Barry Locke, half-back
Nott, he didn’t know a soul. Near the tennis-courts, an hour before,
he had spoken to a fellow to whom Clyde had introduced him earlier in
the day and had received in response only a surprised and chilly glance
followed by a grudging nod. He had determined not to try that again. He
wasn’t used to being snubbed, and he didn’t like it a bit.
About half-past four he went back to the campus, got the pile of books
he had left in Clyde’s room, and returned to Mrs. Lyle’s, unwillingly
acknowledging to himself that it wouldn’t take a whole lot to make him
homesick!
The house looked pleasant enough in the afternoon sunlight, but it
seemed very silent and empty as he made his way upstairs. Even Toby
Nott evidently was out. The sight of the walnut desk, which had
arrived in his absence, cheered Barry up, however. It looked even
better here than it had in the store, although it was undeniably a
shabby old relic at best. He tugged and pushed it across to a position
midway between the side window and the single electric light and got
his hands gray with dust in the operation. It had not, it seemed,
occurred to the dealer to clean it. Barry pulled out the four drawers
on one side and opened the cubbyhole on the other. From the stains
and discolorations he judged that the old desk had seen much service.
From the amount of fine gray dust he also judged that it had lain
idle for some time. He looked about for something to dust it with,
but saw nothing more appropriate than the three towels hanging by
the wash-stand, and so went into the hall and leaned over the stair
railing. It was, he thought, fortunate that he remembered the maid’s
name.
“Betty!” he called. “Oh, Betty!”
After a moment there were faint sounds below, toward the back of the
house, that resolved themselves into light footsteps approaching the
dining-room door. Then a pleasant voice answered:
“Yes, Mr. Locke?”
“Oh! Say, Betty, can you find me a cloth or something to go over this
desk with? It’s covered with dust.”
“I’ll bring one right away,” replied the unseen owner of the voice. The
footsteps retreated and Barry returned to a satisfied contemplation of
his new purchase. He liked the old-fashioned wooden knobs on drawers
and door. They looked sort of interesting, sort of quaint, he decided.
He was still absorbed when he was aroused by Betty’s voice at the
doorway.
“You’d better let me dust it,” she suggested.
Barry turned. Close by stood a girl of about his own age, a slim,
rather pretty girl with dark hair and gray eyes and a smooth tanned
skin, a self-possessed young lady who smiled at him in a friendly way
as he stared back, surprised.
“But――” stammered Barry――“but, look here, you’re not Betty!”
“Why, yes, I am!”
“Well, but――I mean to say――you’re not the maid!”
“The maid?” She seemed to find that most amusing and laughed outright,
and Barry in spite of his confusion noted without distaste that a
dimple appeared in each cheek.
“Yes, I thought――Mrs. Lyle said――” Barry stopped, conscious of
reddening cheeks.
“We haven’t any maid,” was the answer. “I’m Betty Lyle. My! it is
dusty, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER IV
“PUP NIGHT”
Barry, protesting, would have taken the dust-cloth from Betty, but the
latter shook her head and went vigorously and proficiently at the task.
“We’ve got some furniture polish somewhere,” she said, “and to-morrow
I’ll put some on. It’s a real nice desk. Did you have it sent from your
home?”
“Oh, no; I bought it in the village, from an old chap with a yellow
beard. He has what he calls an antique shop.”
“Mr. Hannabury,” said Betty, nodding. “Mother has bought some things
from him.” Barry unconsciously glanced at the bureau and Betty,
observing, smiled and shook her head. “No, that didn’t come from
the antique store. That was left here three or four years ago by a
boy who had the back room. It isn’t very good, I know,” she added
apologetically. And then, frankly: “Lots of our things aren’t, Mr.
Locke.”
“It’s plenty good enough,” he declared stoutly. “And my name’s Barry.”
She nodded.
“And you know mine already. If there’s anything you want, you must let
me know. Of course,” she laughed, “we may not have it, but, then again,
we may. I’m sorry you had to buy a table. You shouldn’t have let Toby
do that.”
“Well, he certainly needed it,” said Barry, with a grin. “What does he
do with all those things in there, anyway?”
“Just has them. Toby’s a collector. Collectors are like that, you know.
They just――just _collect_!”
“But he collects such messy things,” Barry protested. “Insects and――and
frogs――”
“Oh, yes, and turtles and even snakes. But he seems to have a lovely
time doing it, and so we try not to mind. And he’s a nice boy, too.”
Betty smiled again, nodded and vanished from the doorway.
Barry spent the next half-hour arranging his desk and examining his new
books, stiff-backed and pleasantly odorous of printer’s ink. Finally,
consulting his schedule of recitations, he selected one of the volumes
and seated himself in his one easy-chair, by the side window. But he
didn’t get much studying done just then, for the window afforded a
view of the slowly curving road and a corner of the tree-shaded campus,
and of Brazer’s farm with its sentinel elms casting long shadows about
the simple, comfortable buildings. He could see the river, too, here
and there, a sunlit blue ribbon skirting the farmer’s meadow-land,
twisting about the foot of Crow Hill and at last disappearing under the
stone bridge. All this held more attraction than the book.
Occasionally voices from the gridiron reached him, and once, beyond the
tree-tops, a football floated for a moment against the sky. Every one,
he reflected with a sigh, seemed to be having a pretty good time――every
one save John Barry Locke.
It was close to six when his gaze fell on two figures just turning from
the school gate. One was Crawford Jones. They were talking earnestly,
companionably, and Barry sighed again. Just short of the Lyle lot the
two parted, the stranger crossing toward the opposite house. Barry
hoped that Jones would accept the invitation of the half-opened door
and look in. But Jones went past without pausing. Barry closed his book
and prepared for supper.
When he went downstairs, a smallish man was reading a paper, at one
end of the porch. He lowered his head and peered at Barry over the
tops of his glasses. Then he said, “Hm!” rather nervously and added,
“Good evening.” He seemed friendly and in his present desire for
companionship Barry welcomed the opportunity for speech. He returned
the greeting and walked along the porch.
“I suppose you’re Mr. Lyle, sir,” he continued, smiling and holding out
his hand.
“Yes, yes,” was the almost eager response. “Very glad to know you, my
boy! Hm! Delighted to――er――welcome you to our humble abode. Won’t you
sit down?”
He was standing, his paper clutched in one hand, his eyes peering
near-sightedly through his glasses, and, having returned Barry’s
clasp, he continued to smile. Just why he should have awakened
Barry’s sympathy the latter couldn’t have told, but he did. Perhaps
it was because, in spite of his attempt to appear at ease, to attain
the dignity of the host, he seemed to offer the constant apology
of the man who realizes his inconsequence. He looked to be about
forty-two or forty-three years of age, was short of stature, thin, and
perceptibly stoop-shouldered, although in moments of brief assurance he
straightened himself to military erectness. Barry understood why he
was known as Mr. Benjy. The name suited him perfectly.
“Thanks,” Barry answered, “but I’m on my way to supper. I just wanted
to get acquainted, sir.” He smiled winningly and Mr. Benjy looked
touchingly gratified. “My name is Barry Locke, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I know. That is, Elizabeth――I should say my wife――has spoken
of you. You are occupying――er――the southwest chamber. Very glad indeed
to have you with us, Mister――er――”
“Just ‘Barry,’ sir. Thank you.” Barry nodded and went his way. Mr.
Benjy watched him over the edge of his paper until he had disappeared.
“Fine boy,” he murmured. “Davy was rather like him when he―― Hm!” Mr.
Benjy frowned, sighed, and rustled the paper back into position a few
inches from his glasses.
Barry found himself surprisingly hungry for his supper and did
excellently by it. The boy on his right, overcoming his shyness,
ventured a remark, half-way through the repast, and for the rest of the
time they conversed quite busily. Barry had been slightly curious about
this boy, whose name, it now appeared, was Fessenden. He was fourteen,
Barry guessed, and in the Fourth Class. He had dark hair that refused
to yield to the brush, heavy brows and long lashes over somewhat dreamy
brown eyes, and pale cheeks that reddened easily. A shy, sensitive boy,
and attractive in a way, Barry concluded. He evidently was finding
life at Broadmoor School none too joyous, although he didn’t say so
outright. Barry surmised that he, too, was feeling lonely and perhaps
homesick, and he would have been glad to lend companionship to the
younger lad had he not agreed to look up Clyde. As it was, they parted
outside Bates, Fessenden, ere he turned toward the library entrance,
nodding shy gratitude for the other’s friendliness.
There was an atmosphere of unrest about the campus that evening,
and a tendency to loiter about the oval and before the steps of the
buildings. Barry wondered for a moment what was in the air, but forgot
his curiosity in the discovery that Number 42 was empty. His first
impulse was to take advantage of the fact and so avoid an evening which
offered scant attraction for him, but second thoughts held him to his
promise and he switched on the lights, picked up a magazine, and set
himself to await Clyde’s return.
He found a story absorbing enough to hold his close attention for
nearly an hour. Then, as Clyde was still absent, he decided that he was
at liberty to leave, and turned out the lights and sought the stairway.
Had he been better acquainted with Dawson Hall under normal conditions
he would have noticed an unusual quiet. Here and there, from some open
door, the sound of voices reached the corridor, but for the most part
the rooms were dark. On the steps a few fellows lingered as though
waiting for something to happen, but these things made no impression on
Barry, and he took the path past the end of Croft and went on briskly
down the drive, toward home. He had just emerged into the road when,
in the increasing gloom, a flood of white light beat into his face,
forcing a startled gasp from him as he recoiled.
“What’s your class?” demanded a voice. Barry, shielding his eyes from
the rays of the pocket torch, saw four figures, possibly more, in the
group about him. Puzzled, slightly resentful of the start they had
given him, Barry spoke sharply:
“What do you want to know for?”
“He’s a ‘pup’!” declared one of the dim forms, and, “Sure he is!”
exclaimed a second. A hand laid itself ungently on Barry’s shoulder.
He stepped back, wrenching loose.
“What’s the idea?” he demanded.
The light suddenly went out and the faces of the others took shape.
Barry saw one of the fellows move toward the edge of the sidewalk, and
coincidently memory came to his aid. The preceding winter Clyde had
laughingly told him of “Pup Night” at school. Barry had forgotten,
but it came back to him now that in Broadmoor parlance a Fourth-Class
fellow was a “pup” and that the second evening of the term was “Pup
Night,” when the Third Classmen conducted certain ceremonies at the
pond, aided――somewhat unenthusiastically――by as many of the Fourth
Class as could be rounded up. His muscles relaxed and he smiled as he
said: