Yardley Hall School[1] stands on a small plateau about a half-mile from the shore, and commanding a broad view, of Long Island Sound, about half way between Newport and New Haven. The Wissining River, from which small stream the tiny village takes its name, curves around the back of the school grounds, separating them from the wide expanse of Meeker’s Marsh, flows beside the village, and empties into the Sound. Across the Wissining lies Greenburg, a considerable manufacturing town, and beyond Greenburg and some two miles from the water is located Yardley’s time-honored rival, Broadwood Academy.

[1] Readers who desire a more detailed description of Yardley Hall School are referred to Chapter V of Forward Pass, the preceding story in this series.

There are six buildings at Yardley, most of them quite modern; the school is not old, as New England schools go, having been founded by Doctor Tobias Hewitt in 1870. There is Oxford Hall, containing the Office, the Principal’s living rooms,[30] laboratories, recitation rooms, library, assembly hall, and the rooms of the rival societies, Oxford and Cambridge. Oxford Hall is one of the older buildings. The other is Whitson, which elbows it on the East and which contains the dining-room, or commons as it is called, on the first floor, and dormitories above. Clarke is a dormitory entirely, as are Dudley and Merle, the latter being reserved for the boys of the Preparatory Class. The Kingdon Gymnasium completes the list of buildings if one excepts the heating plant and the boat house.

From the back of the gymnasium the ground slopes down slowly to the tennis courts, the athletic field and the river. Here, too, but further upstream is the golf links, a nine hole course that is well maintained and well patronized. In front of Oxford Hall is an expanse of lawn known as The Prospect. From this a flight of steps leads to the lower ground and joins a path which crosses the railroad cut by a rustic bridge and leads to the woods beyond. Through these various paths wind deviously to the beach and the Sound. Between the woods, which are school property, and at the mouth of the river, lies the Pennimore estate, eight acres of perfectly kept lawn and grove and shrubbery, with a long stone pier running out into the water for the accommodation[31] of the “Steamship King’s” big yacht on which, in the summer time, he makes his trips to and from New York.

From the upper floors of the Yardley buildings one may see for miles up and down the Sound, and even, on clear days, catch a glimpse of Montauk Point across the water. It would, I think, be difficult to find a finer site for a school than that occupied by Yardley. Although still under forty years of age, Yardley Hall has won a name for itself in a part of the country where famous schools are many, and you will never be able to persuade a Yardley man to acknowledge that any other school approaches it in excellence. As for Broadwood—well, I never could do justice to a Yardley man’s opinion of that institution!

On an afternoon about a week subsequent to the opening of the winter term Dan dropped in at Number 7 Dudley. The bright weather continued, but there was no hint of Autumn in the air to-day. A shrill east wind charged around the corner of the building, and boys crossing the yard kept their heads down into their collars and their hands in their pockets and took short cuts across the winter turf in brazen defiance of regulations. But Number 7 was warm and cozy as Dan closed the door behind him and tossed his cap onto a chair. The steam pipes were sizzling[32] drowsily and in the grate a bed of coals glowed warmly.

“Gee,” said Dan, “I wish we had fireplaces in Clarke.”

“You ought to be glad you haven’t,” answered Alf Loring from the window-seat. “Every time you have a fire it costs you ten cents for a hod of coal. Tom’s always kicking about the expense.”

Tom Dyer, seated at the study table writing a letter, grunted ironically without looking up.

“Come on over here and stretch your weary limbs,” said Alf, cuddling his feet under him to make room and tossing a pillow at the visitor. Alfred Loring was seventeen years old and was captain and quarter-back of the football team. He was a nice, jolly looking fellow with a pair of merry brown eyes and hair of the same shade which he wore parted in the middle and slicked down straightly on either side of his well-shaped head. Alf was in the Second Class, as was his roommate, Tom Dyer. Tom, however, was a year older, a rangey, powerful looking youth, rather silent, rather sleepy-looking, but good-natured to a fault. Tom wasn’t a beauty, by any means, but his gray eyes and his expression when he smiled redeemed the rather heavy features. Tom played on the Eleven at left half and had just[33] been elected captain of the basket-ball team in place of a First Class fellow who had failed to return in the fall.

“Ain’t it cold?” asked Alf as Dan snuggled against the pillow. “If this keeps up we’ll have ice on the river in no time. Do you skate, Dan?”

“Not much. But I’m going to get some skates and try it.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” laughed Alf, “you’re so modest. I dare say you can skate all around me.”

“No, honest, Alf, that’s the truth. I can’t skate much. I never seemed to be able to learn.”

“That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d try for the hockey team. But you get some skates and get busy. You’d better come out for the team, anyway. You’ll have plenty of fun, even if you don’t make it.”

“And probably break my silly neck!”

“Well, don’t do that; we need you too much next fall. But you might try for goal. You don’t have to skate much to play goal.”

“Don’t have to do much of anything,” observed Tom dryly, “except stand up there and be hit with a hunk of hard rubber that feels like paving block. I’ve tried it; played on Whitson team two years ago. We played Clarke for the School Championship.”

[34]

“Did you win?” asked Dan, scenting a story.

“No, we lost,” replied Tom, going on with his writing.

“Tell him how, Tom,” said Alf with a chuckle.

“Dead easy,” answered Tom with a reminiscent smile. “The first half ended three to two in our favor and we were feeling pretty cheerful. But when we began again one of our fellows—Nickerson—he was playing cover-point—did something that didn’t please the referee and got put off for the limit; two minutes, I think it was. Then Clarke got down to business and made things hot around goal. I stopped about four shots in as many seconds and then there was a mix-up in front of the net and someone laid open my head with his stick. When I came around again I found they’d scored on us. I tried to go back and play but I was too dizzy to stand up and they made me quit and put in a sub named Baxter. Baxter meant well, but he was so excited that he couldn’t see straight. And along toward the end of the half, with the score tied, Clarke rushed the puck again and took a shot. Baxter stopped it with foot and it got stuck between his skate and his boot. Instead of calling for time or doing anything sensible he just stood there and shook his foot like a hen with mud between her toes. Well, at about the sixth shake the puck came[35] out and flew into the net. That gave Clarke one goal to the good. We all called Baxter names, and that got him more excited and nervous than ever. And then, with about a minute to play the puck came down again with everyone squabbling over it. Baxter’s eyes just stood out of his head and he made a dash out of goal, got the puck somehow or other and deliberately swiped into his own goal! Oh, he made quite a hit that day for a sub!”

“I’ll bet he did!” laughed Dan. “I suppose you fellows all loved him to death.”

“We did—not,” grunted Tom. “It was funny about Baxter, though,” he added thoughtfully. “He graduated last year, and about a month later he was going over from New York to Boston with his folks on that steamer that caught fire; what was its name, Alf?”

“Independence.”

“Yes. The fire didn’t amount to a whole lot in the end, but for awhile things looked a bit bad. Well, the papers the next day made a regular hero of Baxter. According to them he was the life of the party. Had a fine time and enjoyed every minute of his visit. He bossed folks around, strapped life-preservers on fat old ladies, helped launch the boats and was as cool as a cucumber. It just shows that you never can tell, don’t it?”

[36]

“Where is he now?” asked Dan.

“Oh, he’s a dead ’un now; he’s gone to Harvard,” answered Tom.

“What did he want to go there for?” asked Dan, who had already decided on Yale, quite indignantly.

“Search me! What does any fellow want to go there for?”

“Well, it’s lucky for Yale some fellows do go,” laughed Alf. “If they didn’t we wouldn’t have anyone to beat!”

“Well, there’s something in that,” grunted Tom. “But I’ll tell you fellows one thing, though. Some day those Harvard Johnnies will take their hands out of their pockets, work up a coaching system like they have at Yale and everlastingly wallop us for keeps!”

“Oh, you run away and play!” scoffed Alf.

“All right. You just wait and see,” replied Tom unruffledly, returning to his letter.

“What’s Tom think he’s doing?” asked Dan of Alf.

“He thinks he’s a little Hague doing the arbitration act,” replied Alf, “but what he’s really doing is making a mess. Rand—you know Paul Rand?—he’s basket-ball manager, or thinks he is. Well, he tried to make dates with Broadwood for three games and got high and mighty and tried[37] to dictate things with the result that Broadwood refused to have anything to do with us. And I don’t blame her. We won last year, you know, and so Rand thought we could lay down the law. Broadwood didn’t see it that way. So Tom is trying to make a noise like a Dove of Peace. He’s writing to the Broadwood captain, and I’ll bet he gets sat on for his trouble.”

“That’ll be all right,” replied Tom, folding and sealing his letter. “I’ve offered them their choice of dates for the second game and told them we’d play the third anywhere they liked. They’ll come down and make terms. And when they do—” Tom put the stamp on with a bang of his fist—“we’ll lick them so hard that they won’t know whether they’re coming or going!”

“That’s Tom’s idea of Peace!” laughed Alf.

“Well,” growled his roommate, “I’ve got to have some satisfaction for grovelling under their feet and rubbing my head in the mud.” He tossed the letter aside distastefully. “Say, Dan, how’s the kid getting on?”

“Yes, how is little Geraldine?” asked Alf.

“All right,” replied Dan not very enthusiastically. “I was going to bring him along, but he hadn’t shown up when I left the room. I dare say he’s gone over home.”

[38]

“Sound View?” asked Alf. “I thought the place was closed up.”

“It is, but some of the servants are there, and he’s got a dog he’s awfully fond of; the one that ’most got burned.”

“I heard some of the Prep kids calling him ‘Young Money-Bags’ the other day,” said Tom. “I’m afraid he isn’t going to be popular, Dan.”

“I don’t see why not,” answered Dan warmly. “He isn’t a snob by any means; doesn’t even act like one. The fellows here wouldn’t think of looking down on a chap because he had no money. Why should they look down on him because he has?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s exactly that,” mused Alf. “The trouble is, Dan, that Toby and Collins and the Faculty generally are so blamed proud of him. You’d think he was a young prince.”

“They aren’t proud of him,” answered Dan. “They’re proud of getting him; proud of beating Broadwood.”

“Well, that’s a commendable pride,” said Alf with a yawn. “The best way to do, as Brother Herb said the other day, is to just let him fight it out alone. If the School finds you sticking up for him too much they’ll take more of a grudge than ever to him.”

“Oh, I’m letting him do his own fighting right[39] enough. So much so that Gerald thinks I’ve gone back on him, and looks at me pathetically when he thinks I don’t see him. Makes me feel sort of like a brute, you know. He’s been a bit homesick, too, I guess, although he hasn’t said anything about it.”

“Well, that’s promising,” said Alf. “Shows he isn’t a cry-baby. Does he know anyone yet?”

“I don’t think so; except you fellows. It’ll take him time, I suppose.”

“Bring him around here whenever you want to,” said Tom. “I don’t mind him. I know what it’s like to be homesick and out of it myself.”

“You!” exclaimed Dan.

“Sure! Don’t you think I’ve got any feelings? I went to a boarding school for two years before I struck Yardley; one of those motherly places where they advertise a nice home life for the kids. The first month I was there I thought I’d die. Lonesome? Gosh, that isn’t any word for it! I was sort of quiet and shy, I guess, and the fellows thought I was stuck-up and left me pretty much alone except when they picked on me.”

“Did you get over it?” asked Dan.

“Had to. I stood it until I couldn’t have stayed there any longer and then I picked out the biggest fellow in my class and put it up to him. ‘I’ve been here a whole month,’ I told him, ‘and[40] you fellows haven’t spoken decently to me yet.’ (I was only thirteen and was half crying.) ‘You’ve either got to take some notice of me,’ I said, ‘or fight, and I don’t care which it is.’ The chap looked at me in a funny sort of way for a minute, and then he laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Fight!’ he said. ‘Why, I don’t want to fight you, kid. You’re all right. You come along with me.’”

“Well?” Dan asked eagerly.

“Oh, I went.”

“Yes, but did he—what did he do?”

“Nothing; just walked with me across the playground. It was in the afternoon after school and almost every fellow was there. That was all he had to do. They gave me a chance after that and I made good.”

“If he’d accepted your invitation and licked you, though,” said Alf, “I don’t see that it would have helped you much.”

“He wouldn’t have licked,” said Tom quietly, “not the way I was feeling that day.”

“You, you old duffer,” scoffed his roommate, “why, you couldn’t lick a postage stamp!”

Tom pushed his chair back, arose, and approached Alf with a broad smile. Alf got his legs from under him and prepared for battle. Dan removed to a safer vantage point, and the trouble[41] began. It was a fine “rough-house” while it lasted. The cushions were soon on the floor and the combatants speedily followed them, bringing along a curtain pole and two curtains. It was the pole that produced a cessation of hostilities. In falling it came end first and Alf’s head happened to be in the way. There was a yell, and when Tom removed himself from the recumbent form of his chum, Alf was feeling of his head disgustedly.

“It was a fine ‘rough-house’ while it lasted.”

“That fool thing always does that. I’ll bet my brain is just full of holes.”

“Well, there’s something the matter with it,” laughed Tom.

Then they went at it again, around the study and up against the table where the ink bottle was upset and a portion of its contents distributed over the letter Tom had just written.

“There!” gasped Tom. “Look what you’ve done! Spoiled the stamp! And I’ll have to address a new envelope.”

“You did it yourself, you clumsy brute,” answered Alf, rearranging his attire. “But I’ll give you another stamp. It’s worth that much to wallop you!”

“Huh! A lot of walloping you did!”

“I made you look like thirty cents, all right. Didn’t I, Dan?”

[42]

“I declare it a draw,” laughed Dan. “And I’m going to get out before you do any more damage.”

“Oh, don’t go,” begged Alf. “Wait and see me lick him again. I’ve only just begun on him.”

“Huh!” Tom grunted, seating himself at the table. “Say, Dan, wait a second, like a good chap, and drop this in the mail for me. I’ll take that stamp, Alf.”

“Haven’t got it just now. I’ll give you one some day, though. I always pay my debts sooner or later.”

“I’ve got one,” Dan offered. “Toss me the letter.”

“There you are. Remind me that I owe it to you, Dan. That was the last one I had. I can’t keep stamps. I believe Alf must eat them.”

“Well!” exclaimed Alf indignantly, “I’d just like to know who buys all the stamps that are used in this room.”

“Not you, you old miser!”

“Tom, you must apologize for that, you really must!”

“Who to? Now, look here, sonny, if you start this again—!”

Dan made a hurried leap for the door and escaped the rush.

“Good-bye, you fellows!”

[43]

There was no answer, but as he closed the door behind him there came the crash of an overturned chair. He paused, smiling, a little way down the corridor and waited. From beyond the closed portal of Number 7 came sounds resembling those of a small riot. Presently Dan walked heavily back and rapped sharply on the door. Instantly the commotion ceased.

“Come in,” said a polite voice.

Dan opened the door. Alf, breathing heavily, was reading on the window-seat and Tom was seated in a corner nonchalantly nursing one knee.

“What’s all this noise I hear?” asked Dan, trying to imitate the gruff tones of Mr. Austin, one of the instructors who roomed in the building. There was a howl of rage from the occupants of the room and Dan turned and fled. The joke kept him chuckling all the way around to Oxford, where he posted Tom’s letter. Then he climbed the stairs to his room in Clarke, threw open the door and paused on the threshold in consternation.

In front of the washstand stood Gerald sopping his face with a blood-stained towel. His nose was swollen and bleeding, his knuckles were skinned and he was crying.

“Why, Gerald! What’s the matter?” cried Dan.

[44]

“N-nothing,” muttered Gerald, turning away.

“Nothing! Nothing be blowed! You’re a sight!” He drew the towel away from the boy’s face. “Why, you’ve been fighting! Who hit you and how did it happen? Here, let me take the towel. You sit down there and I’ll fix you up. Who did it?”

“T-Thompson.”

“Who’s Thompson? And what did he hit you for?”

“I hit him fu-first.”

“Well, what was it about? Let’s see your hand. I should say you did hit him! You’ll need some court plaster on those knuckles, my boy. Does your nose hurt very much?”

“Yu-yes,” answered Gerald, struggling with his sobs.

“Well, never mind; don’t cry any more; it’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

“I’m not cr-crying because it hurts,” sobbed Gerald, “I’m cr-crying because he li-licked me!”