Читать книгу Change Signals - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 5

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To one at least of the audience the mass meeting had been an event of momentous interest. Kendall Burtis, squeezed into a seat in the very last row of settees, had followed the course of events with rapt attention. To Kendall it was wonderful, even miraculous, for of all the sixty-odd boys who had entered Yardley Hall School that day none, I think, was as proud and happy as he. Kendall was a boy whose dream had come true.

There had been a time, only four years ago, when Kendall’s ambition, so far as schooling was concerned, extended no further than graduation at the Roanoke High School. Even that had seemed a good deal to hope for, for Kendall’s folks were not very well off and there were times in the spring and fall when his services on the farm were badly needed and when tramping into Roanoke to school savored of desertion. Had it not been for his mother Kendall would have missed far more school than he did. Mrs. Burtis wanted him to have what she called “a real education,” and many a time Kendall would have remained at home to drop potatoes or swing along behind a cultivator had she not interfered. Then had come a year when all through the Aroostook Country of Maine the potato crop had been an almost total failure. That failure had spelled ruin to more than one grower, and while Farmer Burtis had been in shape to weather the storm, it had proved a hard blow to him financially, and when Mrs. Burtis, casting about for some way in which to add to the slender account at the Roanoke Bank, had suggested taking summer boarders, Kendall’s father had, after a good deal of hesitation, acquiesced. The result was a small advertisement in a Boston paper, an advertisement that bore fruit in the shape of four healthy, hungry, brown-skinned college boys. That had been a wonderful summer for Kendall. He had been only “going on twelve” then, but he was large for his age, and old, too, and the collegians had made a good deal of him and he had had the best time of his life. He had acted as guide on fishing and tramping excursions, had driven them to and from Roanoke, two miles away, and had listened in wondering and delighted awe to their happy-go-lucky talk and banter.

“Where are you going to school, kid?” they had asked him one day. And Kendall had told them that he hoped to finish at the high school if he wasn’t wanted too badly on the farm.

“High school!” they had scoffed. “That will never do! Go to a boarding school, Kid; that’s what you want to do.”

But when it came to a question of which boarding school, they couldn’t agree. Two of them said Yardley Hall and two of them said Hillton. But when it came to college they were quite agreed. There was nothing to it but Yale.

“No matter where you go to school,” declared the biggest one, whose name was Dana, “come to Yale. There may be more than one prep school, kid, but there’s only one college, and Yale’s it!”

“I—I thought there was Dartmouth and Harvard,” Kendall had replied hesitatingly, and Dana had knitted his brows and shaken his head. “Never heard of ’em,” he had answered. And his three companions had agreed, chuckling. Finally Kendall had guessed that they were having fun with him, something they were in the habit of having. But before they had left Dana had spoken quite seriously to Kendall.

“Kid,” he had said, “you work for a prep school and college. Make your folks send you to Yardley and then to Yale. It isn’t altogether what you learn out of books; it’s the friends you make and the self-reliance you get. When the time comes you let me know; just tell me you’re ready for Yardley and I’ll help you along. You’re a bright kid, and nobody’s fool, and you’re the sort of fellow Yardley wants.”

They were all of them, it seemed, on the football team, and all in strict summer training. The amount of eggs and steak and milk that they devoured during the eight weeks of their stay was something amazing. Every afternoon they produced two oval, brown leather balls and went through remarkable proceedings in the meadow behind the barn. Strange as it may seem, Kendall had never seen a football before, although he had indistinct recollections of having heard or read somewhere of the game. He looked on absorbedly and was as proud as a peacock when, one day, he was allowed to kick one of the illusive objects. They got a good deal of fun out of his attempts at first, but it wasn’t long before he had discovered the knack, and they professed themselves impressed with his ability.

“The kid’s cut out for a kicker,” declared Dana. “Those long legs of his were just made for football. Kid, you keep it up, do you hear? Some day you’ll be a crackerjack kicker if you do.”

The four took their departure early in September to join the rest of the football squad at New Haven. But when they went they left one of the battered balls behind, and during a month of loneliness Kendall made a friend of it. Day after day he went down to the old place in the meadow and kicked and chased the shabby pigskin oval, and dreamed of a time when he should be a Yardley Hall man and play on the football team! But the four left behind them something even better than the old football, and that was a seed that grew and ripened and ultimately bore fruit. They had talked with Kendall’s father and mother, the latter especially since she had proved the more receptive, about the boy’s future schooling, and Mrs. Burtis had hearkened willingly and remembered. And in the course of time she had won her husband to the plan of sending Kendall away to a good preparatory school when the time came, and, later, to college. But when the time did come money was lacking, and at fourteen, instead of going to Yardley Hall, Kendall went to the high school in Roanoke. Then came a bumper year for the Maine potato growers, and, with it—wonder of wonders!—a shortage over the rest of the country and correspondingly high prices. Potatoes reached a dollar and four cents a bushel that winter and Farmer Burtis fared well. And Kendall’s best Christmas present was the promise that the following September he should, if he could pass the examinations, enter Yardley!

Pass the examinations indeed! Kendall never had a doubt of it. That only meant study, and he would have studied twenty hours a day if necessary! It wasn’t necessary. He had passed the Third Class examinations with flying colors. And now, behold him a Yardlian, a boy whose dream had come true!

He had listened to the speeches and watched the proceedings with eager curiosity. And when they had sung “The Years Roll On” he had stood up with the others and had tried, very softly, to follow the tune, while, somewhere inside of him, something was stirring that was neither pleasure nor pain, but seemed made of each. After the meeting was over he followed the others out of the building and, since he knew no one yet, set off alone along the walk to his room in Clarke Hall. He was one of the last out of Oxford, and by the time he had reached the first entrance of Whitson, which stands between Oxford and Clarke, most of the gathering had disappeared. In front of him, however, three boys were walking and as they passed a lighted window Kendall recognized one of them as the football captain. As the trio occupied the width of the path and as Kendall didn’t like to crowd past them, he was obliged to suit his pace to theirs, and so couldn’t help hearing their conversation.

“How do you like your new room, Tom?” asked Dan Vinton.

“Fine,” was the answer from the larger of the other two boys.

“It seems funny, though, not to see Alf and Tom,” continued the first speaker. “We’re going to miss them, aren’t we?”

“Awfully,” agreed the third boy. “I’m so used to dropping in at Number 7, Tom, that you mustn’t be surprised if it takes me a while to get over the habit.”

“Don’t get over it,” responded Tom Roeder heartily. “Make yourself at home. I suppose Loring and Dyer are feeling pretty big about now.”

“Well, Yale got two mighty fine chaps when she got those fellows,” said Dan Vinton. “Alf’s one of the best there is; and so is Tom.”

They turned into Clarke Hall and climbed the stairs, Tom Roeder consenting to “come on up and chin awhile.”

“I ought not to, though,” he declared. “Wallace is waiting for me to help him hang pictures. I’ll get a hard look when I get back.”

“How is he?” asked Dan. “Has he taken care of himself this summer?”

“Looks pretty fit. Maybe a few pounds heavy, but it won’t take him long to drop that. He’s just back from a cruise in his brother’s boat, and you can’t help getting fat lying around on deck. You don’t seem to have put on much fat, Gerald.”

“I haven’t,” was the reply. “I’ve been playing tennis most all summer, and doing a little running.”

“He’s grown like the dickens, though,” said Dan. “Look at his shoulders. Remember him when he first came, Tom? Doesn’t look now much like he did then, eh? Oh, we’ll make a man of you yet, Gerald!”

“Thank you,” laughed Gerald Pennimore. “That’s very kind of you.”

The three turned to the left at the head of the stairs and Kendall, pushing open the door of Number 24, saw them enter the corner room at the front of the building. Kendall’s own room, which he shared with a classmate named Harold Towne, was Number 21, and was on the rear of the building, its two windows looking out past the back of Dudley to the edge of the grove. Towne was in the room when Kendall entered. He was arranging a row of books on the study table which, placed in the center of the room, equidistant between the two single beds, was common property.

“I’ve taken this side of the room,” announced Towne. “I knew you wouldn’t care. Anyhow, as I was here first I had a right to change, you know.”

“All right,” said Kendall. “I don’t care which side I have. I suppose there isn’t much difference.”

“No. Only I was on that side last year and I thought I’d like a change,” replied the other. “Did you bring anything to fix up with, Burtis?”

“N-no, I don’t think so.”

Towne frowned and looked about the walls. “We’ll have to get some pictures, I guess. Cooke, who roomed with me last year, had a lot of stuff, but of course he took it off with him.”

“Did he graduate?” asked Kendall.

“No, he’s moved into Whitson. A chap named Guild wanted him to room with him. Cooke didn’t want to do it much, I guess, but Guild insisted. We’d ought to have about three good pictures over there around the windows. I’d have thought you’d have brought something along with you.”

“Well, I didn’t think of it,” answered Kendall. “Besides, I don’t believe I had anything to bring.”

“You live in the country, don’t you?” asked Towne.

“Yes, near Roanoke. It isn’t exactly country, though. I mean there’s a good many houses out our way. We’re only two miles from town.”

Towne laughed. “Two miles! That sounds like country to me, all right. What do you call country, Burtis? I suppose Roanoke is just a village, isn’t it?”

“N-no, not exactly. It’s got twenty-seven hundred inhabitants.”

“Think of that! A regular metropolis, isn’t it? Ever been to Bangor?”

“Yes, once; just for a day. It’s a nice city, I think.”

“You bet it is. That’s where I live. Know where the high school is?”

“N-no, I don’t think so. I wasn’t there long, you see. Why?”

“I was going to tell you where I live. Our house is pretty nearly as big as this whole building.”

“Gosh, it must take a lot to heat it!” exclaimed Kendall.

“It’s heated with hot water,” said Towne.

“Like this is?”

“No, this is steam here. Hot water’s better. I guess you haven’t been around much, have you?”

“Around the country you mean? No, I haven’t. Have you?”

“Er—some. I’m going to California and down through Old Mexico some day soon. That’s a trip for you!”

“Quite, some ways,” agreed Kendall. “This is as far as I’ve been yet. It doesn’t seem much different from Maine, either. You’d think, being as it’s so much farther south, that it would be sort of—of different.”

“You talk as though Connecticut was down south,” laughed Towne. “It gets just as cold here in winter as it does up home. I suppose they put you in here with me because we’re both from Maine.”

“I guess so. And we’re in the same class, too. Maybe that had something to do with it. Those books all yours?”

“Yes. I’ve got twenty times that many at home.”

“Honest?” exclaimed Kendall. “Gosh, you must have a regular library. I’m awfully fond of books, but I haven’t got many.”

“What kind of books do you like?” asked Towne.

“Any kind; just books,” replied Kendall simply.

“Well, there’s one kind I haven’t any love for, and that’s text-books,” said Towne, frowning at the array before him. “You could have a mighty good time here at Yardley if you didn’t have to study so blamed hard.”

“Y-yes, but of course a fellow expects to have to study,” answered Kendall. “I don’t mind that. I guess I sort of like it. Still, I want to have time enough to play football.”

“Say, are you one of those athletic cranks?” demanded Towne distastefully.

“I don’t believe so. I don’t know anything about athletics. I’d like to play football, though. Do you play?”

“Me? Well, I guess not! You don’t catch me wearing my young life away doing those stunts. A good game of tennis now and then is all right, but this thing of working like a slave for a couple of hours every afternoon and getting your bones cracked isn’t my way, let me tell you! I don’t mind seeing a good game sometimes, but I’m no martyr. Besides, if you make the team you have to go to training table and be just about half starved. Not for mine, thank you!”

“That so? I guess I could stand it if they’d let me play. What do you do to get on the team? Just go to the captain and tell him you want to play?”

Towne grinned delightedly at the new boy’s simplicity for an instant, and then, banishing his smile quickly, nodded. “Yes,” he replied carelessly, “just see the captain and tell him. And, by the way, it’s a good plan to see him pretty soon; so many fellows want places, you know; they might be all gone by the time you get there. See?”

“Yes, thank you. I guess I’d better find him the first thing in the morning. I wasn’t sure whether that was the way you did it. At the meeting to-night they said something about reporting on the field, and I thought maybe—”

“What’s the good of waiting until morning?” asked Towne, hiding his pleasure under a grave face. “Vinton rooms just down the corridor; Number 28; why don’t you run down there now and put in your application?”

“Would it be all right?” asked Kendall doubtfully. “I don’t want to seem fresh, you know.”

“Of course it’s all right! Didn’t you hear them saying to-night that they wanted all the fellows they could get? Ever played the game?”

“No, not yet. Maybe he won’t want me.”

“Never fear! It’s new—er—new material they’re always looking for. Take my advice, Burtis, and get in your application early. Have you got a blank?”

“A blank? What kind of a blank?”

“Why, an application blank, of course; to write down your name and age and so on, and what position on the team you’d like to have.”

“No, could I get one to-night?”

Towne looked doubtful, and finally shook his head. “Not to-night, I’m afraid. Unless—unless Vinton has one he’ll let you have. You could ask him, you know. And anyhow it won’t matter, I guess. The main thing is to let him know as soon as possible. You could fill out your blank to-morrow.”

“Yes, I could do that,” responded Kendall eagerly. “You don’t think he’d mind my seeing him now, as late as this?”

“Late! Why, it’s only a little after nine. That isn’t late. Don’t you worry about his minding, Burtis; he will be tickled to find another fellow for the team. You see there’s a good deal of difficulty here in getting candidates enough. I daresay he will sleep better for knowing that you’re going to help him out.”

Kendall looked at Towne a bit doubtfully, but the latter’s countenance was so innocent that his misgivings passed and he pulled his jacket down and smoothed his hair.

“I—I guess I will, then,” he murmured. “What did you say his name was? Winton?”

“No, Vinton; most of the fellows call him Dan, but you can do as you like about that.”

“Gosh, I couldn’t do that!” exclaimed Kendall.

“All right. Twenty-eight’s the number. Down the hall to the right; last room on the other side.”

“Thanks,” said Kendall, giving a last tug at his sleeves. “I hope he won’t think I’m—fresh.”

“Never fear, old chap; he will be tickled to death,” Towne assured him gravely. But after the door had closed and Kendall’s footsteps died away along the hall Towne’s gravity left him, and he threw himself on the bed, buried his face against the pillow and laughed until his sides ached.