Читать книгу Change Signals - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 8

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A week passed very quickly and left Kendall pretty well shaken down into his place at Yardley. During that week there were five days of practice on the gridiron and he reported promptly and regularly. I wish I could say that he showed promise of becoming a good player, but I can’t. As a matter of fact, he exhibited about as little aptitude for the game as any member of Squad D, and that isn’t flattering since Squad D was made up of what in school slang were known as “dubs.” It wasn’t that Kendall was not willing enough; he’d have worked his feet off to learn to play football well; but he was undeniably awkward in movement and astonishingly slow at getting started. He performed his tasks with a kind of ferocious earnestness that ought to have shown better results.

On Saturday of that week there was no practice, for the weather was unusually warm for the last of September and many of the candidates were showing the effect of the work. Kendall was left with a whole afternoon on his hands with which he didn’t know what to do. After his English lesson at two he strolled back to his room half hoping that Harold would be there. He didn’t like that roommate of his very well, but to-day even Harold would have been better than no one. But the room was empty when he reached it. He tossed his books onto the table, thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window. It was too fine an afternoon to stay indoors, he decided, and so he went out again. In the hallway he glanced undecidedly toward the door of Number 28, but his courage failed him.

He had met Gerald Pennimore three or four times since the day they had walked back from the gymnasium together, but only for a moment on each occasion. Once they had passed on the stairs and perhaps thrice they had nodded and spoken in Oxford. But Kendall had not taken advantage of the other’s invitation to call. Since he had learned that Gerald was the son of John T. Pennimore, whose fame had reached even to Roanoke, Kendall had doubted the sincerity of that invitation. It didn’t seem reasonable that a boy of Gerald Pennimore’s position should really want to make a friend of him. To-day, though, he would have given a good deal for Gerald’s companionship. But the door at the end of the hall was closed and it was more than likely that the room was empty. Kendall descended the stairs and, with no objective point in mind, mooned along the path toward the field.

The tennis courts were filled and he stood for some time and looked on. On the baseball diamonds two games seemed to be in progress and the shouts and laughter of the players reached him at the courts. But when he took up his journey again his steps led him toward the boathouse where a number of figures were visible about the float. Up and down the river in the warm afternoon sunlight many gayly hued canoes were gliding. At the boathouse Kendall loitered for some minutes, watching several craft start away and wishing that some of the merry crews would invite him along as a passenger, since he knew no more about paddling or rowing than the average boy whose life has been spent on a farm where the largest body of water within five miles is a six-foot brook. But none of the mariners asked him to accompany them on their voyages and after awhile Kendall left the float and wandered downstream along the bank of the river.

On the other side was Meeker’s Marsh, and at intervals enticing little inlets emptied into the larger stream. Kendall wished he were over there that he might explore some of them. It was quite warm, in spite of the breeze that blew across the marsh, and Kendall pushed his straw hat away from his forehead, dug his hands into his pockets and loitered slowly along, whistling a tune. He was a little bit lonely, if the truth is to be told, a little bit inclined for the first time to be homesick. He wondered if he would ever know fellows and enter into the good times about him.

Presently a small island came into view, and then, a little further downstream, a railway bridge. He determined to cross that and return along the opposite bank to the marsh. But when the railway bridge was reached there was another just beyond, a bridge for wagons and pedestrians, and Kendall chose that instead. Once across it a new idea came to him. He would keep on by the dusty road and visit Greenburg. There would be stores with things in the windows, and probably a place where he could buy a glass of soda water or root beer; for he was decidedly thirsty after his walk in the sun. The thought quite cheered him and the whistled tune became louder.

Five minutes on the dusty road brought him to the edge of the town proper and windows with fascinating goods began. Those windows had a deal of attraction for the country-bred boy and more than once his hand sought his trousers pocket enquiringly as some object more than usually alluring tempted him. He had been quite lavishly supplied with spending money by his father when he had left home, and then, afterwards, his mother had taken him aside and thrust a whole five dollar bill into his hand. Of course he didn’t have all that wealth with him; he had heard often enough of the danger of carrying money about in the cities; but there was a whole half dollar in his pocket, to say nothing of some nickels and coppers. But Kendall had never learned extravagance, and a thing had to be pretty tempting to make him part with any of his hoard. And so he reached the very middle of Greenburg, where the big dry-goods store is, and the two banks, and the Palace of Sweets, and Wallace’s drug store, without having yielded. But when he heard the siz-z-z of the soda fountain in Wallace’s he knew that the moment had come.

Greenburg is quite a busy, citified place on a fine Saturday afternoon, and the drug store was well filled with customers when Kendall went in. They were two deep in front of the white marble counter and most of the little wire-legged tables were surrounded by thirsty mortals of both sexes. There were so many enticing concoctions advertised on the wall behind the two busy clerks and the ornate fountain that Kendall didn’t know what to choose; “Walnut Fudge Sundae”—“Chocolate Egg-and-Milk”—“Orange and Lime”—“Claret Frappé”—“Fresh Fruit College Ices”—“Myer’s Root Beer”—“Choco-Cola”—and more besides. Kendall fingered his coins and debated while he waited a chance to make his wants known. When, suddenly, a clerk fixed him with imperative gaze over the shoulder of a very stout lady who was eating a college ice, Kendall was quite unprepared and glanced wildly at the wall. The first sign his eyes rested on was “Chocolate Egg-and-Milk” and so he said “Chocolate Egg-and-Milk” to the clerk, wishing the very next instant he had chosen something he was acquainted with. The clerk held out a hand.

“Check, please,” he demanded.

“What?” asked Kendall.

“Get your check at the cashier’s desk, please,” said the clerk. “What’s yours, madam?”

Kendall discovered the cashier’s desk and pushed his half dollar across the ledge. “Five, ten or fifteen?” asked the young lady behind the grilling.

Kendall wavered. Then, “Ten, if you please,” he said, and a blue celluloid check was passed out and some change. Back at the counter he was forced to await his chance again. When it came it was another clerk who asked his order and Kendall passed over his blue check and said, “Root beer, please.”

“Two?”

“No, just one.”

“Root beer’s only five cents,” was the reply. “This is a ten cent check.”

“Oh,” Kendall stammered. “Then I—I’ll take a chocolate egg-and-milk, please.”

“That’s fifteen cents,” replied the clerk impatiently.

“Oh—er—er—ice-cream soda!” blurted Kendall.

“What flavor?”

“Er—er—what have you got?”

The clerk waved a hand toward the wall. “There they are,” he said with an air of long-suffering and a wink at a tall boy who was gathering up four glasses of college ice. Kendall’s gaze swept the list unseeingly.

“Vanilla, please,” he said meekly.

The tall boy pushed past him with an amused look and Kendall saw that he bore his purchases to one of the small tables at the other side of the store where three other youths sat awaiting him. When Kendall’s own glass was handed to him, a long-handled spoon sticking out from the top and a paper napkin thrust into the handle, he drew aside and looked for a place to enjoy it at his leisure. At that moment a small table in a far corner was vacated and Kendall made his way to it. A tired-looking rubber plant drooped dejectedly above it and its surface was littered with empty glasses and crumpled napkins. But Kendall pushed these aside, placed his own delectable concoction before him and seated himself.

It was awfully good, that ice cream, cold and sweet and fragrant with vanilla, and just “sting-y” enough with the soda. The first spoonful brought content and the second joy. After that he decided to make it last as long as possible, and so he leaned back in the little chair and looked about him. At the next table, only a scant yard away, was the tall youth and his three companions. Kendall supposed at first that they were Yardley fellows, but their conversation was of things quite foreign to his knowledge and when, presently, he saw that one of the quartette wore a dark green cloth cap with a white B on it he realized that he was looking for the first time on the enemy.

Broadwood Academy, Yardley’s rival, was situated about two miles from Greenburg in the opposite direction. Although slightly smaller than Yardley in point of enrollment, it was counted among the foremost preparatory schools of the East. Of course, at Yardley they made fun of it; called it a “fresh water school” because it stood inland, and pretended that it was a joke. But for all of that Broadwood Academy had long proved herself a worthy rival to the older school. Unlike Yardley, Broadwood prohibited her students from going to Greenburg on all days save Saturdays, unless by special permission, and as a consequence Saturday afternoon found the main street well sprinkled with wearers of the green.

Kendall viewed the four with new interest. They seemed rather nice-looking fellows, he thought. But already the Yardley fealty was beginning to take hold of him and he added to himself that they lacked something that Yardley boys had. As though to offer evidence, two Yardley fellows entered just then and called for sodas. Kendall knew them both by sight and one by name. The taller of the pair was Arthur Thompson, a First Class boy, captain of the Track Team and a pole-vaulter of some reputation. He was trying for the Football Team, too, for Kendall had seen him at practice several times. The other boy was considerably younger; younger even than Kendall; later the latter was to learn that his name was Harry Merrow. There was a difference between these two and the Broadwood quartette, although Kendall couldn’t have indicated it very clearly, and the difference, Kendall stoutly held, was in favor of the Yardlians. They consumed their beverages at the counter and presently passed out again to the street. They had not gone unnoticed by the Broadwood fellows, however; Kendall heard the latter discussing them in low voices.

“That’s Thompson,” said one, “the tall fellow. He’s their crack pole-vaulter. He was in wrong with the Office last year and couldn’t vault, but he will show us a thing or two next spring. They say he’s about the best prep school chap in his line, and I heard that two or three colleges have been making love to him.”

“He’s a rangy looking customer,” said another. “I hope we don’t run up against a bunch like him to-night. I like fun, but I’m not looking for slaughter.”

“Don’t shout,” counseled a third in a low voice.

“I wasn’t. Besides, there isn’t a Yardley fellow in sight.”

To make sure all four glanced about them. Their gaze passed over Kendall unsuspectingly. It never occurred to any of them that the countrified looking youth in ill-fitting pepper-and-salt clothes was a Yardlian. Kendall was diligently consuming his ice-cream soda and apparently was not even conscious of the quartette’s existence.

“Well, anyhow,” pursued the remonstrant, “keep your voice down. You never know who’s going to hear.”

“For my part,” said another, “I wouldn’t mind a little rough-house with those chaps up there. They think they’re the only thing in the state of Connecticut, the conceited pups!”

“What time did Hurd say he’d have the carriage up there?”

“Nine-thirty. I told him to stop about a hundred yards this side of the corner and wait until we came; told him he might have to wait an hour.”

“We won’t be able to get away until after ten. What’s the use having him come so early?”

“So he will be on time. If I’d said ten he’d been there about half-past, probably.”

“How long will it take to get to Yardley?”

“Three-quarters of an hour, I guess. We’ll leave the carriage at the foot of the hill and sneak up on foot.”

“How many brushes did you get, Jim?”

“Two,” replied the tall youth.

“What’s the matter with four, one for each of us?”

“You can slap on the paint if you want to,” was the reply. “I’m not crazy about it. But somebody has got to keep watch. Besides, if more than two of us try to paint the pole we’ll get in each other’s way.”

“I think we ought to paint a few B’s around, so they’ll know who did it.”

“Yes, that would be a fine scheme!” said another sarcastically. “You must want to get fired from school. They’d raise a row at Yardley and we’d get found out. I don’t half like the idea of that carriage, anyway.”

“Pshaw, they aren’t going to tell at the livery stable. Besides, I don’t intend to walk all the way, and you can bet on that!”

“You talk like a rabbit,” said a former speaker. “Don’t you suppose they’re going to know who painted their old flagpole even if we don’t sign our name to the job?”

“The fellows up there will know, but the faculty won’t be sure it wasn’t some of their own chaps. They have class colors up there, and green’s one of them.”

“Green and white; Third Class,” corroborated another. “Wouldn’t it be a peach of a joke if they blamed their own Third Class fellows for it?”

“Dandy! Come on and let’s get back.”

They arose from their table and sauntered out. Their conversation had been conducted for the most part in low tones and Kendall had missed a word here and there, but more than enough had reached him to give him a very good idea of the plot. What it all meant was beyond him, however. Why those fellows should want to drive at ten o’clock at night all the way to Yardley to paint a flagpole green he couldn’t see. Evidently, though, it was a sort of practical joke on Yardley. It seemed to him a lot of bother for a small result.

He saw the Broadwood boys out of sight and then left the store himself. He forgot all about the window displays on the way back along the street, being busy with his thoughts. Of course he ought to tell someone about the prank, but he wondered who. Harold Towne somehow didn’t recommend himself in such an emergency. Of course he had no thought of telling the faculty; he had very well-settled ideas of right and wrong, and to inform the faculty and probably get the conspirators into trouble would be, in his opinion, talebearing pure and simple; which is something that a right-minded boy holds in the deepest contempt. Then he thought of Gerald Pennimore and of Dan Vinton, and he had about made up his mind to seek the former when he reached school when an entirely new and brilliant idea came to him. He stopped short in the road and gave vent to an expressive whistle. Finally he said “Why not?” aloud, nodded his head twice and went on.

When he reached the school boundary at the foot of The Prospect he stopped and studied the lay of the land.

“Here,” he said to himself, “is about where the carriage will stop. Then they’ll get out and—”

He paused there. The flagpole stood in the middle of The Prospect, a natural terrace in front of Oxford Hall. He glanced up at it from the foot of the hill. The stars and stripes hung motionless from the halyards. To reach the pole the enemy might either follow the roadway, which wound up the hill at the expense of distance, or ascend the steep, grassy slope of The Prospect. Kendall believed they would do the latter, since they would be out of sight until they reached the top. Further to the left there was a footpath up the slope, but that would bring them out almost in front of Merle and some distance from their scene of operations. In any case, he decided, if the enemy was to be foiled in its nefarious designs it must be when they had reached the flagpole. Luckily, the entrance to Oxford Hall provided a perfect place of concealment for the repulsing force. Kendall wondered whether there would be a moon, recalled the fact that there had been none last night and concluded that only the stars would be likely to illumine the scene. He wanted to try the ascent up the slope himself just to see if it was practicable, but several fellows were in sight returning from Greenburg and he decided not to. Instead he made his way to Whitson along the drive, found Number 21 deserted and, curling himself on the window seat, set about perfecting his plan. Once he arose, crossed to the table, picked up Harold’s electric torch and dropped it into his pocket. Then he went back to the window seat and his plotting.