Читать книгу The Varmint - Owen Johnson - Страница 9

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In all his fifteen years Stover had never been accused of standing in awe of anything or anybody; but at the present moment, as he balanced from foot to foot, calculating the unending distance of the stone flags, he was suddenly seized with an overpowering impulse to bolt. And yet the group at the steps were only mildly interested. An urchin pillowed on the knees of a Goliath had shifted so as languidly to command the approach; a baseball, traveling back and forth in lazy flight, had stopped only a moment, and then continued from hand to hand.

Stover had thought of his future associates without much trepidation, as he had thought of the Faculty as Miss Wandell in trousers—being inferior to him in mental agility and resourcefulness who, he confidently intended, should shortly follow his desires.

All at once, before he had spoken a word, before he had even seen the look on their countenances, he realized that he stood on the threshold of a new world, a system of society of which he was ignorant and by whose undivined laws he was suddenly to be judged.

Everything was wrong and strangely uncomfortable. His derby hat was too small—as it was—and must look ridiculous; his trousers were short and his arms seemed to rush from his sleeves. He tried desperately to thrust back the cuff that had broken loose and stooped for his bag. It would have been wiser to have embraced it bodily, but he breathed a prayer and grasped the handle. Then he started up the walk; half way, the handle tore out and the bag went down with a crash.

He dove at it desperately, poking back the threatened avalanche of linen, and clutching it in his arms as a bachelor carries a baby, started blindly for the house.

A roar of laughter had gone up at his discomfiture, succeeded by a sudden, solemn silence. Then the White Mountain Canary pillowed against the knees of Cheyenne Baxter, spoke:

"No old clothes, Moses; nothing to sell to-day."

At this Butsey White's lathery face suddenly appeared at the second-story window.

"He doesn't want to buy—he wants to sell us something," he said. "Patent underwear and all that sort of thing."

Stover, red to the ears, advanced to the steps and stopped.

"Well?" said the Coffee-colored Angel as the guardian of the steps.

"I'm the new boy," said Stover in a gentle voice.

"The what?"

"The new boy."

"Impossible!"

"He's not!"

"New boys always say 'sir,' and take off their hats politely."

The White Mountain Canary looked at Tough McCarty, who solemnly interrogated the Coffee-colored Angel, who shook his head in utter disbelief and said:

"I don't believe it. It's a blind. I wouldn't let him in the house."

"Please, sir," said Stover hastily, doffing his derby, "I am."

"Prove it," said a voice behind him.

"Say, I'm not as green as all that."

Stover smiled a sickly smile, shifted from foot to foot and glanced hopefully at his fellow-imps to surprise a look of amusement. But as every face remained blank, serious and extremely critical, the smile disappeared in a twinkling and his glance went abruptly to his toes.

"He certainly should prove it," said the Coffee-colored Angel anxiously. "Can you prove it?"

Stover gingerly placed the gaping valise on the top step and fumbled in his pockets.

"Please, sir, I have a letter from—from the Doctor," he blurted out, finally extracting a crumpled envelope and tendering it to the Coffee-colored Angel, who looked it over with well-simulated surprise and solemnly announced:

"My goodness gracious! Why, it is the new boy!"

Instantly there was a change.

"Freshman, what's your name?" said little Susie Satterly in his deepest tones.

"Stover."

"Sir."

"Sir."

"What's your full name?"

"John Humperdink Stover, sir."

"Humper—what?"

"Dink."

"Say it again."

"Humperdink."

"Say it for me," said the Coffee-colored Angel, with his hand to his ear.

"Humperdink."

"Accent the last syllable."

"Humper—Dink!"

"Are you trying to bluff us, Freshman?" said Cheyenne Baxter severely.

"No, sir; that's my real name."

"Humperdink?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Rinky Dink, you've got a rotten name."

"Yes, sir," said Stover, who never before had felt such a longing to agree.

"How old?"

"Fifteen, sir."

"Weight?"

"One hundred and thirty, sir."

"Ever been in love?"

"No, sir."

"Ever served a penal sentence?"

"No, sir."

"Then where did you get these clothes?"

The group slowly circulated about the embarrassed Stover, scanning the amazing costume. Cheyenne Baxter took up the inquisition.

"Say, Dink, honest, are these your own clothes?" he said with a knowing look.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, honest," continued Cheyenne in a whisper, bending forward and putting his hand to his ear as though inviting a confidence.

Stover felt suddenly as though his own ears were swelling to alarming proportions—swelling and perceptibly reddening.

"What do they feed you on, Rinky Dink?" said the White Mountain Canary softly.

"Feed?" said Stover unwarily, not perceiving the intent of the question.

"Do they give you many green vegetables?"

Stover tried to laugh appreciatively, but the sound fizzled dolefully out.

"Because, Dink," said the White Mountain Canary earnestly, "you must not eat green vegetables, really you must not. You're green enough already."

"Why did they fire you?" said Tough McCarty.

Stover raised his eyes instinctively. There was a new accent to the inquisition, different from all the other questions he had run. He looked at Tough McCarty's stocky frame and battling eyes, and suddenly knew that he was face to face with a human being between whom and himself there could never be a question of compromise or quarter.

"Well, Freshman," said McCarty impatiently.

"What did you ask me?" said Dink purposely.

"Sir."

"Sir."

"What did they fire you for?"

"They fired me," began Stover slowly, and then stopped to reconsider. The story he had told on the coach, somehow, did not seem quite in place here. The role of firebrand and hothead, drawing villainous knives on frightened boys, would not quite convince his present audience. To tell the truth was impossible—to admit himself the product of Miss Wandell's and coeducation would be fatal—and likewise the truth was, in his philosophy (and be this remembered), only a lazy expedient to a man of imagination. So he said slowly:

"They fired me for bringing in a couple of rattlesnakes and—and assaulting a teacher."

"My! You are a bad man, aren't you?" said Tough McCarty seriously. "I'm afraid you're too dangerous for the Green, Dink. Really I do."

"He does look devilishly wicked, Tough."

"Assaulting a teacher—how broo-tal."

"Why, Rinky Dink," said the Coffee-colored Angel sadly, "don't you know that was very wicked of you? You should love your teachers."

Stover suddenly perceived that his audience was unsympathetic.

"Don't you know you should love your teachers?"

Stover essayed a grin, then looked at the ground and stirred up a stone with his foot.

"So you're fond of rattlesnakes?" said McCarty, persisting.

"Ye-es, sir."

"Very fond?"

"I was brought up with them," said Stover, trying to fortify his position.

"You don't mean it," said McCarty, looking hard at Baxter. "Cheyenne, he's just the man to train up that little pet rattler of yours."

"Just the thing," said Cheyenne instantly; "we'll let him take out the fangs."

Stover smiled a superior smile; he was not to be caught on such tales.

"What are you smiling at, Freshman?" said McCarty immediately.

"Nothing, sir."

Butsey White, at the second-story window, scanning the road, perceived Mr. Jenkins approaching, and announced the fact, adding:

"Send him up; he belongs to me."

"Make a nice bow, Freshman," said McCarty. "Take your hat off, keep your heels together. Oh, that wasn't a very nice bow. Try again."

At this moment Jimmy, returning on the stage, reined in with a sudden interest. Stover hastily executed a series of grotesque inclinations and, grasping the clumsy valise, disappeared behind the door, hearing; as he struggled up the stairs, the roar from without that greeted his departure.

"The freshest of the fresh."

"Green all over."

"Will we tame him?"

"Oh, no!"

"And Butsey's got him."

"Humper—Dink!"

"Wow!"

As Stover reached the head of the stairs a door was thrown open and Butsey White appeared in undress uniform. The next moment Stover found himself in a large double room gorgeously decorated with flags, pennants, sporting prints and souvenirs, while through the open window came a grateful feeling of quiet and repose.

Butsey White, a roly-poly, comical fellow of sixteen or seventeen, with a shaving-brush in one hand, held out the other with an expression of lathery solicitude.

"Well, Stover, how are you? How did you leave mother and the chickens? My name's White. Mr. White, please. I'm most particular."

"How do you do, Mr. White?" said Stover, recovering some of his composure.

"There's your kennel," said Butsey White, indicating the bed. "The washtrough's over here. Bath's down the corridor. Do you snore?"

"What?" said Stover, taken back.

"Oh, never mind. If you do I'll cure you," said White encouragingly. "What did they fire you for?"

Stover, smarting at his humiliation below, seized the opportunity for revenge.

"They fired me for drinking the alcohol out of the lamps," he said with his most convincing smile.

Butsey White, who had returned to the painful task of shaving, suddenly straightened up and extended the deadly razor in angry rebuke.

"There's a little too much persiflage around here," he said sternly. "We don't like it. We prefer to see young, unripe freshmen come in on their tiptoes and answer when they're spoken to. Young Stover, you've got in wrong. You're just about the freshest cargo we've ever had. You've got a lot to learn, and I'm going to start right in educating you. Savez?"

"It was only a joke," said Stover, looking down.

"A joke! I'll attend to any joking around here," said Butsey, with a reckless wave of his razor. "There may be a few patent, nickel-plated jokes roaming around here, soon, you hadn't thought of. Now, what did they fire you for?"

"They fired me for kissing a teacher."

"A teacher?"

"The drawing teacher," said Stover hastily, perceiving the danger of the new assertion.

The old boy looked at him hard, gave a sort of grunt and, turning his back, took up again the interrupted task of shaving. Stover, a little dismayed at his own audacity, sought to conciliate his future roommate.

"Mister White, I say, where'll I stow my duds?"

No answer.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be fresh. Which is my bureau?"

The razor, suddenly extended, pointed between the windows. Stover, crestfallen, hastily sorted out the contents of his bag and silently ranged collars and neckties, waiting hopefully for a word. Suddenly he remembered the properties of the Pennsylvania Railroad and, sorting out the signs, he advanced on Butsey White, saying:

"I brought these along—thought they might help decorate the room, Mr. White."

Butsey White gazed at the three stolen signs and grunted a somewhat mollified approval.

"Got anything else?"

"A couple of sporting prints coming in the trunk, sir."

"You want to get everything you can lay your hands on when you go home. Now run on down and report to Fuzzy-Wuzzy—Mr. Jenkins. He'll be waiting for you. After lunch I'll take you up to the village and fit you out."

"I say, that's awfully good of you."

"Oh, that's all right."

"Say, I didn't mean to be fresh."

"Well, you were."

White, having carefully noted the ravages of the razor, turned from the looking-glass and surveyed the penitent Stover.

"Well, what did they fire you for?" he said point-blank.

"They fired me——" began Stover slowly, and stopped.

"Out with it," said Butsey militantly.

But at that moment the voice of Mr. Jenkins summoned Stover below, and left the great question unanswered.