Two things comforted him somewhat. One was that he no longer went to his classes unprepared. Indeed, he worked at his books so that he was soon in the first group of the class, and more than once the tutors went out of their way to commend him—though it was not for their commendation his heart was aching, but for that of his classmates. His other comfort was in a letter he had received from Mr. Bayliss in reply to the one he had written him telling of his quitting his football practice. The letter ran:
I need hardly tell you how I have rejoiced in your strength in making this decision and in sticking to it. Nothing would for failure in your classes—not even the applause of the football field. But I can readily understand how much the decision must have cost you, and I think I can foresee how it will affect the bearing of your classmates toward you, for school-boys sometimes have a very exaggerated and false notion of school honor. Concerning this last, let me give you a word of advice. Next to success in study, there is no more precious thing in college life than class friendship. One can well afford to sacrifice much to gain it. So I would not have you antagonize your classmates unnecessarily. Be prepared to make some sacrifice for them—sacrifice of pride and convenience and time. Perhaps later in the year you may be so well up in your studies that you can afford again to take an active part in the school . Do not hesitate to do so when you can.
Tommy read this letter over and over again, and drew much from it. Gradually, too, some of the fellows began to unbend a little. Little Reeves, who had tackled him so gamely at that first day’s practice, was the first to show his friendship. It was one evening, while Tommy was wandering about the campus, that he first became aware of Reeves’s feeling toward him.
“I say, Remington,” somebody called after him.
Tommy started at the unaccustomed sound of his name.
“Hullo, Reeves,” he said, as he turned and recognized him.
“How are you, old man?” and Reeves held out his hand and gave Tommy’s a clasp that brought his heart into his throat. “Come up to my room awhile, can’t you, and let’s have a talk.”
“Of course I can,” said Tommy, and in a moment was stumbling after Reeves up the stairs of Hamill House with a queer mist before his eyes.
“This is my sanctum,” Reeves remarked, turning up the light. “Sit down here”; and he threw himself on the window-seat opposite. “Now tell me about it, old fellow. I’ve heard the fellows , of course, but I want to know the straight of it.”
And Tommy opened the flood-gates of his heart and poured the story . Reeves listened to the end without interrupting by word or sign.
“But how does it come,” he asked at last, “that you can’t keep up and play football too? The other fellows do, and they don’t drive us so hard here. Hasn’t your prep been good?”
“Good?” echoed Tommy. “Why, man, three years ago I couldn’t read nor write.”
“Whew!” whistled Reeves, and sat up and looked at him. “Say, tell me about that. I should like to hear about that.”
So Tommy, who felt as though he were lifting a great load from his heart, told him the story, beginning, just as this story began, at the moment he entered the little Wentworth school-house with the circus poster in his hand. How far away it seemed to him now! He could scarcely believe that it had happened so recently. Some parts of the story he did not tell in detail; he did not dwell upon the grime and of the mines, nor upon the hard conditions of life in New River valley. Somehow they seemed strangely out of place in this airy, pleasant room, with this boy, who had been reared in luxury, for listener. So he hurried on to the time when he first looked into “Lorna Doone,” and then to the patient work of the two who had taught him and fitted him for Lawrenceville. Let us do him the justice to say that he paid them full tribute.
“Don’t you see,” he concluded, “I can’t disappoint those two people. I’ve just got to succeed. Besides, I can’t go back to the mines now. I’ve seen something of the world outside. It’d kill me to go back.”
Reeves came over and gave him his hand again.
“Right,” he said . “You’re dead right. Say,” he added awkwardly, “let me help you, won’t you? I’d like to. Come up here in the evenings and we’ll tackle the books together. I don’t know very much, but maybe I can help a little. The master will consent, I know.”
“Will you?” cried Tommy. “Oh, will you? That’s just what I want; that’s just what I need! But maybe you’ve other things to do—I don’t want to spoil your evenings.”
“Nonsense!” Reeves. “I need the study as bad as you do—worse, I suspect. I’ve been loafing too much anyway, and going over the again will help me. It’s as much for my own sake as for yours.”
So it was settled, the master did consent, and every night found the two together. How great a help Reeves was to him need hardly be said. Yet I think the other profited as much—perhaps more. He profited in self-denial and in earnestness, and, in his eagerness to help Tommy on, himself much more thought to the work than he would otherwise have done. Word got about that Reeves had taken Tommy’s side of the , and for a time the others wondered. Some of them dropped in of an evening to see for themselves this sight of Reeves coaching Remington in the first-form work. The example proved a good one, and as time passed some of the other boys forgot their anger toward him, and admitted him again into their friendship. But it was to Reeves he clung closest of all.
“Say, Remington,” said the latter, one Saturday, “I’m going to walk over to Princeton to-morrow after morning service. I’ve got a big brother there in the class, and maybe he’ll show us around if he’s feeling good. How’d you like to go along?”
“I’d like it,” said Tommy, with conviction, for he had never yet had a glimpse of the great college whose achievements were being constantly into his ears. “But can I get leave?”
“I’ll fix it for you,” answered Reeves, and he did.
It was a pleasant three-mile walk, that cool October morning, along the level road, shaded on either side by stately elms. The old post-road it used to be, a century and a half before, running from New York to Philadelphia, a gay place echoing to the coachman’s horn, and later, during the Revolution, to the tramp of armies. Only the memory of its former glory now , but its beauty is unchanged. They passed a row of old colonial residences, well back from the road, half hidden amid of trees and rows of formal hedge. Then into Nassau Street they turned, and so to the college campus.
“That’s Nassau Hall—‘Old North,’ they call it here,” said Reeves, pointing to a long three-storied gray stone building, half covered with , stretching across the front campus. “It is so old that it was the largest building in America when it was built. During the Revolution, after Washington won the battle of Princeton, just below here, some of the British took refuge in the building; but Washington’s soon brought them out. There was a picture of George III. inside in the big hall, and they say that Washington’s first cannon-ball went through the picture and cut off the head. They put a picture of Washington in the frame .”
Tommy looked with respect at the old building, as solid and substantial now as it was the day it was
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