natured ragging. Barry found himself wishing he had not virtually
promised Clyde to keep out of the game until spring. He would have
liked nothing better than to be down there throwing the ball around
and swinging at the lanky youth’s offerings.
He was not alone in the stand, for a score or so of other idlers sat
about in groups of two or three, hugged their knees, and uttered
derisive applause, caustic criticism, and absurd advice to their
friends on the field. Barry felt rather lonesome, and it occurred to
him that despite Clyde’s good intentions he wasn’t making friends very
fast. Save for Clyde himself and Hal and Jones and that funny Toby