Barry Locke, half-back
“I’m Third Class, fellows. Awfully sorry!”
“What’s your name?” asked a large boy, evidently in command of the
detail, with suspicion.
“Locke.”
“That’s right, Rusty,” said another. “He’s in a couple of my classes. I
remember him.”
“Well, he’s an awfully fresh guy,” growled Rusty. Then, to Barry: “Seen
any pups around?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, we’re looking for one who lives down the road here. They said at
the house he hadn’t come back, but maybe they were kidding us. Where do
you stay?”
“Mrs. Lyle’s,” answered Barry. “There aren’t any Fourth-Class fellows
there.”
“No, but there’s a guy across the street,” said Rusty, “and we want
him. Well――” He paused indecisively.
“I’ll tell him if I see him,” said Barry, obligingly, and went on. Some
one chuckled, but Rusty took the jest poorly.
“You do,” he called hoarsely but in low tones, “and I’ll hand you a
wallop, Fresh!”
Barry strove to recall Rusty. Something about him, perhaps his voice,
perhaps his dimly seen face, was familiar. Probably he had encountered
him at one of the conferences that morning. In any case, he decided,
he didn’t like him. The decision brought him to his gate, and he was
groping for the latch when a shout from behind him along the road
made him pause. There were voices then, a second shout, and the sound
of running feet. Barry peered back into the darkness. Toward him,
across the street, sped the quarry, the pursuers strung out behind but
gaining, as yet only deeper shadows in the gloom but taking form as
they approached the radius of light from the arc-lamp just beyond the
houses. The chase ended suddenly. The pursued stumbled, a dozen yards
from the Anderson gate, and fell, and the hunters were on him! Barry’s
smile faded, for a voice of pure terror came to him.
“Oh, please! _Please!_” wailed the captive. “Let me go! Let me _go_!”
Barry didn’t like the sound of that. The boy, whoever he was, was badly
frightened, almost hysterical. Barry crossed the road quickly. There
were five forms in the group moving slowly back into the darkness. They
had the captive securely enough, but he was struggling desperately,
panting convulsively, too panicky now to control his voice.
“Oh, shut up,” growled Rusty. “We aren’t going to hurt you, you baby!”
Their own scuffling footsteps kept the captors from hearing Barry’s
approach, and the sudden sound of his voice brought an instant halt.
“Hold on a minute,” said Barry. “This chap’s too scared. I wouldn’t go
any further with this business, fellows.”
“You wouldn’t?” demanded Rusty, sarcastically. “Well, who’s asking you
to? You go roll your hoop, young feller.”
The boy had quieted, although Barry could still hear his stifled sobs.
Barry kept his temper as he answered:
“Well, I’m Third, too, you know, and I’m not trying to spoil your fun,
but you ought to be able to see for yourselves――”
“Hire a hall!” Rusty reached forward and gave Barry a shove that sent
him staggering into another of the group. “Come on, fellows! ‘Drown the
pup’!”
Barry recovered himself and slipped past the youth whose toes he had,
doubtless, damaged. The move brought his back to the fence and with
a sudden yank he pulled the captive to his side and quickly stepped
in front of him. He had recognized the boy now: he was Fessenden, his
neighbor at table. The coup left Rusty momentarily too astonished and
outraged for speech, and in that instant Barry, half turning his head,
whispered, “Run when you see the chance!” Whether Fessenden heard or,
hearing, understood, Barry couldn’t know. Rusty had pushed a companion
roughly aside and from a few inches away was glaring at the meddler.
Barry resolutely kept his hands at his sides. He was still smiling,
although perhaps the darkness concealed the fact.
“You get out of here!” roared Rusty. “Go on! Get!” He seized Barry’s
coat at a shoulder and tried to heave him aside. The cloth strained,
but Barry didn’t heave. Instead, one of his own hands went swiftly up
and caught Rusty’s wrist, a foot shot forward, and then he did heave,
while Rusty, pulled forward and tripping over Barry’s extended leg,
swung to one side and crashed into the fence. And at the instant Barry
shouted, “_Run!_”
But Fessenden was incapable of running, and only cowered beside him,
gasping and futile.
“Grab him!” raged Rusty as he found his balance and, crouching, faced
Barry again. But he was wary, now. He liked a quarrel, but he hated
punishment, and something in the attitude of the straight figure
confronting him counseled caution. Barry, who had no love for fighting
but could nevertheless fight when it was necessary, moved a step along
the fence to free himself of Fessenden, now once more securely guarded.
He had no uneasiness as to the others. They’d keep out of it. It would
be just he and the big chap they called Rusty.
The latter was silent now, and menacing. Barry watched and waited.
Then his opponent rushed, closed. Barry fell back half a pace, threw
his head to the right, and took a crashing blow on his elbow. Then he
swung his right fist upward and felt the swift pain of the impact dart
along his arm. There was a startled “_Ugh!_” from Rusty as he staggered
away, and then:
“Pretty work, old son,” applauded a voice, and a new actor in the drama
stepped to Barry’s side, draped a hastily discarded coat over the
fence, and faced the group.
“Let’s make it a foursome,” said Crawford Jones, pleasantly. “Who else
wants to play?”
CHAPTER V
FESSENDEN FIDDLES
But it appeared that Jones had spoiled the party. Silence fell. Even
Fessenden grew quiet. Then some one laughed awkwardly and the spell was
broken.
“Well,” said Jones, in mild astonishment, “what’s the difficulty? Let’s
go. Any one will do; or any two.”
“Where’s your license to butt in?” growled Rusty, nursing his jaw
tenderly.
“Why, hello! Is that you, Waterman? That was a nice one you stopped
just now. They ought to have you on the nine, Rusty! Well, if the
game’s over, Locke, let’s wander. Who’s this chap?”
“He’s a pup,” answered Rusty, aggrievedly. “We were lugging him down
to the pond when this fresh guy here came up and shot off his mouth.
Said we mustn’t. I told him to beat it and then he wanted to fight.
You’d think we were doing something we oughtn’t! Isn’t this Pup Night,
Peaches?”
“As ever was!” agreed Jones, heartily. “And if you fellows expect to
see any of the fun, you’d better get a move on. It’s long after eight.”
“Well, we’re going to take this brat with us,” said Rusty. But his tone
lacked conviction. Jones shook his head.
“Not to-night,” he said gently. “Fade away, Rusty.”
“You’ve got a lot of gall,” began Rusty, blusteringly.
“I’ll say he has,” agreed one of the others. “This isn’t any of your
business, Jones.”
“Is that,” Jones inquired amiably, “your considered opinion?”
“Yes, it is, if you want to know.” Assurance, however, decreased
perceptibly toward the end of the statement.
“Well,” said Jones, “you look――or you would look if I could see
you――like a fellow ready to back his opinions. How about it?”
“Oh, dry up!” The retort was delivered in retreat, so to say, for
the speaker was already moving cautiously in a direction which could
never bring him any nearer Jones than he had been, even if persisted
in indefinitely. Jones allowed the argument to close. So did all the
others. Rusty laughed with a creditable simulation of unconcern and
moved too.
“If you’re going to make a――a serious affair of it――” he began
sarcastically.
“That’s it,” said Jones. “International complications, World Court
and all that, Rusty. Good night.” Jones re-donned his coat. The party
was at an end, disrupted, broken in halves. One half went schoolward,
discussing the affair, in dissatisfied mutters; the other set off
toward the Andersons’ house. Nearing the light, Jones turned a puzzled
regard on Fessenden.
“Well, son, what was your trouble? Think they were going to murder you?”
Fessenden shook his head, gulped, but made no answer.
“What do they do to them at the pond?” asked Barry.
“Make them swim across, if they can swim. A few get chucked in. There
are always three or four sporting enough to say ‘yes’ to that. Faculty
won’t stand for it unless the pups are willing. Those who can’t swim
get off; or maybe the others give them a bath with a pail. It’s only
fun――rather silly fun, I guess. I suppose you can’t swim, son.”
They were at the gate and Fessenden was fumbling for the latch. At
Jones’s question his head went down and a sob shook him. Jones stared
perplexedly at Barry and the latter put a hand on Fessenden’s shoulder
and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I――I’m ashamed,” gulped the boy.
“Oh, that’s it! Well, really, you know, it becomes you,” said Jones,
gently, “but I wouldn’t trouble about it any more.”
“I was in the library after supper,” began Fessenden, haltingly,
“and――and two boys were talking across the table; whispering.
They――they said a boy was drowned last year by――by the Third-Class
fellows, and――”
“Just trying to scare you, I guess,” said Jones. “Nothing in it, son.”
“Then I was coming home and I saw a light and hid and those fellows
were talking to you――” he indicated Barry――“and I heard what they said
and was frightened. I――I can’t swim! After you went along I tried to
get by on the other side of the road. I thought if I could catch up
with you―― But they saw me and I ran and they chased me. They were
shouting, ‘Drown the pup’! Then I fell and they got me.” Fessenden
ended with a final gulp and an appealing and shamefaced smile.
Jones chuckled.
“And you thought you were a goner, eh? Never mind, young―― What’s your
name, anyway?”
“Fessenden.”
“And you room here? I’ll bet you’re the fellow who plays the fiddle!”
The other nodded.
“I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you,” he said in eager apology.
“Not a bit, son, but I do wish you’d learn to wangle that tiddly-widdly
bit you’ve been struggling with for two days!”
Fessenden laughed tremulously.
“I have,” he said. “I can play it straight through now.”
“Praises be!” ejaculated Jones. “Well, better run along and get your
beauty sleep. Just remember this, though, young Fessenden. Never cry
till you’re hurt, and not then if you can help it. And never, never let
yourself get frightened. Whatever it is that gets your goat, son, go
straight up to it and poke it in the jaw. Just like Locke did! And that
was a neat swing, I’ll say.”
“I――I’ll try,” said Fessenden, gratefully. “And thanks for making
them――for everything――”
“That’s all right. If you feel under obligations to this gentleman and
me, just go up and play the tiddly-widdly thing through for us. I’d
like to know what happens after the peety-weety-weety part!”
“Queer bird,” commented Jones, as he and Barry crossed the road.
“High-strung,” said Barry. “He’s at my table and we were talking at
supper. I think he’s been sort of homesick.”
“I’d think he might be, staying in that room and playing his fiddle
all day. I can get homesick just listening to one of the things――some
kind of sick, anyway! Let’s sit here a minute and see if he fiddles for
us.” He seated himself on the porch and Barry dropped down beside him.
Across the road a front window in the opposite house became an oblong
of light.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” asked Jones.
“At home. There’s a chap who has a gymnasium and gives lessons in
boxing and wrestling. Clyde Allen and I got it into our heads a couple
of years ago that we’d like to learn and we went to him most of one
year. Some of the other fellows in high school went, too, and we used
to have boxing bouts at Clyde’s house, up in the billiard-room on
the third floor, until the plaster began to give way in Mrs. Allen’s