Barry Locke, half-back

“You’d better stay out here a minute,” said Barry, “and get your breath.”

Clyde, seated on the platform, his back against the car, nodded silently. His lungs still fought convulsively for air, but the blood was coming slowly back to his white cheeks. Barry, who had displayed no hesitation, felt no fear when he had pulled the other back to safety, now found himself rather faint and wabbly and was glad enough to accept the advice he had offered to Clyde. He crouched by the other for several minutes while the train, meeting stiffer opposition now, labored slowly up the mountain. Finally Clyde gave a long sigh and spoke shakily:

“Thanks, Barry. I—I couldn’t have held on another moment.” He shuddered. “Gosh, that was fierce!”

“Must have been,” agreed Barry, none too firmly. “All right now?”

“In a minute,” Clyde muttered. “My arm—” With a trembling hand he explored his right shoulder. “I guess it won’t be much good for a while. I had my whole weight on it, you see. I couldn’t get hold of anything with the other hand. Just dangled there. Couldn’t have held much longer. Afraid to drop. Kept thinking of the wheels. Ugh!”

“Better forget it now and come inside,” said Barry. “Fellows will be wondering where you are.”

“Rather they didn’t know, Barry. You won’t say anything? Don’t believe any one saw, eh? I’ll stay here. We’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m all right now, but—I’d rather not go inside.” He took a deep breath and attempted a smile.

Barry wished there weren’t the matter of that letter between them. He wanted to speak warmly, but he couldn’t. All he could do was to ask carelessly:

“Want me to bring you some water?”

Clyde seemed not to notice anything lacking in the other’s voice or manner. He shook his head.

“I’m all right,” he repeated. “Just want to sit still a minute longer.”

Barry started to scramble up, but Clyde went on with:

“I guess it’s even-Steven now, Barry. Fifty-fifty, eh? I saved your life that time and now you’ve saved mine. Funny!”

“Well, you might have rolled clear of the wheels,” replied Barry, unemotionally.

“Not a chance! I’d have hit the bank and rolled right under. I’m sure of it. Well—” Clyde drew another long breath—“well, I didn’t, old man, and you’re to thank for it.” A hand groped for Barry’s and Barry took it. Clyde’s clasp was almost painful.

“Thanks,” he said simply.

“That’s—all right.” Barry climbed hurriedly to his feet. “I’d better go back,” he muttered. “There’s the whistle now.”

Larry Smythe turned from the contemplation of the scenery and gave Barry a long questioning stare.

“You’re a real fresh-air fiend,” he observed. “What have you been doing out there? Counting cinders? You’ve collected a good many, by the way.”

Barry laughed and tugged at his suit-case.

“Guess we’re about there, Larry,” he said. “Get a move on you!”

In the confusion of arrival Clyde escaped notice. A few minutes later the march up the trail had begun, and bags, while lightly packed, became increasingly burdensome. But every one remained cheerful to the end of the journey, although after a while conversation and song petered out. Clyde had elected to walk with Barry, but, to the latter’s relief, was almost silent.

The cabin proved to be a huge log structure fronted by a low, unrailed porch. Already the big stone chimney was sending smoke into the deepening dusk as the expedition came within sight of it, and an approving cheer arose. Joey, one of the school cooks, appeared at the doorway and waved a mighty carving-knife in response. Joey and an assistant had been up there since early forenoon, and everything was in readiness. One end of the cabin held the bunks. At the other was the big fireplace and a long pine table facing it, a table sufficient to accommodate many more than were to gather about it now, and which, even so, escaped the walls on each side by several yards. A near-by door gave a glimpse of a lean-to kitchen and emitted the fragrant smoke of broiling steaks.

The great building, beamed with gleaming birch logs, glowed with the mellow light of the crackling fire and was alive with dancing shadows. While the arrivals trooped in, shouting joyously, and chose their bunks by the simple expedient of tossing their bags upon them, the hanging lamps were lighted. Through the open, unpaned windows along the front the tops of the trees showed below, dropping away until at a distance, seen in the first darkness, they gave the appearance of a dark-hued carpet. It was chill but sparkling, that mountain air, and Barry found his depression gone before a sudden feeling of buoyancy and well-being and—yes, most certainly—ravenous hunger!

It was all very merry, very noisy, very jolly during the half-hour before supper. If any one thought of the morrow’s test, at least none spoke of it, nor would he have been suspected of dwelling on it. There were singing and a deal of laughter and a few practical jokes, and presently Joey appeared with the first platter and a jovial shout of, “Come get it!” After that, for a long while, comparative silence reigned, a silence that was itself a tribute to Joey’s talent.

After supper many of the party went out to the long, deep veranda and watched the stars sparkling in a frosty sky and the home lights, tiny yellow pin-points, gleaming in the valley. Hal Stearns, who had observed with evident disapproval Clyde’s renewed intimacy with Barry, bore the former away to an end of the porch. Barry, feeling very peaceful and very lazy, stretched himself flat on his back, his legs over the edge of the porch floor, and gave himself up to thought. A few yards away Captain Buckley and three or four others were talking busily, and Barry’s ruminations were at first punctuated with the frequent rounds of laughter. But presently his thoughts took so interesting a turn that he was no longer conscious of neighbors.

When most of a half-hour had passed he sat up abruptly and climbed to his feet. Clyde and Hal and Goof Ellingham were seated at the end of the porch, and as Barry approached he heard the conclusion of a remark of Goof’s:

“And Al said he understood Rusty had been given a cut until to-morrow, the lucky beggar!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Hal, yawning. “This isn’t so rotten, Goof!”

“Clyde,” asked Barry, “may I see you a minute?”

“Sure!” Clyde’s response was prompt, even cordial, but it held surprise. He joined Barry and the latter led the way across the small plateau on which the cabin was built, to a ledge that jutted out from the end of the trail. Clyde said:

“We were talking about Rusty Waterman. He didn’t come along, and Al Sampson says the Major gave him a cut.”

“I noticed he wasn’t with us,” replied Barry. Then: “You said a while back, Clyde, that I’d saved your life,” he said.

“I say it again,” asserted Clyde. “You sure did, Barry!”

“And that we were even on that score.”

“One-all,” agreed Clyde.

“Then,” went on the other, “I don’t owe you anything, as I see it. I mean there isn’t any reason now why I ought to let gratitude stand in the way of—of straight talk.”

“Why, no,” said Clyde, in a puzzled tone. “But I don’t see what you’re getting at, youngster.”

“I’ll tell you. We’ve been friends—sort of—for a good while, Clyde, and—”

“‘Sort of’! Where do you get that? We’ve been mighty good friends! Of course I know that lately I haven’t—well—hang it, Barry—I’ve been rather a blighter. I’ve wanted to tell you this for a week or so, but you’ve been pretty upstage with me and I didn’t get a chance. Fact is—” Clyde paused, evidently searching for words, and Barry cut in.

“That part’s all right,” he said. “I can forgive that, but that letter is different, Clyde. That—that’s—”

“What letter?”

“You know, I guess,” Barry answered patiently. “The letter to Coach Prince.” He dropped his voice cautiously, although the darkness held no others nearer than the porch. “I want to talk about that, Clyde, and get it off my chest. Maybe you didn’t mean—”

“But—suffering cats!” interrupted Clyde. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Barry asked:

“Honest, Clyde? You mean that you didn’t write it? Or have a hand in it?”

“I don’t know what it is!” exclaimed the other, in an exasperated voice. “I haven’t written any letter to any coach—hang it!”

“Gosh!” said Barry, softly. “Gosh, that’s great! I thought of course—”

“What letter is it?” demanded Clyde, impatiently.

Barry told him all the circumstances, while Clyde expressed bewilderment and resentment, by various sounds that were not quite words. And when Barry had explained, Clyde had many questions to ask, and got so excited and angry that the other had to caution him against being overheard.

“Whoever pulled that stunt ought to get kicked out of school!” declared Clyde, hotly. “And—and you thought it was me!”

“I didn’t want to,” said Barry, “but I couldn’t help it. You said that night in your room that you’d see that I didn’t play against Hoskins—”

“But—great Scott!—I was only talking, you idiot! I was mad, all right, that time, I’ll own, but—but—say, you make me tired! You ought to know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t pull a dirty trick like that, Barry!”

“I’m sorry,” said the other. “But you did say it, and just as if you meant it; and then there was that typewriter of yours that printed the B’s above the line.”

“Yes, that’s so,” Clyde admitted, somewhat mollified. “And that’s funny, too. Look here, you don’t suppose Hal—”

“I thought of him,” replied Barry “but he wouldn’t have any reason, would he?”

“He might have,” murmured Clyde, thoughtfully. “But—hang it, Barry!—there may be other machines that print the B’s crazy.”

“Of course, there must be. You didn’t write the letter, and I don’t believe Hal Stearns did, so—”

“Wait a bit! When was that thing written?”

“Mr. Prince received it Tuesday morning. There wasn’t any date on it.”

“Tuesday morning? Then it must have been written on Monday at the latest, eh? Well,” and Clyde’s voice arose triumphantly, “I didn’t get that machine until Tuesday noon! You can ask Whitwell!”

“Well,” said Barry, after a moment’s consideration of the announcement, “that certainly lets Hal out, doesn’t it? But—shucks! I don’t care now who did it! Just as long as you didn’t, what’s it matter?”

“It matters a lot,” grumbled Clyde. “What sort of bozos do you suppose Mr. Prince thinks we are, over here? I hope the Major finds out who did that, and gives him thunder! I’d like to take a wallop at him myself.” Presently, having pursued this thought sufficiently, he went on:

“Say, Barry, I’ve got to apologize for acting like a nut lately. I’m sorry, and that’s no apple-sauce. I—I’ve been sort of off my trolley, I guess. You see, I’d set my heart on making the team this year, like I told you before. And when you fell for Major Loring’s bid I knew I was dished. I’ve always known that you’d make a cracker-jack player if you once got started. You’ve got something I haven’t got: a sort of—of spirit, I guess. I don’t know just what it is, but you’ve got it. And I haven’t—never’ll have it, probably. Get you started and you’ll go through fire. Best I’ll do is wait around for the engines to come! Well, I know now that I’ll never make a reputation playing football; and now that I do know it I don’t care a whole lot.

“After all,” he went on, “I’ve just about decided that some of the crowd I’ve been trailing aren’t much good. I got started sort of wrong last year. Thought I had to train with the silk-stocking bunch, when I wasn’t really in their class. Some of them are all right,—a few,—but I guess most of them have been laughing at me behind my back, right along. It isn’t only a question of money; Dad’s got enough of that; you’ve got to know how to spend it in all sorts of crazy ways, and act like it wasn’t anything at all and make believe you’ve always had plenty and it’s a frightful bore. And you’ve got to wear your clothes a certain way—and the right kind of clothes, too—and talk about folks who get their names in the papers on Sunday, and know all about queer things like opera and polo and—and a lot of other bunk. And play a good hand at bridge. I can’t; I hate the fool game. And I’m tired of trying to keep up with the gang. If they want to chuck me they may. I hope they do! Hang it, I’m just as good as they are, even if my folks don’t go to Miami every winter!”

Clyde ended rather breathlessly.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” responded Barry, warmly. “Of course I know that some of the fellows you mean are mighty nice, but a lot of them don’t really amount to much, as far as I can see. They don’t study if they can help it; they don’t play anything, usually; they pretend that the school isn’t good enough for them and that they’re doing it a favor by coming to it. They—they make me sort of ill!”

“Me, too,” growled Clyde. “And I’m off ’em. They won’t know me when I go up to college, but I can live through it, I guess.”

“Some of them,” said Barry, shrewdly, “aren’t likely to get there—or stay there if they do!”

“Hal’s as bad as any, too,” Clyde went on glumly. “He’s got the social bug. Talks about folks I’ve never heard of, and reads the society bunk in the papers every Sunday until I want to bean him.” He was silent a moment and then added almost shyly: “Say, I don’t believe he will stick with me after the holidays, Barry; not if I give up the gang, anyway; and I was wondering whether you’d care to come over. It’s a pretty good diggings, and it’s a lot more fun being on the campus, you know. What do you say?”

“Why, thanks, Clyde, but I don’t believe I’d want to change. Not this year, anyhow. Perhaps in the fall, if you don’t find some one else.”

“Well, you better think it over,” Clyde added, a trifle gruffly. “No hurry about deciding.”

“I’ve already decided. For one thing, I’d hate to leave the Lyles with an empty room on their hands, Clyde. They need the money, and if I got out I don’t believe they’d be able to let again.”

“Yes,” said the other, dryly, “and for another thing there’s Crawford Jones.”

“Yes,” assented Barry, evenly, “there’s Jones, too. He’s a fine chap, Clyde. I wish you and he would quit being so down on each other.”

“Oh, I’ve got nothing against him—especial,” said Clyde, with something of an effort. “I just don’t— He’s so plaguey fond of himself, hang him! Thinks he’s too good for any one—except you. Besides, he hates me like poison.”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t!” laughed Barry. “You just think he does. I’ll bet that if you and Peaches—”

There was a call from the cabin door, and the two arose and went back toward the lights. Half-way across the grass Clyde said:

“Well, things are sort of cleared up between you and me, Barry, aren’t they? I wish we could manage to get together a bit oftener. Of course, I know you don’t like Hal much, but he’s out a good deal.”

“I’ll be glad to drop around oftener, Clyde, but you’ll have to do the same. Lyles’ isn’t quite out of the world, you know!”

“No, of course not,” muttered the other. “Sure, I’ll come and see you.”

There was an hour before the big fireplace, the fellows seated on the benches or on the floor in front of them. No one spoke of the morrow, nor was football an approved subject of discourse. After a while Sinclair and Pete Zosker produced banjos and singing began. To-night the fellows’ taste ran to the old, well-known songs and they sang a number of them before the Major suggested, glancing at his watch:

“Let’s have ‘Sunny Fields,’ fellows, and hit the hay.”

So they got to their feet, many sleepily, and the school song was sung through, very feelingly; and Barry, for one, felt just a little weepy and rather noble!

Breaking up, the throng strove to get back to its former mood of noisy jollity, but it wasn’t wholly successful and many of the fellows sought their bunks in silence. Skirting an overturned bench, Barry passed close to where the Major and Mr. Graham were smoking ruminatively in the firelight, and the former, glancing up, spoke.

“Oh, Locke, just a mo!” he said. “That letter business is cleared up. Thought you’d like to know. Meant to tell you before, but forgot it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Barry, questioningly.

“No need of mentioning names, I guess. I—er—I’ve attended to the chap. I gather, though, from what Jones says, that your suspect wasn’t concerned.”

“Jones? You mean—Peaches, sir?”

“Yes. He took the matter up. Very glad to have him. Well, good night.”