Guarding His Goal E-Book

Ralph Henry Barbour

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

Beschreibung

Such was the legend, neatly inscribed on a small white card, that met the gaze of the visitor to Number 22 Whitson. As Number 22 was the last room on the corridor, and as the single light was at the head of the stairway, the legend was none too legible after nightfall, and the boy who had paused in front of it to regain his breath after a hurried ascent of the two steep flights had difficulty in reading it. When he had deciphered it and glanced at the little cardboard box below, in which reposed a tiny scratch-pad and a stubby pencil, he smiled amusedly ere he raised his hand and rapped on the portal.

Leseprobe

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF

1919

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383836223

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I.

Introducing Our Hero

II.

Off for Home

III.

The Man in the Brown Overcoat

IV.

The Capture

V.

Christmas Days

VI.

Friends Fall Out

VII.

First Practice

VIII.

The Scholarship Awards

IX.

T. Tucker Plays Goal

X.

With the First Team

XI.

Trade Falls Off

XII.

The Marked Coin

XIII.

Tommy Lingard Explains

XIV.

A Question of Color

XV.

Toby Entertains

XVI.

Absent from Chapel

XVII.

The Gray Card

XVIII.

In the Office

XIX.

A Pair of Gloves

XX.

Captain and Coach

XXI.

The Rescue

XXII.

Things Come Out All Right

GUARDING HIS GOAL

CHAPTER IINTRODUCING OUR HERO

T. TUCKER

Clothes Cleaned and Pressed

PLEASE LEAVE ORDERS IN BOX

S

uch was the legend, neatly inscribed on a small white card, that met the gaze of the visitor to Number 22 Whitson. As Number 22 was the last room on the corridor, and as the single light was at the head of the stairway, the legend was none too legible after nightfall, and the boy who had paused in front of it to regain his breath after a hurried ascent of the two steep flights had difficulty in reading it. When he had deciphered it and glanced at the little cardboard box below, in which reposed a tiny scratch-pad and a stubby pencil, he smiled amusedly ere he raised his hand and rapped on the portal.

“Come in!” called a voice from beyond the door, and the visitor turned the knob and entered.

The room was small, with a ceiling that sloped with the roof, and rather shabby. There was an iron cot at one side, and a small steamer trunk peeped out from beneath it. A bureau, grained in imitation of yellow oak, was across the room and bore a few photographs in addition to such purely useful articles as brushes and a comb and a little china box holding studs and sleeve-links. The room contained two chairs, although at first glance one seemed quite sufficient for the available space: an armchair boasting the remains of an upholstered seat and a straight-backed affair whose uncompromising lines were at the moment partly hidden by a suit of blue serge. The one remaining article of furniture was a deal table such as one finds in kitchens. It was a good-sized table and it stood against the wall at the right of the window embrasure and under the gas bracket. From the bracket extended a pipe terminating at a one-burner gas stove which, on a square of zinc, adorned one end of the table. On the stove was a smoothing iron of the sort known to tailors as a goose. A second such implement was being pushed back and forth over an expanse of damp cloth in a little cloud of steam, hissing, but less alarmingly than the other sort of goose, and filling the room with a not unpleasant odor. The iron didn’t stop in its travels to and fro, but its manipulator, a well-set-up boy of fifteen with very blue eyes and red-brown hair, looked around as the visitor entered.

“Hello,” he said. “Sit down, please, and I’ll be through this in a shake.”

“No hurry.” The visitor seated himself gingerly in the dilapidated armchair and draped a pair of gray trousers across his knees. While the boy at the table deftly lifted the dampened cloth and laid it over another part of the coat he was pressing and again pushed the hot iron back and forth, the visitor’s gaze traveled about the little room in mild surprise. There were no pictures on the white walls, nothing in the shape of decoration beyond three gaudily colored posters. Two of them depicted heroic figures in football togs surmounting the word “Yardley” in big blue letters, and the third was an advertisement for an automobile, showing a car of gigantic size, inhabited by a half-dozen lilliputian men and women, perched precariously on the edge of a precipice. The boy holding the gray trousers hoped that the man at the wheel, who seemed to be admiring the view with no thought of danger, had his brakes well set! He hadn’t known that anywhere in Yardley Hall School was there a room so absolutely unattractive and mean as Number 22. To be sure, Whitson was the oldest of all the dormitories and so one naturally wouldn’t look for the modern conveniences found in Merle or Clarke or Dudley, but he had never suspected that Poverty Row, as the top floor of Whitson was factitiously called, held anything so abjectly hideous as the apartment of T. Tucker. Further reflections were cut short by his host, who, returning the iron to the stove and whisking the cloth aside, picked up the coat he had pressed, folded it knowingly and laid it on the foot of the bed. After which, plunging his hands into his trousers pockets, he faced the visitor inquiringly.

“Something you want done?” he asked briskly.

“Yes, if you can do it this evening,” was the reply. “But you look pretty busy. It’s just this pair of trousers, Tucker. I want to wear them away in the morning.”

“All right, I’ll do ’em. Cleaned or just pressed?” Toby Tucker took the garment and examined it with professional interest.

“Oh, just pressed. I don’t think they’re spotted. Are you sure you want to do them? You look sort of busy already.” His glance went to the half-dozen coats and waistcoats and trousers lying about.

“I am,” replied Toby cheerfully, “but I’ll have these ready for you in the morning. Seven early enough?”

“Oh, yes, there’s no chapel to-morrow, you know. If I’m not up just toss them in the room somewhere.”

“All right. You’re in Dudley, aren’t you?”

“Yes, four. Crowell’s the name.”

“I know. You’re hockey captain. I suppose it’s hard to learn that game, isn’t it?” Toby turned the light out under the burner and seated himself on the edge of the bed.

“Hockey?” asked Orson Crowell. “N-no, I don’t think so. Of course a fellow’s got to know how to skate a bit, and not mind being roughed, you know. The rest comes with practice. Thinking of trying it, Tucker?”

“Me? No, I wouldn’t have time. I just wondered. Arnold Deering’s on the team, and he’s talked a good deal about it.”

“Oh, you know Arn?”

Toby nodded, hugging his knees up to his chin. “It was Arnold who got me to come here to school. His folks have a summer place over on Long Island where I live. Greenhaven. Ever been there?”

Crowell shook his head.

“Nice place,” continued Toby thoughtfully. “Arnold and I got acquainted and he talked so much about this school that I just made up my mind I’d come here. So I did.”

“Like it now you’re here?” asked the other boy, smiling.

“Oh, yes! Yes, I’m glad I came, all right. Of course—” Toby glanced about the room—“I’m not what you’d call luxuriously fixed up here, but I’ve got the room to myself, and that’s good, because if I had a room-mate he might object to my staying up all hours pressing clothes. Besides, it was just about the only room I could afford.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s just about all right for you,” agreed the other dubiously. “Do you—do you do pretty well?”

“Fair. It gets me enough to keep going on. I don’t charge much, you see, and it’s easier for fellows to bring their things to me than to take them to the village or over to Greenburg. It was sort of hard getting started. Fellows thought at first I couldn’t do it, I guess. But now they keep me pretty busy. To-day’s been a whopper. Every one wants his things pressed to go home in. I’m almost done, though. Only got three more suits—and these trousers of yours. Those won’t take me long. I’ll be through in a couple of hours.”

“I shouldn’t think you’d have time to do anything else,” commented Crowell. “When do you get outdoors? And how about studying?”

“Oh, I have plenty of time. I get up at six, and that gives me a good hour before chapel. And then I have another hour at eleven, and, since football’s been over, an hour or so in the afternoon.”

“Did you go out for football?”

“Yes, I had a try at it. I was on the second about three weeks and then they dropped me and I played on my class team. It was lots of fun, but it took too much time.”

“Yes, it does take time,” granted Crowell. “When I started in in my second year I was in trouble with the office all the time.”

“I’d certainly like to be able to play it the way you do,” said Toby admiringly. “I guess it takes a lot of practice, though.”

“Oh, I’m not much good at it,” responded Crowell, modestly. “Did you see the Broadwood game?”

“No, I didn’t have time. And it cost too much. I wanted to, though. I’ll see it next year, when they play here.”

Crowell had been studying the younger boy interestedly while they talked and liked what he saw. There was something very competent in the youngster’s looks, and the blue eyes expressed a fearlessness that, taken in conjunction with the determination shown by the square chin, argued results. He had a round, somewhat tanned face, a short nose and hair that, as before hinted, only just escaped being red instead of brown. (It didn’t do to more than hint regarding the color of Toby Tucker’s hair, for Toby was touchy on the subject and had fought more than one battle to emphasize the fact that it was distinctly brown and could not by any stretch of imagination be termed red!) For the rest, Toby was well built, healthy and strong, and rather larger than most boys of his age.

“Look here,” said Crowell suddenly. “How are you at skating, Tucker?”

“Oh, I can skate.”

“Done much of it?”

“Yes, I skate a lot, but I don’t know much fancy business.”

“Why don’t you try hockey then? You’d like it awfully. It’s a ripping sport.”

“I’d be afraid I’d fall over one of those sticks you push around,” laughed Toby.

“Maybe you would at first,” said Crowell, smiling, “but you’d soon get the hang of it. You look to me like a fellow who’d be clever about learning a thing. How old are you, any how? Sixteen, I suppose.”

“Not yet. Fifteen.”

“Fourth Class, then?” Toby nodded and Crowell frowned. “Well, that wouldn’t matter. Young Sterling played on the second last year when he was in the fourth. Now, look here—”

“All right,” said Toby, jumping up, “but while we’re talking I might be pressing those pants of yours. If you’ll stick around about ten minutes I’ll have them for you. Would you mind waiting that long?”

“Not a bit. Go ahead. What I was going to say was, why don’t you come out for practice after vacation, Tucker? Of course, I can’t promise you a place on the second, but if you can skate fairly well and will learn to use a stick, I don’t see why you mightn’t make it.”

Toby spread the trousers on the board and picked up the cloth. “Why, I guess I’d love to play,” he responded doubtfully, “but I don’t know if I’d have time. I dare say you have to practice a good deal every day, don’t you?”

“About an hour and a half, usually. Think it over. Candidates have been working in the gym for a fortnight now, but you wouldn’t have missed much. You’d meet up with a lot of fine chaps, too, Tucker. And, if you want to think of it that way, you might drum up more trade!” Crowell concluded with a chuckle, and Toby smiled answeringly as he began to press the hot iron along the cloth.

“I’ll think it over, thanks,” he said after a moment. “Of course, a fellow has to do something in winter to get him out, anyway, and maybe hockey’s more fun than just skating, eh? I guess I wouldn’t be good enough for your second team, but I sort of think I’d like to try. Maybe another year I’d be better at it.”

“If you missed the second you might make a class team. They have some good games and a heap of fun. You tell Arn Deering what I say. Tell him I said he was to bring you out after you get back.”

“All right, I’ll tell him,” agreed Toby. “He’s been after me, anyway. To try hockey, I mean. Does it cost much?”

“No. You’ve got skates, I suppose? Well, all you need is something to wear. The club supplies sticks. Three or four dollars will do it. Do you know, Tucker, I fancy you might make a pretty good goal?”

“Goal?” repeated Toby in alarm. “To shoot the puck at?”

“I mean goal-tend,” laughed Crowell. “But it amounts to much the same. You get shot at all right!”

“But you don’t do much skating if you mind goal, do you?” objected Toby.

“Not a great deal, but it’s a hard position to play well, son. Good goal-tenders are scarcer than hens’ teeth!”

“I wouldn’t mind trying it,” said the other. “Where do you play, Crowell?”

“We have a couple of rinks down by the river, beyond the tennis courts. Sometimes the class teams play on the river, but you can’t always be certain of your ice there. We’re going to have a hard time beating Broadwood this year, for they’ve got two peachy players. Either one is better than any chap we have. Hello, all done?”

“Yes. They aren’t very dry yet, so you’d better spread them out when you get them home so they won’t wrinkle.”

“Thanks. How much?”

“Fifteen cents, please.”

“That’s not much. Got a dime handy?” Toby made the change and Orson Crowell, draping his trousers over his arm, turned to the door. “You make up your mind to try hockey, Tucker,” he advised again from the portal. “I’ll look for you after vacation. Don’t forget!”

“I won’t, thanks. I’ll see what Deering says. If he really thinks I’d have any chance I’ll have a go at it. Good-night.”

“Good-night. Hope you get your work done in time to get some sleep, Tucker. You look a bit fagged.”

“I guess I am,” muttered Toby as the door closed behind the hockey captain, “but I wouldn’t have thought of it if he hadn’t mentioned it. Well, it’s only a quarter past eight and there’s not much left. Now then, you pesky blue serge, let’s see what your trouble is!”

CHAPTER IIOFF FOR HOME

Y

ardley Hall School ended its Fall Term that year on the twenty-first of December, after breakfast, and by nine o’clock the hill was deserted and the little station at Wissining presented a crowded and busy appearance as at least three-quarters of the school’s three hundred and odd students strove to purchase tickets, to check baggage and to obtain a vantage point near the edge of the platform from which to pile breathlessly into the express and so make certain of a seat for the ensuing two-hour journey to New York. A few of the fellows, who were to travel in the other direction, were absent, for the east-bound train left nearly an hour later, but they weren’t missed from that seething, noisy crowd. Of course much the same thing happened three times each year, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from the hopeless, helpless manner in which the station officials strove to meet the requirements of the situation. Long after the express, making a special stop at Wissining, whistled warningly down the track, boys were still clamoring at the ticket window and clutching at the frantic baggage master. How every one got onto the train, and how all the luggage, piled on four big trucks, was tossed into the baggage car in something under eighty seconds was a marvel. From the windows of the parlor cars and day coaches wondering countenances peered out at the unusual scene, and as the first inrush of boys invaded the good car Hyacinth a nervous old lady seized her reticule and sat on it, closed her eyes, folded her hands and awaited the worst!

Toby Tucker, a rather more presentable citizen than the one who had received Orson Crowell in Number 22 Whitson last evening, was one of the first to claim sanctuary in the Hyacinth. This was not due to his own enterprise so much as to the fact that a slightly bigger youth had taken him by the shoulders and, using him as a battering-ram, had cleaved a path from platform to vestibule. Toby did not ordinarily travel in parlor cars, but this morning his objections had been overruled, and presently he found himself, somewhat dishevelled and out of breath, seated in a revolving chair upholstered in uncomfortably scratchy velvet with an ancient yellow valise on his knees.

“Put that thing down,” laughed the occupant of the next chair, pushing his own more modern suit-case out of the aisle. “Gee, that was a riot, wasn’t it? Here we go!” The train started and Toby, not a little excited, saw the station move past the broad window, caught a final fleeting glimpse of the village and then found the river beneath them. A minute later the express roared disdainfully through Greenburg and set off in earnest for New Haven and New York. “Two whole weeks of freedom!” exulted his companion. “No more Latin, no more math, no more English comp—”

“And no more French!” added Toby feelingly. “And no more clothes to clean, either. I guess it will take me more than a week to get rid of the smell of benzine. I stayed up until after ten last night, Arnold. I wanted to press my own things, but I was too tired. Does this suit look very bad?”

“Bad? No, it looks corking,” replied Arnold Deering. “It gets me how you can buy a suit of clothes for about fifteen dollars and have it look bully, when I have to pay twenty-five and then look like the dickens. Look at these togs, will you? You’d think I’d had them two or three years!”

“When a fellow hangs his clothes on the floor the way you do,” laughed Toby, “he shouldn’t expect them to look very nice. Why didn’t you bring that up yesterday and let me go over it?”

“Because I knew you had more than you could do, T. Tucker. Besides, you never let me pay you, you chump.”

“Well, if you’re going to wear your things all mussed up you can pay me all you want to. Say, how much does this cost?”

“What?”

“Why, this parlor car business?”

“Oh, about a half. It’s my treat, like I’ve told you once.”

“Oh, no—” began Toby. But Arnold drowned out his protest.

“Listen, Toby: you’re coming back to New York the day after Christmas, aren’t you?”

“No, that’s Sunday; I’ll come Monday.”

“But, hang it, that’s too late! There are piles of things we’ve got to do. Why, that only gives us a week!”

“I know, but I’ve got to be at home some of the time, Arn. I thought I’d come up and stay with you from Monday to Saturday and then go back to Greenhaven until Tuesday.”

“Oh, feathers! Well, all right, but if you’re going to do that you’ve got to stay with me until day after to-morrow.”

Toby smiled and shook his head. “I can’t, Arn, honestly. I wrote mother I’d be back to-morrow afternoon. Besides, I haven’t anything to wear except what I’ve got on. Everything else is in my trunk.”

“You don’t need anything else. If you did I could lend it to you. Have a heart, Toby. Why, I haven’t seen you for more than a minute at a time for a whole week!”

“That wasn’t my fault, Arn. You knew where to find me.”

“Of course, but it’s no fun sitting up in your attic and watching you press trousers or mess around with smelly stuff on the roof. Say, I wrote dad to get some tickets to the theater for to-night. Wonder what he will get them for. I’m going to buy a paper and see what the shows are.”

When Arnold had disappeared down the aisle Toby produced a pocket-book and gravely and a trifle anxiously examined the contents. To-morrow he meant to go shopping for presents for the folks in Greenhaven, and the subject of funds was an important one. The pocket-book held four folded bills and quite a pile of silver and small coins, but when Toby had carefully counted it all up the result was not reassuring. He had his fare to Greenhaven to pay to-morrow, his fare to New York on Monday, his fare back to Greenhaven the last of the week, and, finally, his fare all the way to Wissining the following Tuesday. He would not, he thought grimly, be riding in a parlor car on that return trip! The funds in hand consisted of exactly twelve dollars and forty-eight cents. Toby replaced the pocket-book, drew out a little black memorandum and a pencil and proceeded to figure. He frowned frequently during the procedure, and once he sighed disappointedly. After traveling expenses had been allowed for only seven dollars and a half remained, and seven dollars and a half wasn’t nearly as much as he had hoped to be able to expend for Christmas presents. Why, the shaving set he had meant to give his father would cost all of five dollars, and that would leave but two dollars and a half with which to purchase presents for his mother and his sister Phebe and Long Tim and Shorty Joe and—Oh dear, he had quite forgotten Arnold!

He turned some pages in the memorandum book and read thoughtfully down the list of items there. “Beech, .85; Framer, .30; Williams, .45; Hove, .15; Lamson, 1.05; Hurd, .45.” He stopped, although there were more entries, and went back to that Lamson item. Frank was on the train somewhere and perhaps he might be persuaded to pay up. He had owed most of that dollar-five since October and ought to be willing to settle. If he had that it would help considerably. And perhaps he could find Beech too. He considered a minute and then left his seat and surveyed the car. There was quite a sprinkling of fellows he knew by sight or well enough to speak to there, but Frank Lamson was not of them. He started off toward the rear of the train. Near the door he spoke to a boy in a shiny derby and a wonderful brown overcoat.

“Hello, Tucker! What say? Frank Lamson? Yes, I saw him on the platform. He’s here somewhere, I guess. Unless he got left!” Jim Rose chuckled. “But I don’t suppose he did. I never knew him to!”

Toby passed on to the next car and wormed his way between boys and bags, nodding occasionally, speaking once or twice, but without success until he sighted a tall, thin youth of eighteen who sat with his long legs almost doubled to his chin, reading a paper. Toby leaned over the back of his chair. “I say, Beech, would it be convenient for you to let me have that eighty-five cents? I’m sort of short just now, or I wouldn’t ask you for it.”

Grover Beech looked up a bit startledly from the morning paper. “Eh? Oh, that you, Tucker? Eighty-five cents?” Beech’s countenance grew troubled. “I’m awfully afraid I can’t, old man. I’m just about stone broke. Tell you what, though; I’ll send it to you to-morrow.” Perhaps the expression of disappointment on Toby’s face touched him then, for he hesitated, thrust a hand into his pocket and brought it out filled with change. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got it here, I guess. If I run short I’ll make a touch somewhere. Here you are. Fifty, sixty, seventy—mind some coppers?—eighty—and five is eighty-five. That right?”

“Yes, thanks. I wouldn’t have asked for it, only—”

“That’s all right, old man.” Beech waved a slim hand. “Glad to pay when I can. When I get back I’ll start another bill! Merry Christmas, Tucker. Say, where do you live, eh?”

“Greenhaven, Long Island,” replied Toby, carefully scoring out the item of indebtedness in his little book and then as carefully dropping the coins into his purse.

“That’s near by, eh? Lucky guy! I’ve got to go all the way to Baltimore. Beastly trip. Be good, Tucker. So long!”

Encouraged, Toby continued his explorations. Half-way along the next car he discovered his quarry. Frank Lamson, a big-framed youth of sixteen, with very black hair and dark eyes in a good-looking if somewhat saturnine face, was seated on the arm of a chair, one of a group of four or five who were laughing and chatting together. Toby hesitated about broaching the subject of his errand under the circumstances, but Frank happened to look up at the moment and greeted him.

“Hello, Toby,” he called in his usual patronizing and slightly ironical way. “How’s business? Pressing?”

The joke won laughter from the others of the group, one boy, seated on an upturned suit-case, almost losing his balance. Toby smiled. The joke was an old one and he had become used to smiling at it.

“No,” he replied, “business isn’t pressing, Frank, but bills are. I wish you’d let me have a dollar and five cents, will you? I need some money pretty badly.”

Frank Lamson frowned and then laughed. “So do I, Toby, old scout. Need it like anything. Bet you a dollar I need it more than you do.”

“I don’t believe you do,” answered Toby soberly. “I wouldn’t ask you for it, Frank, but I’m pretty short—”

“You’ll grow, Tucker,” said the boy on the suit-case, with a giggle.

“Toby,” said Frank blandly, “I’d pay you in a minute if I had the money. But I’ve only just got enough to get home on. As it is, I’ll probably have to borrow from the butler to pay the taxi man! I’ll settle up right after vacation, though, honest Injun. How’ll that do?”

“I’d rather have it now,” replied Toby, “or some of it. Suppose you pay fifty cents on account?”

“Fifty cents! My word, the fellow talks like a millionaire! Say, Toby, if you’re short go and borrow some from Arnold. He’s simply rolling in wealth. He always is. And, say, if he comes across, touch him for a couple of dollars for me, will you?”

“Me, too,” laughed another boy.

“I wish you would, Frank,” said Toby earnestly. “Honest, I do need the money. And—and you’ve been owing it for some time now, you know.”

“Oh, cut it, Tucker!” exclaimed Frank crossly. “This is no time to dun a chap for a few pennies. Why didn’t you come around last week if you needed it so much? Besides, that last job of cleaning you did was beastly. Every spot came right back again. I’ll leave it to Watkins. You saw the suit, didn’t you, Chet?”

Watkins, a stout youth who wore a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles and looked like a rather stupid owl, nodded obediently. “Rotten job, I’d call it,” he murmured.

Toby flushed. “I’m sorry,” he answered stiffly. “If you’d brought the things back again—”

“I had to wear them. But you oughtn’t to charge me fifty cents for a bum job like that. Still, I’ll pay—later. Cut along now, old scout. Don’t obtrude vulgar money matters on such a gladsome occasion, what?”

Toby hesitated. Then: “All right, Frank,” he said quietly. “Sorry I troubled you. Hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you, Toby! Just remind me of that little matter when we get back, will you?” He winked at the audience and elicited grins. “I mean well, but I’m awfully forgetful. Bye, bye, honey!”

When Toby got back to his seat he found Arnold very busy with his New York paper, and for the next ten minutes they discussed theaters. Toby, however, was thinking more of the financial problem that confronted him than of the evening’s amusement, and Arnold found him disappointingly unresponsive when he dwelt on the possibility of seeing this play or that. In the end he tossed the paper aside and acknowledged the truth of Toby’s remark to the effect that it didn’t do any good deciding what play he wanted to see most if his father had already purchased the tickets. For his part, Toby added, he would enjoy anything, for he had never been to a real theater but twice in his life. That afforded Arnold an opportunity to reminisce, which he did for a good ten minutes while Toby pretended to listen but was in reality wondering how to make eight dollars and thirty-five cents do the work of fifteen!

Arnold Deering was sixteen years old, Toby’s senior by one year. He was a good-looking chap, with the good looks produced by regularly formed features such as a straight nose, a rounded chin, brown eyes well apart and a high forehead made seemingly higher by brushing the dark brown hair straight back from it. Arnold’s hair always looked as if he had arisen from a barber’s chair the moment before. Some of the summer’s tan still remained, and altogether Arnold looked healthy, normal and likable. He was fairly tall and rather slender, but there was well developed muscle under the smooth skin and his slimness was that of the athlete in training.

Later, by which time the train was running smoothly through the winter fields and woods of Larchmont and Pelham, Toby told of Orson Crowell’s visit and their talk, and Arnold’s eyes opened very wide. “Why, that’s bully!” he exclaimed. “If Orson talked that way, Toby, he means to help you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took you on the scrub team if you showed any sort of playing. He doesn’t often go out of his way to be nice to fellows. I call that lucky! Of course you’ll have a try, after what he told you!”

“I’d like to, but it would take a lot of time, Arn. You know I didn’t go to Yardley just to play hockey and things. I—I’ve got to make enough money to come back next year.”

“Oh, piffle, Toby! What does an hour’s practice in the afternoon amount to? Besides, you played football, and that took more time than hockey. Don’t be an idiot. Why, say, I’ll bet you anything you like that you’ll find yourself on the scrub before the season’s over. And that would be doing mighty well for a fourth class fellow! You’d be almost sure of making the school team next year, Toby!”

“But how do I know I could play hockey? I can skate pretty well; just ordinary skating, you know, without any frills—”