Barry Locke, half-back
Barry felt slightly guilty as he approached the stand. Clyde was
certain to see him, and he wouldn’t be pleased to find him with Peaches
Jones. And Clyde did see him and waved to him from the bench. It was
a restrained greeting, however. Barry was surprised at the number of
fellows who spoke to his companion. Peaches had the same greeting
for all, a slight smile and a backward tilt of his head. Barry felt
a trifle apologetic on his companion’s behalf. It seemed to him that
Peaches was――well, not exactly impolite but certainly unresponsive.
Exactly four fellows nodded to Barry during his climb and it was with
difficulty that he restrained himself from stopping to shake hands
in gratitude! There was one acquaintance who didn’t speak. He was a
large youth with rather staring dark eyes. Barry recognized him as his
opponent of a week or so earlier and might have nodded had he received
any encouragement. But Waterman’s regard was broodingly unfriendly.
Broadmoor’s rival that day was Shefford High School, and no one
expected either a very close or a very exciting game. Consequently no
one was disappointed when the home team took command at the start and
held the enemy in subjection throughout the four ten-minute periods.
Peaches, who, in spite of being a devotee of baseball was also an
enthusiastic football fan, supplied Barry with the names of the
various purple-and-gray clad players, adding brief but illuminating
descriptions:
“The tall chap with the Napoleonic countenance is Gordon Buckley. Buck
is captain. He’s a bright lad and the fellows think a lot of him. The
guy playing next to him, this way, is Ellingham――a sturdy brute who
goes by the name of Goof; don’t ask me why. Pete Zosker is the center.
Pete says his folks are French, but personally I believe him to be a
Dalmatian.”
“What’s a Dalmatian?” asked Barry.
“I haven’t the least idea. Next to Zosker is Sinclair at right guard.
He wasn’t much last year. Johnny Zinn is the quarter-back, and a
corker. Right here let me call your attention to the fact that this is
probably the only football team having two Z’s in its line-up; Zosker
and Zinn. If the Major could find nine more Z’s he’d have a real team!”
“Who’s the slight fellow playing half?” asked Barry.
“Demille. The other’s Tip Cartright, and the full-back is Ira Haviland.
Ira is no relation to the china of that name, for he is absolutely
non-breakable. Hoskins made that discovery last year. There’s another
touchdown. That makes us eighteen――no, nineteen. Now, if Tip gets this
goal――”
Tip did, and the half ended soon after. During the intermission a
nice-looking fellow of perhaps eighteen lowered himself over the back
of the seat beyond Jones and joined them. Jones introduced him as
Bassett, but during subsequent conversation addressed him as “B. B.” He
shook hands with Barry as though he liked it, which was something Barry
had not been used to of late and which left him almost speechless.
When Bassett had departed, with the reappearance of the teams, Jones
explained him.
“Billy Bassett,” he said; “a white man. He’s President of First. Came
in on a scholarship three years ago and has been an honor man every
year since. They say his father is a butcher. If he is, I’ll bet he
sells good meat!”
“There aren’t many fellows like him here, are there?” Barry inquired.
“I mean――well, poor fellows.” Then he regretted the question, since he
had gathered in one way or another that Jones himself came under that
category; he recalled that back home many folks who lacked money seemed
ashamed of the fact and pretended to be better off than they were. But
Peaches didn’t seem to mind the remark.
“Not so many,” he answered. “Some, though. Broadmoor’s rather more
expensive than a lot of other schools, you see; still, we do have a
number of chaps whose folks aren’t wealthy. And some of them hate to
have it known!”
“I don’t see why,” said Barry. “Just because your folks happen to have
money――I mean there’s no reason why you should take credit for it, is
there?”
“No, but some fellows do. We had a fellow here last year, Shafter,
whose father’s a United States Senator. Sometimes, to hear Mat, you’d
think he had simply made his dad! Same way with fellows whose fathers
have wads. They give you the idea that it’s all their doing.”
Barry laughed.
“It’s funny, but it’s so, I guess. Clyde’s sort of like that. He seems
to take a lot of credit for his father’s success.”
“His father has money, then?” asked Peaches.
“Gee, yes! Well, anyway, he’s pretty wealthy for our part of the world.
He’s President of the Empire State Brass Company, you know.”
“Think of that!” said Peaches, evidently much impressed.
Fearing he had shown a lack of tact, Barry added hastily:
“Of course money isn’t everything. I mean, it isn’t really important.
Some of the chaps at home, fellows I liked awfully, are what you might
call poor. They don’t seem to mind it, either.”
“Quite properly,” approved Peaches. “As you say, money’s of small
consequence. Personally, I prefer to have things charged.”
Barry looked at the other doubtfully. It sounded like a joke, but
Peaches was absolutely grave as he watched the home team pile through
the opponent’s right for a long gain. Barry reflected that perhaps he
had been talking too much. He was apt to forget that Peaches was a
full year older and a class ahead of him and might not always find his
conversation absorbing. When he did remember those facts he wondered
at the intimacy between them. Peaches was so queer about friends! He
seemed to know almost every one and to be very popular, yet he didn’t
go with any one. Walter Millington appeared to be the nearest approach
to a pal, barring Barry himself, and even Mill wasn’t really chummy.
The reflection that, after all, perhaps Clyde was right about Peaches,
occurred to him. Maybe there was some fault that kept other fellows
away. Yet, the others didn’t act as if they were avoiding Peaches.
No, it seemed the other way about! Barry gave it up and followed his
companion’s example in watching the game. Toward the last of the third
period the Major began using substitutes liberally, and both Clyde and
Hal Stearns went in, Clyde at right half and Hal at left guard. Barry
thought Clyde played very well and he expressed the opinion to Peaches.
“Allen? Not bad. Want any more of this? If not, let’s stretch our legs
and mosey along to the Palace for a couple of chocolate-milks.”
There was still another period, but Barry decided for Peaches’ society
and a milk-shake at the Palace Drug Store. The half-hearted cheering
diminished in volume as they made their way to the road. As they
reached it a small youth carrying a violin-case came out of a gate
ahead and turned northward.
“Isn’t that the child virtuoso?” asked Peaches.
Barry assented.
“He’s taking lessons from Mr. Banks, he told me yesterday. Mr. Banks
teaches music at the high school.”
Peaches hailed and Zo Fessenden waited for them. As usual, he was
embarrassed for the first few minutes, and Peaches’ good-natured fun
brought only shy smiles. Finally Peaches said:
“Zo, I’m going to ask you something, and I want a plain answer from man
to man.” He nodded toward the violin. “Do you like doing that or was it
wished on you?”
“Both, I guess,” Zo replied. “I didn’t like it at first, but my mother
wanted me to learn, and after a while I liked it better. Now I like it
a whole lot.”
“Spoken like a hero,” said Peaches. “My mind is at rest. Shall you make
a business――no, profession――of it? Play before the crowned heads of
Europe and all that?”
“Maybe by the time I can really play there won’t be any crowned heads
left,” answered Zo. “But I think I shall try to make it my――my
lifework.”
Peaches exchanged a swift glance of amusement with Barry.
“Well, I guess you’re lucky to find your lifework so early, Zo,” he
said gravely. “Some fellows don’t find it until they’re considerably
older. And some, it seems, never do find it. If you will leave your
fiddle and come back, we’ll take you to the Palace and quaff a beaker
to your future success.”
So Zo bounded into the Andersons’ and reappeared breathlessly in
something less than forty-five seconds, and the three proceeded along
the sunlit road in pursuit of milk-shakes.
CHAPTER VII
DRAFTED
Barry saw Clyde daily. Clyde seemed to expect it and Barry was anxious
that their friendship shouldn’t wane. That it was in danger of waning
was evident, not through the desire of either but because they belonged
to different classes and so their paths lay apart. Clyde’s intimates
had been chosen from those of secured position. Some had won standing
in athletics, usually football: others merely on the score of family
wealth or prominence. They didn’t constitute a large proportion of the
student body, but they were always much in evidence and managed to
exert a good deal of influence in school affairs.
Clyde’s efforts to include Barry in his circle were doomed to failure
from the first. Barry had arrived unheralded, with none to vouch
for him save Clyde; and Clyde’s own position among the “right sort”
was none too secure as yet. Perhaps had Barry made earnest efforts
to please he might, after a proper novitiate, have been accepted.
But Barry didn’t, and he realized that Clyde’s friends resented his
presence. Clyde sought to make Barry feel at ease, but he soon adopted
a patronizing tone that the other didn’t relish, and as a result
Barry’s evening calls at Number 42 Dawson became fewer and fewer and he
relied on seeing Clyde during the forenoons, between recitations. Now
and then a day passed with no more than a dozen words between them, and
Barry blamed himself and, recalling his obligation to the other, made
greater efforts the next day.
Once――it was the Sunday following the Shefford game――Clyde walked out
to the Lyle house shortly after dinner and found Barry and Peaches
on the porch, surrounded with Sunday papers. Although Barry took the
visitor up to his room, Clyde remained but a few minutes. A week
after that, when Barry’s father and mother motored over to see him,
Clyde, informed of the coming visit, was on hand and helped Barry do
the honors during the four hours of their stay. When Mrs. Locke said
gratefully that it was splendid of Clyde to look after Barry so well,
Clyde, while verbally disclaiming credit, was plainly of like opinion.
Mr. Locke, whose eyebrows had raised slightly at first glimpse of
Barry’s room, cast a shrewd look at Clyde and said, “Hm!” in a tone
that meant anything you liked.
The next day the home team met and defeated the local high-school
eleven by the one-sided score of 22 to 0, and again Barry watched
the game with Peaches. Mill made a third, however, and growled
constantly at the idea of any sane fellow going in for such a piffling,
uninteresting recreation as football. Clyde played the last two periods
at right half and rather disappointed Barry. He was twice stopped
behind his line and acted generally as though not fully awake. But then
the whole team was logy that day, possibly because of the heat. The
three stuck it out to the end, hoping for and rather expecting a turn
of the tables toward the last. But it didn’t come. Wessex, playing her
first game, had less to offer than Broadmoor.
Parting from Mill at the gate, Barry and Peaches entered the house and
Peaches proceeded to the little table that held the telephone and the
mail.
“Nothing for you and nothing for me,” he announced. “Toby gets it
all. But――I say!” Peaches lifted a small package and viewed it with
deep suspicion. “Something ought to be done about this.” He carefully
returned the package to the table, his countenance expressing extreme
distaste.