Читать книгу For Yardley - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 5

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The rain continued most of Sunday, and when it ceased the snow was a thing of the past. Monday dawned bright, and a brisk easterly breeze began the task of drying the sopping, spongy world. Winter had lingered long that year; or, perhaps, it would be better to say that winter had returned for a supplementary season. But now that appeared to be over at last and, in spite of the chill wind, the sunshine held a very springlike warmth in the sheltered places. Gerald Pennimore watched the weather anxiously, and once, between French and mathematics recitations, he stole down to the field and set foot tentatively on the track. The result wasn’t encouraging, for his shoe sank into the cinders for a depth of two inches. He sighed and shook his head. It did seem as though fate was determined to discourage in every possible way his efforts to become a mile runner!

Gerald had been at Yardley only a little over a year, for he had entered at the beginning of the previous Winter Term. Gerald’s father, known the country over as the Steamship King, owned a big estate, Sound View, which adjoined the school grounds on the west. There Mr. Pennimore and Gerald—there were no others in the family since Gerald’s mother was dead and he had neither brothers nor sisters—usually spent nine months of the year, retiring to New York in the early winter and returning at the first sign of spring. Until last year Gerald had been in the care of tutors and would, perhaps, have been so still had not a chance meeting with Dan Vinton ripened into a friendship. Dan had fostered Gerald’s desire to enter Yardley, and in the end Mr. Pennimore, to whom Gerald was very dear, had consented, though not without misgivings. The misgivings, however, had soon departed, for after the first month or two Gerald had got on famously. It had been hard going at first, for many of the fellows had suspected Gerald of being stuck-up because of his father’s wealth, and “Money-bags” was the least offensive of the nicknames devised for him. But Gerald had been fortunate in having the friendship of Dan, Alf, and Tom, under whose guardianship he had eventually settled down into a fairly useful member of the school community. Gerald had made good on his class baseball team, had won election to Cambridge Society in the face of some rather malicious opposition, had run a good race in the Cross Country meet, and not more than a fortnight since had scored the winning goal and won his Y when, as a substitute on the Hockey Team, Alf had put him in in the last minute or two of the Broadwood game. That goal had been something of a fluke, but Gerald had worked hard with the substitutes, and no one begrudged him the privilege of wearing the Y, a privilege of which he proudly availed himself whenever possible. At the present time Mr. Pennimore was abroad and Sound View was still closed. Gerald roomed with Dan in 28 Clarke.

But life wasn’t all discouragement for Gerald to-day, for this morning the long-delayed summons to the track and field candidates had appeared on the notice board in the corridor of Oxford.

“There will be a meeting of all candidates for the Track Team in the Gymnasium at four-fifteen this afternoon. New men are wanted in all events, and any one who has ever done any distance running or would like to try it is especially urged to come out.

“Albert T. Maury, Captain.”

Gerald gloated over that request for distance men, for he meant to try for the team as a miler, and the acknowledgment that the squad as it was composed now was weak in that department meant that he would be welcomed and given attention by the trainer. There was very little conceit in Gerald, but he possessed the excellent attribute of believing in his ability to do a thing until he had conclusively proved that he couldn’t. Just now Gerald was pretty sure that with proper training he could run the mile fast enough to secure a place on the team and get into the Dual Meet with Broadwood the last of May.

Gerald was one of the first to reach the gymnasium after English was over. So early was he, in fact, that he had to cool his heels a good half-hour before the meeting began in the Trophy Room. About thirty fellows appeared in response to the summons, many of them Fourth Class fellows, showing more ambition than promise. Tom, with whom Gerald sat, didn’t speak enthusiastically of the new material.

“Still, though,” he added, “it’s usually like this. The real stuff comes dribbling along after work begins outdoors. Fellows hate to have to do the gym stunts.”

Bert Maury, the captain, reminded the fellows that Yardley had won two legs of the present Dual Cup, and that if they were successful this spring the trophy would become Yardley’s property for good and all. “It isn’t going to be so easy, though,” he said. “I happen to know that Broadwood is making a big effort to get a good all-around team together this year. Their trainer, as you know, is a mighty good man, and while I guess he can’t hold a candle to our own Andy——”

“Oh, you Andy Ryan!” shouted some one, and Maury had to wait for the laughter and applause to stop.

“Anyhow, Broadwood’s going to do her level best, and we’ve got to buckle down and do better,” he went on. “There are some things I guess she can’t touch us at this year; the sprints and the high hurdles and the pole vault and the shot and the hammer; I guess we can be pretty certain of those events, but we’re weak at the jumps especially and none too strong in the mile and the quarter. We’ve got to develop two or three good milers and as many fellows for the four-forty; and some good jumpers. And we want hurdlers, too. I hoped more fellows would turn out to-day. We’ve got to have more if we’re going to win. Now you fellows talk it up and see if you can’t get more candidates, will you? We are going to have practice in the gym here until the track is in shape, but I guess we will be able to get out of doors in another week if this weather holds on. Now I’ll ask Mr. Ryan to say a few words.”

Andy Ryan, the trainer, was a short, red-haired, green-eyed little Irish gentleman, mightily popular with the fellows, and when he got on his feet the thirty-odd occupants of the trophy-room cheered for all they were worth and made noise enough for twice their number. Andy spoke with a slight brogue that, when he was excited, became almost unintelligible.

“Much obliged,” he said, smilingly when they let him speak. “If you fellows could run as well as you can cheer you’d have Broadwood licked to a frazzle.”

“Quit your blarney!” said some one at the back of the room.

“Sure, ’tis not blarney I’ll be givin’ you if I git hould of you,” responded Andy, dropping into his thickest brogue amid the laughter of the boys. Then he became serious. “Boys, what Cap Maury says is true as true. We’ve got to work pretty hard if we’re to win this year. I ain’t saying we can’t do it, for I know we can, but I do say that every one of you must make up your minds to strict training and hard work. The faculty has been good to us, as you all know, and let us start work out of doors before the recess, and if the weather is kind to us it will make a difference of most two weeks, I’m thinking. That will be a help, you see. But in the meanwhile we’re going to have a little mild exercise in the gymnasium; just a bit of work with the weights and the bells, you understand; nothing any of you need be feared of. And there’ll be some running on the boards and some jumping and the like. The training table won’t start until after the recess, but aside from that I don’t see why we can’t be well on the way by the first of April. Cap has spoken of the Broadwood trainer. Boys, he’s a good one. If he hasn’t done better since he’s been there ’tis because he hasn’t had the material to work with. I know him. I know him personally, and I know what he can do. And I know that this year he’s going to do his best to make up for the lickings we’ve given him. So keep that in mind, all of you, and see can we put it on them again this year. Now, Cap, I guess we’ll take the names if you’re ready.”

“All right, unless you want to say something, Bob.”

Bob Norcross shook his head without getting up.

“No. We’ve got four dollars in the treasury and need more. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Having heard at length from the manager,” said Maury amid laughter, “we’ll proceed. Give your names to Mr. Ryan, please, and tell him what you’ve done and what you’d like to try for. As for the treasury, I guess we can manage to do something for that after recess.”

The boys crowded around the table at which Andy seated himself. He didn’t take much time with the old members.

“All right, Goodyear; I’ve seen you before. Roeder, you’ll have to do a foot better this year, my boy. Is it yourself, Dyer? And how’s the lad? And who’s that you’re hiding behind you?”

That was Gerald.

“Out for the mile, you say?” asked Andy. “Sure and why not? How old are you?”

“Sixteen, Andy.”

“Never!”

“Yes, I am. You can ask Tom.”

“Well, sure you ought to be growing a bit, my boy. What’s your class? Third? Have you ever done any track work?”

“No. But I was on the Cross Country Team, you know.”

“Indeed I do know it! Sure ’twas you saved the day to us. Come to me to-morrow and I’ll give you some work to do. But you’ll have to get Mr. Bendix to pass you first, you know.”

“He let me run in the Cross Country, Andy,” said Gerald, anxiously.

“It makes no difference,” replied Andy, severely. “Rules is rules. You can tell him I said we needed you, though. He will pass you, all right.”

And so it proved the next morning. The physical instructor merely looked Gerald up in his records, frowned a bit, and made a new entry in his book.

“All right, Pennimore. You can try for the team if you like. But I’m afraid you’re still a little weak for fast company in the mile run, my boy. But it will do you a lot of good. Tell Mr. Ryan that—but never mind; I’ll speak to him myself.” And Mr. Bendix, or Muscles, as the boys called him, jotted a memorandum on the tablet before him.

That afternoon the track and field candidates assembled in the gymnasium, and Gerald found himself toiling with the chest weights. Later Andy set him six laps on the running track, after which he plunged under a cold shower, to emerge feeling as though he could give Captain Maury seventy yards and beat him in the mile. The baseball candidates had begun their work in the cage the day before, and the locker-room that afternoon was a very noisy and very merry place. There were Alf and Dan and Captain Durfee and Wheelock and Richards and several more of the ball players that Gerald knew, and Tom and Arthur Thompson and Roeder and lots more of the track fellows.

Arthur Thompson, a boy of about Gerald’s age and a member of the Second Class, was rather a chum of Gerald’s. Arthur had secured second place in the pole-vault last spring, and was expected this year to get first. Arthur was rather heavily built for pole work, and his success in the event had been a surprise to most every one save possibly himself and Andy. He had very dark hair, a somewhat sallow complexion, and even his dearest friends would not have called him handsome. Gerald had started out by detesting him, but, as so often happens in such cases, had ended by liking him thoroughly. He and Gerald left the gymnasium together and walked across the Yard to a back entrance of Whitson. Here they climbed the stairs, and Arthur led the way into Number 20. At a table, bending absorbedly over a big stamp album, sat a youth of thirteen.

“Look here, Harry,” said Arthur, sternly, “what have I told you about those silly stamps? Haven’t I given you fair warning?”

“Please, Arthur, I was only pasting a few——”

“I’ve told you I’d pitch it out of the window if you didn’t let it alone for a minute. And I will, too. Now shove that out of sight and speak to our guest.”

Harry Merrow grinned as he closed the book.

“Hello, Gerald,” he said. “Isn’t he a fussy old thing?”

“Fussy!” exclaimed his roommate. “My word, kid, the first thing I see in the morning is you sitting up in bed with that idiotic book, and the last thing I see at night is the same. And you’re at it all day! You’ve got stampitis, that’s what you’ve got, Harry.”

“Don’t you ever go outdoors?” asked Gerald.

“Oh, yes, lots! I was out this afternoon. But I just got eight new stamps and they’re dandies. One’s a——”

“Shut up!” commanded Arthur, sternly. “I’ve told you you are not to talk about them. I’m so blamed sick of cancellations and superimposed this and that and first issues and second issues and—and— Honest, Harry, for two cents I’d pitch the whole fool collection out into the mud!” Arthur flung his cap across the room with a gesture of despair.

“I know a fellow in Merle,” began Harry, addressing Gerald, “who’s got the dandiest lot of old revenues you ever saw, and he says if I’ll——”

But Arthur was upon him, and Harry found himself lifted bodily from his chair and set on his feet.

“Here,” said Arthur, seizing the boy’s cap from the table and jamming it onto his head, “out you go! Down to the tennis courts and back three times for yours, kid. You’ve just got time for a nice constitutional before supper.”

“But I don’t want to go out, Arthur!” pleaded Harry. “And I was out, honest I was!”

“And you’re going again,” was the firm reply. “I’m not going to have you bleach out like a clump of celery right under my eyes. If you haven’t sense enough to take exercise yourself, why, here am I, little darling. Run along now!” And Arthur propelled him across the room to the door, Harry struggling unavailingly in his grasp. “There you are, Harry. Three times to the courts and back, mind. And I’ll be watching from the window; so don’t try any funny tricks. You can’t get into the gym now, because it’s locked by this time, so you needn’t try that on again.” The door closed behind the rebellious form of the youngster, and presently they heard his lagging footsteps on the stairs. Arthur went to the window and watched him started across the Yard. Then he threw himself into a chair.

“Honest, Gerald, that kid bothers me to death. I’d change my room if it wasn’t that someone’s got to look after him, and I suppose it might as well be me. Those stamps— And, by the way, it was you started him going when you gave him your collection last year.”

“Oh, he was collecting before that,” said Gerald.

“Yes, I know, but you gave him about a million dollars’ worth of top-notchers, and now he’s trying to live up to them. Why, that little chump writes letters to the crowned heads of Europe, I believe, in the hope that he will get hold of something new in the way of stamps. And as for catalogues and price-lists and sheets on approval, why, sometimes I can’t find my books for the trash on top!”

“You certainly are in hard luck,” laughed Gerald. “You’d better join the S. P. M. and eradicate Harry and his stamps.”

“What’s that?” asked Arthur.

Gerald told about Alf’s secret society, and Arthur chuckled with glee.

“That’s great,” he declared. “I’d like to join. Think they’ll have me?”

“I guess so. I don’t know, though, whether there are any offices left to be filled. You might have to be just a plain, every-day marauder.”

“You ask Alf if he doesn’t want a high-class poisoner. But say, Gerald, you don’t want to let faculty get wind of it. Secret societies are barred, you know.”

“Of course, but this is just a joke.”

“Um, yes; but faculty is deficient in humor, you see. Old Toby never did have any, and I guess Collins had his worn out years ago. When’s the next meeting?”

“I don’t know. I think we must have adjourned—what is it?—sine die. I wouldn’t be surprised if the S. P. M. didn’t meet again.”

And doubtless it wouldn’t have, had the weather behaved itself. But on Wednesday forenoon it started in to snow, and in the afternoon the snow changed to rain, and the rain kept up all day Thursday. And fellows who had been softening up their baseball gloves with neatsfoot oil or porpoise grease, or polishing their golf clubs, or taking their tennis rackets from the press, grumbled loudly and said unkind things about the New England climate. Gerald did no audible grumbling, but was vastly disappointed and disgusted, and spent much of his time watching the sky for signs of a break in the weather.

Alf stood Wednesday with equanimity, but on Thursday he grew restive. Practice in the baseball cage wasn’t a satisfactory substitute for outdoor exercise. Casting about for something to amuse himself with, Alf recollected the S. P. M., which, like other of his foolishness, he had promptly forgotten. The result was that just before supper that evening there was a peculiar knock at the door of 28 Clarke, three raps, a pause, and three more. Dan called “Come in!” and the door opened. But the visitor remained outside in the darkened corridor. He wore a black domino over the upper part of his face, and held forth two bulky envelopes.

“Vengeance!” he whispered, hoarsely.

Dan, wondering, took the envelopes, trying to discover the identity of the bearer. The clothes were not familiar to him, but there was something about the mysterious visitor that suggested Alf.

“Who the dickens are you?” asked Dan.

But the other made no answer, and was already retreating into the shadows.

“It’s Alf,” laughed Gerald, looking over his roommate’s shoulder. “Come on in, Alf.”

But Alf, if it was Alf, turned and scuttled along the corridor and disappeared down the stairs.

“I don’t believe it was Alf,” said Dan, doubtfully.

“I know it was,” Gerald replied. “I’ve stood up in front of him too often when we used to box not to know that mouth and chin. What’s in the envelopes?”

“Let’s find out. Here, one of them’s for you.”

They were addressed in scrawly, printed characters. They tore them open and drew from each a folded sheet of paper and a round piece of yellow cardboard about the size of a silver dollar, on which was inscribed “S. P. M.” in black letters and, above, what was evidently intended for a skull and crossbones. The communication was brief:

“Brother in the Cause: There will be a Special Meeting of the Society in the Secret Rendezvous at half after seven to-night. Wear this insignia, and fail not on peril of disfavor and death!

“Number One.”