Barry Locke, half-back

That forenoon, Clyde conscientiously performed his duties as guide, counselor, and friend, smoothing Barry’s path and sharing with him the wisdom of one who had already traveled it. Shortly before noon Barry took his physical examination and went out of the director’s room in the gymnasium in possession of a gray card filled with lines and figures and the information that three times a week he was to report with Class K for physical training. Gymnasium work, it appeared, was required of every student unless he was engaged in one of the major sports. Barry regretted his nominal agreement to abstain from the degrading game of baseball until spring!

He was introduced to at least a dozen fellows that morning, all of whom, Clyde earnestly assured him, were the right sort. Generally they were members of Clyde’s class, the Second; once or twice it was a First-Class fellow who dutifully shook his hand. Toward dinner-time Barry found himself wishing that Clyde’s friends weren’t so choice. Being the “right sort” seemed to make a fellow rather self-satisfied and unlikable!

When dinner was over he hurried off before Clyde could intercept him and walked to the village to buy a table. He had a vision of something severely plain and businesslike in oak, something with a good big drawer and a broad, generous top. He might have found it if Fate hadn’t drawn his gaze to the window of a shabby little shop on Main Street in which was a crowded array of second-hand articles. A sign promised “Antiques,” but what Barry saw scarcely deserved the name. There were chairs without seats, mirrors without glass, broken teapots, chipped vases, and a score of other dilapidated objects, but what drew Barry’s eyes was a desk which, standing in the center of the window, served as a repository for some ancient crockery, a rusty musket, and an ivory-handled walking-stick.

It wasn’t a beautiful thing, but it captured Barry. It was of black walnut, of a style of forty years back, with a bank of drawers down the right side and a door on the other which, being opened, revealed three shelves. It was worn and stained, but it looked honest and—well, “friendly” was the word Barry thought of. Negotiations obtained it for the reasonable price of six dollars, delivery at 104 Bridge Street and conveyance up one flight included, and, declining a bargain in a broken-down swivel chair, Barry turned homeward well pleased.

Stopping for a few moments at Mrs. Lyle’s, he went on to school again. There was a conference with Mr. Stimson, professor of mathematics, at two-thirty, and after that Barry was free for the day. He watched tennis for a while and finally wandered farther afield, to where, on track and gridiron and diamond, candidates were assembling. The school was generously provided with space for athletic activities. There were two gridirons,—one inclosed by the quarter-mile running track,—two diamonds, and, in winter, three hockey rinks on the surface of the pond lying in the southwest corner of the field.

The pond was formed by the East Fork River, that small but bustling stream which skirted the farm that Barry had noticed, crossed the road under a picturesque stone bridge, and wound through the corner of the Broadmoor estate. Pond and stream afforded natural hazards on the nine-hole golf-course which started and ended in home territory but wandered back and forth along the gentle slope of a near-by hill.

Hills were all about: Pine Knob rising behind the field on the east, Town Hill nearer the village, Crow Hill to the west, with the road hugging its base as it turned toward The Falls and Fairmount, and finally, two miles to the northwest, Mount Sippick, its double peak frequently veiled by clouds. To-day the slopes showed scarcely a hint of autumn and the acres of turf were as green as in summer.

A surprising number of football candidates had appeared by the hour set for the first day’s practice, boys of many sizes, ages, shapes, and degrees of promise. Barry lingered in one of the two stands for a while and watched proceedings. He picked out Clyde and Hal Stearns and the boy they had called Goof; and, because Clyde had indicated him that morning, the coach, Major Loring. The Major had dropped his title with the ending of the war, but Broadmoor clung to it proudly. Even in old flannel trousers and a gray jersey bearing the single broad purple band of the football squad he was a fine figure of a man.

Barry tired of the entertainment soon and crossed to the nearer diamond and took a seat in a shaded corner of the covered stand. Some two dozen fellows were having batting practice and a tall, loose-jointed youth was pitching to the plate. Of those grouped near by, each in turn selected his favorite bat and faced the pitcher until he had delivered two hits and a bunt. Having had his turn, he relieved one of the players in the field. One of those coming in from the fielding looked familiar to Barry, but it wasn’t until the broad-visored cap was momentarily relieved that Barry recognized him. He was Crawford Jones. Barry was pleased when Jones connected with the first offering and lined it far into left.

They didn’t appear, any of them, to be very desperate characters, Barry reflected. On the contrary, they struck him as a particularly nice-looking lot. He wondered if Clyde and Hal hadn’t been unnecessarily pessimistic regarding the “baseball bunch.” Certainly they were getting a lot more fun out of practice than the football candidates were. There was a deal of talk and laughter, and much good-natured ragging. Barry found himself wishing he had not virtually promised Clyde to keep out of the game until spring. He would have liked nothing better than to be down there throwing the ball around and swinging at the lanky youth’s offerings.

He was not alone in the stand, for a score or so of other idlers sat about in groups of two or three, hugged their knees, and uttered derisive applause, caustic criticism, and absurd advice to their friends on the field. Barry felt rather lonesome, and it occurred to him that despite Clyde’s good intentions he wasn’t making friends very fast. Save for Clyde himself and Hal and Jones and that funny Toby Nott, he didn’t know a soul. Near the tennis-courts, an hour before, he had spoken to a fellow to whom Clyde had introduced him earlier in the day and had received in response only a surprised and chilly glance followed by a grudging nod. He had determined not to try that again. He wasn’t used to being snubbed, and he didn’t like it a bit.

About half-past four he went back to the campus, got the pile of books he had left in Clyde’s room, and returned to Mrs. Lyle’s, unwillingly acknowledging to himself that it wouldn’t take a whole lot to make him homesick!

The house looked pleasant enough in the afternoon sunlight, but it seemed very silent and empty as he made his way upstairs. Even Toby Nott evidently was out. The sight of the walnut desk, which had arrived in his absence, cheered Barry up, however. It looked even better here than it had in the store, although it was undeniably a shabby old relic at best. He tugged and pushed it across to a position midway between the side window and the single electric light and got his hands gray with dust in the operation. It had not, it seemed, occurred to the dealer to clean it. Barry pulled out the four drawers on one side and opened the cubbyhole on the other. From the stains and discolorations he judged that the old desk had seen much service. From the amount of fine gray dust he also judged that it had lain idle for some time. He looked about for something to dust it with, but saw nothing more appropriate than the three towels hanging by the wash-stand, and so went into the hall and leaned over the stair railing. It was, he thought, fortunate that he remembered the maid’s name.

“Betty!” he called. “Oh, Betty!”

After a moment there were faint sounds below, toward the back of the house, that resolved themselves into light footsteps approaching the dining-room door. Then a pleasant voice answered:

“Yes, Mr. Locke?”

“Oh! Say, Betty, can you find me a cloth or something to go over this desk with? It’s covered with dust.”

“I’ll bring one right away,” replied the unseen owner of the voice. The footsteps retreated and Barry returned to a satisfied contemplation of his new purchase. He liked the old-fashioned wooden knobs on drawers and door. They looked sort of interesting, sort of quaint, he decided. He was still absorbed when he was aroused by Betty’s voice at the doorway.

“You’d better let me dust it,” she suggested.

Barry turned. Close by stood a girl of about his own age, a slim, rather pretty girl with dark hair and gray eyes and a smooth tanned skin, a self-possessed young lady who smiled at him in a friendly way as he stared back, surprised.

“But—” stammered Barry—“but, look here, you’re not Betty!”

“Why, yes, I am!”

“Well, but—I mean to say—you’re not the maid!”

“The maid?” She seemed to find that most amusing and laughed outright, and Barry in spite of his confusion noted without distaste that a dimple appeared in each cheek.

“Yes, I thought—Mrs. Lyle said—” Barry stopped, conscious of reddening cheeks.

“We haven’t any maid,” was the answer. “I’m Betty Lyle. My! it is dusty, isn’t it?”