Читать книгу The Brother of a Hero - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 4

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Rodney, smiling at his thoughts, was a block away. While he was by no means running, he was at the same time proceeding decidedly faster than before. The vicinity of Doolittle’s Pharmacy was not, he told himself, a healthy locality for him just then. In fact, he was somewhat relieved when the main street, as though despairing of being able to climb any further in a straight line, broke in two like a letter Y. Once around the turn to the left he would be no longer in sight from the drug store. His instructions from the expressman had been to take the left-hand road where River Street branched. What he was to do after that he no longer recalled. Consequently when he came to a cross street that appeared to curve back toward the other branch of the Y he let it severely alone. But a few rods further on he doubted his wisdom. The stores had stopped two blocks below—he was still climbing upward, although at a more comfortable grade—and residences had taken their place. About him now were large yards, with many trees and beds of flowers; dahlias and asters and flaming scarlet sage and golden-yellow marigolds; with quiet, peaceful old-fashioned white houses with green window shutters tucked well away from the street. Ahead of him the road seemed bent on losing itself in open country, and the dwelling houses were growing scarcer. The Westcott house, whither his baggage had gone and where he himself was leisurely bound, was opposite the Academy campus; the letter from Mrs. Westcott had distinctly so stated; and as yet there was nothing even dimly resembling a campus in sight. He paused under the shade of a big elm, whose far-reaching branches had already begun to carpet the street with their rusty-yellow leaves, and looked about him.

Across the road a narrow side street, scarcely wider than a lane, according to Rodney’s notions, ran briskly downhill until it passed from sight. Rodney at once eliminated that thoroughfare from his calculations. Rather than strike downward and have to climb that hill again he would stay just where he was and starve to death. Not, however, that there was any immediate danger of that contingency, for he had managed to eat a particularly hearty meal some three hours since in the big dining saloon of the steamer. But three hours is three hours, and any normal, healthy boy can look with favor on food after a fast of that duration. So he produced a piece of sweet chocolate from a pocket, removed the tin-foil with some difficulty, since the warmth of the day had softened the delicacy to a condition of mushiness, and looked about him for a place to rest and refresh himself. A few feet farther along a big granite horseblock stood at the edge of the sidewalk—with a narrow gate in the fence behind, but he didn’t notice that—and so he sat himself comfortably down on it and proceeded to nibble. It was perceptibly cooler up here on the hill, for he was almost at the summit of the ridge that paralleled the river for many miles, and a fresh breeze was blowing along the shady street. It was still only—he looked at his watch—only ten minutes after three and he had nearly two hours of freedom yet, if he wanted it. He sighed contentedly.

While he sits there let us have a look at him. Fairly tall for his fifteen years—fifteen and a half, to be strictly accurate—splendidly healthy and capable in appearance, Rodney Merrill was on the whole distinctly attractive. Perhaps you would not have called him a handsome boy. If not Rodney would have had no quarrel with you since, in a boy’s language, handsome implies some quality of effeminacy most undesirable. He had brown hair, brown eyes—very nice brown eyes they were, too—a fairly large mouth and a full share of freckles in a face that was well-tanned, clear-cut and wholesome. And there was a self-reliant air about him that might have belonged to a much older lad. He was neatly if not strikingly dressed. A plain gray suit of flannel, a straw hat, brown shoes and black stockings, and a rather effective negligee shirt of alternating rose and green stripes on a gray ground made up his attire. Perhaps I ought to make mention of the black and white scarf from which just at present he was flecking a crumb of sticky chocolate.

Once as he sat there he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind him or the branches above, and looked around. But nothing was in sight. A locomotive whistled somewhere below as it passed. The trees, however, cut off his view of the railroad. In fact, from where he sat not even the river could be glimpsed, and he thought vaguely that he would like it better later on when the leaves were off and a fellow could see something. He was accustomed to wide views at home and the trees and hedges and shrubs were beginning to pall on him. He felt so sort of shut in. He finished the last of the chocolate and sighed again, this time with repletion. Then he rolled the tin-foil into a small and glittering ball, lifted his hand to toss it away——

“Was it good?” asked a voice behind him. And,

“Don’t throw it in the street,” warned another voice.

On either side of the narrow gate was a square wooden post terminating in a flat top. On either post sat a girl. Rodney’s surprise turned to bewilderment as his glance swept from one side of the gate to the other. Each member of his unsuspected audience wore a white middy suit trimmed with red, each had yellow-brown hair, each sat with crossed feet, hands folded in lap, looking calmly down upon him; in short one was so startlingly like the other that for a moment Rodney thought he was seeing double.

“It’s all right. There really are two of us,” announced the first speaker reassuringly. “You see, we’re twins.”

“Oh!” said Rodney. “I—I should think you were!”

“Did we scare you?”

“Not much. What are you doing up there?”

“We were watching you,” replied the left-hand twin with a smile.

“Watching you eat your chocolate,” added the right-hand twin. At least, reflected Rodney, relieved, their voices were different; and, yes, when you looked closer you saw that, whereas the left-hand twin had very blue eyes, the right-hand twin’s eyes were almost black. And perhaps the latter’s nose was a little bit straighter. But for the rest—Rodney wondered how their mother told them apart.

“You were mighty quiet about it,” he commented a trifle indignantly. “It isn’t nice to sneak up and watch folks behind their backs.”

He discovered that he was still holding the wad of tin-foil in his hand and again started to toss it away.

“Please don’t throw it in the street,” said the right-hand twin earnestly.

“Why not?”

“It is untidy to throw paper and things in the streets.”

“May’s a member of the Village Improvement Society,” explained the left-hand twin.

“Oh! What’ll I do with it, then?”

“Couldn’t you put it in your pocket until you get to a rubbish barrel?” asked the right-hand twin. “You’ll find one at the next corner, you know.”

“All right.” Rodney dropped the tin-foil in his pocket with a grin. “You’re a funny pair, you two.”

“So many people say that,” replied the left-hand twin with something between satisfaction and wonder. “I don’t see why, though. What is it that’s funny, please?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He hesitated. “I suppose it’s your being so much alike and—and everything. Do you live in there?” He nodded toward a white house that peeked out from over the overgrown lilac hedge.

“Yes,” replied the left-hand twin. “Our name is Binner. My name is Martha Binner and hers is Mary Binner. We’re thirteen. What’s your name?”

“Rodney Merrill.”

“I think Rodney’s a very pretty name, don’t you, May?”

“Yes. I don’t believe we have ever known a boy with that name, have we?”

“You said her name was Mary,” charged Rodney.

“It is, but she’s called May. I’m called Matty. What do they call you?”

“Rod, usually.”

“I don’t care for that,” said the right-hand twin judicially. “I think we’ll call him Rodney, Matty.”

The left-hand twin nodded agreement. “Are you an Academy boy?” she asked.

“I’m going to be before long. I’m on my way there now. Say, where’s Mrs. Westcott’s house?”

“Oh, are you going to be a Vest?” exclaimed Matty.

“A what?”

“Of course he doesn’t understand,” said May. “He wouldn’t, you know.”

“I suppose not,” replied Matty. “You see,” turning to Rodney again, “the boys at Mrs. Westcott’s are called Vests. It—it’s a pun.”

“Oh, is it?” he asked. “I don’t see any pun there.”

“You don’t? Why, Westcott—waistcoat—vest! Now do you see?”

Rodney shook his head puzzledly.

“Perhaps,” said May, “you’d better let me explain.”

Matty nodded. “Yes, you always explain things more clearly than I do.”

“Well, Rodney, you know a vest is called a waistcoat, and——”

“Oh, I savvy! I’d forgotten. We call them vests where I come from. So I’m a Vest, am I? Hope I’m not a fancy one! Well, I guess I’d better pull my freight.”

“Do—do what?” asked Matty.

“Pull my freight; hit the trail; move along. Which way did you say Mrs. Westcott’s was?”

“We didn’t say,” replied Matty, “but it’s the next house to ours, around the corner on Bow Street. Must you go now?”

“I suppose so, pretty soon anyway. Won’t take me long to get there, though, I guess.”

“Only a minute or two. If you like you can go through our garden. There’s a place where you can get through the hedge. I suppose you came on the boat, didn’t you?”

Rodney nodded.

“Most of the boys come on the train that gets here about four. Don’t you think the Hudson River is perfectly beautiful?”

He did, but pretended he didn’t. “Rather pretty in spots,” he answered patronizingly. “We’ve got rivers out west——”

“O-oh!” exclaimed May from her post, with a protesting wriggle. “You know it’s beautiful! It—it’s wonderful!”

“It’s called the American Rhine,” added Matty conclusively, “and I guess that settles it! And you needn’t say you’ve got rivers in your state that are finer, because you haven’t, and we don’t believe it!”

“I didn’t say in my state,” denied Rodney. “I said out west. And we have—stacks of them! They’re not so—so placid, maybe, but they’re much grander and—and picturesquer.”

“They’re not,” said Matty indignantly.

“They are,” said Rodney firmly.

“They couldn’t be! How could they? Why—why——”

“Still, Matty, we don’t know,” interposed May cautiously, “and so perhaps we oughtn’t to contradict him. I don’t think it is very nice of him to say our river isn’t beautiful, but maybe he doesn’t see beauty. They say some folks don’t. It—it’s a deficiency, you know.”

“Beauty!” scoffed Rodney. “Why——”

“Perhaps you’re right, May,” said the other twin thoughtfully. “And so—we beg your pardon for contradicting you.”

“Both of us,” added May earnestly.

“Oh, that’s all right,” replied the boy, his good nature restored. “I guess I contradicted you, too. Besides, I didn’t mean that your river isn’t a very nice river, because it is. I—I guess you might call it beautiful,” he added magnanimously.

“And of course you do have perfectly wonderful rivers in the west,” replied Matty. “We’ve read about some of them and seen pictures of them, haven’t we, May?”

“Yes, indeed. They are very fine.”

Rodney in the heat of the discussion had forgotten his announced intention to finish his journey to Mrs. Westcott’s, and had reseated himself on the horseblock. After all, there was lots of time yet. And the twins were amusing, and, as girls went, quite pretty. He had three sisters of his own and pretended to be something of an authority on girls, their ways and idiosyncrasies.

“I suppose,” said Matty, after a moment, “you are going into the First Form.”

“Yes, but I don’t know why they call it a form. Isn’t class good enough for them? Form sounds so silly. I suppose it’s terribly English. And then they call the Principal the Head Master!”

Matty giggled. “The boys call him ‘the Doc.’ And they have such lovely names for the submasters, too. Mr. Howe is ‘Gussie,’ and Mr. Stanhope is ‘P. N.’——”

“‘P. N.’?” questioned Rodney. “Why do they call him that?”

“Because he’s always saying a thing is ‘perfect nonsense.’ They used to call him that, ‘Perfect Nonsense,’ you know, but it was too long and so they shortened it.”

“I see. And there’s a teacher they call ‘the baron,’ isn’t there?”

“Yes, that’s Mr. Steuben; he’s a dear old German; we adore him, don’t we, May?”

“We adore him,” agreed the other twin firmly and calmly.

“And ‘Mike’ is awfully nice, too. That’s Mr. Kelly, the English teacher. He has such beautiful coppery-red hair.”

“Any more?” laughed Rodney.

“Yes, there’s Mr. Cooper. The boys call him ‘Chawles’ because he talks that way. We don’t like him, do we, May?”

“No, we don’t.”

“And that’s all,” continued Matty. “Except Mrs. Farron, the Doctor’s wife. She’s called ‘the Missis.’ You’ll like her awfully. All the boys do.”

“What’s Mrs. Westcott like?” inquired Rodney.

Matty pursed up her lips, shot a mischievous glance at May and replied primly: “She’s very nice.”

“Oh,” said Rodney, doubtfully.

“She is just like a mother to her dear, dear boys,” chanted May gravely, her eyes fixed on space. “It’s such a happy little home!”

Rodney started perplexedly until the twins turned to regard each other seriously for an instant and then go off into a gale of laughter that threatened to shake them from their seats.

“Oh, that’s the sort,” muttered Rodney. “Well, she can’t be a mother to me! Say, what sort of a chap is Watson? Know him?”

“Guy Watson?” Matty recovered her composure and her equilibrium and frowned. “You won’t like him, I guess. We don’t, do we, May? He’s—” she paused, searching for a word—“he’s coarse!”

“And ungentlemanly,” added May, nodding decisively.

“But I suppose,” said Matty, “we should also say that he is a very good football player. And he is on the track team, too. He’s a Third Form boy. Do you know him?”

“Not very well.” Rodney smiled. “I met him on the way up here. He and three others.” Then he recounted the incident in the drug store and the twins clapped their hands with delight.

“How perfectly splendid!” cried Matty. “Think of anyone getting the best of Guy Watson like that!”

“He will be awfully angry, though,” said May. “I think you should look out for him, Rodney. He won’t be satisfied until he gets even with you, will he, Matty?”

“No, I’m afraid he won’t.” She regarded Rodney gravely and shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have trouble with him. But perhaps—Who do you room with?”

“Room with? I don’t room with anyone, I suppose!”

“Oh, yes you do. You have to.”

“I do?” asked Rodney gloomily. “If I’d known that I wouldn’t have come. I didn’t want to, anyway!”

“Oh, but you’ll like it after awhile, really!” assured May earnestly. “And if they put you in with a nice boy—Matty!” May’s eyes grew round. “It’ll be ‘Kitty’!”

“Of course it will! Jack Leonard’s gone, hasn’t he?” Matty clasped her hands in ecstacy, her blue eyes dancing. “You’ll room with ‘Kitty’!”

“Who’s ‘Kitty’?” asked Rodney suspiciously. “A freak?”

“‘Kitty’ is Phineas Kittson,” began May, “and he’s——”

“No, May, no!” cried Matty. “We mustn’t tell him! It would just spoil it!”

“So it would,” agreed May beamingly. “Oh, wouldn’t you love to be there, Matty?”

“You mean when——”

“Yes, when——”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” She gasped. “If we only could!” She turned to Rodney and clasped her hands ecstatically. “Oh, Rodney, it’s going to be such fun!”

Rodney arose and observed them disgustedly.

“I’m going,” he said.