Tom Fairfield's Schooldays: or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall

Allen Chapman

Tom Fairfield's Schooldays; or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall

CHAPTER I

TOM HEARS STRANGE NEWS

“Hi, Tom, give us a ride in your boat; will you?”

“Take us across to the other side of the river.”

The request and the suggestion came from two lads who were walking toward a small boathouse, on the edge of a rather wide river. The youth to whom they spoke looked up from a small motorboat, the engine of which he was cleaning.

“What do you want to go over to the other side of the river for, Dick Jones?” asked Tom Fairfield, of the lad who had made that suggestion.

“Got to go on an errand for dad, and it’s too far to walk away around by the bridge. Take me over, will you?”

“I will if I can get this engine to run.”

“What’s the matter with it?” asked Will Bennett, the companion of Dick Jones. The two were chums, and friends of Tom Fairfield, all of them living in the village of Briartown. Tom, whose parents were quite well off, had recently bought a motorboat, not very large, but of sufficient size to enable him to take out several of his chums. “What’s the matter with the engine?” asked Will again, as he and his chum walked out on the small dock, at the end of which the motorboat was made fast.

“Matter with it? What isn’t the matter with it?” asked Tom in some disgust. “The cylinder is flooded with oil, that’s what’s the matter, and I don’t know how many more things I’ll find wrong before I get through. It’s all that Dent Wilcox’s fault.”

“How’s that?” asked Dick, as he and his chum watched Tom trying to drain some of the lubricating oil out through a small valve.

“Oh, I took Dent out for a ride last night, and as I was in a hurry to get up to the house when I got back, I asked him to shut off the oil cups. But it’s like everything else he does – he’s too lazy, almost, to breathe. He didn’t turn off the oil, and all that was in the cups ran into the cylinder during the night. I’ve tried for the last half hour to get the engine started, but she won’t run.”

“That’s too bad,” spoke Will sympathetically.

“I’ll never trust Dent to do anything for me again,” went on Tom. “I ought to have seen to the oil cups myself, and I will next time. Wait until I catch him!”

“There he goes now!” exclaimed Dick, pointing to a lad crossing a field some distance away. “Shall I run and tell him you want to see him?”

“No, it isn’t worth while,” replied Tom. “Besides, he’s so lazy he wouldn’t walk down here. But I’ll talk to him like a Dutch Uncle when I do see him. Now let’s see if the engine will work. If it does, I’ll give you fellows a ride.”

Once more Tom turned the flywheel over several times, but, though the engine coughed, wheezed and spluttered, as though in apology at having such poor health, it did not start.

“Say, you haven’t got your forward switch on!” suddenly exclaimed Will. “There’s no spark.”

“No wonder!” cried Tom. “I remember now, I had it on, and then, as I didn’t want to get a shock when I was cleaning the spark plug, I shut it off. Then I forgot to put it on again. Hop in, and close the switch, Will, and then maybe we can start. I guess most of the oil is out, now.”

The two chums got in the boat, and Will, making his way forward, closed the connection. Then Tom, who had remained near the motor, again turned over the flywheel. This time there was an explosion, and the engine worked rapidly. The propeller churned the water, and the painter strained as the boat moved forward.

“Hurray!” cheered Dick.

“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Will, at the prospect of a ride.

“Yes, I guess it’s all right now,” assented Tom. He shut off the engine by pulling out a switch near it, and added: “Wait until I get some more oil from the boathouse, and I’ll be with you.”

As Tom started up the dock toward the little building, which he had built, with the help of his chums, to house his boat, he saw, coming along the road that ran near the river, a young man in a small auto runabout. The youth was well dressed, but on his face was a look of sadness and worry, in contrast, Tom thought, to the cheerful expression he should have worn.

“If I had a natty little car like that, I wouldn’t look so glum,” reasoned Tom, as he opened the boathouse door. The runabout came nearer, and the lone occupant of it, bringing it to a stop opposite Tom, called out:

“Is there any place around here where I can hire a boat for a row of an hour or so?”

“Not near here,” replied Tom.

The young man’s eyes rested on Tom’s own trim rowing craft.

“Is that one to hire?” he asked, nodding toward it.

“No,” replied our hero. “But if you’d like to take it I’ve no objections. I’ve got a motorboat, and, if you like, I’ll take you for a ride in that. Did you want to go anywhere in particular?”

“No, I just want to get off by myself, and worry over my troubles,” and the newcomer laughed, but the laugh had no merriment in it.

“Troubles?” questioned Tom, now that the other had given him an opening. “You don’t look as if you had troubles.”

“Well, I have – lots of ’em. I’ve acted like a blamed chump, and now I’ve got to pay the piper. A man is trying to make trouble for me, and I guess he’ll succeed, all right. I’m too easy, that’s the trouble. But I’m not going to bother you with my woes.”

“Do you want to come for a ride with me?” asked Tom. “I’m going to take a couple of friends across the river.”

“No, thank you. I don’t want to seem stiff, but really I’d be better off by myself for a time. So, if you really mean it, and will lend me your boat, I’ll go for a row alone. I was out on a little country run – I live in Camden – and when I saw this river, looking so calm and peaceful, I just felt as though I’d like to row on it, and forget my troubles.”

“You may take the boat, and welcome,” went on Tom, looking at the other, and forming a liking for him at once.

“Thanks. My name is Bennington – Bruce Bennington. I haven’t a card, or I’d give you one.”

“My name’s Tom Fairfield,” spoke our hero, and the two shook hands.

“Know how to row?” asked Tom, as the newcomer started toward where the small boat was moored.

“Yes, I’m on the crew at Elmwood Hall. I’m a senior there,” Bruce explained.

“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, for he had often heard of that place of learning. “That’s quite a school,” he added. “I’ve often wished I could go there.”

“Yes, it’s quite a place,” admitted Bruce Bennington. “And we have a pretty fair crew. You won’t want your boat right away?”

“No. And the reason I asked if you could row was because there are some stiff currents in the river. You’re welcome to come in the motorboat if you like, though it isn’t much of a craft.”

“No, thank you, I’d rather row off by myself, and do some good hard thinking. I’ve got to go back to school as soon as the fall term opens, which will be in about two weeks, and I’d like to find a way out of my troubles before then, if I can.”

“It’s too bad,” spoke Tom sympathetically, for he had, somehow, come to form a strange and sudden liking for this lad. Tom looked into the other’s frank and pleasant face, and really wished he could help him.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to squirm out of it the best I can,” went on Bruce. “A good row, and a rest in the cool shadows, will calm me down, maybe, and I’ll try to make some plans before I have to get back to the grind. I’ll take good care of your boat.”

By the manner in which he entered it, and took up the oars, Tom saw that Bruce knew how to handle the craft. The auto runabout had been left near the dock, and a little later the senior was sculling down the stream.

“Who was that?” asked Tom’s chums, as he rejoined them.

He explained briefly, as he filled the empty oil cups, and soon he and the two lads were puffing across the river in the motorboat. The rowing craft had disappeared around a bend in the stream.

“Troubles, eh?” mused Will. “I don’t believe I’d let much trouble me if I went to a cracker-jack school like Elmwood Hall, and had a runabout like that.”

“Me either,” added Dick.

“Well, you never can tell,” spoke Tom, as he thought of the sad look on the senior’s face – a look that had returned several times during the talk, in spite of the frequent smiles. “He seems like a nice sort of chap.”

“Did he say what his trouble was?” asked Will.

“No, and I didn’t ask him. Said some man had it in for him. Look out where you’re steering, Dick.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Dick, who had requested Tom to let him take the wheel for a time.

“There’s a big rock somewhere out here,” went on the owner of the motorboat. “I must mark it with a buoy, or I’ll hit it myself some night. Keep more to the left.”

Dick spun the wheel over, and the boys rode on, talking of many things.

“Where do you think you’ll go to school this fall?” asked Will of Tom.

“Oh, back to the Academy, I suppose.”

“Why, you graduated from there in June!”

“I know I did, but there’s going to be a post-graduate class formed, I hear. Going to take up first year college work, and dad talks of sending me. I wish I could go to Elmwood Hall, though, or some place like that.”

“So do I!” cried Will.

“Boarding school’s the place!” affirmed Dick, with energy. “I’d like to go to one.”

They had reached the other side of the river now and Dick Jones, who had been sent by his father to take a message to a lumberman, started off on his errand, Will and Tom promising to wait for him in the motorboat. When Dick returned on the run, Tom yielded to the request of the two lads, and took them for a run up the stream.

“That is, unless you have something to do, Tom,” spoke Will.

“No, I’m going to have all the fun I can before school opens, that’s all. And it will do the engine good to run a bit and get rid of the oil that chump Dent let run in.”

The boys were out in the motorboat for about two hours, and, on nearing the dock on the return trip, Dick remarked:

“That fellow’s auto is gone.”

“Is my boat there?” asked Tom, who was tinkering with the motor of his craft.

“Yes,” replied Will, who was steering.

“All right; I guess that fellow got tired of rowing, or maybe he thought of a way out of his troubles, and came in.”

When Tom had made fast his motorboat, he went to the rowing craft to see if it was in good condition. He saw a piece of paper on one of the seats, held down by a little stone. Picking it up he read:

“Many thanks for the use of your boat. I had a fine row, and I feel better, though I’m as much up a tree as ever. I hope to see you again, sometime. If ever you are near Elmwood Hall, look me up.

“Bruce Bennington.”

“That was nice of him,” remarked Will, as Tom showed him the note.

“And he didn’t damage your boat any,” spoke Dick.

“No, he knows how to handle ’em – he rows on the Elmwood Hall crew,” said Tom. “Well, so long, fellows. I’m going for a long run to-morrow, if you’d like to come.”

“Sure!” they chorused.

But Tom was not destined to take that long run on the morrow, for, when he reached his home, not far from the river, he heard strange tidings, that made quite a difference in his plans.

As Tom entered the house he saw his father holding a letter, that he had evidently been reading to his wife, and discussing with her. There was a look of concern on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Brokaw Fairfield.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, quickly. “Any bad news?”

“No, not exactly bad news, Tom,” replied his father. “But it is news, and it’s going to make quite a difference to us – to you also.”

“What is it?”

“You remember that property in Australia, Tom, which was left to me by an uncle; don’t you?” asked Mr. Fairfield.

“Yes,” replied our hero, for he had often heard the inheritance mentioned. “What about it?”

“Well, I’ve been trying to dispose of it, and have the money from the sale sent to me here, but it seems that some trouble has arisen, and I’ve got to go there to straighten it out. I tried to do it by correspondence, but I have just received a letter from a lawyer in Sydney, saying that my personal presence is needed, or I may lose it all. So – ”

“Your father and I have decided to go to Australia!” suddenly broke in Mrs. Fairfield, anxious to get the worst over. “Oh, Tom, I don’t want to go at all, and leave you behind, but I’ve got to!”

“What!” cried Tom. “Can’t I go? You two going to Australia, and leaving me alone here? Oh, say, now – ”

“Wait, Tom,” cautioned his father with a smile, “we’re not going to leave you alone, exactly. Besides, there is your education to think of, and we may be gone for many months.”

“Oh, but I say – ” began Tom again.

“Now, dear son,” began his mother in a gentle voice, “we have it all planned out for you. You are to go to boarding school while we are away.”

“Boarding school!” Tom’s eyes began to sparkle. After all, this might be as good as going to Australia.

“Yes,” said his father, “and we have picked out – ”

“Elmwood Hall!” broke in Mrs. Fairfield, unable to let her husband tell all the news.

“Elmwood Hall!” cried Tom, thinking of the note in his pocket from Bruce Bennington.

“Yes,” spoke Mr. Fairfield, “though if you’d rather go to some other place it may be arranged. But your mother and I picked out Elmwood Hall, and – ”

“Elmwood Hall!” cried Tom again. “Say, that’s all right. I’m satisfied! That beats Australia. When are you going? When can I start for Elmwood? Have you got a catalog from there? Say, I’ve got something to tell you!” and Tom, overcoming a desire to stand on his head, pulled out the note Bruce had left in his boat.

“Elmwood Hall!” exclaimed Tom again. “This is the best ever!”

CHAPTER II

THE DRIFTING BOAT

“What makes you so enthusiastic about Elmwood Hall, Tom?” asked Mr. Fairfield, when his son had somewhat calmed down. “I didn’t know you knew much about it.”

“I don’t except what I’ve heard and read, but it just happens that I met a fellow from there to-day.” And Tom told of his talk with Bruce Bennington, showing his parents the letter.

“Hum, that is rather odd,” spoke Mr. Fairfield. “I wonder what his trouble could have been? Bennington – Bennington. I’ve heard that name before. Oh, I know; Mr. Bennington is a millionaire manufacturer. That must be his son, though if he’s in trouble I should think Mr. Bennington would help him out.”

“Maybe it isn’t money,” spoke Tom. “But, anyhow, I’m glad I’m going to Elmwood, and maybe I’ll get chummy with Bruce Bennington, though there’s not much chance, for he’s a Senior, and I’ll be a Freshman.”

“I hope, if you can, that you’ll help him,” said Mrs. Fairfield. “And oh, Tom, do you think they’ll haze you?”

“If they do, I guess I can stand it,” replied her son. “Everyone has to be hazed. I won’t mind. But now tell me something about going to Australia.”

“It’s going to be quite a trip,” said Mr. Fairfield, “and one I wish I could get out of, but I can’t. We’ll start as soon as we can, Tom. We’re to go to San Francisco by train, and take a steamer there. I’ll write at once, and make arrangements for you to go to Elmwood Hall. Your mother will see to getting what clothes you need. Here is a catalog of the school.”

Tom eagerly looked the pamphlet over, while his father went to his library to write some letters and Mrs. Fairfield, not without some misgivings as to what might happen to Tom at boarding school, or to herself and her husband on their long trip, went to look over her son’s wardrobe.

As I have explained, Mr. Fairfield was quite well off, and had the prospect of more wealth. He did not care to lose his Australian inheritance, and, though the journey meant some trouble for him, in that it would complicate his business affairs at home, he decided to make it. He had long promised his wife a trip abroad and now was the chance for it, as they intended to come home by way of Europe.

Tom Fairfield was a tall, well built youth, fond of all out-doors sports, and about as lively a lad as you would care to meet.

He had lived in Briartown all his life, though he had traveled extensively with his father and mother, and knew considerable of the world. He was an only son, a sister having died when a little girl.

Tom had many friends in the village, where his father’s silk factory was located, and our hero took part in the scenes and activities of the place. He had attended the Academy there, and was one of the best football and baseball players. He always had a liking for the water, and since getting his motorboat, had been on Pine river more often than ever. He had tried to get up a crew at the Academy, but could not seem to interest enough boys, or get them to subscribe the necessary funds.

Tom had one or two enemies, too, chiefly because he would not let them bully him, but they did not worry him, for any lad of spirit is as likely to have enemies as friends, and Tom had plenty of the latter.

“Jove! To think that I’m really going to Elmwood Hall!” Tom whispered to himself, as he leafed over the catalog, and looked at the pictures of the various buildings. “That’ll be great! I wish I knew some of the fellows who were going there, but I guess I can soon get acquainted. I wonder if I can pass the entrance examinations?”

He looked at the requirements for the Freshman class, and noted that there was no study but what he had had at the Academy.

“I guess I can do it,” he said.

There were soon busy days in the Fairfield household.

Besides making arrangements for the voyage, and getting their business affairs in shape to leave, Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield had to arrange for Tom’s stay at Elmwood. This was done by correspondence and, about a week after Tom had heard the news, he went to the school to take the entrance examinations. He met a few lads in like case, all rather miserable, and Tom felt a feeling of pride as he walked about the campus, and thought that soon he would be a student there.

“That is, if I pass,” he mused. “That Latin exam. was a bit stiff, and so were the maths. Maybe the others will be easier. I hope so, anyhow.”

Tom’s hopes were realized, for on the second day – the test extending over that time – he had no difficulty in answering the entrance questions. Then he went back home, to receive, a few days later, word that he had passed, and would be admitted to the Freshman class.

“Wow!” he cried, as he read the formal announcement. “That’s great! I’m going to tell the boys!”

He rushed off to find Dick and Will, his most particular chums. But, on visiting their houses, he was informed that they had gone fishing on the river.

“I’ll find ’em,” he said. “I know the fishing hole. I’ll go down in my motorboat.”

He hurried back to the dock, and, as he reached a point where he could look down to it, he uttered an exclamation of dismay.

“My motorboat!” he cried. “It’s gone! Some one has it! If it’s stolen – ”

He broke into a run, and as he had a good view of the river he saw his boat out in the middle of the stream.

“Well, of all the nerve!” he cried. “Dent Wilcox has taken my boat without asking me. I’ll fix him!”

Then he noticed that the boat was not running under her own power, but was drifting down stream.

“Hi there, Dent! What’s the matter with you?” Tom cried. “What did you take my boat for? Why don’t you start up and run her back here?”

The lazy lad addressed looked up from what was evidently a contemplation of the stalled engine.

“Start her going!” cried Tom. “Start the engine, or you’ll be on the rocks!”

“I can’t,” yelled back Dent. “She’s stopped.”

“Crank her,” ordered Tom. “Turn the flywheel over!”

Dent did so, but in such a lazy and slow fashion that even from shore Tom could see that the lad was not exerting himself enough. The wheel needed a vigorous turn.

“Oh, put some muscle into it!” cried Tom. “You’ll never get her going that way!”

“I’ve tried three or four times, and she won’t go,” retorted Dent, leaning back against the gunwale, and looking at the engine, as though a mere glance would set it going.

“Keep on trying!” cried Tom. “Don’t you see where you’re going? You’ll be on the rocks in five minutes more! Can’t you even steer? Next time you take my boat I’ll wallop you good!”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” came the answer over the stretch of water.

“Well, I do. Now you crank up!”

Dent Wilcox tried again, but his inherent laziness was against him, and nothing resulted. The boat was in the grip of the current, and was rapidly drifting toward the dangerous rocks.

“By Jove! He’ll wreck my boat!” thought Tom. “Say!” he cried desperately, “can’t you get that engine going somehow, and avoid the rocks?”

“I guess there’s no gasolene,” retorted Dent.

“Yes, there is, the tank’s full.”

“Then the batteries have given out.”

“Can’t be. They’re new. Oh, you big chump, to take out my boat when you don’t know how to run her!” and Tom looked at his drifting craft in despair.

“Can’t you come out and get me?” suggested Dent, as he looked helplessly at the engine.

“Well, of all the nerve!” cried Tom. “But I’ll have to, I guess, if I want to save my boat!”

He hurriedly cast off his rowing craft, jumped in, and was soon pulling out toward the drifting motorboat.

CHAPTER III

OFF FOR ELMWOOD HALL

“Talk about lazy fellows!” murmured Tom, as he bent to his oars, “that Dent Wilcox certainly is the limit. He’s too lazy to row, so he borrows my motorboat. Then he’s too lazy to learn how to crank the engine, and too lazy to turn the flywheel over hard enough. It’s a wonder he ever got started, and when he does get going he doesn’t take enough pains to look out where he’s steering. If he wrecks my boat I’ll make him pay for her.”

Tom cast a glance over his shoulder toward his craft, and the sight of the boat nearer the rocks made him row faster than ever.

“Why don’t you try to steer, or crank her?” he yelled to Dent.

“What’s the use?” asked the lazy lad indifferently.

“Use? Lots of use? Do you want to go on the rocks?”

“No, not exactly,” spoke Dent, and his voice was quicker than his usual slow tones, as he saw his danger. “But you’ll be here in a minute, and you can run things.”

“Yes, that’s just like you,” retorted Tom. “You want someone else to do the work, while you sit around. But I’ll make you row back, and pull the boat too, if I can’t get her going.”

“Oh, Tom, I never could pull this boat back.”

“You’ll have to,” declared our hero grimly, “that is if the engine won’t run. Stand by now, to catch my painter.”

Dent stood up in the stern of the drifting motorboat, and prepared to catch the line Tom was about to throw to him. Tom was near enough to his motorcraft now so that the headway and the current of the river would carry him to her.

“I hope I can get that engine going,” he remarked to himself, as he saw how dangerously near he was to the rocks.

“Catch!” he cried to Dent, throwing the end of his line aboard, and Dent, forgetting his usual lazy habits, made a quick grab for the painter. He reached it, took a turn around a cleat, and in another moment Tom was aboard.

“Pull my rowboat closer up,” he ordered Dent. “I’m going to have a try at the motor, and if she doesn’t go, we’ll have to row out of danger.”

He gave a quick look at the engine, and then cried:

“Well, you’re a dandy!”

“What’s the matter?”

“You didn’t have the gasolene turned on.”

“I did so. Else how could I have run out from the dock?”

“With what was in the carbureter, of course. But when that was used up, you didn’t get any more from the tank. You’re a peach to run a motorboat! Don’t you ever take mine out again!”

“I won’t,” murmured Dent, thoroughly ashamed of himself.

With a quick motion Tom turned on the gasolene, saw that the switches were connected, and, with a turn of the flywheel, he had the motor chugging away a second later.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, as he sprang to the steering wheel.

“Glad I don’t have to pull in,” said Dent, thinking of the work he had escaped.

“Well, it was a narrow squeak,” said Tom, as he steered out of the way of the rocks, and then sent his boat around in a graceful curve.

“How’d you come to take my boat?” asked our hero, when he had a chance to collect his thoughts.