Change Signals E-Book

Ralph Henry Barbour

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The Banjo and Mandolin Club, huddled together on the right of the platform in Assembly Hall, strummed diligently and with enthusiasm, their zeal atoning for shortcomings due to lack of practice. For this was the first night of the fall term, and many members had not touched their instruments since the final chord had been twanged on class day. (Brewster, playing second mandolin, was doing bravely with a silver dime, having lost his pick and not being able to borrow one!) Beyond the platform some two hundred and fifty clear-eyed, clean-skinned boys sang the words with vim. Many, unable to satisfactorily express their enthusiasm vocally, kept time with their feet. Across the platform from the musicians sat the Assistant Principal, Mr. Collins, the physical instructor, Mr. Bendix, the head coach, Mr. Payson, the president of the First Class, Lawrence Goodyear, and the football captain, Dan Vinton. The mass meeting had been called to formally open the football season at Yardley Hall School. The song ended in a final triumphant burst of sound and Goodyear arose. As he moved to the front of the platform the applause began, the stamping of feet and the long-drawn “A-a-ay!” repeated over and over until Goodyear’s upraised hand commanded quiet.

Leseprobe

CHANGE SIGNALS

A STORY OF THE NEW FOOTBALL

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “

1912

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383836209

FOREWORD

I am taking this occasion to thank all of my readers, boys and girls alike, who have been so kind as to write to me. Sometimes your letters have gone unanswered for a long time, I fear; and it is possible that now and then, entirely by accident, one has been lost sight of entirely. If so I am both sorry and apologetic, for your letters are always a real pleasure to me, whether, as is so surprisingly often the case, they are filled with praise for my stories, or, as is sometimes the case, they call me to account for mistakes made. Your criticisms, always just, are perhaps better merited than your praise, and are quite as well appreciated. My thanks and my compliments, then, to all my correspondents for their kindly expressions, and my thanks and compliments to all my readers for their kind allegiance.

Very truly yours,

Ralph Henry Barbour.

“Journey’s End,” Manchester, Mass.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I

The Mass-Meeting

II

Towne Plays a Joke

III

Kendall Makes a Call

IV

First Practice

V

Kendall Learns of a Plot

VI

And Foils it

VII

Circumstantial Evidence

VIII

The First Game

IX

New Acquaintances

X

Ned Tooker

XI

The Mysterious Kicker

XII

Ned Uses Tact

XIII

Golf With Broadwood

XIV

Dan is Out of Sorts

XV

Ned Earns a Quarter

XVI

A Dissertation on Mushrooms

XVII

Under the Management of Mr. Tooker

XVIII

Yardley Visits Nordham

XIX

Cheers and Songs

XX

Dan is Kidnapped

XXI

At the “Washington’s Head”

XXII

Kendall Explains

XXIII

The Morning of the Game

XXIV

Kendall Meets an Old Friend

XXV

“Change Signals!”

XXVI

Kendall Makes the First

CHANGE SIGNALS

CHAPTER ITHE MASS-MEETING

“Old Yardley can’t be beat, my boy,

She’s bound to win the game!

So give a cheer for Yardley, and

Hats off to Yardley’s fame!”

T

he Banjo and Mandolin Club, huddled together on the right of the platform in Assembly Hall, strummed diligently and with enthusiasm, their zeal atoning for shortcomings due to lack of practice. For this was the first night of the fall term, and many members had not touched their instruments since the final chord had been twanged on class day. (Brewster, playing second mandolin, was doing bravely with a silver dime, having lost his pick and not being able to borrow one!) Beyond the platform some two hundred and fifty clear-eyed, clean-skinned boys sang the words with vim. Many, unable to satisfactorily express their enthusiasm vocally, kept time with their feet. Across the platform from the musicians sat the Assistant Principal, Mr. Collins, the physical instructor, Mr. Bendix, the head coach, Mr. Payson, the president of the First Class, Lawrence Goodyear, and the football captain, Dan Vinton. The mass meeting had been called to formally open the football season at Yardley Hall School. The song ended in a final triumphant burst of sound and Goodyear arose. As he moved to the front of the platform the applause began, the stamping of feet and the long-drawn “A-a-ay!” repeated over and over until Goodyear’s upraised hand commanded quiet.

“We’re here to-night, fellows, to start things going. We’re going to hear from the faculty and from the head coach and the captain, and all I’m supposed to do is to introduce the speakers. But before I do that there’s just one thing I want to say, fellows, and it’s this. We’re going to win this year—”

The cheers burst forth deafeningly, and it was a full minute before Goodyear could go on.

“Just as we did last year and other years before that.” (Another demonstration, but briefer.) “But to do it we must all get together and stand right back of the team every minute. It’s school loyalty that does the business. Every fellow who has been on a team knows what it means to feel that the school is right back of him. It means a lot, I tell you; I don’t say that it wins games, but it comes mighty near it sometimes. The team may have its failures; it can’t win all the time; but it isn’t going to help matters if you start ‘knocking.’ There may be mistakes made; that happens now and then; but don’t ‘roast’ the team for it. Don’t roast anyone; get behind and push harder than ever! That’s all, fellows. Mr. Collins will now speak a few words to you.”

The audience proved that it was in entire sympathy with Goodyear’s sentiments by cheering long and loudly. And then it began again as the Assistant Principal stepped to the front of the stage. Mr. Collins, in spite of the fact that he represented Authority and meted out punishment to ill-doers, was very popular. Doctor Hewitt, or “Toby” as the school called him, was the Principal, but the doctor was getting well along in years now and the actual school management fell on the younger and very capable shoulders of “Mr. Warren Collins, A.M., Yale,” to quote the school catalogue. Mr. Collins confined his remarks to-night to a few moments only. He said he was glad to see them all back again, glad to see so much enthusiasm and glad that the football prospects looked so bright. “With a settled coaching policy well established, a coach whom we all admire and respect and a captain who has proved himself popular, brilliant and earnest,” said Mr. Collins, “we are very fortunate, I think. And I, for one, shall be very much surprised if this season proves anything but one of the best in recent years.”

Mr. Bendix had his meed of welcome and applause when he followed the Assistant Principal. Although “Muscles” was a hard taskmaster and was often well hated by the lazier youths, he was generally liked. Besides, this was the beginning of the term, the old boys were happy at getting back again and the newcomers delighted to be there, and they would have cheered even “Mother” Walker, who was the least loved of all the faculty, had he appeared. Mr. Bendix had quite a little to say about physical examinations and the matter of training, and his remarks were not especially exhilarating. But everyone heard him through with respect and then burst into thunderous cheers as the football captain came to the front of the platform.

Dan Vinton was a First Class boy, seventeen years of age, tall and lithe, with an alert, good-looking face in which a pair of steady brown eyes and a distinctly good-tempered mouth were the most notable features. Just at present the mouth was smiling, but there was embarrassment in the smile, for Dan wasn’t much of a speaker and had been dreading this occasion for weeks. As he waited for the applause to cease he sunk his hands in his trousers pockets, and then, realizing his lapse, hurriedly pulled them out again. The cheers changed to a shout of laughter and a boy in a front seat called:

“Put ’em back again, Dan!”

Then the hall quieted down, and Dan, more embarrassed than before, began to speak.

“Fellows,” he said, “I can’t talk very well. In fact, I’m just about scared to death. I guess you can see that. But what I’ve got to say won’t take long. You’ve made me captain and I’m going to do the best I know how for you. I’m not making any promises. That would be a silly thing to do because we none of us can tell what may happen as—as the season advances. But we’ve got a mighty good start for the team this fall. We’ve got five of the fellows who played against Broadwood last year and a lot of good second string fellows. So as far as—as experienced material goes we’ve got no kick coming. But I don’t want you to think that we’ve got all the men we want, for we haven’t. I hope that to-morrow afternoon every one of you chaps who hasn’t lost a leg or an arm will come out for the team. I want to see the biggest bunch of candidates that ever turned out at Yardley! And don’t stay away because you think you can’t play football. Come out and get to work and we’ll tell you in a week whether you can play or not. You know they’ve changed the rules again this year and a fellow doesn’t have to weigh two hundred pounds to be of use to the team. We want fellows who have speed and who can handle a ball, and, above all, we want fellows who can kick. Well, I guess that’s all.” Dan’s hands unconsciously went back to his pockets and a cheer went up. But he didn’t take them out this time. He only smiled. “There’s one thing more, though,” he went on earnestly. “What Goodyear told you about standing back of the team is so. I don’t mean just coming down to the field and cheering. That’s all right as far as it goes. What I mean is letting us know all the time that you’re right back of us, hoping us on, wishing us on, pulling every minute! You do your share, fellows, and we’ll do ours, I promise you!”

Pandemonium reigned for a good two minutes after Dan walked back to his chair. Then Hammel, the baseball captain, was on his feet calling for “a cheer for Captain Vinton, fellows, and make it good!” And it was good, and if Oxford Hall hadn’t been built of granite I think it would have shook under that outburst.

Then Payson got up, and more cheering followed, for the big, broad-shouldered man of thirty-two who faced them was a school idol. In his six years as football and baseball coach at Yardley, John Payson had turned out four winning teams on the gridiron and had done very nearly as well on the diamond. He had quick, sharp black eyes, a broad, strong jaw and an ease and grace of carriage that quite belied his two hundred and odd pounds. Payson spoke quietly and seriously and the hall was so still that you might have heard a pin drop. He agreed with the previous speakers that the outlook was bright, but reminded them that many a team with fine early season prospects had come a cropper before now. And then he repeated the captain’s call for candidates, for hard work, for self-sacrifice and devotion and for the whole-souled support of the student body. And then, as he turned away and the stilled audience burst into sound, the leader of the Banjo and Mandolin Club nodded his head and the strains of “The Years Roll On” broke into the tumult. Instantly every fellow was on his feet, singing the slow, sweet song:

“The years roll on. Too soon we find

Our boyhood days are o’er.

The scenes we’ve known, the friends we’ve loved,

Are gone to come no more.

But in the shrine of Memory

We’ll hold and cherish still

The recollection fond of those

Dear days on Yardley Hill.”

Very reverently they sang it, and not many without a thrill and, perhaps, a moistening of the eyes. Many of the older boys could remember standing with heads bared to the cold November wind and singing it grandly after Yardley had gone down to defeat before her rival. All save the new boys had sung it at class day under swaying, many-hued lanterns and with the warm breath of June in their faces. If you are a Yardley man, young or old, you can never hear that song unmoved:

“The years roll on. To man’s estate

From youthful mold we pass,

And Life’s stern duties bind us round,

And doubts and cares harass.

But God will guard through storms and give

The strength to do His will

And treasure e’er the lessons learned

Of old on Yardley Hill.”

The last strain died away, there was a moment of silence, and then caps were slipped onto heads, feet shuffled on the floor, settees were pushed aside and the fellows crowded toward the doors. Then down the old, worn stairway they went, talking and laughing a little subduedly, and out into a mild September night lighted by millions of twinkling white stars that seemed to shine down kindly as though sympathizing with the glow of exaltation, of courage and kindliness and patriotism, in all those boyish hearts.

CHAPTER IITOWNE PLAYS A JOKE

T

o 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.

CHAPTER IIIKENDALL MAKES A CALL

T

om Roeder had taken himself away to Dudley, pretending alarm at the reception awaiting him at the hands of Wallace Hammel, his roommate, and the two occupants of Number 28 were left alone. Dan Vinton, having discarded coat and vest, stretched himself on his bed, pillowed his head on his clasped hands and smiled across at his chum. Dan was seventeen years old, and a trifle large for his age. Long of limb, tall, lithe, with a sun-browned skin and not a flabby muscle in his whole body, he looked, as he lay there, just what he was; a healthy, wide-awake American boy, kind-hearted, good-tempered, honest and fearless, a born leader of his fellows. He had steady brown eyes, a straight nose that was a little too short for beauty, brown hair and a good mouth. He was a member of the First Class and captain of the Football Team, an honor well deserved.

The boy who smiled back at him from the depths of the Morris chair was a year beneath him in age and class. Gerald Pennimore was a vivid contrast to his roommate in physical appearance. Several inches shorter than Dan, he lacked the latter’s even development of body. Rather slender, with hair that was almost yellow, the bluest of blue eyes and a skin much too fair to take kindly to sunburn, he looked, in contrast to Dan, almost delicate. But his appearance belied him to some extent, for Gerald had proved himself a good distance runner, and while it was not likely that he would ever grow into the rugged sort, it was probable that a year or two would find him a very well set-up youth. He was a good-looking youngster, with an eager, alert face that was irresistibly attractive when it smiled.

Gerald’s home was right here in Wissining, only a short distance from the school, but since his father, whom rumor credited with being a millionaire several times over, was more often away from his home than in it, Gerald had lived here in Number 28 Clarke during his two years at Yardley. There was, too, a town house in New York, but save at the Christmas recesses Gerald had seen little of that of late; while Gerald’s father when in this part of the world was far more likely to open up Sound View for a week or so than occupy the Fifth Avenue residence. Gerald had found at first that being the son of the Steamship King, as Mr. Pennimore was called, was something of a handicap. There had been those who called Gerald a “money-snob,” and for the first month or two he had had a rather hard time. But that sort of thing was long since over now, for Gerald had proved that one can be at the same time a gentleman and the heir to millions. Gerald’s mother was dead and he had neither brothers nor sisters, and under those circumstances it was almost a miracle that he hadn’t been utterly spoiled. Dan firmly believed that only coming to Yardley Hall had saved him from that fate.

“Back again in the old diggings,” murmured Dan, stretching himself luxuriously on the bed. “And for the last year,” he added with a note of wonder in his voice. “I can hardly believe that, Gerald. Seems now as though I’d always be here; at least, for years and years yet. I wonder how Alf and Tom feel. I’ll bet they miss this place. I suppose we’ll get a line from them some day soon.”

“They said they’d come over and see us,” answered Gerald.

“I know.” Dan nodded wisely. “But I guess they’ll be too busy to do that for awhile. I hope Alf makes the freshman team.”

“Oh, he will make it all right. I wouldn’t wonder if he got the captaincy.”

“Maybe. I don’t envy him it, though. Gerald, sometimes I feel as though I’d give a hundred dollars—if I had it—to wake up and find I wasn’t captain after all! I get scared stiff whenever I stop and think what’s ahead of me the next two months. Just suppose we get beaten!”

“Suppose we do. It’s happened before, hasn’t it?”

“Not when I was captain! That’s where the trouble is. When you’re captain and responsible for the success of the team it’s a lot different, I tell you, Gerald. Why, if Broadwood beats us this fall I’ll feel like tying a dumb-bell to each foot and jumping into the Sound!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dan! You can’t do any more than your best. If we get beaten after that it won’t be any more your fault than—than mine. You get that notion out of your head or I’ll have to put you in a sanitarium before the season’s over.”

“And maybe I’d be mighty glad to go,” sighed Dan.

“I don’t see what you’re so pessimistic about,” said Gerald. “We’ve got a good start for a new team, and all that sort of thing.”