Читать книгу Right Half Hollins - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 4

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“Want to play some pool?” asked Chick.

Bert leaned back in the chair and caressed the end of his straight nose with the rubber tip of his pencil. “Depends,” he replied. “If you mean at that evil-smelling dive you dragged me into last week the answer is no, Chick.”

“What’s the matter with Mooney’s?” demanded the other. “He’s got the best tables in town.”

“I know, but the smoke’s so thick there you could cut it with a knife, and it makes my eyes smart. That’s why you beat me last time.”

“Shucks, a little smoke won’t hurt you. Come on. Besides, when a fellow can’t smoke himself a little of the aroma of the weed isn’t so bad.”

“Maybe, but I noticed the last time that it sort of made you absent-minded, Chick.”

“How do you mean? Oh, that! Shucks, one cigarette at this stage of the game doesn’t matter. We weren’t really in training last Saturday, any way.”

Bert Hollins smiled and shook his head. “That’s a punk alibi, Chick. Suppose some one had happened to look in? There’d been the dickens to pay.”

“Some one being Johnny Cade?” asked Chick, grinning. “Johnny doesn’t frequent that part of town, old son. Don’t look so blamed virtuous or I’ll punch your head. Anyway, I’m off the things until we quit training.”

“Which being so,” said the other, “you’d better get rid of the box in your top drawer. They might tempt you, Charles, beyond your power of resistance.”

“Say, how come you’ve been snooping through my chiffonier? Hang it, Bert, you’ve got a cheek!”

“Wait a minute! Did you or didn’t you ask me to get you a handkerchief one day and drop it out the window to you? And was or wasn’t said handkerchief in said top drawer of said—”

“Oh, shut up,” said Chick, grinning. “All right, old son. Say no more. But trust you to see the fags! As to getting rid of them, that would be rotten extravagance, Bert. No, but I’ll stick ’em out of sight where I won’t see ’em. How’ll that do? But, listen. Will you shoot some pool, or won’t you, you poor fish?”

“Won’t,” answered Bert. “That is, I will if you’ll play in a respectable place, but I don’t like the atmosphere of Rooney’s—”

“Mooney’s.”

“Looney’s, then. And I’m not referring entirely to the tobacco smoke. A lot of the gentlemen who frequent that dive are the sort that my Sunday school teacher expressly warned me against, Chick.”

“Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled the older boy. “Come on, won’t you? You don’t have to pay any attention to the others. I’ll give you a handicap of—”

“No, thanks, old man, I really had rather not. Anyway, I’ve got some math here that will stand an hour’s work.”

“Do it later. Great Scott, don’t you know this is Saturday night?”

“Sure, but I sort of feel in the mood for math, Chick. A—a kind of mental alertness possesses me, and although—”

“Oh, go to thunder!” said Chick shortly, and pulled a cap on his head. “The next time I ask you, you’ll know it, you blamed Miss Nancy.”

“Them’s hard words,” murmured Bert. “What time you coming back?”

“Some time before ten. Why?”

“Just wondered if you recalled the fact that you’re supposed to be in bed by that hour.”

“What? Who said so? Johnny hasn’t started that stuff yet, has he?”

“Even so, Chick. He specifically mentioned his wishes no later than yesterday. Every one in bed by ten sharp, were his words.”

“Well, he’s got a crust,” Chick declared. “That’s mid-season stuff. How’s he get that way?”

“I really can’t say, but, joking aside, Charles, do try to be home by nine-thirty or thereabouts, eh? These late hours—”

“Oh, shut up!” With his hand on the door, Chick made a final and pathetic appeal. “Be a good guy, Bert, won’t you? Listen, we’ll go to that place on West street, if you can’t stand Mooney’s.”

Bert waved the pencil in dismissal. “Run along to your disreputable acquaintances, Chick. Fact is, I’m not feeling lucky to-night. Besides, I got a slam on the shin this afternoon that tells me I wouldn’t enjoy tramping a couple of miles around a table. Some other time, O Wizard of the Cue.”

“Honest, you make me sick!” The door shut with some force, leaving Bert smiling at it. He rather enjoyed ragging Chick, and Chick, while he sometimes became exasperated, never lost his temper. Not with Bert, that is. For one thing, they had known each other ever since they had begun to walk; or, at least, since Bert had, for Chick, who was a full year older, had probably found the use of his legs first. They had grown up together in Watertown, adventured together, gone to school together, had been practically inseparable for some fifteen years. Chick had a temper, although it was pretty well governed, but save in the very earliest years of their acquaintance he had never been really angry with Bert. Perhaps his year of seniority had something to do with it, for, although Bert could be trying at times, Chick considered that the other’s youth excused him. Each of the boys made a good deal of that thirteen months of difference in their respective ages. Chick had always assumed an elder brother attitude, Bert had always accepted the position of junior unquestioningly, crediting Chick with superior wisdom and all the advantages popularly supposed to accrue to those of great age and experience. Always, that is, until very recently. Within the last year, it seemed, the matter of age had become less important. Possibly, as sometimes happens, Bert had matured more in that time than Chick had. Whereas a year back the older boy had held the rôle of mentor, now it was Bert who sought to guide Chick’s steps. Sometimes a slightly puzzled look would come into Chick’s countenance, indicating that he was sensible of a difference in their relations and hadn’t yet fathomed it.

In general appearance the friends were not unalike. Both were fairly tall, well-proportioned youths, Bert slimmer and lighter than Chick but not destined to remain so much longer. Both were dark of complexion, Chick with gray eyes and Bert with brown. On the score of good looks the older boy held an advantage, for his features were regular, while Bert’s, with the single exception of a straight nose, were decidedly haphazard. Still, expression counts more than features, as a general thing, and both scored there, although in different fashions. Chick’s face told of high spirits and vivacity and thirst for adventure, and a ready, careless smile won friendship easily. On occasion that smile could be a bit supercilious. Bert’s countenance was normally rather grave, although if one looked closely there was generally a glint of laughter lurking in the brown eyes. It was a friendly countenance, but not an ardent one. Bert’s smile was slow to appear, but it was very genuine and was usually followed by a rather infectious laugh.

Before Chick’s footfalls had entirely died away beyond the closed door that smile had faded to an expression of uneasiness. Bert had joked about Mooney’s and the frequenters of Mooney’s, about the cigarettes and the ten o’clock bed hour, but those things were really threatening to cause him some concern. Chick was different this fall, he reflected now, jabbing tiny holes in a blotter with the sharp point of the pencil. Perhaps being a senior made you that way. Football, which had been an all-absorbing interest to Chick last year and the year before that, now seemed to have small appeal for him. Of course, Chick had felt badly about missing the captaincy last winter; had, in conversation with Bert, been rather bitter about it; but this present careless, don’t-give-a-whoop attitude toward the team and his job on it was unexpected. Last year, for instance, Chick wouldn’t have smoked a cigarette during the season if some one had offered him cigarette, match and a thousand dollars! Nor would he have protested against the ten o’clock bed rule. And—Bert shook his head at this reflection—he wouldn’t have played as listlessly as he had played this afternoon. To Bert, who had been trying two seasons for a position on the team, the honor of being selected from among some four hundred fellows to represent Alton Academy on the football field was something to work for and make sacrifices for and, if won, to be mighty proud of!

Perhaps Chick was too sure of his position, Bert reflected. Last year he had played a rather remarkable game toward the latter part of the season and had been largely instrumental in securing the lone touchdown which, with a field-goal by Nip Storer, one of the half-backs, represented Alton’s earnings in the disastrous Kenly Hall contest. Chick had been wonderful on defense and had spoiled more than one Kenly dash in the direction of the Alton line. On attack he had performed his share, too, for it was his catch of a long forward-pass that had made it possible for Jim Galvin, substituting for the first-string full-back in the second quarter, to smash his way across the Cherry-and-Black’s line. Chick had been a fine and gallant warrior that day, and Bert warmed toward him at the recollection until his present shortcomings seemed of no importance. It had been Chick, too, who had swooped down on a loose ball in the last few minutes of the game and raced off up the long field, dodging, side-stepping, twirling, to the enemy’s twelve yards before he was pulled down from behind. That Alton had failed lamentably to gain a foot on the next four plays detracted not at all from Chick’s heartening performance. Indeed, that brief threat had somehow made the pill of defeat less bitter to the Gray-and-Gold that drizzling November evening. Kenly Hall had won that contest by 16 to 9 with a team that was a better all-around eleven than Alton’s. The latter had shown fine moments, feats of brilliance, daring plays, but Kenly had been steady, machine-like, irresistible, and the victory had been hers deservedly. Bert brought his thoughts back from that thrilling battle, in which he had taken part for just three minutes and forty seconds at the tag-end, thereby winning the privilege of wearing the “Big Gold A,” and resolutely drew his book toward him. Mr. Hulman, the mathematics instructor, was a new member of the faculty, and seemed set on emulating the new broom and sweeping clean. Bert laid his pencil aside, placed elbows on desk and hands against cheeks and set out to discover what it was all about.

After a while the pencil came into play again, and still later Bert closed the book with a sigh of relief, pushed it away from him and glanced at his watch. It was only a few minutes after eight! There was still time to pick up some fellow along the corridor and get to the movie theater for the big picture, but after a tentative start toward the closet to get his cap he shook his head and sank into an easy chair. Saturday evening was no time to find an agreeable companion. All the fellows save those Bert didn’t desire as companions would be out. He decided to write a letter home instead, performing a task usually done on Sunday. He began to think what he would write, and that was fatal, for half an hour later he was still in the chair, his thoughts a long way from the letter. In the end, he found a book which he had started to read away back in August, undressed, went to bed and read. He was still reading when Chick returned.

“Hello,” said Bert, “what time is it?”

Chick frowned. “For the love of Pete, cut that out,” he protested. “Honest, Bert, you’re getting to be an awful nagger!”

“Sorry,” said Bert. “I asked only because I’ve been reading and haven’t any idea what time of night it is.” He sat up and looked at the little clock on the nearer chiffonier. It was four minutes past ten according to the clock, but as the latter was frequently wrong he didn’t accept the evidence as conclusive. He laid back again, yawned, dropped the book to the floor and clasped his hands under his head. Chick, undressing, whistled cheerfully; almost too cheerfully Bert thought. “Have a good game?” the latter asked presently.

“Corking. I certainly made the old balls do tricks to-night. Played three games of fifty points and won two of them. Had to go some to get the last one, though. That’s why I’m sort of late.”

“Who did you play with?” asked Bert.

“Fellow named Devore.”

“Devore? Guess I don’t know him. Not in school, is he?”

“No, he’s a guy lives in town. Works with the railroad, I think. Pretty decent sort and a clever lad with a cue. If I hadn’t been going mighty well to-night I wouldn’t have got a game, I guess. Gosh, that place was crowded, Bert!”

“Rooney’s?”

“No, Mooney’s, you coot!” Chick disappeared into the corridor in slippers and dressing-gown. Bert stared at the ceiling a moment and then got out of bed and consulted his watch. The little clock for once was right to a minute. When Chick returned from the lavatory Bert was apparently asleep and Chick turned out the light and got into bed. Silence reigned for a minute or two. Then Chick asked softly: “Asleep, Bert?”

“No, are you?”

“Sure! No, listen. Who do you suppose I met over on Meadow street, coming home?”

“Prince of Wales?”

“No; Johnny.”

After a moment Bert asked: “Did he see you?”

“Of course he did,” replied the other impatiently. “Didn’t I say I met him? Ran right into him, almost, in front of that laundry over there.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing but ‘Ah, Burton!’ or something like that.”

“What time was it, Chick?”

“Ten, or nearly. The clock struck when I got to West street. Talk about rotten luck! Why the dickens he was prowling around over there at that time of night, goodness only knows! If he had stopped I’d have given him a stall, but he just said ‘Ah, Burton’ in a kind of a funny tone and kept right on. I think he had something in his hand; a bag, I guess.”

“Maybe he’s going home over Sunday. There’s a train about ten-twenty, I think.”

“That’s so.” Silence fell again in Number 21 and continued for several minutes. Then Chick’s voice came once more. “Sort of wish I hadn’t run into him, Bert.”

“Me and you both,” agreed Bert.

“Of course it’s blamed poppycock, that ten o’clock bed rule, but he’s acting kind of snorty this fall and he may get on his ear about it. If he does, by gosh, I’ll tell him I’m no kid freshman to have to go to bed with the chickens!”

“Sure! That will make it all right with him,” answered Bert. “He will like that, Chick.”

“Oh, well, hang it, a fellow’s got to have some fun! What’s the good of going to bed at ten, anyway? You don’t get to sleep.”

“Not if you keep on talking,” said Bert, yawning.

“Gosh,” grumbled the other, “you could go to sleep at seven, I guess. How long have you been in bed?”

“Couple of hours.”

“What, didn’t you go out at all?”

“Uh-huh—I mean no! Say, for Pete’s sake, Chick, shut up and go to sleep! How do you think I’m going to keep my schoolgirl complexion if you go on jabbering?”

“All right. But, just the same, I wish I’d come home by State street!”

“Or started earlier,” murmured Bert.

Chick glared resentfully across through the darkness but could think of no appropriate retort. Then came unmistakable indications that his room-mate was asleep.