Читать книгу Danforth Plays the Game: Stories for Boys Little and Big - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Barnstead celebrated that evening. Not that the school was unduly elated because of the victory over Norwich, nor that the score was anything to be especially proud of, but merely because football enthusiasm was rampant and the afternoon’s success, slight as it was, provided an excuse. As soon as supper was over the fellows congregated in front of School Hall and began cheering. Songs followed the cheers, and then a voice cried: “We want to march!” The suggestion won immediate favor, and in almost less time than it takes to tell it the fellows were falling into line four abreast, two hundred throats were singing the school anthem and the march had begun. Shouting, cheering, singing, pushing and jostling, the long column swung around the corner and began the circuit of the campus.

Harry found himself between Tracey, who had been with him when the celebration began, and a substitute tackle named Cummings. Linking arms, they followed on, adding their quota to the noise and hilarity. The procession paused at each dormitory to cheer the resident instructor, and wound four blocks out of bounds to reach Mr. Worden’s rooms in a little white clapboarded cottage. The noise soon brought the coach to the doorway and, when the throng had quieted down, he made a short speech that rekindled the waning enthusiasm. After that the procession headed back to the campus, paid a visit to the principal’s residence and finally disbanded in front of School Hall. As it was a Saturday night there was no imperative need of studying, and so Harry and Tracey followed a discordant group of revelers across to Hutchins Hall and spent an hour with Joe Phillips and his roommate, Bert Means, talking football and predicting an overwhelming victory over St. Matthew’s.

The Sunday morning mail—one called for it at the office between breakfast and chapel—brought a letter to Harry from Pete Wilkinson, back home. Pete had written once before during the Fall, and as his letters, while rambling, held a deal of home news, Harry was always glad to get them. The present epistle, four full pages in length, detailed the doings of mutual acquaintances since his last report and brought the chronicles of the Hillston High School Football Team down to date. Toward the end Pete wrote:

Fellows think it funny we don’t see more about you in the papers. We read most everything from around there and haven’t seen your name in them but once some time ago. Aren’t you on the team for regular? I see your name down at left half sometimes and sometimes I see a fellow named Dyker down. Tom Rawlins told George High the other day that he’d heard you weren’t making good and George told him he didn’t know what he was talking about. And I guess he don’t. Write me how you are getting on, Harry, and tell me all about everything. Do you like the school and how many fellows are there there? Who is your coach? Are you going to try for the hockey team this winter? I hear that Barnstead is a great place for hockey. I wish my father would let me go there next year, but he says it costs too much. How much does it cost, Harry? Are you coming home at Christmas? Answer soon. All the fellows want to be remembered to you. Good luck, Harry, and I hope you do fine a week from to-morrow. All the fellows say the same. Your friend, Pete.

Harry replied that afternoon and answered Pete’s numerous questions to the best of his ability. The effect of writing this letter and a less lengthy one to his father and mother was to make Harry a little bit homesick, and, after he had mailed the two epistles, he went off alone for a long walk through a gray mist that added very little to his spirits.

But Monday dawned fair and crisp, and the qualm of homesickness was gone and forgotten. Practice that afternoon was as hard as any during the year. Coach Worden was not satisfied with the team’s defense, and so for the better part of an hour the second was given the ball time and time again, on the first team’s thirty yards, on its twenty and, finally, on its five, and told to put it over. It did so at last, from the five-yard line, but not until the first team forwards were battered and tired out. There was signal work on the floor of the gymnasium that evening and on the two evenings following, but the final hard practice out of doors came on Tuesday. After that the team were given only enough work to keep them in shape. There was a fifteen-minute scrimmage on Wednesday and a good deal of punting and catching and some signal practice. All the week it was Harry who had the call for left half and Dyker got into the play but once, for a brief ten minutes or so on Tuesday. Thursday it rained hard all day, and the short work at signals planned to take place on the field was held in the basement of the gymnasium. In the evening there was a chalk talk upstairs, during which the players underwent a pretty stiff examination as to their familiarity with the plays to be used against St. Matthew’s. The second team disbanded Thursday afternoon and had its annual feast in the visitors’ dining-room. Afterward it moved in a body to the auditorium at the top of School Hall and helped make the mass meeting a howling success. Most of the first team fellows joined the assemblage after Coach Worden released them, arriving late, but receiving each one a deafening cheer as he tried to slip unostentatiously into a seat at the back of the hall. All the songs which had ever been sung at previous games and many new ones were rehearsed, with the aid of the school Musical Club, and every player got his share of applause. There were speeches, too, and it was well toward ten o’clock when, after singing the school anthem, the crowd, still joyously noisy, made its way down the stairs.

Harry, who had arrived at the mass meeting late and had done his best to reach a seat undetected and had failed, met Joe Phillips on the way downstairs and paused at the entrance to talk to him. Joe had made a speech and was feeling exhilarated and communicative. Consequently when Harry started off alone across the campus for his room most of the fellows had disappeared. Overhead there were still a good many heavy, dark clouds floating, but here and there a frosty star twinkled, and over the top of Noyes Hall the moon was trying bravely to make a showing. As Harry reached the corner of his dormitory he became aware of three boys ahead of him on the flag walk. They had almost reached the entrance when he saw them and the dim light above the doorway threw their forms into relief without revealing their faces. They had stopped just short of the entrance, and as Harry approached, his rubber-soled shoes making almost no sound on the flags, one of the three raised an arm and appeared to throw something at a window. Startledly, Harry listened for the resultant crash of breaking glass. But there was no sound save the scrape of feet as the trio dashed up the steps and disappeared through the entrance. Then Harry saw that the window, which was one of those in Mr. Adams’ bedroom, was raised at the bottom. The room was dark. Wondering what mischief the three boys had been up to, Harry reached the entrance almost on their heels, just in time to see the last of the trio, apparently one of the older boys and rather heavily built, disappear around the turn of the stairs. There was only time to note the general build of the youth and the fact that he wore a dark-brown sweater, at the back of which, an inch or two above the hem, gleamed a small white tag. Then they were gone and a faint snicker of laughter floated down from above through the empty hall. At that moment the door of Number 2 opened quickly and Harry, one foot on the first step, turned to find Mr. Adams confronting him, Mr. Adams pulling a faded red dressing-gown about his gaunt form and scowling angrily.

“You, Danforth?”

The resident instructor’s voice held both surprise and wrath and Harry, equally surprised and a trifle disconcerted, replied a bit uncertainly:

“Yes, sir?”

Mr. Adams held out a thin arm, from which the sleeve of his sleeping garment fell away, and opened his outstretched hand. In it lay a squashy brown mass. Harry viewed it doubtfully.

“What—what is it, sir?” he asked.

“You know perfectly what it is,” replied the instructor, his voice shaking with anger. “It is an apple, a rotten apple! Your aim was so good, sir, that it landed against my face! A rotten apple! Outrageous, Danforth, outrageous, I say!”

“But—but, Mr. Adams——”

“If that is your idea of a joke, Danforth, I fear we shall have to tame your humor, sir. It’s insulting, sir, insulting!”

“But I didn’t, sir!”

“You didn’t! Oh, certainly not!”

“I was just coming in when you opened your door and——”

“But I asked you and you confessed!” replied Mr. Adams triumphantly. He was growing calmer, but the crimson spots on his thin cheeks told plainly that his anger still held. “Don’t make matters worse by lying, Danforth.”

“I’m not, sir. I didn’t throw it, word of honor, Mr. Adams!”

“A likely story! Who did, then? This—this unspeakable abomination”—the instructor’s long nose seemed to quiver with disgust as he viewed the object in his hand—“was thrown into my room, right on to my pillow as I lay in bed, against my very cheek, sir! Faugh!” He made as if to hurl the apple through the doorway, but thought better of it. “I jump from bed, Danforth, open my door and find you here, guilt stamped eloquently upon your face! And now you have the—the brazen effrontery to tell me you didn’t do it! I shall see that you are severely punished, sir, and the fact that you have added lying to your—your gutter-snipe act will make me no more lenient, sir!”

“But I tell you, sir,” protested Harry, flushing resentfully, “that I did not do it! You’ve got to believe me, sir! I know that appearances seem against me, but I was halfway between your window and the corner of the building when the apple was thrown, sir.”

“Indeed?” sneered Mr. Adams. “Then you saw it done, did you?”

“Yes, sir—that is——”

“Well? Well? Did you or did you not? Go on with your story. Let’s see how fertile your imagination is, Danforth. You didn’t do it yourself, but you saw it done. Very well; pray proceed!”

“I—I saw someone in front of the window, sir, as I came along. They—he ran away and I came in here and you opened your door and called my name, and I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ That’s all I know about it.”

“Really?” Mr. Adams smiled sourly. “And the boy you saw in front of the window? What became of him, Danforth?”

“He—he ran away,” faltered Harry; “quickly.”

“Very quickly indeed! So quickly that, although I fairly bounded to the window, there was no one in sight when I reached it; no one, I should say, but you. Sounds a likely story, Danforth, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t help it, sir,” replied Harry doggedly. “It’s the truth.”

“Which way did this—this figment of your imagination run, sir?”

Harry glanced toward the stairs. Not a sound came from the upper floors. Mr. Adams tapped impatiently on the floor with one slippered foot.

“I—I can’t say, sir,” answered Harry finally.

“You can’t say! You don’t know whether he entered this dormitory or not?”

“I——” Again Harry hesitated. Even if he told what he knew it was unlikely that the boys could be detected now. “I think they came in here, sir.”

“You think! Don’t you know whether they—— Look here, you said before that there was but one boy! Now how many were there? Careful, Danforth! You’re getting mixed!”

“There was more than one; I think three. They came in here, sir. That’s all I can say.”

“You saw them enter this dormitory?” pursued Mr. Adams relentlessly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did they turn to the right or to the left? Or did they go upstairs?”

“I can’t tell you, sir. They—they came in ahead of me.”

“That will do, my boy. Go on to your room. You’ll hear more of this—this pleasant little escapade, this gentlemanly trick—in the morning.”

“Don’t—don’t you believe me, sir?” asked Harry desperately.

Mr. Adams smiled sarcastically. “Oh, perfectly, Danforth, perfectly! You tell a most convincing story, I assure you. Dear me, yes, most convincing. Let us hope, Danforth, that you’ll be able to do as well before the Principal in the morning. But don’t try to embroider it any more, Danforth. It’s quite elaborate enough as it is.” The instructor smiled broadly but disagreeably. “I shall—ah—preserve this odoriferous memento of my pleasant experience, this slight token of your respect and regard, Danforth, as Exhibit A. I’ve no doubt your Principal will view it with interest. Good night!”

Mr. Adams’ door closed with dignity, but as it had shut upon a corner of the dressing-gown and had to be reopened, the effect was somewhat marred. Harry, smarting with the injustice of the instructor’s conviction, apprehensive of what would follow and generally discouraged, sought his room. The light was turned low and Tracey was sleeping audibly. After a moment of indecision, for he wanted very much to tell his story and get sympathy, Harry undressed as noiselessly as possible and tumbled into bed without arousing his chum. But sleep didn’t come easily that night. Disturbing thoughts of what might lie in store for him kept him wakeful, and when, long after eleven had struck, he fell into slumber, equally disturbing visions haunted his sleep.