Barry Locke, half-back

Twenty minutes later Barry left Dawson Hall and made his way thoughtfully toward the gate. The quiet usually following a midday Sunday dinner lay heavily over the campus. In the two dormitories many windows were open wide to the sun-warmed breeze, and in most of them youths lolled indolently. A voice now and then and the subdued tumpity-tump of a banjo alone broke the stillness, until, having almost reached the gate, Barry heard tones of shrill protest, a laugh, and the sound of scuffling in the fallen leaves. A few steps farther along the curving drive he came within view of three boys. Two he recognized; the third was a stranger. Rusty Waterman, Zo Fessenden’s violin in one hand, was trying to possess himself of the bow. Zo, the case hanging open from one hand and the bow in the other, was tugging back from Rusty’s grip. The third boy stood by, laughing.

“No, please, Waterman!” Zo was pleading. “I don’t like to have folks use it! You might break it!”

“Come on, come on!” said Rusty, impatiently. “Here, hold the fiddle, Jack, till I get the rest of it. He thinks I can’t play!” Rusty held out the violin. His back to Barry, he had not noticed the latter’s approach. Barry stepped in front of “Jack” and took the violin.

“I’ll look after this,” he said. Rusty wheeled, dropping his grasp of Zo’s arm.

“Oh!” he said, rather blankly. Then: “It’s Mister Buttinski again, eh?” he added truculently. “What do you want?”

“Not a thing,” answered Barry. He stepped around Rusty and gave the violin to Zo. “Better put it away,” he advised. The youth called Jack had edged aside and with an absolutely neutral expression was watching developments. Zo smiled gratefully and returned bow and instrument to their places, snapping the case shut while Rusty still stared peevishly.

“Let’s go,” said Barry.

Rusty found his voice again.

“Say, you think you can get away with anything, Locke, don’t you?” he sneered. “Let me tell you something. If it wasn’t Sunday I’d teach you good manners, you fresh dumb-bell!”

“Too bad it’s Sunday, then,” replied Barry, politely. “It ought to be interesting to see you trying to teach manners, Waterman. To any one,” he added.

“Is that so? All right, Locke, you’ll be first.” Rusty laughed hoarsely at what he evidently considered a clever ripost and by a glance invited his companion to share his amusement. Jack, however, ventured no more than the faintest of smiles. Rusty’s own grin vanished and a very ugly scowl took its place.

“I’ll settle with you yet, Locke,” he growled. “I haven’t forgotten, and I’m not going to. You’ll get yours, I promise you!”

Barry made no reply and he and Zo went through the gate and turned toward home.

“How did he get your violin?” asked Barry.

“He asked me to let him see it, and when I opened the case he took it out. I asked him not to. Then he wanted the bow. He said he wanted to play a jig. I was afraid he might break it, and wouldn’t give it to him.”

“Does he bother you often, Zo?”

“No-o, not very. Two or three times he has stopped me and—and sort of teased me.”

“How does he tease you?”

“Oh, makes fun of me and makes me shake hands with him and hurts me a little. He presses his thumb in here.” Zo indicated the space between thumb and first finger. “I don’t mind much. Once, just after they caught me that time,—Pup Night, you remember,—he said he and some of the others were going to lay for me some night and give me that ducking. I was sort of scared for a while and used to wait for Mill or some one to go home with me, but I guess he was only talking. He doesn’t bother me much.”

“He’s a silly ass,” said Barry, impatiently. “Some one ought to teach him manners. I don’t suppose I could, but I’d be willing to try. You ought to have told Peaches or me about him before, Zo.”

“I didn’t want to make—I didn’t want to have you think me such a baby. I guess I am a baby, though. I don’t know much about fighting, Barry.”

“Well, you ought to know how to protect yourself, Zo, and when I can find the time—after football’s over—I’ll show you a little about boxing, if you like.”

“Thanks,” murmured the other, in no very enthusiastic tones. “I don’t think I could ever be much of a fighter, though.”

Barry laughed.

“I don’t believe you could! But you’ll find that if you know how to use your fists you’ll not have to use them. Not very often, anyway. Fellows like Rusty don’t get funny with fellows who look as if they knew a thing or two. What were you doing with your violin to-day, Zo?”

“I was playing for Mr. Sartier before dinner. He wants to start an orchestra here. He’s an awfully good pianist, Barry. We tried three or four things together and got along pretty well, I think.”

“A school orchestra, eh? Sounds like a good scheme, Zo. I hope Frenchy makes it go. I’d a heap rather hear him play the piano than preside in French class. By the way, if it does come off I hope you’ll speak a good word for me, Zo. I’d like to join it.”

Zo smiled doubtfully.

“You don’t play any instrument, do you?” he asked.

“Don’t I! You ought to hear me play the baton!”

Barry’s amusement over his own joke didn’t survive the journey from the front gate to the house, however, and Betty, in sole occupancy of the sunlit porch, remarked:

“You must have said something awfully funny to make Zo Fessenden laugh like that, but you don’t look now as if you’d ever joked in your life!”

Barry sat down on the edge of the porch and smiled weakly.

“I’m always saddest when I smile, Betty,” he answered. “Where’s every one?”

Betty waved a slim hand vaguely.

“Gone,” she said. “Let’s see. Father’s taking his walk, Mother’s gone to see Mrs. Travers, Peaches hasn’t shown up since dinner, and I’m here. Oh, yes—and Toby’s upstairs where he always is.”

“Pinning inoffensive beetles to cigar-boxes, I suppose. He’s been having a rough time at school lately. Some one let out about the care and feeding of frogs and Toby’s getting frightfully ragged. Toby says Mill did it, but Mill declares he didn’t.”

“Of course you don’t know who it was,” observed Betty, demurely.

“Well, if you think it was me, you’re wrong,” said Barry, grinning. “When I tried to tell a fellow he said he’d already heard it!”

Betty laughed and Barry’s grin turned to a frown.

“I wish Peaches would come,” he said plaintively. “I want to talk to him about something.”

“You and he are pretty good friends, aren’t you?” said Betty. “I’m awfully glad. It’s funny, too, for he’s been here with us two years and he was never chummy with any of the boys before.”

“He says I amuse him.” Barry turned from watching the road in the direction of school and asked: “Why is it Peaches doesn’t have more friends, Betty? I mean fellows he goes about with. He knows every one, it seems, but he doesn’t seem to want to have much to do with any one.”

“I don’t really know, Barry. The first year he was here he started to go around with two or three fellows in his class. You know them, I guess: Ellingham and Prentiss.”

“I know Ellingham,” said Barry. “They call him ‘Goof.’ That the one?”

“Yes. And Prentiss is a tall boy with a lot of color in his cheeks, who dresses a lot. Then there was another—he wasn’t in Peaches’ class, when I think of it—named Shafter. They all belonged to the rich crowd in school, you know. Well, Peaches went with them for maybe a month or two and then all of a sudden he stopped. I never knew what happened, only Davy said something to Peaches about it one day and Peaches said, ‘Oh, they got my goat!’ Since then he’s sort of kept to himself, although all the boys seem to like him a lot, and he always gets more applause when he goes to bat in the ball games than any one else on the team!”

“Funny for him to get in with the wealthy crowd,” mused Barry. “Maybe they found he wasn’t—well, one of them, you know, and dropped him.”

“I guess he wasn’t one of them,” assented Betty, “because he’s so much of a—a gentleman. Of course the others had lots of money, too, but they—oh, I don’t know—they weren’t a bit like Peaches.”

“What I meant was that the others probably dropped Peaches because he wasn’t rich enough for them. That is, his folks weren’t. I guess there are quite a few snobs here.”

“But, gracious!” said Betty; “they weren’t any of them as wealthy as Peaches! Why, they couldn’t be! At least, it doesn’t seem as if they could.”

Barry stared.

“I don’t get you. Are you trying to tell me that—that Peaches’ folks are well off? wealthy?”

“Well, gracious! aren’t they? I don’t know very much about it myself, Barry, but Father said once that he guessed Harrington Jones was one of the four or five richest men in the country. Anyhow, he must be richer than—”

“Harrington Jones!” exclaimed Barry. “Do you mean that Peaches is—is—Land of Liberty! I thought he was poor! Are you sure?”

“Of course I am!” laughed Betty. “Why, Mr. Jones was up here last spring! He came for the Hoskins game. He sat right here on this porch and talked to Mother and me and was perfectly darling. Peaches looks a lot like him, too, and says things just the funny way his father does. Why, the idea of thinking him poor! How ever did you get such a funny notion, Barry?”

“Why—why, I don’t know,” murmured Barry. “He never said anything. And his room—I mean it doesn’t look like a rich fellow’s; now, does it? Gee! and I was telling him one day how wealthy Clyde’s father is! He must think I’m a—a dumb-bell!”

“He never does talk about money, or about his father, either,” said Betty; “and his room isn’t fixed up much. But haven’t you ever noticed what nice things he has, Barry? His brushes and toilet things are lovely. And he has nice clothes, too. Even,” she added with a laugh, “if he does go around wearing his oldest ones most of the time!”

“That’s so,” acknowledged Barry; “he has got some nice things upstairs. I noticed his bureau one day, but I didn’t think about his having silver brushes and photograph frames. Yes, and he has about two dozen pairs of shoes, too, and I saw them and thought they were old ones and joked him about it! Gee, Betty, he must be indecently rich!”

“I guess so, but I don’t care if he is; he’s awfully nice. We thought of course he would go into one of the dormitories last year, but he didn’t, and he didn’t this year, either; and it was just because he knew Mother might have trouble renting his room again. I call that awfully—thoughtful.”

Barry nodded.

“He said something about that. Said the faculty made it sort of hard for folks who rented to students and he was afraid Mrs. Lyle wouldn’t fill the room if he got out. Just the same, Betty, I think he likes it here better than a dormitory.”

“Yes, I think so, too, and that’s just another nice thing about him,” replied Betty, warmly. “Lots of boys in his circumstances, with all the money they want, wouldn’t be satisfied unless they had the best room in Meddill.” There was a pause, and then she asked: “Did he tell you any more, Barry? I mean about—about my brother Davy?”

“Yes, he did,” Barry confessed a bit awkwardly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not a bit, Barry. You see, you’re a good deal like Peaches. I mean you’re—” Betty hesitated, smiled, and shrugged her slim shoulders apologetically. “I just mean that I don’t mind your knowing,” she laughed.

“It was awfully—awfully hard luck,” said Barry. “I guess Mr. Benjy feels pretty badly about it.”

“He misses Davy,” said Betty. “We all do. But you mustn’t think Father feels badly, Barry, because, you see, Davy didn’t really do what they said he did.” She looked down at Barry very straightly, a little sternly.

“So Peaches said,” he answered. “And with both you and Peaches telling me the same thing I’m bound to believe it.” He smiled, and Betty’s severity relaxed.

“Peaches was a dear when it happened,” she said. “He tried very hard to persuade Davy to stay here and prove his innocence, but Davy wouldn’t. He was hurt, and a little bit frightened, too, I think, and he wanted to get away from the talk. He couldn’t have, though, if Peaches hadn’t helped him. We didn’t have any money in the house that night, and Peaches went over to the school and got some from Mr. Puffer, the treasurer, and—well, I don’t know the rest of it, because I never asked.”

“He didn’t tell me that part of it,” muttered Barry. “Do you hear from him, Betty? Davy I mean.”

“Oh, yes, he writes pretty regularly. He’s had an awfully hard time, poor boy. He’s had four or five positions, but he can’t seem to hold them. They haven’t been the right kind for him, because he doesn’t really know much except office work, and you can’t get that very easily without references, and Davy hasn’t any. He sends his letters to Peaches. We were afraid the police might watch the mail, you see. Still, they never tried to find him after he left here, so far as we know, and maybe they’ll let it drop after a while.”

“It wouldn’t be safe for him to come home yet, then?”

Betty shook her head, yet hesitantly, and before she could reply Mrs. Lyle returned from her visit along the street. After a few minutes Barry went up to his room and seated himself at the walnut desk, which, under Betty’s care, was regaining some of its youthful luster. He didn’t feel in the mood for letter-writing, but this was the day for it, and after several false starts he managed to finish two pages.

“I’ve about decided to give up football for this year,” he was writing, when Peaches’ footsteps sounded on the stairs and then approached along the hall. Barry had left his door open and Peaches entered.

“‘I am studying very hard,’” he dictated as he sank into a chair, “‘and winning much praise from my dear teachers.’”

Barry laid down his pen and viewed him rather moodily.

“I guess it would be a good thing if I could say that,” he muttered. “I’m studying hard, all right, but I haven’t heard much praise from my dear teachers!” Then recollection of Betty’s astounding revelation came to him and he looked Peaches over from head to toe, with new interest. Peaches frowned and put a hand to his tie.

“What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Let’s know the worst. If it’s the tie I’ll change it.”

“You’re Harrington Jones’s son, aren’t you?” said Barry.

Peaches nodded cautiously.

“What are you trying to do? Serve a summons on me?”

“Betty just told me,” answered Barry, darkly.

“Told you what?”

“That you were—are.”

“That I were what? I’m sorry, Barry, but I’m like this on Sundays, after a hearty dinner: I’m not quick, you know. I have to have the simplest things explained to me. You’d be surprised!”

“I was,” said Barry. “I thought you were—well, sort of poor. Now I find you’ve got slathers of coin.”

“Not me,” said Peaches. “Dad has quite a roll, I believe, but I worry along on a mere pittance. Still, anything up to three or four dollars—”

“I’m not trying to borrow money, you chump!” retorted Barry.

Peaches chuckled.

“Then why all the prologue? You’re wasting a mighty good introduction.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your folks?” demanded Barry, sternly. “I thought you were poor. I was talking about rich fellows a while back, and saying perfectly insulting things, for all I remember, and you just let me go on and never said a word about being one of them!”

Peaches shrugged.

“Why should I? If you had asked me I’d have confessed the dreadful truth, but you didn’t. We both agreed that a fellow had no right to take credit for his parents, didn’t we?”

“Well, but—oh, all right! Just the same, I felt a perfect ass when Betty spoke about your folks being wealthy. I thought she was crazy.”

“How come I was the subject of discourse?”

“I forget. Oh! I asked where you were and—and we just got talking about you. Betty was trying to tell me what a wonder you were and, of course, I couldn’t see it.”

“Humph!” grunted Peaches. “I’d be ashamed to own up to such lack of discernment. I don’t know where Betty got her idea, but I’m sure it’s right.”

“Fishing!” laughed Barry. “Well, I’m not going to tell you. She did say, though, you had been nice about that brother of hers. She told me all about how you helped him get away too. Gee! if I wanted to go to the police and tell what I know about you—”

“She hasn’t seen him?” asked Peaches, eagerly.

“Seen him?”

“Well, I thought maybe— The fact is, he hasn’t written for nearly two weeks, and I didn’t know but that he had shown up here. You know he addresses his letters to me and I hand them over to his folks. He’s crazy to come back here yet, though, I guess.”

“I don’t believe he has,” said Barry. “She didn’t say anything about that, anyway. Say, where have you been since dinner? I wanted to see you about something.”

“Oh, I stopped in to see Billy Bassett. What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” began Barry, slowly. Then he stopped and, after a moment, began again: “I sort of wanted your advice, Peaches.”

Peaches nodded.

“I’m flattered, Barry. About which?”

“Football.”

Peaches looked dubious.

“Well, of course, Barry, football isn’t exactly a subject—”

“About resigning from the team, I mean. Do you think the Major would—would be willing?”