Читать книгу Jack Ranger's Gun Club: or, From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail - Young Clarence - Страница 3

“There’s Hexter!” exclaimed Jack as he saw the chauffeur slowly running the automobile to the garage. “Hello, Hexter, is Snaith all right?”

“I think so,” replied the automobilist. “Dr. Mead says the hurt on his head doesn’t amount to much, and that he is suffering mostly from shock. He’ll be all right in a day or so.”

“That’s good,” said Jack. “I don’t want him to be laid up right after I won the race from him.”

The students began to disperse, Jack to remove his wet clothes, and the others to retire to their rooms to get ready for the summons to supper, which would soon sound.

“Why, Mr. Ranger!” exclaimed Socker, the janitor at Washington Hall, as he saw Jack entering the gymnasium, “you’re all wet.”

“Yes, it’s a trifle difficult to fall in the lake and keep dry, especially at this time of year,” went on Jack. “But I say, Socker, get me a couple of good, dry, heavy towels, will you? I want to take a rub-down.”

“I certainly will, Mr. Ranger. So you fell in the lake, eh?”

“No, I jumped in.”

“Jumped in? Why, that reminds me of what happened when I was fighting in the Battle of the Wilderness, in the Civil War. We were on the march, and we came to a little stream. The captain called for us to jump over, but – ”

“Say, Socker, if it’s all the same to you will you chop that off there, and make it continued in our next? I’m cold, and I want to rub-down. Get me the towels, and then I’ll listen to that yarn. If there’s one kind of a story I like above all others, it’s about war. I want to hear what happened, but not now.”

“Do you really? Then I’ll tell you after you’ve rubbed down,” and Socker hurried off after the towels. He was always telling of what he called his war experiences, though there was very much doubt that he had ever been farther than a temporary camp. He repeated the same stories so often that the boys had become tired of them, and lost no chance to escape from his narratives.

“There you are, Mr. Ranger,” went on the janitor as he came back with the towels. “Now, as soon as you’re dry I’ll tell you that story about the Battle of the Wilderness.”

“You’ll not if I know it,” said Jack to himself, as he went in the room where the shower-baths were, to take a warm one. “I’ll sneak out the back way.”

Which he did, after his rub-down, leaving Socker sitting in the main room of the gym, waiting for him, and wondering why the lad did not come out to hear the war story.

Jack reached his room, little the worse for his experience at the lake. He possessed a fine appetite, which he was soon appeasing by vigorous attacks on the food in the dining-room.

“I say, Jack,” called Nat, “have you heard the latest?”

“What’s that? Has the clock struck?” inquired Jack, ready to have some joke sprung on him.

“No, but Fred Kaler has composed a song about the race and your rescue. He’s going to play it on the mouth-organ, and sing it at the same time to-night.”

“I am not, you big duffer!” cried Fred, throwing a generous crust of bread at Nat, but first taking good care to see that Martin, the monitor, was not looking.

“Sure he is,” insisted Nat.

“Tell him how it goes,” suggested Bony.

“It’s to the tune of ‘Who Put Tacks in Willie’s Shoes?’” went on Nat, “and the first verse is something like this – ”

“Aw, cheese it, will you?” pleaded Fred, blushing, but Nat went on:

“Chorus:

“How’s that?” asked Nat, amid laughter.

“Punk!” cried one student.

“Put it on ice!” added another.

“Can it!”

“Cage it!”

“Put salt on its tail! It’s wild!”

“Put a new record in; that one scratches.”

These were some of the calls that greeted Nat’s rendition of what he said was Fred’s song.

“I never made that up!” cried the musical student. “I can make better verse than that.”

“Go on, give us the tune,” shouted Sam.

“That’s right – make him play,” came a score of calls.

“Order, young gentlemen, order!” suddenly interrupted the harsh voice of Martin, the monitor. “I shall be obliged to report you to Dr. Mead unless you are more quiet.”

“Send in Professors Socrat and Garlach,” advised Jack. “They can keep order.”

“That’s it, and we’ll get them to sing Fred’s song,” added Sam Chalmers.

“Ranger – Chalmers – silence!” ordered Martin, and not wishing to be sent to Dr. Mead’s office the two lively students, as well as their no less fun-loving companions, subsided.

Quiet finally reigned in the regions of Washington Hall, for the students had to retire to their rooms to study. There were mysterious whisperings here and there, however, and occasionally shadowy forms moved about the corridors, for, in spite of rules against it, the lads would visit each other in their rooms after hours. Several called on Jack to see how he felt after his experience. They found him and Nat Anderson busy looking over some gun catalogues.

“Going in for hunting?” asked Sam.

“Maybe,” replied Jack. “Say, there are some dandy rifles in this book, and they’re cheap, too. I’d like to get one.”

“So would I,” added Sam.

“And go hunting,” put in Bony, cracking his finger knuckles, as if firing off an air-rifle.

“It would be sport to organize a gun club, and do some hunting,” went on Jack. “Only I’d like to shoot bigger game than there is around here. Maybe we can – ”

“Hark, some one’s coming! It’s Martin,” said Fred Kaler in a whisper.

Jack’s hand shot out and quickly turned down the light. Then he bounded into bed, dressed as he was. Nat followed his example. It was well that they did so, for a moment later there came a knock on their door, and the voice of Martin, the monitor, asked:

“Ranger, are you in bed?”

“Yes,” replied our hero.

“Anderson, are you in bed?”

“Yes, Martin.”

“Humph! I thought I heard voices in your room.”

Jack replied with a snore, and the monitor passed on.

“You fellows had better take a sneak,” whispered Jack, when Martin’s footsteps had died away. “He’s watching this room, and he may catch you.”

The outsiders thought this was good advice, and soon Nat and Jack were left alone.

“Did you mean that about a gun club?” asked Nat.

“Sure,” replied his chum, “but we’ll talk about it to-morrow. Better go to sleep. Martin will be sneaking around.”

Jack was up early the next morning, and went down to the lake for a row before breakfast. As he approached the float, where he kept his boat, he saw a student standing there.

“That looks like the new chap – Will Williams,” he mused. “I’ll ask him to go for a row.”

He approached the new lad, and was again struck by a peculiar look of sadness on his face.

“Good-morning,” said Jack pleasantly. “My name is Ranger. Wouldn’t you like to go for a row?”

Will Williams turned and looked at Jack for several seconds without speaking. He did not seem to have heard what was said.

“Perhaps he’s a trifle deaf,” thought Jack, and he asked again more loudly:

“Wouldn’t you like to go for a row?”

“I don’t row,” was the answer, rather snappily given.

“Well, I guess I can manage to row both of us,” was our hero’s reply.

“No, I’m not fond of the water.”

“Perhaps you like football or baseball better,” went on Jack, a little puzzled. “We have a good eleven.”

“I’m not allowed to play football.”

“Maybe you’d like to go for a walk,” persisted Jack, who had the kindest heart in the world, and who felt sorry for the lonely new boy. “I’ll show you around. I understand you just came.”

“Yes; I arrived yesterday morning.”

“Would you like to take a walk? I don’t know but what I’d just as soon do that as row.”

“No, I – I don’t care for walking.”

The lad turned aside and started away from the lake, without even so much as thanking Jack for his effort to make friends with him.

“Humph!” mused Jack as he got into his boat. “You certainly are a queer customer. Just like a snail, you go in your house and walk off with it. There’s something wrong about you, and I’m going to find out what it is. Don’t like rowing, don’t like walking, afraid of the water – you certainly are queer.”