Читать книгу For Yardley - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 4

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While our four friends are satisfying four very healthy appetites, let’s look about us a little. The place is Wissining, Connecticut, and Wissining, in case you happen not to be acquainted with it, is on the Sound, about equidistant from New Haven and Newport. Perhaps you can locate Greenburg better, for Greenburg is quite a city in a small way, and something of a manufacturing town. Wissining lies just across the river from Greenburg, and Yardley Hall School is about a half-mile from the Wissining station. It may be that you have never noticed it, even if you have traveled that way, for the railroad passes through the Yardley property by way of a cut, and the school buildings are not long in sight. But if you look sharp as your train crosses the bridge over the little Wissining River, you will see them describing a rough semicircle on the edge of a not distant hill; Clarke, Whitson, Oxford, Merle, and the Kingdon Gymnasium. Dudley you won’t see for the reason that it is situated back of the other buildings and across the Yard. Oxford is a recitation hall; but, besides class-rooms, it holds Dr. Hewitt’s apartments, the office, the laboratories, the library, the assembly hall, and the rooms of the two school societies, Oxford and Cambridge. The dining-room, or commons, is in Whitson.

The school property consists of some forty acres of hill, woodland, and meadow, and ascends gradually from the shore to the plateau whereon the buildings are set, and then descends as gently to the curving river at the back. Here are the tennis courts and the athletic field, the golf links and the boat house; and here, near the river-bank not long since, was the ice rink whereon Yardley defeated the Broadwood hockey team and won the first leg of the Pennimore Cup, the trophy presented by Gerald’s father.

Yardley usually holds two hundred and seventy students, their ages ranging from twelve to twenty. There are five classes known as First, Second, Third, Fourth, and Preparatory, and Yardley’s graduates have a habit of going on to Yale for the rest of their education, although there have been occasions when rash youths have preferred Harvard. Broadwood, which is situated some four miles distant as the crow flies, is a prominent feeder to Princeton, and so rivalries begun at these schools are often nourished at college. There have been other stories written about Yardley Hall, and so if you want a more detailed description of the school you have only to refer to a book called “Forward Pass,” though for my part I think you already have heard enough about it to answer our purpose. It’s a good school, is Yardley Hall; good in all ways; and, which is more important, it turns out some fine fellows. If I had space to set down a list of all the eminent government officials, scientists, writers, jurists, diplomats and the like who have graduated you would be vastly impressed. But I haven’t, and you must just take my word for it. I might add that it has turned out a large number of athletes who, if their renown has been more fleeting, have won honor and acclaim.

There was a stereoptican lecture that night in Assembly Hall and, after they had finished supper, Dan was all for hearing it. But Alf refused to entertain the idea for a moment.

“It’s something about the Irish Lakes,” he said, “and no one cares a fig for the Irish Lakes. It’s wet enough here to-night without having to listen to a lot of drool about the Lake of Killarney and—and the others. If the chap would lecture on Irish bulls I might go. No, my soul craves excitement, Dan.”

“So does mine,” Dan laughed, “but I don’t know where to find it. We might go up to Cambridge and watch Chambers and Rand play backgammon.”

“Awful thought! No, you come over to our room, Dan, and Tom and I will entertain you. Bring little Geraldine along, if you like.”

“He’s gone off with Thompson. I’ll come over for awhile after the lecture.”

“You won’t. You’ll be drowned in the Irish Lakes. Let the old lecture go.” But Dan was obdurate. Alf called on Tom for aid.

“Tell him to come, Tom,” he said. “We’ll dance and sing and recite poetry for him, won’t we?”

“Maybe you will,” was the calm response. “I’m going over to Oxford for awhile. There’s a debate and a concert.”

Alf groaned.

“Another of your silly vaudevilles! All right, go ahead, both of you. But you’ll be sorry when you come back and find that I’ve blown up the building or assaulted a faculty from sheer boredom. You’ll wish then that you’d been kind to me.”

They parted on the steps of Whitson, Dan and Tom scudding across to Oxford, and Alf, hands in pockets and head drooping dejectedly, walking off through the downpour toward Dudley. Dan tried to persuade Tom to accompany him to the lecture, and Tom strove to induce Dan to accept the hospitality of Oxford Society. They argued it out at the head of each flight of stairs and consumed some ten or fifteen minutes, and finally Tom tried to kidnap Dan by main force in the upper corridor, and was severely reprimanded by an usher for unseemly noise. The lecture was mildly interesting and lasted the better part of an hour. At the back of the hall a group of younger fellows, among whom was Gerald, found the darkened room much to their liking and spent most of the time cutting-up. The lecturer, a spare, nervous gentleman with a prominent Adam’s apple and a very bald head, was visibly annoyed at times, and when one of the pictures was thrown on the screen upside-down didn’t discover the fact until the snickers of his audience appraised him that something was wrong. After the entertainment was over Dan met Gerald in the corridor and took him off to Alf’s room. They scuttled over to Dudley through the rain and slush and found Alf alone in his glory, his feet to the fire and a tablet and pencil in his hands.

“Where’s Tom?” he asked. “I need him. Hello, Gerald. Fate, Mr. Pennimore, has decreed that you be one of us. Your appearance, as welcome as unexpected, decides the matter. I congratulate you.”

“What the dickens are you babbling about?” asked Dan, ruffling Alf’s hair. “What’s the game?”

“You shall know in due time. I can’t explain it more than once, and so we will await the arrival of Mr. Dyer, our respected colleague. While you fellows have been wasting your valuable time in aimless pleasures I have been working.” He held up a leaf from the tablet scrawled upon on both sides.

“Is it poetry?” asked Gerald.

“Or an essay for The Scholiast?” suggested Dan.

“No, children, it is—But here comes Mr. Dyer. Welcome, Mr. Dyer. Remove your coat and join our little home circle.”

“Alf’s got one of his silly fits,” said Dan. “Sit down, Tom, and let him get it off his chest.”

Alf arose, turned his back to the fireplace, thrust one hand between the buttons of his waistcoat and faced his audience impressively. Dan and Tom cheered subduedly.

“Gentlemen,” began Alf. “(For the moment we will suppose that you are gentlemen.) There is an adage which has it that Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do. At this time of year when the inclemency of the weather and—ah—lack of athletics deprive most of us of occupation, leaving us little wherewith to interest ourselves save degrading studies, it is especially desirable that our minds and hands should be kept busy to the end that Satan shall not get in his work with us. Let us keep out of mischief at all cost, say I.”

“Hooray!” applauded Dan. Alf bowed profoundly.

“Gentlemen, I thank you. Now, therefore, I have spent a profitable hour during your absence, and am happy to be able to say to you, gentlemen, that the problem is solved. In order that we have an interest above the drudgery of study, I submit to you plans for the forming of a society, a secret society which—Mr. Pennimore, kindly close the transom and guard the door. As I was about to say, a secret society, to be known as the ‘S. P. M.’” He paused dramatically.

“What’s that mean?” asked Tom.

“The Society of Predatory Marauders!”

“Bully name,” commented Dan, with a grin. “Who are we going to maraud, Alf?”

“Society in general; we will strive not to show favoritism or—or bias. I suggest that we begin with the faculty.”

Enthusiastic applause from the audience.

“After that we will settle scores with such of our personal friends as need attention.”

More applause.

“Then we can turn to our ancient and much-loved enemy, Broadwood Academy. After blowing up the buildings at Broadwood, we will search for other worlds to conquer.”

“Let’s begin with Broadwood,” suggested Tom, lazily. “I never did like green as a color.”

“Mr. Dyer is out of order,” said Alf, severely. “I will read to you a brief outline of—of—a brief outline. Mr. Pennimore, as Sergeant-at-arms you will kindly plug up the key-hole. Now, then. ‘The Society of Predatory Marauders, incorporated under the laws of the State of New Jersey.’ (That’s where all the robbers and hold-ups incorporate, you know.) ‘Object, the betterment of Society and the uplifting of the Human Race. Motto: Sic semper facultus——’”

“That’s rotten Latin,” grunted Tom.

“Dry up! ‘Sic semper facultus et al. Password, Vengeance.’ (We will have a grip and a special knock, but I haven’t got to those yet.) ‘Officers: Alfred Loring, Chief Assassin; Thomas Dyer, Executioner; Daniel Vinton, Torturer; Gerald Pennimore,—er—Incendiary.’ Now, gentlemen, the resolutions. These have been very thoughtfully and carefully prepared. ‘Whereas, for years we have been ground under the merciless heel of the faculty of this institution, have been deprived of our innocent pleasures and punished without provocation, have been intimidated and brow-beaten, crammed with useless knowledge and otherwise maltreated, now, therefore, be it Resolved that we arise in our might and overthrow the despotic rule of the tyrants; that we burn, pillage, and destroy; that we show no mercy nor hold our hands until vengeance is satisfied and the ground is strewn with the lifeless bodies of our enemies and not one is left to tell the tale. So perish all tyrants!’”

“Dandy!” cried Gerald.

“Sounds like one of Joe Chambers’s editorials,” commented Tom.

“Now then, the oath!” commanded Alf. “Arise, gentlemen! Raise your hands and repeat after me. ‘To the S. P. M. I pledge my fealty and life, forgetting all ties of blood, friendship, and affection, pledging myself to obey its laws and commands. Failing this, I hope to choke!’ Swear!”

“Darn,” said Tom, calmly.

“We swear,” said Dan in a sepulchral voice.

“Aren’t there going to be any other members?” asked Gerald, eagerly.

“In time we will recruit. For the present the members are all here. Now then.” Alf seated himself and dropped into conversational tones. “What awful thing shall we do first, fellows?”

Tom yawned loudly.

“Go to bed,” he said.

“Bed!” exclaimed Alf. “Do you mean to tell me that you have listened—er—er—listened unmoved to my eloquence, you old sleepy-headed chump? Bed! Why, doesn’t your soul cry out for vengeance, for——”

“Sleep? It does.” Tom started to unlace a shoe.

“Where’s your sporting instinct, Tom,” pleaded Alf. “Please don’t go to bed yet. Let’s do one desperate deed first, just a tiny desperate deed! Breathes there a man with soul so dead who even to himself has said ‘It’s time to go to bed?’ No!”

But Tom went calmly on with his preparations, and finally Alf gave him up.

“Traitor!” he hissed. “Ingrate! Sluggard! Here I go to work and get up the dandiest secret society that ever was, and what’s the result? Do I get gratitude, support? I do not! I am yawned at! Very well, go to bed; saturate yourself with sleep. The rest of us will go on with the great work without you.” Alf seized a golf club from a corner and waved it above his head. “On to Oxford Hall!” he shouted. “Death to the tyrants! Down with faculty! Viva la Commune! A bas le——”

There was a soft knock at the door. Alf’s arm and the improvised sword dropped.

“Come!” called Tom.

The door opened and Mr. McIntyre, or Kilts, as the boys called him, faced them. Kilts was the mathematics instructor and roomed at the end of the corridor. He shook his head gently.

“’Tis past ten,” he said, “and I’m thinking ye’d best be quiet, gentlemen.”

He closed the door again and went off down the hall. Alf looked at the others in deep disgust.

“That’s always the way,” he grumbled. “Whenever I try to save the country some one butts in and spoils it!”

“You’re like the Irishman who said that Ireland could be free to-morrow if it wasn’t for the police,” laughed Dan. Alf viewed him coldly.

“I don’t see the apposition of your story, Mr. Vinton.”

“Why didn’t you start in and slay Kilts?” asked Tom.

“Because,” replied Alf, with dignity, “he was unarmed.”

“Come on, Gerald,” laughed Dan. “Let’s go home. The massacre is postponed until to-morrow.”

“To-morrow is Sunday,” Gerald objected. “We can’t wipe out the faculty on Sunday, can we?”

“No.” Alf shook his head thoughtfully. “No, my soul revolts at the thought of killing any one on Sunday. We will wait until Monday. Good-night, Brothers in the Cause. Sic semper facultus et al.!”

“The same to you,” replied Dan, politely, from the doorway, “and many of them.”