Barry Locke, half-back

The frog’s name was Antonio, explained the boy in the bath-robe as he and Barry began the search. He had been having his supper—that is, Antonio had—when Mrs. Lyle knocked. He had refused to eat and Toby had been obliged to resort to forcible feeding. He had brought Antonio from home, and of course the frog hadn’t had time to get used to the place yet. Maybe he had gone downstairs.

He had. Barry found him under the telephone table. He seemed very nervous, Barry thought, which was not unnatural under the circumstances. Toby recaptured him expertly and bore him back upstairs. Mrs. Lyle, recovered from her shock, was inclined to be tragic.

“Really, Toby, I don’t see how I can allow you to keep such dreadful things in your room! I don’t mind the—the bugs, because they’re dead, and last year I said nothing when you had those snakes in the cracker-box, but things that jump, like frogs, and scare folks to death—”

Toby viewed her in genuine surprise from behind the thick lenses of his spectacles.

“Why, Mrs. Lyle, frogs won’t hurt you! Anyway, I’m going to have an aquarium for him just as soon as I can find one. And that’s what I need that table for. I just don’t see how I can do without it.”

Barry didn’t, either. Just now the table, which was a small affair, was loaded with jars and tin boxes and various other articles, and if Toby moved them they must, it seemed, go on the floor, since every other surface appeared fully occupied. It was a strange apartment that Barry viewed from the doorway. How its occupant managed to get around in it was a mystery. Barry counted four tables, including the one recently acquired, three packing-boxes substituting as tables, and a bench, the latter evidently home-made. Then there were shelves on every side, it seemed, and all were full. Barry caught glimpses of impaled butterflies and moths and beetles, of gruesome objects in bottles and jars, of receptacles of whose unseen contents he was more than suspicious, and felt thankful for the impenetrable if unlovely wall that stood between Toby Nott’s room and his!

“But, Toby,” Mrs. Lyle was protesting weakly, “it belongs in Mr. Key’s room, and it’s the only one I have left. You’ll really have to—”

“It doesn’t matter a bit,” declared Barry. “Fact is, I’ve got a table coming and Nott is quite welcome to this one.”

Toby Nott looked his gratitude and pulled his bath-robe more decorously about him. Most of the buttons were gone and eternal vigilance was the price of modesty. Mrs. Lyle said, “Well—” relievedly and yielded. Outside again, with Toby Nott’s door firmly closed on their retreat, she shook her head, sighed, and then smiled as one who realizes her weakness.

“I suppose I ought to have made him put it back,” she said. “If Betty were here— She’s the only one who can do anything with him. If it weren’t for Betty he’d have—have—goodness gracious! I don’t know what he wouldn’t have in there! He’s a dear boy, though. Well, now, if everything isn’t satisfactory— Of course you won’t find things here as you’re used to them at home, but we do want you to be comfortable, and if there’s anything I’ve forgotten—”

Mrs. Lyle was interrupted by the expressman. Barry yielded his check, left a half-dollar with the landlady, washed up, and hurried off toward school, already late for his appointment with Clyde. The school grounds began a stone’s throw from the Lyle house, their limit marked by a stone wall which, reaching the road, became more ornamental as it turned and went on to the nearer of the two gates. Stone pillars guarded the entrance, and on the left-hand one was a modest panel bearing the announcement: “Broadmoor School—Est. 1886.” The curving driveway was lined with maples and as they still held their leaves, it was not until Barry had progressed some distance that he obtained a real view of the buildings.

Rather plain, they were, conservatively Colonial all. Croft, toward which the drive led, was a large structure of red brick with gray-stone trim, its slate roof broken in the center by a squat belfry. Farther back and to the left was Dawson Hall, newer but so wrapped about in ivy as to seem a contemporary of the original building. Occupying a similar location to the right was Meddill, the other dormitory. Bates, most recent of all, stood behind Croft, completing the quadrangle. Viewed under the ruddy rays of the sinking sun, shaded here and there by elms and maples, the buildings looked friendly and hospitable, and Barry’s heart warmed to them. Maybe he was going to like Broadmoor, after all!

He found the school office without difficulty and the operation of registering was soon over. He didn’t expect to find Clyde in the dormitory, for it was already past six, but he made his way up the stone stairway to the second floor and looked for Number 42. The building was evidently utterly deserted and the long corridor stretched before him dim and silent. The door of Clyde’s room was ajar and after knocking Barry thrust it wider and peered in. It was lighter than the corridor and showed itself much as Clyde had described it, a generously large, square room with rough-plastered walls and a beamed ceiling. A big study table, book-shelves, several comfortable chairs, and a window-seat piled high with cushions met Barry’s somewhat wistful gaze. A curtained alcove, now a pocket of gloom, opened at the left. It looked awfully good to the boy in the doorway. All this might have been his if—

His wandering eyes lighted on an object atop one of the low bookcases and the thought went unfinished. What he saw was his picture, the one on horseback taken at Orchard Bluff two summers before. It wasn’t occupying a very prominent position amidst the assemblage of photographs there, but its presence cheered Barry considerably and he made his way back down the stairs and out into the twilight without further thought of what might have been.

The dining-hall occupied the north wing of Bates Memorial Hall and a hum of voices and a cheerful clatter of dishes guided him unerringly to the entrance.

The sight of some two hundred and sixty hungry boys at supper may not be inspiring, but it is at least interesting, and Barry paused at the wide doorway to look. The room seemed vast, and the three ranks of tables appeared to stretch away interminably. A round clock in the center of the opposite wall proclaimed six-twelve. The captain of the waiters caught sight of the tardy arrival and piloted him half-way along the first aisle, to a vacant chair at Table 7. Food was placed before him, a hospitable neighbor set a huge pitcher of milk beside him, and Barry supped, relieved to discover that none of the other nine occupants of the table paid him more than brief attention. The food was good and there was plenty of it,—more than plenty, so far as Barry was concerned, since travel and the heat had tired him,—and his hunger was soon satisfied.

Most of those who sat with him were fellows of about his own age, although three appeared a year or so younger; Fourth-Class boys, doubtless. Conversation was scant and low-toned. One by one the chairs emptied and the big hall grew quieter. Threatened with finding himself the last at his table, Barry hurried through a saucer of canned peaches and a square of cake and followed the exodus.

He had looked about for Clyde, but had not seen him, but now, following the curving path toward Dawson, he descried him standing near the dormitory steps, one of a group of three. Barry dawdled in the hope that Clyde would detach himself from the others, but he didn’t, and so the new-comer was presently shaking hands with Ellingham and Stearns. Ellingham, addressed by the others as “Goof,” was a tall chap of perhaps seventeen. He didn’t seem vastly impressed by the introduction, but neither, for that matter, was Barry. Hal Stearns was a rather ponderous youth, ponderous both as to build and manner, with plain features, dark hair, and a good deal of color in his full cheeks. As though fearing that he might be blamed for keeping Barry out of Number 42, he was extremely affable. Barry had made up his mind to like Stearns, but now the resolution weakened. Ellingham went off presently and the others climbed the stairs to the room.

If Barry had been inclined to think Clyde a bit casual over his advent, somewhat unconcerned about his welfare, Clyde’s remarks during the following ten minutes should have corrected any such assumption. Clyde said that he and Hal had been discussing Barry; about his getting the right sort of start and all that.

“There’s a lot in getting off on the right foot,” Clyde continued. “I learned that myself last year. When a fellow doesn’t come in with his class he’s sort of handicapped, you see. But I can help you a lot, Hal and I both, and you’ll probably get on all right. The most important thing of all is getting in with the right sort at the beginning. If you pick up with the wrong bunch the other crowd will fight shy of you and you’ll find it mighty hard to shake loose. Of course I don’t know many Third-Class fellows, but I’ll snoop around a bit and get the dope for you. And we’ll see that you meet some of our bunch. Meanwhile, youngster, you’d better play safe and not get too chummy with any one.”

“Well,” said Barry, doubtfully, “I don’t know, Clyde. I’m sort of used to picking my own friends, and so far it hasn’t seemed to do much harm.”

“Maybe, but you’ll find things different at a prep school. There are all sorts here, and a lot of them won’t do you any good if you want to get on. Take that guy Peaches Jones, who rooms at your place, for example. Now, he’s a fair example of the sort to keep clear of, Barry. He’s a regular pill.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hal. “He’s one of the baseball crowd; Tweet Finch, and the Groves fellows, and that bunch.”

“Well, but I expect to play baseball,” said Barry, perplexed.

“I wouldn’t think of it!” replied Clyde, emphatically. “You won’t meet the right sort at all. Of course there are two or three, like Jody Hodson and—and—”

“Pete Johnston,” Hal suggested.

“Y-yes,” agreed Clyde, reluctantly, “although if Pete weren’t Second-Class president I’d say he was a good deal of a bounder. Anyway, Barry, it will be a lot better if you cut out baseball. How about football? Of course you couldn’t make the First this year, but even if you didn’t, you’d make the right sort of acquaintances.”

“I’m not much good, Clyde,” said Barry. “I tried last fall, but I didn’t get anywhere. I wouldn’t mind trying for hockey. And I’d like basket-ball, too. But I guess baseball’s my best bet.”

“Well, anyhow, lay off it until spring,” Clyde urged. “Fall practice doesn’t amount to much. Maybe by spring you’ll be fixed so it won’t do you any harm to mix with those rough-necks. Now, about clubs. You’d better try for Attic. It isn’t exactly exclusive, but most of the right sort belong. And you like literary stuff and debating, I guess. Then there’s the Oracle. We’ll work that for you, but you won’t be elected until February.” Barry tried to look properly grateful and wondered why he didn’t feel so.

There was more discussion, more planning. Goof Ellingham appeared presently, accompanied by a fellow who was introduced to Barry as Greenwalk. Followed much football talk, for Clyde, Hal, and Goof were all players. After a while Barry took his departure, followed to the door by Clyde.

“Jake and Goof,” the latter confided in whispers, “are corkers. Glad you met them. Follow it up, Barry.” Barry nodded, not so much in assent as because Clyde’s earnestness demanded a reply. “Well, see you in the morning,” said Clyde, and smote the other on the shoulder with friendly approval.

It was dark when Barry got outside, and once he was through the gate the darkness increased, for the village road was lighted by infrequent arc-lamps and between them stretched long pockets of gloom wherein crickets cheeped incessantly. There were lights in both the Lyle house and the Anderson house, opposite. As he drew near, the strains of a muted violin came from an upstairs window of the latter. It was a wistful little air that he heard, one that faltered and died away at a certain intricate run of tiny notes. Barry paused at the gate and smiled in sympathy as the strains began again and again faded into silence.

“He’s been at it ten minutes,” said a voice from the gloom of the porch. “Persevering beggar!”

Barry stared curiously as he neared the speaker. Jones was seated on something large, black, and formless that gradually resolved itself into a trunk.

“What—” began Barry.

“Expressman dumped it here. Said he wouldn’t carry it upstairs for fifty cents. If I’d been here I’d have shown him how mistaken he was, but it was before I got back, and Mrs. Lyle is easy. So I thought I’d better wait around and give you a hand.”

“Why, thanks,” said Barry. “But do you think we can do it? It’s awfully heavy. There’s a lot of books in there.”

“I can carry one end and the middle if you can manage the rest of it,” answered Jones. “Mr. Benjy wanted to try it, but I wouldn’t let him.”

“Who’s Mr. Benjy?” inquired Barry, dubiously lifting an end of the steamer trunk as Jones yawningly rose.

“Mr. Lyle. Guess you’d better go first, Locke. Wait until I get the screen door open. All ready? Let’s go!”

The sound of the struggle brought Mrs. Lyle from the sitting-room.

“Crawford, you’re not trying to get that trunk up by yourself?” she demanded agitatedly. “I told you you mustn’t! You’ll strain your back or—or hurt yourself dreadfully, and—”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Lyle. Locke’s here.”

“Oh! Well—” Mrs. Lyle retired again, and a murmur of voices came through the open door below.

The boys got the trunk up the stairs finally, and then along the hall and into Barry’s room, setting it down, with vast relief, in the darkness.

“I’m awfully much obliged,” panted Barry, searching unsuccessfully for a light-switch beside the door.

“Don’t mention it. If you’re looking for a button, there isn’t any. Here, let me do it. I know where the thing is. At least, I think I do. Ah, at last!”

A none too brilliant radiance appeared, accentuating the bareness of the room. Jones surveyed the scene and shook his head.

“Really, Locke,” he protested, “don’t you know that it’s wretchedly bad taste to overfurnish like this? I say—where’s your table?”

Barry explained, and Jones chuckled.

“Wonder he didn’t take your bureau, too! By the way, don’t be surprised if you find garter-snakes and such harmless things wandering around in here. Toby tries to keep them in bounds, but they will get away from him at times. Where do you want this thing to live?” He kicked Barry’s trunk gently.

“What do you think?” asked Barry. “If there were only some place against the wall! But you see how it is. Every inch taken up.”

“Isn’t that the truth! Well, we might move the upholstered divan under the front window or edge the buhl cabinet farther to the nor’east. Say, what is a buhl cabinet?”

“I don’t know,” said Barry. “I never had one before.”

“I see. Well, what do you say?”

“Over there in the corner, I guess.”

“All right. Careful not to scrape the parquetry, now. Gosh! you careless duffer! you’ve gone and knocked a chip out of the Wedgwood escritoire!”

“You’re pretty fairly ignorant,” sighed Barry, as they set the trunk on end. “Wedgwood is pottery stuff. That escritoire is Heppelwhite.”

Jones observed the imaginary object intently.

“So it is!” he agreed. “A remarkably fine specimen, too. Well, I guess you want to get unpacked, so I’ll leg it.”

Barry’s impulse was toward hospitality, but he recalled Clyde’s warning and merely thanked Jones once more for his help. Jones nodded cheerfully and departed and Barry attacked the trunk. Life at Broadmoor, he reflected as he began unpacking, was going to be complicated!

His bed was rather hard, but Barry slept like a top until a pleasant voice called from beyond the door: “Hot water, Mr. Locke!” As it wasn’t Mrs. Lyle’s voice, he decided, as he yawned himself awake, it must be the maid Betty’s. Evidently her day off had left her in a very cheerful state of mind. He crawled out, retrieved the pitcher, and prepared for his first day of school.