Full-Back Foster

“Your idea of looking cheerful is to grin like a codfish all the time,” growled Myron. “I’d rather look the other way.”

“Huh! Ever have a good look at a codfish, kiddo? He looks as sour as – as you do this minute! Has his mouth all drawn down, you know. Maybe he’s a real merry sort of a guy when he’s in the water, but he sure doesn’t look that way when he’s out of it!”

“Never mind how I look,” said Myron sharply. “And cut out that ‘kiddo.’ I’ve spoken about that often enough.”

“Oh, all right. My error.” Joe winked gravely at the lamp. After a moment he asked: “When’s that furniture of yours coming?”

“I don’t know. It should have been here before this. Why?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering. I was looking at a room on Union Street this afternoon. A fellow’s got it now, but the dame says he’s going to move out next week. I’d have to furnish it myself, of course. I suppose furniture costs a good bit, eh?”

“Some of it,” answered Myron.

“Maybe I could get some second-hand things, though. I wouldn’t need much. The trouble with the dive is that it has only one window and that looks out on a back yard full of washing. There’s something sort of – of dejecting about a lot of clothes on a line. Don’t know why, either. How’d you like the game?”

“All right, I guess.”

“How did I do?”

“You know as well as I, don’t you? I wasn’t watching you particularly.”

“That’s funny,” chuckled Joe. “I thought every one was watching me hard. Anyway, the guy I played opposite was! That was an easy bunch, though. Their backs weren’t on the job at all. Maybe I wouldn’t rip them up if I was their coach! They say next Saturday’s game will be a real one, though. Hope they let me in again. How are you coming on, by the way?”

“I’m not coming on,” said Myron. “I’m getting a bit sick of it, and if they think I’m going to stand much more of their silly nonsense they’re mistaken. I’m all right to coach a lot of greenies, it seems, but after that I can whistle. I wouldn’t mind if I couldn’t play as well as half the fellows that were in the game today.”

“I guess your time’s coming,” said Joe consolingly. “They’ll be weeding them out next week, and when they’ve got rid of about forty of them they’ll be able to see what’s left.”

“If they don’t hurry I won’t be one of those left,” said Myron grumpily, “and that’s flat. I wish I’d stuck to my first scheme and gone to Kenwood. There are fewer fellows there and maybe a chap might have a chance to get somewhere.”

Joe shook his head disapprovingly. “I’m glad you didn’t do that,” he said. “Sort of sounds like treason or something. Say, how’d you happen to change your mind, anyway? Old man kick at it?”

Myron had not gone into particulars regarding his decision to remain at Parkinson but had told Joe that “he guessed he’d try to stick it out.” If Joe had surmised the real reason for the overnight change of heart he had kept the fact to himself. Now Myron hesitated. He didn’t want the real reason known nor did he want to tell Joe a lie. So he answered: “There wasn’t any kick, but as you spoke of going to the village I thought – that is – my father thought – ”

“Oh, he knew about that, eh?”

“Who? About what?”

“Your father: about me thinking of getting a room outside.”

“Not exactly, only he thought I might get a place to myself later.”

“You’re a punk liar, Foster,” laughed Joe. “The old man put your little scheme on the blink when he telegraphed to you. Now didn’t he?”

“About that,” confessed Myron a bit sheepishly.

“Sure! I knew it all the time. And he was dead right, too. I’m going to talk sense to you, Foster, whether you get sore or not. The trouble with you is that folks have made you think you’re something a little bit better than the common run of fellows. You’ve always had everything you’ve wanted and you’ve been kept pretty close to the old million dollar hut, and I guess when you were a youngster you didn’t have many fellows to play around with because your folks thought they might be sort of rough and teach you to throw snowballs and wrestle and all those vulgar things. And you’re the only kid, too, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Myron loftily, “but if you’ll kindly mind your own business – ”

“Shan’t,” said Joe unruffledly. “You listen a minute. What I’m telling you’s for your own good, just like everything nasty. Being an only kid with rich parents and servants to tuck your napkin around your neck and everything is mighty hard on a fellow. It – it mighty near ruins him, Foster! You aren’t exactly a ruin – yet, but you’re sure headed that way. Why, doggone you, why ain’t I good enough to room with? What you got that counts that I ain’t got! Same number of arms and legs, eh? Wear about the same size hat, don’t we? Some fellows would have punched your head if you’d lorded it over ’em the way you did over me that first day. Why – ”

“You try it!” said Myron wrathfully.

“Well, you look like a fair scrapper, but I don’t believe you ever had a good fight in your life. Anyway, that’s not the question. What I want to know is where you got your license to act like you’re better than the next guy. Money don’t make you that way, nor classy clothes, nor knowing how to get into a limousine without falling over your feet. Hang it, Foster, you’d be all right if you’d just forget that your old man owns a ship-yard and get it into your bean that other fellows are human even if they wear hand-me-downs and would try to shake hands with the butler! Think it over, old horse, and see if I ain’t right.”

“I don’t have to think it over. You ‘ain’t’ right.” Myron laughed contemptuously. “You think – ”

“Yeah, I’m likely to say ‘ain’t’ when I get excited,” replied Joe, “but I’ll get over that in time.”

“You think that just because I wear decent clothes I’m stuck-up,” protested Myron hotly. “I’ve never said or pretended that I am better than – than any one else! As for rooming with you, I explained that. I was to have a room to myself. That was understood.”

“All right,” said Joe soothingly. “But when you found you couldn’t be by yourself why didn’t you face it like a sport! And why turn up your nose as if they’d asked you to bunk in with the Wild Man of Borneo?”

“I’d just as lief,” sputtered Myron. “He wouldn’t be any wilder than you are!”

“Yeah, but wait till you see me in those new duds we ordered,” said Joe pleasantly. “Maybe you’ll be real proud of me then. Wouldn’t wonder if you’d almost speak to me when there’s other fellows looking!”

Myron flushed and his eyes fell. “That’s a rotten thing to say, Dobbins,” he muttered.

“True, though, ain’t – isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t!”

“My mistake then. Sorry. Well, I’m for the old bed. I suppose I might have kept my mouth shut and minded my own business, like you said, but that mess of talk’s been sort of accumulating ever since we came together and I feel better for getting rid of it, whether you do or not! Sorry if I said anything to hurt your feelings, Foster.”

“Don’t worry. You didn’t. What you say doesn’t cut any ice with me.”

“Then there’s no harm done, eh? Nor good either. It may make you happier to know that I’ve decided to take that room I told you about, though. The guy that’s in it now moves out next Friday and faculty’s given me leave to change. That ought to give you sweet dreams, eh?”

“It will,” replied Myron acidly.

CHAPTER IX

MYRON LOSES HIS TEMPER

The next morning Joe was as cheerful and smiling and good-natured as ever, but Myron wasn’t yet ready to forget, and his responses to his room-mate’s overtures were brief and chilling. After breakfast, which on Sundays was a half-hour later, Joe suggested that Myron walk over to the village with him and visit Merriman and see the puppies. Myron wanted to go, for the day was chill and cloudy and generally depressing, but his pride wouldn’t let him and so he answered shortly that he had seen the puppies and he guessed they hadn’t changed much. When Joe had taken himself off Myron felt horribly out-of-sorts and was heartily glad when church time came and, immaculately but soberly attired, he could set forth across the campus. Dinner was at one o’clock, a more hearty repast than most of the fellows needed after a morning spent in comparative idleness. However, no one skimped it. Myron went right through from soup to ice-cream, becoming more and more heavy and gloomy under the effects of an overloaded stomach. He had been placed at a table near the serving-room doors, and, while some of his companions declared that you got your things quicker and hotter by being so close to the source of supplies, Myron disliked having the doors flap back and forth directly behind his back and detested the bursts of noise and aroma that issued forth at such times. Today he resented those annoyances more than ever and found the conversation about him more than ordinarily puerile.

There were a good many third class boys at his table, fellows of fourteen and fifteen, whose deportment was anything but staid. They were much given to playing practical jokes on each other, such as surreptitiously salting a neighbour’s milk or sprinkling pepper in his napkin. And they were not above flicking pellets of bread when the nearest faculty member was not looking. Each table had a “Head” whose duty it was to see that proper decorum was observed. In some cases the Head was one of the faculty, in other cases he was an older boy. The Head at Myron’s table was a second class chap named Rogers, a stoutish, easy-going fellow who was generally so busy eating everything he could lay hands to that he had no time for correcting his charges. It was unfortunate that young Tinkham, the pink-cheeked, sandy-haired little cherub who sat almost opposite Myron, should have selected today for his experiment with the bread pellet. Tinkham had longed for days to see if he could lodge a pellet against Myron’s nose. To Tinkham that nose looked supercilious and contemptuous and seemed to fairly challenge assault. Until now Tinkham had never been able to summon sufficient courage to dare the sacrilege, but today there was a demoralising atmosphere about and so when, having eaten his ice-cream and having nothing further to live for anyway, he saw Myron’s gaze wander toward the further end of the hall Tinkham drew ammunition from under the edge of his butter dish and with an accuracy born of long practice let fly. His aim proved perfect. Myron dropped his spoon and sped a hand to his outraged nose. Before him, perched on the remains of his ice-cream, was the incriminating missile, and of all those who had witnessed the deed only one remained unsmiling, demure and innocent, and that one was the cherubic, fair-haired Tinkham.

Myron lost his temper instantly and completely. “That was you, Tinkham! I saw you!” The latter statement was hardly truthful, but Tinkham didn’t challenge it. He only looked surprised and pained. “You try that again and I’ll box your silly little ears for you! Remember that, too!” Myron flicked the bread pellet disgustedly aside and glowered at the offender.

“Boo!” said one of Tinkham’s friends, and the younger element became convulsed with laughter. At that, Rogers, who had been bending absorbedly over his dessert, looked up.

“Cut that out, fellows,” he remonstrated feebly.

“We’re only laughing,” giggled one of the boys.

“Wake up, Sam,” said Eldredge, who was Rogers’ age and had viewed the proceedings with unconcealed amusement. “You’re missing all the fun. If you didn’t eat so much – ”

“If he didn’t eat so much he might keep order at the table,” said Myron.

Rogers was too surprised to reply, but Eldredge took up the cudgels in his behalf. “Oh, don’t be a grouch, Foster,” he sneered. “The kid didn’t hurt you. It was only fun.”

“I don’t like the kind, then,” answered Myron haughtily. “After this he can leave me out of his ‘fun.’”

“Oh, piffle! Come back to earth! If I’d been Tinkham I’d have shied the whole loaf at you. Then you’d have had something to kick about.”

“The something would have been you, then,” retorted Myron.

“Would it? Is that so?” Eldredge glared angrily across the table. “Think you’re man enough to kick me, do you? Why, say – ”

“Dry up, Paul!” begged Rogers. “Tasser’s got his eye on you.”

“I won’t dry up,” retorted the insulted Eldredge. Nevertheless he dropped his voice beyond the hearing of the neighbouring instructor. “If that stuck-up mollycoddle thinks he can talk about kicking me and get away with it he’s all wrong, believe me!” The younger boys were listening in open delight and Tinkham was fairly squirming with excitement. “Get that, Foster?”

“I heard you,” replied Myron indifferently.

“You did, eh? Well, any time you feel like – ”

“Rogers, what’s wrong at your table?” It was Mr. Tasser’s voice, and Eldredge stopped suddenly and gulped back the rest of his remark.

“I – I – that is, nothing, sir,” stammered the Head. Then, to Eldredge in an imploring whisper: “Shut up, will you?” he begged. “Want to get me in wrong?” Eldredge muttered and shot venomous looks at Myron while the youngsters sighed their disappointment. Myron folded his napkin and arose leisurely, aware of the unsympathetic regard of his companions, and walked out. In the corridor he waited for a minute or two. He had no desire to carry matters any further with Paul Eldredge, but he felt that if he hurried away that youth might misconstrue the action. However, Eldredge didn’t appear and so Myron went across to Sohmer, still sore and irritated, to find an empty study. Eldredge’s failure to follow Myron out of the dining hall had been due entirely to discretion. With Mr. Tasser’s penetrant and suspicious gaze on him, he decided that it would be wise to avoid all seeming interest in Myron.

Joe failed to return to the room, and after trying to do some studying and finding that he simply couldn’t keep his mind on his task, Myron pulled a cap on and sallied forth again. It was misting by then, and a chilling suggestion of autumn was in the air. When he had mooned along the country road that led toward Cumner for a mile or so without finding anything of interest he turned back toward the town. A hot chocolate in a corner drug store restored his spirits somewhat and, having no better place to go, he crossed the railroad and made his way through the dreary quarter that held the residence of Merriman. He didn’t suppose Merriman would be in, but it was something to do. Recalling former instructions, he didn’t bother to ring the bell this time, but opened the door and climbed the dark stairway to the second floor. That Merriman was in became known to him before he had groped his way to the room, for from beyond the closed portal came the sound of voices. For a moment Myron hesitated. He hadn’t bargained on finding visitors there. But the loneliness of Number 17 Sohmer on this Sunday afternoon decided him, and he knocked. Merriman’s voice bade him enter and he opened the door on a surprising scene.

On the decrepit window-seat reclined Joe Dobbins. Close by, in the room’s one armchair, with his feet on a second chair, was Merriman. Between the two was a corner of the deal table, dragged from its accustomed place, and on the table was the remains of a meal: some greasy plates, a coffee pot, cups, bits of bread, about a third of a pie, a half-eaten banana, a jar of milk. The room, in spite of a wide-open window, smelled of sausages. On Joe’s chest reposed Tess, the terrier, evidently too full of food and contentment to bark, and in Merriman’s lap was a squirming bunch of puppies.

“Come in, Foster,” called the host genially. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, but just now I am weighted with family cares. Find a chair and draw up to our cosy circle. Have you had food? There’s some pie left, and I can heat some coffee for you in a second.”

“I’ve had dinner, thanks, a good while ago.” He carefully lifted a dozen or so books from a chair and took it across to the window. He felt rather intrusive. And there was Joe grinning at him from the seat, and he was supposed to have a grouch against Joe.

“Well, have a piece of pie, won’t you?” begged Merriman hospitably. “Sure? We were sort of late with our feed. What time is it, anyway? Great Scott, Dobbins, it’s nearly four! How long have we been sitting here?”

“I’ve been here ever since I worried down that last piece of pie,” said Joe, “and I guess that was about an hour and a half ago. You ought to have showed up earlier, Foster. You missed a swell feed!”

“Sausages and potatoes and pie,” laughed Merriman. “Still, we managed to nearly kill ourselves: at least, I did.” Joe groaned and shifted the terrier to a new position. “Been for a walk, Foster?”

“Yes. It’s a rotten day, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Merriman glanced through the window in faint surprise. “I hadn’t noticed. Sort of cloudy I see. By the way, I’ve sold one of these little beggars.”

“Have you? They’ve got their eyes open, haven’t they?”

“Sort of half open,” chuckled Merriman. “Maybe they’re too fat to open them any wider. This is the one that’s sold. His name is – what was it you named him, Dobbins?”

“Zephaniah,” answered Joe gravely, “Zephaniah Q. Dobbins.”

“What’s the Q for?” laughed Merriman.

“Haven’t decided yet. I just put that in for the sound. You see, Foster, I’m calling him Zephaniah after an old codger who used to live near us up at Hecker’s Falls, Maine. Zephaniah Binney was his name. He used to be a cook in the logging camps, but he got so fat tasting the things he cooked that he had to quit. After that he used to sit in front of his shack all day, tilted back in a chair, and look for work.”

“Look for work?” laughed Merriman.

“Yeah, he was always on the look-out for a job. ’Most strained his eyes looking. But somehow he never found one; leastways, he hadn’t when I saw him last. Funny old codger. Warren Wilson, who was postmaster and ran the store and one thing and another, used to bring the Bangor paper to Zeph every day and Zeph would study the advertisements mighty carefully. Guess he knew more about the Bangor labour market than any man alive. ‘I was readin’ where one o’ them big dry-goods houses is wantin’ a sales manager,’ Zeph would tell you. ‘It don’t say how much they’re willin’ to pay, though. If I knew that I’d certain’y communicate with ’em, I would so. Maybe they’ll make mention o’ the salary tomorrow. I’ll just wait an’ see.’”

“And he’s still waiting?” chuckled Merriman.

“As far as I know.”

“What does he live on?” asked Myron. “Has he got money saved?”

“No, he’s got something better; he’s got an up-and-coming wife who works just as hard as Zeph – looks. She’s a wonderful woman, too, Mrs. Binney is. She’s lived with Zeph thirty years or more and she ain’t – hasn’t found him out yet. Or, if she has, she don’t let on. If you ask her has Zeph got a job yet she’ll tell you, ‘No, not yet, but he’s considerin’ acceptin’ a position with a firm o’ commission merchants down to Boston.’ And all the considering Zeph has done is read an advertisement in the Bangor paper where it says the Boston folks want a few carloads of potatoes!”

“It’s sort of tough on the puppy, though,” murmured Myron.

“Well, there’s a strong resemblance between him and Zephaniah,” said Joe. “I’ve been watching him. He doesn’t push and shove for his food like the rest of them. He just waits, and first thing you know he’s getting the best there is. If that ain’t like Zeph I’ll eat my hat.”

“Where are you going to keep him?” inquired Myron.

“In my room – when I get it. He won’t want any better than I have, I guess. I don’t suppose he’s going to kick because there isn’t much of a view.”

Merriman asked about the new quarters and Joe supplied a drily humorous description of them. The room began to grow dark and the boy’s faces became only lighter blurs in the twilight. Tess went to sleep and snored loudly. Myron listened more than he talked, conscious of the comfortable, home-like atmosphere of the queer, illy-furnished room and putting off from minute to minute the return to school. But at last the town clock struck six and Joe lifted the terrier from his stomach, in spite of protests, and swung his feet to the floor.

“I’ve got to be going,” he announced. “Haven’t peeked into a book since Friday.” He yawned cavernously. “You coming along, Foster?”

“Yes, I guess so.” Myron was glad to be asked, but he was careful to keep any trace of cordiality from his voice.

“Well, come again,” said Merriman heartily. “Both of you. Sunday’s an off-day with me and you’ll usually find me in about noon.”

“Me? I’ll be back,” declared Joe. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal since I left home like I enjoyed that dinner. Brother, you sure can cook sausages!”

“I like that guy,” said Joe when he and Myron were traversing the poorly-lighted street that led toward school. “He don’t have any too easy a time of it, either, Foster.”

“No, I guess coaching isn’t much fun,” Myron agreed.

“Well, he told me he liked it. Maybe he has to. He says he’s put himself clean through school that way. His father and mother are both dead and the only kin he’s got is an old aunt who lives out West somewhere. He says she’s got a right smart lot of money, but the only thing she ever does for him is send him six handkerchiefs every Christmas. Says it’s a big help, though, because he doesn’t have to buy any. He’s a cheerful guy, all right, and the fellows hit on a swell name for him.”

“What’s that?” asked Myron.

“Why, his name is Andrew Merriman, you know, and so they call him ‘Merry Andrew.’ Cute, ain’t it? He works hard every summer, too. Last summer he was a waiter at a hotel and did some tutoring besides. He’s a hustler. Doggone it, Foster, you’ve got to hand it to a guy like that!”

“Yes,” Myron agreed. Mentally he wondered that Merriman didn’t choose a less menial task than waiting on table. It seemed rather demeaning, he thought. Joe was silent until they had reached the end of School Street and were entering the campus gate. Then:

“Say, I’d like to do something for him,” he said earnestly. “Only I suppose he wouldn’t let me.”

“Do something? What do you mean?” asked Myron.

“Well, help him along somehow. Fix it so’s he wouldn’t have to work all the time like he does. The guy’s got a great bean on him. Bet you he knows more than the Principal and the rest of the faculty put together. A fellow like that ought to be able to go ahead and – and develop himself. See what I mean? He’s too – too valuable to waste his time serving soup and fish in a summer hotel. If I did it it wouldn’t hurt none, but he’s different. If I had my way I’d fix him up in a couple of nice rooms with plenty of books and things and tell him to go to it.”

“But I don’t just see how you could do anything much for him,” said Myron.

“No, I guess he wouldn’t let me.”

“Maybe not. Anyway, it would take a good deal of money, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Well, I’m just talking. No harm in that, eh? I’m not going over to supper. I couldn’t eat anything more if I was paid for it. See you later, kiddo.”

For once Myron failed to resent that form of address. In fact, he scarcely noticed it. Going across to Alumni Hall, he found himself looking forward with something akin to dismay to the time when Dobbins should have left him to the undisputed possession of Number 17!

CHAPTER X

THE CHALLENGE

Myron had quite forgotten Paul Eldredge and the incident of the bread pellet and only remembered when he seated himself at table and caught Eldredge’s unfriendly stare. As he was late, Eldredge and the others were nearly through the rather modest repast, and smiles and whispers across the board appraised him of the unpleasant fact that he was suspected of having delayed his arrival in order to avoid encountering his table companions. Being far from the truth, this displeased him greatly and as a result he bore himself more haughtily than ever, thereby increasing the disfavour into which he had fallen at noon. Young Tinkham raised a snigger amongst his cronies by ostentatiously rolling a bit of biscuit into a pellet, but he didn’t throw it. Presently Myron was left alone, to his satisfaction, Eldredge passing him with a challenging look that would have given him cause for thought had he seen it. At the moment, however, Myron was looking into the bottom of his cup and so had no forewarning of what was to occur.

If Eldredge was in the corridor when he came out ten minutes later Myron didn’t see him. It was not until he was half-way along the walk toward Sohmer that he again recalled Eldredge’s existence. Then he heard his name spoken and turned. Two fellows came toward him, the lights of Goss Hall behind them so that it was not until they had reached him that he recognised them as Eldredge and Rogers. It was Eldredge who had called and who now spoke.