The Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys

Clinton and Hazlett had ceased their chuckles and were looking over at their host, their faces reflecting the surprise and uneasiness upon “Chick’s.”

“Here’s a poor duffer,” went on Stowell, “without money; father dead; mother takes boarders to make a living; wants to go to college and learn to be something a little better than a backwoods lumberman. He gets enough money together somehow – I think you said they borrowed it, ‘Chick’?”

That youth nodded silently.

“Yes, borrowed enough to pay the tuition fee. And then he’s thrown on his own resources to make enough to buy himself things to eat. I suppose even these backwoods beggars have to eat once in a while, Clint? And having learned how to knit blue-woolen mittens – awfully funny looking things, they are – he just goes ahead and knits them, rather than starve to death, and tries to sell them to a lot of superior beings like you and me here, not knowing in his backwoods ignorance that we only wear Fownes’s or Dent’s, and that we naturally look down on fellows who – ”

“Oh, dry up, old man,” growled “Chick.” “I haven’t been saying anything against the duffer. Of course he’s plucky and all that. You needn’t jump on a fellow so.”

“Yes, he has got grit, and that’s a fact,” Clinton allowed. “Only, of course, knitting – well, it’s a bit out of the ordinary, eh?”

“I suppose it is,” answered Stowell. “In fact ‘Mittens’ is a bit out of the ordinary himself. He’s – ”

There was a knock at the door, and, in response to Stowell’s invitation, Shult, tall, ungainly, tow-haired, freckle-faced, entered and paused in momentary embarrassment as his blue eyes lighted on Reeves.

“Hello, Shult; come in,” called Stowell. “Have you brought those mittens?”

Shult had, and he undid them carefully, and crossing the study, handed them to their purchaser.

“Ah,” continued Stowell, drawing one of the heavy blue things on to his hand, “long wrists, I see. That’s fine. Like to see them, Bob?” Hazlett said that he would. Every one was very silent and grave. Reeves, after nodding to Shult, had busied himself with a magazine. Now he leaned over Hazlett’s shoulder and examined the mittens with almost breathless interest. Clinton craned his head forward and Stowell handed the other pair to him for inspection. Shult stood silently by, his embarrassment gone.

“Look as though they’d be very warm,” said Hazlett, in the voice of one hazarding an opinion on a matter of national importance. He looked inquiringly, deferentially, up at Shult.

“Warm as toast,” said the latter.

“Seem well made, too,” said Clinton. Then he colored and glanced apologetically at Stowell. Stowell turned his head.

“Do you get these hereabouts, Shult?” he asked. There was a moment’s hesitation. Then,

“I – I knit them myself,” said the freshman, quietly.

“Not really!” exclaimed Stowell, in much surprise. “Did you hear that, Clint? He makes them himself. It must be quite a knack, eh?”

“I should say so!” Clinton exclaimed, enthusiastically. “It – it’s an accomplishment!”

“By Jove!” said Hazlett. They all stared admiringly at Shult.

“But, I say, don’t stand up,” exclaimed Stowell. “‘Chick,’ push that chair over.”

Shult sat down. He was very grateful to Reeves for not telling what he had seen during his call, and grateful to the others for not laughing at his confession. It had taken quite a deal of courage to make that confession, for he had anticipated ridicule. But instead these immaculately dressed fellows almost appeared to envy him his knowledge of the art of knitting woolen mittens. He was very pleased.

“I wonder – ” began Clinton. He glanced doubtfully at his host. “I think I’d like to have some of these myself. Have you – er – any more, Mr. Shult?”

“Oh, yes; I can make a pair an evening, anyhow. I – I didn’t suppose you fellows would care for them.”

“Nonsense,” said Stowell. “They’re just what a chap needs around here. I – I used to wear them when I was a boy; after all, there’s nothing like old-fashioned mitts to keep your hands warm.”

“Nothing!” said Clinton.

“Nothing!” echoed Hazlett.

“Nothing!” murmured Reeves.

“If you could let me have – ah – about two pairs – ”

Clinton’s request was firmly interrupted by his host.

“Nonsense, Clint, you’ll need at least four. I’m going to have a couple more myself.”

“I dare say you’re right. If you could let me have four pairs, Mr. Shult, I – ah – should be very much obliged.”

“And me the same,” said Hazlett.

“Yes, certainly,” answered Shult, flustered and vastly pleased. “You shall have them right off.”

“And let me see, ‘Chick,’” said Stowell, “didn’t I hear you say you wanted a couple more pairs?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” Reeves replied explosively. “Er – two pairs, please.”

Shult looked surprised. Fortune was favoring him beyond his wildest hopes. He muttered an incoherent answer. Then Stowell gravely paid him for the two pairs of intensely blue and shapeless objects in his lap and Shult made the exact change after repeated searches in three different pockets. At the door he turned.

“You are all very kind to me,” he said, gravely and earnestly. “I’m – I’m thankful to you.”

Stowell murmured politely.

After the door had closed there followed several moments of silence. Then a smile crept over Stowell’s face and was reflected on the faces of the others. But nobody laughed.

Possibly the reader recalls the epidemic of blue-woolen mittens that raged in college that winter. One saw them everywhere. The fashion started, they say, among a certain coterie of correct dressers in the freshman class and spread until it enveloped the entire undergraduate body. None could explain it, and none tried to; blue-woolen mitts were the proper thing; that was sufficient. At first the demand could not be supplied, but before the Midyears were over the Cooperative Society secured a quantity, and the furnishing stores followed its example as soon as possible. But blue-woolen mitts in sufficient quantities to fill the orders were difficult to find, and long before the shops had secured the trade in that commodity, one Shult, out of Michigan, had reaped a very respectable harvest and found a nickname which, despite the lapse of years and the accumulation of honors, still sticks – “Mittens.”

THE END