Barry Locke, half-back

Barry awoke the next morning in a rather depressed mood, for which the weather was not wholly to blame. Outside the window the rain was pouring in torrents. The brick path to the gate was plastered with drowned leaves, and in the narrow beds at each side the bare stalks of the salvias arose from a tangle of withered nasturtium vines like soldiers tottering in a last stand against the enemy. The little pits from which Mrs. Lyle had lifted her geraniums had become muddy pools against the surface of which the big drops splashed ceaselessly. The gutters ran like mountain brooks, and, across the road, a spout at one corner of the Anderson house poured a veritable Niagara upon the sodden lawn below. In the dim gray light the falling water looked like liquid silver.

Not a cheerful beginning for a new week, Barry reflected as he donned a crackling slicker. A minute or two later, as from the shelter of the porch he and Peaches viewed the drenched world, preparatory to the dash to chapel, Peaches murmured: “Now I know exactly how the dove felt when he left the ark!”

There was no outdoor practice for the football players that afternoon; only an hour of what they called “bean-drill” in the half gloom of the gymnasium. The chalk lines and emblems that Major Loring scrawled on the blackboard were no more than gray under the rain-pelted skylights. Barry was relieved, though not surprised, when Clyde nodded to him. There wasn’t much warmth in that greeting, but, rightly or wrongly, Barry detected a hint of apology in the brief glance that accompanied it. He felt a little more cheerful after that, and would have spoken to Clyde had the chance offered. But it didn’t.

He overtook Zo on the way back to the house, Zo swinging his violin-case and whistling a football song gayly as he splashed through the rain and the puddles. Recalling the recent attentions of Rusty Waterman to the younger boy, Barry asked:

“How are you and Waterman getting on, Zo? Has he been bothering you lately?”

“No, I don’t think he’s even noticed me since that time he tried to get my violin.”

“Hardly polite, I’d say, but perhaps you don’t mind.”

Zo smiled his shy smile and shook his head.

“I’m perfectly satisfied,” he answered.

It was still raining Tuesday morning, but by noon it had stopped and at half-past three the football squad was assembled on a soggy field. There was no scrimmage that day. In fact, the session was cut almost in half. Barry gained a lot of experience in the handling of a wet pigskin and marveled at how heavy and erratic it could be when well saturated. Passing Hal Stearns in pursuit of an escaped ball, Barry chose not to see him, but Hal refused to be invisible.

“Well, how’s the great half-back to-day?” he called in tones of extreme deference. Barry pretended deafness as well as blindness. He was ready to forgive and forget where Clyde was concerned, but Hal had no claims of friendship, and Barry, who had never succeeded in liking him, now detested him heartily.

Later, returning to the bench, Barry saw Hal and Rusty Waterman with heads close, and although they gave him but the shortest glance as he approached, he was uncomfortably certain that he had been under discussion. Clyde looked extremely morose that afternoon, and Barry’s friendly “Hello!” received only a nod and a grunt. If, thought Barry, Clyde had felt self-reproach the day before, he had quite recovered.

Clear skies and cold weather made practice snappy enough to satisfy even the Major. Barry played right half-back on the second or substitute squad, and, while he performed no remarkable deeds, got along very well. Sometimes he yielded his head-guard to Noble and sometimes to Clyde. His punting-drills had ceased now. He had made excellent progress, and, save that he lacked the others’ experience, and showed it, was kicking as well as Tip Cartright. Tip could still beat him by an average of five yards, but Barry displayed an ability to place his punts that made up for yardage.

The cold days and the rapid approach of the Big Game awoke the school to its annual football enthusiasm. Success or failure in the battle with Hoskins, now scarcely more than a fortnight distant, was the universal subject of conversation. An epidemic of football songs burst forth, and on Thursday night the first big mass meeting was held. As the members of the squad were not encouraged by Major Loring to attend these demonstrations Barry spent the evenings in Mill’s room, listening to the radio. Disturbed by the faint strains of the football pæans which floated in through a lowered window, Mill observed severely that it was too bad decent folks couldn’t listen to a radio program without having their fun spoiled by rowdies!

The Purple-and-Gray played Tollington High School on Saturday and gave an excellent account of itself, winning by 27 to 6. Barry started the final period and although only one punt was asked of him, played a good game. He accounted for several gains outside tackles, one of seven yards, and was quick and sure on defense. However, his performance was undoubtedly due in part to the fact that the foe was pretty weary in that last quarter!

Mr. Benjy didn’t take his usual afternoon ramble on Sunday afternoon. The Monday before he had got thoroughly wet, walking to the station, and had returned in the evening with a cold. It had remained with him until Friday, getting neither better nor worse. But on Friday he had left his work shortly after noon and crawled home to bed, a sick man. The doctor called it congestion of the lungs and to Mr. Benjy’s dismay, intimated that a prolonged vacation was in order. Saturday saw no improvement, nor did Sunday. On Monday it was known to the boys that Mr. Benjy was very ill indeed. The doctor came twice during the day and again late that evening.

The house became very still, the boys tiptoeing up- and down-stairs and about their rooms for fear of disturbing Mr. Benjy’s fitful slumbers. Both Barry and Peaches offered their services, but Mrs. Lyle and Betty were equal to the requirements, and beyond an occasional errand to the village drug store there seemed nothing any one else could do. The doctor remained encouraging. The patient did not have pneumonia, and, while he was not responding to treatment as well as might have been expected, there was no cause for immediate alarm. The trouble, as Betty explained to Barry and Peaches, was that Mr. Benjy’s heart was weak; “tired” the doctor called it; and most of the danger lay there.

“He’s sort of lost his grip, I think,” she added. “He doesn’t seem to care now whether he gets well or not. And he troubles a good deal about—things.”

“Davy?” asked Peaches.

Betty nodded.

“Yes, and the money he owes the factory people, and—and things like that. When his fever is worst he wants to get up and go to work, and we have a hard time quieting him. Last night it was the mortgage money.” Betty smiled wanly. “You might as well know. Father has never yet been able to pay wholly for this place, and now that he thinks—thinks he isn’t going to get well, it worries him.”

“Is the interest due now?” asked Peaches.

“Not for days, but he’s sort of lost track and thinks it’s due, and he doesn’t pay any attention when we tell him it isn’t.”

“He oughtn’t to be allowed to worry about that,” said Peaches. “You ask your mother, Betty, to let me know when the payment is due and how much it is. I’m kind of fond of Mr. Benjy, you know, and I’d like to do some little thing besides bringing fruit he can’t eat and flowers he probably doesn’t notice.”

“Oh, but he does!” exclaimed Betty. “He always notices everything, and loves the flowers.”

“Well, you and your mother had better let me look after the mortgage and things like that until he’s on his feet again,” continued Peaches, persuasively. “She will have enough to think about, and so will you.”

“I’ll ask her,” replied Betty. “It’s dear of you to want to do it, Peaches, but I’m afraid she won’t listen to it.”

“I don’t see why,” said Peaches, placidly. “I’m not trying to give the money. I’m just loaning it until Mr. Benjy can pay it back.”

That was on Tuesday, and Wednesday afternoon Peaches came back from school and found Betty and Toby on the porch. Betty looked rather woebegone and her eyes were suspiciously red.

“She’s been crying,” Toby announced indignantly, viewing Peaches as though he thought the latter to blame in the matter.

“I haven’t,” said Betty. “I mean I didn’t mean to.” She managed to smile. “I guess I’m tired.”

“Been to school to-day?” asked Peaches, seating himself.

“No, I haven’t been since Monday. There’s so much to do here that I thought I’d better not.”

“How is he to-day?”

Betty sighed.

“The doctor said this morning that he was ‘getting on,’ but goodness knows what that means! He doesn’t seem any worse, and he slept a good deal last night and this morning. But this afternoon he’s in such low spirits that—that—” Tears threatened again and Betty left the sentence unfinished. Toby shuffled his feet uncomfortably, glancing from Betty to Peaches, seemed to decide that the situation no longer demanded his presence, and betook himself upstairs, rather noisily because of his desperate efforts to be quiet. Betty smiled again as he disappeared.

“He was so funny,” she said, with a little sniff. “He came down to the dining-room for a drink of water and found me there. Of course he wanted to know what the trouble was—I was crying a little—and I said, ‘Nothing, Toby,’ and he began walking around the table, looking so fierce and muttering to himself! Then he stopped in front of me and said:

“‘Nothing my blind aunt! You come along with me!’ Then he almost dragged me out here and plumped me down and shook his finger at me. ‘You stop that!’ he said. ‘Stop this minute!’ Well, I was so surprised that I did!”

“Sort of a cave-man comforter,” commented Peaches, with a grin. “I suppose if you hadn’t stopped he’d have dropped a cunning little newt or a couple of grasshoppers down your back.”

“He might have,” agreed Betty. Then, after a moment, she said: “I spoke to Mamma about the mortgage, Peaches, and she didn’t make any objection at all, but just said she was terribly much obliged. I’ll give you the memoranda. It—it’s a good deal of money, though, Peaches; seventy dollars. I don’t think you ought to do it.”

“I do, Betty. When’s it due?”

“Next Monday. If you haven’t got so much, I think Mr. Tanner would take less if we explained how it was.”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t got so much, but I’ve got some coming to me and I’ll have it here in plenty of time. The next time Mr. Benjy gets to worrying about that, you tell him it’s paid.”

“He hasn’t said so much about it the last day or two. It’s Davy he talks of now. He—he wants to see him so badly, Peaches! I really believe that if he could see him for a few minutes he’d try—he’d want to get well. And the doctor says that one reason he doesn’t is just that he doesn’t care!”

“Well,” said Peaches, after a short silence, “if seeing Davy’s going to get him well again, he’d better do it, hadn’t he?”

Betty’s eyes grew round.

“Peaches!” she whispered. “Do you think—”

Peaches shrugged.

“Might be some risk in it, of course, but if it was done right we ought to get away with it. The main difficulty is that we don’t know where to look for him, Betty.”

Betty sighed despondently.

“That’s so. His last letter said he was leaving town and didn’t say where he was going. And letters take so long, too!”

“Yes, it couldn’t be done that way,” reflected Peaches. “Some one would have to go and fetch him. What’s to-day? Wednesday, eh? To-morrow I have English Lit. at ten-thirty and math, at two.” Peaches looked at his watch. “Three-forty-six. There’s a train north at four-twenty. That gives me thirty-five minutes to get permission from the office and reach the station.”

“Peaches, you’re not going to—to—”

“Watch me!” said Peaches.