Barry Locke, half-back

Barry, protesting, would have taken the dust-cloth from Betty, but the latter shook her head and went vigorously and proficiently at the task.

“We’ve got some furniture polish somewhere,” she said, “and to-morrow I’ll put some on. It’s a real nice desk. Did you have it sent from your home?”

“Oh, no; I bought it in the village, from an old chap with a yellow beard. He has what he calls an antique shop.”

“Mr. Hannabury,” said Betty, nodding. “Mother has bought some things from him.” Barry unconsciously glanced at the bureau and Betty, observing, smiled and shook her head. “No, that didn’t come from the antique store. That was left here three or four years ago by a boy who had the back room. It isn’t very good, I know,” she added apologetically. And then, frankly: “Lots of our things aren’t, Mr. Locke.”

“It’s plenty good enough,” he declared stoutly. “And my name’s Barry.”

She nodded.

“And you know mine already. If there’s anything you want, you must let me know. Of course,” she laughed, “we may not have it, but, then again, we may. I’m sorry you had to buy a table. You shouldn’t have let Toby do that.”

“Well, he certainly needed it,” said Barry, with a grin. “What does he do with all those things in there, anyway?”

“Just has them. Toby’s a collector. Collectors are like that, you know. They just—just collect!”

“But he collects such messy things,” Barry protested. “Insects and—and frogs—”

“Oh, yes, and turtles and even snakes. But he seems to have a lovely time doing it, and so we try not to mind. And he’s a nice boy, too.” Betty smiled again, nodded and vanished from the doorway.

Barry spent the next half-hour arranging his desk and examining his new books, stiff-backed and pleasantly odorous of printer’s ink. Finally, consulting his schedule of recitations, he selected one of the volumes and seated himself in his one easy-chair, by the side window. But he didn’t get much studying done just then, for the window afforded a view of the slowly curving road and a corner of the tree-shaded campus, and of Brazer’s farm with its sentinel elms casting long shadows about the simple, comfortable buildings. He could see the river, too, here and there, a sunlit blue ribbon skirting the farmer’s meadow-land, twisting about the foot of Crow Hill and at last disappearing under the stone bridge. All this held more attraction than the book.

Occasionally voices from the gridiron reached him, and once, beyond the tree-tops, a football floated for a moment against the sky. Every one, he reflected with a sigh, seemed to be having a pretty good time—every one save John Barry Locke.

It was close to six when his gaze fell on two figures just turning from the school gate. One was Crawford Jones. They were talking earnestly, companionably, and Barry sighed again. Just short of the Lyle lot the two parted, the stranger crossing toward the opposite house. Barry hoped that Jones would accept the invitation of the half-opened door and look in. But Jones went past without pausing. Barry closed his book and prepared for supper.

When he went downstairs, a smallish man was reading a paper, at one end of the porch. He lowered his head and peered at Barry over the tops of his glasses. Then he said, “Hm!” rather nervously and added, “Good evening.” He seemed friendly and in his present desire for companionship Barry welcomed the opportunity for speech. He returned the greeting and walked along the porch.

“I suppose you’re Mr. Lyle, sir,” he continued, smiling and holding out his hand.

“Yes, yes,” was the almost eager response. “Very glad to know you, my boy! Hm! Delighted to—er—welcome you to our humble abode. Won’t you sit down?”

He was standing, his paper clutched in one hand, his eyes peering near-sightedly through his glasses, and, having returned Barry’s clasp, he continued to smile. Just why he should have awakened Barry’s sympathy the latter couldn’t have told, but he did. Perhaps it was because, in spite of his attempt to appear at ease, to attain the dignity of the host, he seemed to offer the constant apology of the man who realizes his inconsequence. He looked to be about forty-two or forty-three years of age, was short of stature, thin, and perceptibly stoop-shouldered, although in moments of brief assurance he straightened himself to military erectness. Barry understood why he was known as Mr. Benjy. The name suited him perfectly.

“Thanks,” Barry answered, “but I’m on my way to supper. I just wanted to get acquainted, sir.” He smiled winningly and Mr. Benjy looked touchingly gratified. “My name is Barry Locke, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I know. That is, Elizabeth—I should say my wife—has spoken of you. You are occupying—er—the southwest chamber. Very glad indeed to have you with us, Mister—er—”

“Just ‘Barry,’ sir. Thank you.” Barry nodded and went his way. Mr. Benjy watched him over the edge of his paper until he had disappeared.

“Fine boy,” he murmured. “Davy was rather like him when he— Hm!” Mr. Benjy frowned, sighed, and rustled the paper back into position a few inches from his glasses.

Barry found himself surprisingly hungry for his supper and did excellently by it. The boy on his right, overcoming his shyness, ventured a remark, half-way through the repast, and for the rest of the time they conversed quite busily. Barry had been slightly curious about this boy, whose name, it now appeared, was Fessenden. He was fourteen, Barry guessed, and in the Fourth Class. He had dark hair that refused to yield to the brush, heavy brows and long lashes over somewhat dreamy brown eyes, and pale cheeks that reddened easily. A shy, sensitive boy, and attractive in a way, Barry concluded. He evidently was finding life at Broadmoor School none too joyous, although he didn’t say so outright. Barry surmised that he, too, was feeling lonely and perhaps homesick, and he would have been glad to lend companionship to the younger lad had he not agreed to look up Clyde. As it was, they parted outside Bates, Fessenden, ere he turned toward the library entrance, nodding shy gratitude for the other’s friendliness.

There was an atmosphere of unrest about the campus that evening, and a tendency to loiter about the oval and before the steps of the buildings. Barry wondered for a moment what was in the air, but forgot his curiosity in the discovery that Number 42 was empty. His first impulse was to take advantage of the fact and so avoid an evening which offered scant attraction for him, but second thoughts held him to his promise and he switched on the lights, picked up a magazine, and set himself to await Clyde’s return.

He found a story absorbing enough to hold his close attention for nearly an hour. Then, as Clyde was still absent, he decided that he was at liberty to leave, and turned out the lights and sought the stairway. Had he been better acquainted with Dawson Hall under normal conditions he would have noticed an unusual quiet. Here and there, from some open door, the sound of voices reached the corridor, but for the most part the rooms were dark. On the steps a few fellows lingered as though waiting for something to happen, but these things made no impression on Barry, and he took the path past the end of Croft and went on briskly down the drive, toward home. He had just emerged into the road when, in the increasing gloom, a flood of white light beat into his face, forcing a startled gasp from him as he recoiled.

“What’s your class?” demanded a voice. Barry, shielding his eyes from the rays of the pocket torch, saw four figures, possibly more, in the group about him. Puzzled, slightly resentful of the start they had given him, Barry spoke sharply:

“What do you want to know for?”

“He’s a ‘pup’!” declared one of the dim forms, and, “Sure he is!” exclaimed a second. A hand laid itself ungently on Barry’s shoulder. He stepped back, wrenching loose.

“What’s the idea?” he demanded.

The light suddenly went out and the faces of the others took shape. Barry saw one of the fellows move toward the edge of the sidewalk, and coincidently memory came to his aid. The preceding winter Clyde had laughingly told him of “Pup Night” at school. Barry had forgotten, but it came back to him now that in Broadmoor parlance a Fourth-Class fellow was a “pup” and that the second evening of the term was “Pup Night,” when the Third Classmen conducted certain ceremonies at the pond, aided—somewhat unenthusiastically—by as many of the Fourth Class as could be rounded up. His muscles relaxed and he smiled as he said:

“I’m Third Class, fellows. Awfully sorry!”

“What’s your name?” asked a large boy, evidently in command of the detail, with suspicion.

“Locke.”

“That’s right, Rusty,” said another. “He’s in a couple of my classes. I remember him.”

“Well, he’s an awfully fresh guy,” growled Rusty. Then, to Barry: “Seen any pups around?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, we’re looking for one who lives down the road here. They said at the house he hadn’t come back, but maybe they were kidding us. Where do you stay?”

“Mrs. Lyle’s,” answered Barry. “There aren’t any Fourth-Class fellows there.”

“No, but there’s a guy across the street,” said Rusty, “and we want him. Well—” He paused indecisively.

“I’ll tell him if I see him,” said Barry, obligingly, and went on. Some one chuckled, but Rusty took the jest poorly.

“You do,” he called hoarsely but in low tones, “and I’ll hand you a wallop, Fresh!”

Barry strove to recall Rusty. Something about him, perhaps his voice, perhaps his dimly seen face, was familiar. Probably he had encountered him at one of the conferences that morning. In any case, he decided, he didn’t like him. The decision brought him to his gate, and he was groping for the latch when a shout from behind him along the road made him pause. There were voices then, a second shout, and the sound of running feet. Barry peered back into the darkness. Toward him, across the street, sped the quarry, the pursuers strung out behind but gaining, as yet only deeper shadows in the gloom but taking form as they approached the radius of light from the arc-lamp just beyond the houses. The chase ended suddenly. The pursued stumbled, a dozen yards from the Anderson gate, and fell, and the hunters were on him! Barry’s smile faded, for a voice of pure terror came to him.

“Oh, please! Please!” wailed the captive. “Let me go! Let me go!” Barry didn’t like the sound of that. The boy, whoever he was, was badly frightened, almost hysterical. Barry crossed the road quickly. There were five forms in the group moving slowly back into the darkness. They had the captive securely enough, but he was struggling desperately, panting convulsively, too panicky now to control his voice.

“Oh, shut up,” growled Rusty. “We aren’t going to hurt you, you baby!”

Their own scuffling footsteps kept the captors from hearing Barry’s approach, and the sudden sound of his voice brought an instant halt.

“Hold on a minute,” said Barry. “This chap’s too scared. I wouldn’t go any further with this business, fellows.”

“You wouldn’t?” demanded Rusty, sarcastically. “Well, who’s asking you to? You go roll your hoop, young feller.”

The boy had quieted, although Barry could still hear his stifled sobs. Barry kept his temper as he answered:

“Well, I’m Third, too, you know, and I’m not trying to spoil your fun, but you ought to be able to see for yourselves—”

“Hire a hall!” Rusty reached forward and gave Barry a shove that sent him staggering into another of the group. “Come on, fellows! ‘Drown the pup’!”

Barry recovered himself and slipped past the youth whose toes he had, doubtless, damaged. The move brought his back to the fence and with a sudden yank he pulled the captive to his side and quickly stepped in front of him. He had recognized the boy now: he was Fessenden, his neighbor at table. The coup left Rusty momentarily too astonished and outraged for speech, and in that instant Barry, half turning his head, whispered, “Run when you see the chance!” Whether Fessenden heard or, hearing, understood, Barry couldn’t know. Rusty had pushed a companion roughly aside and from a few inches away was glaring at the meddler. Barry resolutely kept his hands at his sides. He was still smiling, although perhaps the darkness concealed the fact.

“You get out of here!” roared Rusty. “Go on! Get!” He seized Barry’s coat at a shoulder and tried to heave him aside. The cloth strained, but Barry didn’t heave. Instead, one of his own hands went swiftly up and caught Rusty’s wrist, a foot shot forward, and then he did heave, while Rusty, pulled forward and tripping over Barry’s extended leg, swung to one side and crashed into the fence. And at the instant Barry shouted, “Run!”

But Fessenden was incapable of running, and only cowered beside him, gasping and futile.

“Grab him!” raged Rusty as he found his balance and, crouching, faced Barry again. But he was wary, now. He liked a quarrel, but he hated punishment, and something in the attitude of the straight figure confronting him counseled caution. Barry, who had no love for fighting but could nevertheless fight when it was necessary, moved a step along the fence to free himself of Fessenden, now once more securely guarded. He had no uneasiness as to the others. They’d keep out of it. It would be just he and the big chap they called Rusty.

The latter was silent now, and menacing. Barry watched and waited. Then his opponent rushed, closed. Barry fell back half a pace, threw his head to the right, and took a crashing blow on his elbow. Then he swung his right fist upward and felt the swift pain of the impact dart along his arm. There was a startled “Ugh!” from Rusty as he staggered away, and then:

“Pretty work, old son,” applauded a voice, and a new actor in the drama stepped to Barry’s side, draped a hastily discarded coat over the fence, and faced the group.

“Let’s make it a foursome,” said Crawford Jones, pleasantly. “Who else wants to play?”