For the Honor of the School: A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport

But the argument didn’t quite satisfy him, and he set out to lend veracity to it by purchasing a pair of half-clamp skates in the village and seeking an unfrequented pond fully a mile from the school. About Wayne’s home in Virginia skates were seldom seen and more seldom used. But the boy had been ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance before the others who did so many things well. He had been about to qualify his assent by adding that he could not skate very well when Don interrupted him.

To learn to skate without instruction is almost as difficult as to learn to swim unaided, and Wayne’s troubles began on the first afternoon that he eluded his friends and sneaked off through the village. The pond was hidden from the road by willows, and he had little fear of interruption. After a struggle of several moments he at last managed to affix his skates – he put the left one on the right shoe, and vice versa– and stepped on to the ice. The immediate result was as surprising as it was disappointing, for his first step resulted not in progress but in prostration, his head coming in violent contact with the frozen earth at the margin of the ice. He arose with a thumping headache, and after a moment of painful bewilderment turned his steps homeward, with a vastly increased respect for the art of skating and a heightened dislike for it as the result of his first lesson.

But he was back again the next day. He found a friendly branch leaning out over the ice, and with its aid experimented on his runners, making numerous remarkable discoveries in the next ten minutes. He found that it was necessary to place the rear foot at an angle while he advanced the front one, and that as long as the center of gravity of his body remained in advance of one foot he was in little danger of falling. But as soon as the branch was discarded he sat down just where the ice was hardest, and it took him a whole minute of the most careful management to get his feet under him again; and when that was accomplished he discovered to his dismay that he was sliding, as though propelled by invisible force, toward the very middle of the pond, his skates gradually parting company and his body held as though in the act of sitting. The thing was so disconcerting that he was heartily glad when he did take a seat, even though it was at a disheartening distance from shore. He first considered crawling back to terra firma on his hands and knees, but that would seem too much like giving up; so he again went through the remarkable contortions necessary to recover his equilibrium, and finally reached the shore after a series of exciting adventures, during which one skate became detached at the toe and his breath forsook him entirely. Four more falls completed that day’s lesson, and he went back to the school with his head buzzing like a hive of bees and his body covered with bruises.

A thaw set in that night, and for the next few days he had to content himself with studying the art from a volume of the Badminton Library. The book wasn’t much of a help. It seemed as though the famous skater who had written the chapter headed First Principles of Skating, and Suggestions to Beginners, had been so overpowered by the magnitude of his task that he had given up in despair before he had begun. The few facts of practical value which he had mentioned Wayne had already discovered by painful experience.

But two weeks before Christmas, and a week before the end of the fall term, the ice on the ponds again froze to a respectable thickness, and Wayne continued his self-instruction. Six excursions had been made to the little pond, and the boy had attained to a degree of skill which allowed of his circling the ice without falling, and he was fast becoming both fond of the sport and proud of his ability. But pride goes before a fall, especially in skating. One afternoon Wayne had twice encompassed the pond, and was seriously considering an attempt at skating backward, when one runner encountered a twig imbedded in the surface, and he took a most undignified tumble. His wounded feelings were in no measure relieved by the peals of boisterous laughter that issued from across the pond, where, hidden by the willows, Paddy and Dave had crouched, interested spectators of his disaster.

“Bully for Old Virginia!” bawled Paddy.

“I say, Wayne,” shouted Dave, “do that again, won’t you? I didn’t see the first of it!”

And then, as Wayne strove to recover his feet and his dignity, their gibes took a new turn, and Dave asked Paddy with elaborate politeness what the young gentleman on the ice was doing; and Paddy assured him that he wasn’t at all certain, but thought that the young gentleman was looking for something he had dropped; whereupon Dave thanked Paddy ceremoniously, and explained that he had supposed, judging from the fact that the young gentleman wore skates, you know, that the latter was skating; and Paddy assured him that he was mistaken, oh, quite mistaken, and that the young gentleman had no idea of skating; and Wayne floundered dejectedly up and sat down meekly on the bank, and told them mournfully that he didn’t mind, only they might just cut out a little of it!

When Don was gleefully informed of the affair by Paddy, he grinned delightedly.

“That’s just like Wayne,” he exclaimed. “Pluckiest and obstinatest chump in school.”

CHAPTER X

GRAY GOES INTO BUSINESS

The end of the fall term at Hillton is a busy time. The examinations occur then, and the award of scholarships is made on the last day of school. The less said about Wayne’s performance at the examinations the better for any good opinion the reader may entertain of that youth. He struggled through; let that suffice. The highest scholarship for the upper middle class, the Goodwin, went to “Charles Fitzgerald Breen, New York city,” and Paddy, blushing like a veritable junior, awkwardly bowed his thanks and received a salvo of most flattering applause. Don came in for the Carmichael scholarship, the next in importance, and Wayne cheered loudly, until kicked into silence by his chum. Dave’s name was not mentioned, but he declared cheerfully that Paddy’s success was “glory enough for all,” and displayed neither disappointment nor envy. Wayne, you may be sure, expected no honors, and so was not one of the many youths who took their way out of the school hall in deep dejection.

Wayne was to spend the winter vacation with Don at the latter’s home in Boston; Paddy’s holidays were to be observed in New York; and Dave, alone of the four, was to remain at school during the recess. Dave’s only near relatives – for his father and mother were both dead – lived in California, and a visit to them was out of the question. Both Don and Paddy extended invitations, but Dave was shy of strange people and houses and preferred to eat his Christmas dinner in the academy dining hall; and so one bright and cold morning he said good-by to his three friends at the station, waved a golf club cheerfully after the receding train, and loitered back to Hampton House, whistling bravely but feeling very lonesome.

The winter vacation lasted two weeks, and Don and Wayne enjoyed every instant of it, and returned to Hillton when the new year was already a week old, refreshed in body and mind, Don full of plans for the track team and a victory for the crimson, and Wayne with his head crowded with admirable resolutions regarding study. Acting upon the suggestion of the principal, he had paid several visits to Professor Durkee, whose rooms were on the first floor of Bradley Hall, and the result had been most encouraging. The professor of English was a lean and wrinkled little man, well past middle age, whose crabbed manner and stern enforcement of discipline had gained for him the dislike of many pupils and the sobriquet of “Turkey.” He was a hard taskmaster but a just one, and many a boy could have told a tale of leniency and kindness in which the little professor would have figured well. Wayne found him goodness itself under his crusty exterior, and a most patient and lucid instructor in the studies that bothered the boy most. And even after Wayne no longer needed the professor’s assistance he continued his occasional visits to the quiet study, and the two became firm friends.

Adhering to his resolves, Wayne spent more time at lessons, threatening to become, according to Paddy, a regular “grind.” Paddy professed to feel the wildest alarm over Wayne’s conduct, and suggested the infirmary as a suitable residence for a while; but Wayne didn’t mind, and before long even Don was forced to acknowledge that his roommate was exhibiting a most commendable studiousness. Alone in the study one afternoon, before a comfortable fire, and doggedly struggling with Greek, Wayne was interrupted by the entrance of Carl Gray. Ever since the latter had accepted Wayne’s loan he had punctually appeared each week with the promised fifty-cent payment, and a certain intimacy had sprung up between the two as a result of the visits. To-day he accepted the chair that Wayne shoved forward and put his wet shoes up to the blaze. But, contrary to custom, he did not at once bring forth his half dollar, and his host thought he detected signs of embarrassment on the younger boy’s countenance and in his manner. They talked for a few minutes about school topics and the prospects for skating on the river. Then Gray edged uncomfortably forward in his chair and cleared his throat.

“‘Wheels’ told me, that day you were in the office, Gordon, that when you have an explanation to make the best way is to go at it straight.” He paused and seemed to be looking for inspiration in the glowing fire.

“Hang it, Gray,” exclaimed Wayne, “I don’t know what you’re driving at; but if you’re trying to tell me that you haven’t – that it isn’t convenient for you to pay that old money to-day – why, cut it out! I’ve told you already that I don’t need it. How many more times do you want me to tell you?”

“Well, that’s it,” responded Carl Gray, breathing easier and looking grateful for the assistance. “But I’d like to explain about it. When I promised to pay you fifty cents a week I wanted to do it and meant to, and I still want to. I shan’t forget the – the kindness – ”

“Cut it,” warned the other.

“Well, but I couldn’t know that – the fact is, Gordon, that I didn’t get any allowance this week, and, what’s more, I don’t think I’ll get any next week. My mother writes that she has had to spend a lot of money on – on something she hadn’t foreseen. And she says she knows I won’t mind very much, since I have probably got a little saved from what she has sent before.” The boy paused and sighed. “I – I never told her, you know.”

“Of course not,” said Wayne cheerfully. “But don’t bother about my little old fifty cents, Gray. Tell your mother that you have gobs of money – just rolling in it; and if you don’t mind taking a loan – ”

“No,” cried Gray sharply. “I’m not going to borrow any more money. But it’s awfully good of you – indeed it is. I don’t need any money – much; at any rate, I’m not going to take any more from you. But I wanted to tell you how it was, so that you’d understand that the reason I didn’t pay you anything this week was because I didn’t have it.”

“All right. Only don’t bother about it. Are you lower middle fellows in the Anabasis?”

“Yes, the first book. But there is something else I wanted to – to ask you about, Gordon. You see you’re almost the only chap in the upper classes that I know; in fact, I don’t know very many fellows, anyhow; and I thought that if you could help me you would.”

“Of course I will,” answered Wayne heartily. “What is it?”

“I want to earn some money. Not for myself exactly, but I’d like to pay you, and I’d like to send a little to my mother. I guess it would be a lot easier for me to send her money than it is for her to send it to me. I was hoping I’d get a master’s scholarship, Gordon, but I suppose that affair of Porter’s bill spoiled that; it would have been awfully nice.”

“Yes, it would. But how can you earn any money, Gray?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I might make a little in this way. Do you play golf?” Wayne shook his head. “Well, fellows that do play have to give about thirty cents for balls; they’re expensive little things, and after they have been used a bit they’re likely to be dented and out of shape. Then they need to be remolded. Of course, remolded balls are never quite as good as new ones, but they’re all right for ordinary use and good enough for lots of the fellows here.”

Wayne had jumped up and now returned to the fireside with a handful of damaged golf balls, collected from various parts of the room.

“Are those the things?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Gray. “I can remold those. I learned how last year. A fellow I know has loaned me his press and I have everything else necessary. I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind speaking to the fellows you know, just telling them that I’ll remold their old balls for ten cents apiece, and do it well. Then, if they had any for me I could call and get them. Don’t you think that would be all right?”

“You bet,” said Wayne. “That’s a jolly good idea. I’ll get lots of balls for you to fuss with. And you can take these along with you now. Let’s see – two, four, six, nine of ’em in all. They’ll do to practice on.”

“But, I say, Gordon, they’re not yours, are they?”

“Mine? Great Jupiter, no! What would I be doing with the silly things? They’re Don Cunningham’s.”

“But will he want them remolded?” asked Gray doubtfully.

“Of course he will, when I explain it to him. Here, put ’em in your pockets. And to-morrow, Gray, come around here about this time and I’ll let you know what can be done. I think it’s a jolly good scheme, and there are so many fellows here that play golf that we ought to be able to find heaps of old balls. If we could get hold of, say, a hundred, that would mean ten dollars, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, only it wouldn’t be all profit, you know. Gutta percha costs quite a bit and so does paint. But it would be a lot of money, just the same; though if I could get fifty balls I’d be satisfied, Gordon.”

“Fifty? Pooh!” said Wayne. “We’ll get lots more than that. Just you wait and see.”

“You’re very good to help me; it will be a bother, I know; and you are so busy with your lessons, too.”

“Oh, I’ll find time between recitations, you know,” replied Wayne. “Come up about this time to-morrow. So long.”

“Good-by,” answered Gray, “and – and thanks awfully, Gordon.” Wayne scowled.

“Say, Gray, I wish you weren’t so full of ‘thank you’s.’ You just tire me to death with them.” Gray smiled from the doorway.

“All right; I’ll try to remember. Good-by.” He closed the door behind him, and Wayne turned back to his book. “I’ll bet Dave’s got a lot of old golf balls,” he muttered as he found his place. “I’ll speak to him to-night if I see him.”

But Dave didn’t turn up that evening, and the next afternoon, as soon as the last recitation was over, Wayne took a pad of paper and a pencil and started out to drum up trade. His first visit was to Hampton House, where he discovered both Dave and Paddy writing fast and furiously at the table, an atmosphere of excitement about them. Paddy stopped long enough to explain what was up.

“We’re going to have a grand spectacular skating carnival on the river next Wednesday. All the fellows are going in for it. Wallace and Greene and I are the committee, and – ”

“What committee?” asked Wayne.

“Oh, just a committee, you know, to get up the programme and arrange for the prizes and all that. We’re going to have a lot of races, handicap, novice, class, and a hurdle race. Say, will you enter the novice?”

“I reckon so. – Are you going to try, Dave?”

“Yep,” answered Dave, looking up for a moment from his work. “I’m down for everything.”

“But how do you know that there’ll be any ice by Wednesday, Paddy?” asked Wayne. Paddy nodded gleefully toward the front window.

“Look at the thermometer, my lad; it was only twenty above a minute ago, and it’s been going down steadily since noon. Oh, don’t you worry about the ice. That’s all right.”

“Well, just as you say, Paddy. – Dave, have you got any old golf balls?”

“Yep, somewhere. Why?”

“I want ’em.”

“Well, look about the place. There’s one or two in that mug over there.” Wayne searched the mantel and what drawers he came across, and soon had seven badly battered little globes before him. He shook his head.

“Those aren’t nearly enough,” he muttered. He looked around and his eyes lighted on Dave’s closet. The boys at the table were too busy to heed him as he opened the door and brought out a box containing eight brand-new Silvertowns. At the hearth he laid his find down and picked up the fire shovel. Placing one of the immaculate white balls on the hearth he proceeded to knock dents in it. It was hard work, but he at last managed to disfigure six of the eight and was hammering at the seventh when a glancing blow sent the little ball whizzing into the air to the table where it landed with a bang under Dave’s nose.

“What in thunder?” he cried, staring at Wayne.

“Beg pardon, Dave,” said that youth, as he attacked the last ball with the fire shovel.

“But what – what are you doing, you idiot?” shrieked Dave.

“Why, you see, I could only find seven old ones, Dave, and I had to have lots more than that.” Then he explained about Carl Gray, and Paddy forgot the skating carnival, for laughing at Dave’s dismay at sight of his new balls. But the latter was soon won round to what Wayne called a proper view of it, and consented to pay ten cents apiece to have the fifteen balls remolded, and Wayne took himself off with his pockets bulging out as though each had the toothache. In the next hour he paid innumerable calls on his acquaintances – he was surprised to find how many he had – and at five o’clock returned to Bradley with a list which ran thus:

Cooper, 25 Masters, 3.

Benson, 36 Turner, doesn’t know how many.

Moore, 30 Masters, 6.

Duane, 8 Bradley, 2.

Harrington, Goodrich’s house, lots of balls.

Greene, 17 Warren, 10. Wants to know if you can mend a club; told him thought you could. Call at noon.

Bradford, 4 Turner, 6. Call after chapel.

There were as many more entries on the list, and Gray was delighted and full of gratitude to Wayne. When he saw some of the fifteen balls that Wayne produced from his overcoat pockets he examined them curiously.

“These eight are awfully queer-looking balls,” he said. “Look as though they’d been kicked about in a coal bin.”

“Oh, you can’t tell what Dave may have been doing with them,” Wayne answered. “I dare say he’s been trying to burn them in the grate. But don’t you care; take ’em along and fix ’em up, and if they’re harder to do than the others, why, charge fifteen cents for them.”

“They won’t be,” said Gray, laughing. “There isn’t much wrong with them, and a coat of paint will do for several. And I’ll take the list around to-morrow and get the balls. I think I can fix that club of Greene’s; perhaps I could find others to mend. Really, Gordon, I’m awfully much ob – ”

“Get out of here!” shrieked Wayne savagely. Gray got out, but in the hall he stopped.

“O Gordon!” he shouted.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Then he scuttled downstairs.

CHAPTER XI

THE MYSTERIOUS SKATER

The skating carnival received faculty indorsement in an odd way. Paddy entered Academy Building one morning to find Professor Wheeler in front of the bulletin board, on which the entry list for the races was posted.

“Good morning, Breen,” said the principal. “I see that you are going to have a skating carnival.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Paddy.

“I used to skate once, Breen; I wonder now if I’ve forgotten how? I believe I’d like to try it, anyway. Couldn’t you add a faculty race, Breen? I’d enter – that is – ” He paused doubtfully. “That is, you know, if I can find another member of the faculty to race with. And I think I can; yes, I’m certain of it,” he added smilingly. “Add the faculty race, Breen, and I’ll promise you two contestants at least.”

“We’ll do it, sir,” answered Paddy eagerly.

“Very well; come to the office to-morrow and I’ll give you my fee.” And the principal went off smiling broadly, and Paddy flew to report the wonderful news to Wallace and the other members of the committee. The next day Professor Wheeler paid his entrance fee, and a second fee, which he explained was for another member of the faculty who had consented to race.

“And who is he, sir?” asked Paddy.

“Ah! that is a secret at present, Breen. But there is his fee, and you may enter him as X – , an unknown quantity. And he’ll be on hand next Wednesday. By the way, what distance is this faculty race to be?”

“We thought a half mile would suit,” answered Paddy.

“A half mile? Tut, tut, my boy, we’re not so old and disabled as that. Change it to a mile, Breen, if you please.”

There was a deal of speculation throughout the school as to the identity of the second faculty member. It might be Tomkins, who was big and strong enough to win a race on skates; or it might be Beck – most of the boys thought it was – for he could skate well and frequently did. Or – well, it might be any one of the thirteen instructors, barring “Turkey,” of course, who was too old to skate and might blow to pieces in a stiff breeze. The day of the racing carnival was awaited impatiently.

Wayne meanwhile practiced almost every day on the lake or the river, preferring the former because less frequented. Often Dave and Don accompanied him, and the three took turns at holding Don’s stop-watch while the others raced together over the mile or half-mile course. The afternoon preceding the carnival was almost dark when the boys took off their skates at the river’s edge and started up the steep bank below the campus and a long half mile from the Academy. They were going to cut across the fields to the village and leave their skates to be reground for the morrow’s contests. But halfway up the ascent Dave paused and drew the others’ attention to a figure across the river. Wayne and Don stopped and followed the direction of Dave’s arm. Under the shadow of a clump of trees across the bare sweep of purple ice they could just make out the form of a person skating slowly, and, as it appeared, stealthily up the river, holding as close as possible to the gloom afforded by the fringe of bushes.

“Who is it, I wonder?” said Don.

“Probably one of the fellows who has been practicing down stream in the hope of surprising us to-morrow?” suggested Dave. But Wayne shook his head.

“It isn’t a boy, it’s a man; and he’s got a long muffler around his neck. See, he’s stopped!”

“Where is he?” asked Dave. “I can’t see him now.”

“Look straight across to the thickest clump of bushes. He’s in the dark there, and I believe he’s watching us. Looks as though he didn’t want to be seen, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. – I say, fellows, let’s go over and have a look at him. What do you say?”

Don’s suggestion was greeted with enthusiasm, and the boys tumbled down the bank again and proceeded to don their skates. The twilight had deepened now, the river had become a broad path of gray between its darker shores, and the figure beneath the trees was lost to sight.

“Is he still there, do you think?” asked Dave, as he struggled with his clamps.

“Yes,” said Wayne, “I’ve watched. If he goes on he’ll come against that light space of sky there and we can see him.”

Dave’s runners were fastened first and he started across the ice, whispering to Don to hurry after, and in a moment was part of the gloom. Don followed the next instant, and Wayne, still working with his obdurate straps, was left alone. Then came a whistle and the sound of ringing blades on the frozen surface. He slipped the last buckle into place and followed up the river in pursuit of the skaters. Once he heard a shout, but he could see nothing save the high bank beside him, and, far up the ice, the twinkling lights of the school buildings. Once he came a cropper over a protruding spit of graveled beach, but picked himself up and was soon on his way again.

Suddenly the sound of skates ahead of him, and drawing nearer, brought him to a pause.

“That you, Dave?” he shouted. “That you, Don?”

There was no reply; but a figure, black and formless, shot out of the gloom ahead, swung about with a short sweep of grinding runners almost under his nose, and again disappeared in the direction from which it had come. Wayne gave a cry and started in pursuit. It was like playing blindman’s bluff. Sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of a darker spot in the blackness ahead, but was not certain. His own skates drowned the noise of those ahead. But the twinkling lights grew nearer and nearer, and he gave a long shout of warning to Dave and Don, who must, he thought, be waiting for him ahead. An answering shout from far off sounded, and Wayne slid for a moment and strained his ears for the sound of skates. He heard it, but judged that the unknown had gained on him, and he strained every muscle to overtake him. As near as he could tell he was now at a point almost in the middle of the river and about opposite the boat house. The next moment he swept toward the latter, for above the noise of his own skating he had detected the sound of clumsy steps on the boat-house landing. And then, while he believed himself still well out from the shore, his ankles encountered the edge of the landing and he pitched, headforemost, halfway across it, and sat up just in time to hear a chuckle in the darkness and the sound of footfalls on the steps leading up the cliff to the path above. With an exclamation of anger Wayne got up, stumbled across the planks, and tried to climb the stairs. But his skates were sadly in the way, and he soon gave up the effort and felt his way back to the edge of the landing, where he sat and rubbed his bruised shins and shouted for the others. Don arrived first, breathless and excited.