Barry Locke, half-back

Barry settled down to school routine and in the course of a few days made several discoveries. One was that he would have to study a good deal harder than he had studied the previous year, for all the instructors whose classes he graced were believers in labor—for the students. Still, he didn’t have Doctor Clode this year, and that was something to be thankful for if he was to credit reports. The doctor, whose first name was Julius and was popularly known as “Julie,” besides attending to the duties of being principal, taught first- and second-year Latin. There were many who believed that he would have been even a greater success as a slave-driver. In spite of that, however, he was popular.

Another discovery was that gymnasium work under Mr. Peterson was a bore. Jones pointed out to him that to escape it he had only to sign up for one of the major sports. That called for a confession, since, naturally, Jones suggested baseball. Barry explained rather awkwardly that he had decided, at Clyde’s suggestion, not to try for baseball until spring. Jones looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he didn’t.

“Well, that’s all right,” he said. “Fact is, we aren’t crazy about new candidates in the fall, for the Major has his hands full of football and we have to get along without a coach. Of course in your case, since you’ve played some already, Jody wouldn’t mind taking you on. Well, what about football? Ever tried it?”

Barry nodded.

“Yes, but I didn’t seem to get the hang of it, or something. At high school we had three teams, and I was on them all, last fall or the fall before that, and never managed to stick. I’m rather light-weight, I guess. Besides, I never got awfully interested in playing. Baseball’s my stuff, although I don’t pretend to be much at that, either.”

“Your modesty becomes you,” said Jones, gravely. “Well, how about track work? Ever run or hurdled or anything?”

“No, I haven’t. I thought some about trying the sprints last fall, but our trainer didn’t give me any encouragement. He told me to come around in the spring, but then I was playing baseball on the junior team. I guess I’ll just have to wait for hockey or basket-ball to start.”

The friendship with Jones progressed apace, to Clyde’s frequently expressed disgust. But Clyde had to confess that it would be extremely difficult to reside in the same house with a chap and have nothing to do with him.

“Just the same, though,” he insisted, “if you let Jones get you in with his gang, you’ll be ditched. You show up this evening, Barry, and we’ll call on a couple of corking guys over in Meddill. One of ’em’s in your class, too.”

So Barry went, but nothing came of that call. Barry was content that nothing should. By the end of the week Clyde’s efforts in Barry’s behalf dwindled. He said he couldn’t see why the other didn’t follow up some of the many introductions. Hal Stearns nodded vigorous assent. He appeared even more disgruntled than Clyde. Barry offered every reason save the right one, which was that none of the fellows to whom he had been introduced by Clyde appealed to him in the slightest degree. Hal as good as signified his intention of washing his hands of the business of getting Barry “started right,” and Barry was secretly very much pleased.

Barry’s day began at seven o’clock, at which hour Betty Lyle set a chipped pitcher of hot water outside his door and roused him from slumber. At approximately seven-twenty-five he set forth, usually with Jones, sometimes with Jones and Toby Nott, by a short cut to Croft Hall and chapel. Sometimes, too, the roomers in the house opposite joined them. These were Fessenden and Millington. Millington, known as ‘Mill,’ was a Second-Class boy and a member of the baseball squad. Barry liked him from the first. Fessenden, whose first name was Alonzo, was dubbed “Zo” by Jones. Which was quite all right with Fessenden, since anything that Crawford Jones did was perfect in his eyes. After a few days Jones himself wasn’t “Jones” to Barry; nor was he “Crawford.” He became “Peaches,” a nickname that had been his since some mad wag had, years before, thought of the association of that word with Crawford.

Chapel lasted fifteen minutes and breakfast began at eight o’clock. The first recitation was at nine, the last at three. Dinner was at twelve-thirty, supper at six. Such was the routine of every week-day, although, as Barry’s recitation-hours varied, all days were not just alike for him. His afternoons were spent at tennis or golf when he could find an opponent, or in looking on at baseball or football. Save on Saturday and Sunday afternoons Peaches was busy on the diamond and Barry couldn’t count on him for companionship. On Saturdays there was no practice for the baseball candidates, and on those afternoons Peaches was at liberty to follow the fortunes of the Broadmoor eleven. On the second Saturday after the beginning of the term Barry accompanied him.

The game, the first of the schedule, was not an important one, but it offered an opportunity to compare the home team with the previous year’s defeated eleven and there was a generous attendance of students and townsfolk. Peaches had tried to induce Toby Nott to go along with them, but Toby, appearing at his door with an agitated beetle between his fingers, had shown no enthusiasm. He stared quite blankly through his spectacles while Peaches repeated the invitation. Then, “You mean see a football game?” he asked, with a puzzled air.

“You’re certainly quick,” acknowledged Peaches. “I tell you only twice and you grasp it immediately.”

Toby blinked and grinned uncertainly.

“Well, but—what for?” he asked.

Peaches looked at Barry hopelessly.

“It’s no use,” he muttered. “Come on.”

With evident relief Toby started to withdraw, but then, fearing he had failed to show proper interest in the event, he put his head out again and called after them:

“Say, Jones, who’s playing?”

“Broadmoor School,” answered Peaches, from the foot of the stairs.

“Oh,” said Toby. He seemed quite satisfied as he closed his door again.

Barry felt slightly guilty as he approached the stand. Clyde was certain to see him, and he wouldn’t be pleased to find him with Peaches Jones. And Clyde did see him and waved to him from the bench. It was a restrained greeting, however. Barry was surprised at the number of fellows who spoke to his companion. Peaches had the same greeting for all, a slight smile and a backward tilt of his head. Barry felt a trifle apologetic on his companion’s behalf. It seemed to him that Peaches was—well, not exactly impolite but certainly unresponsive.

Exactly four fellows nodded to Barry during his climb and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from stopping to shake hands in gratitude! There was one acquaintance who didn’t speak. He was a large youth with rather staring dark eyes. Barry recognized him as his opponent of a week or so earlier and might have nodded had he received any encouragement. But Waterman’s regard was broodingly unfriendly.

Broadmoor’s rival that day was Shefford High School, and no one expected either a very close or a very exciting game. Consequently no one was disappointed when the home team took command at the start and held the enemy in subjection throughout the four ten-minute periods. Peaches, who, in spite of being a devotee of baseball was also an enthusiastic football fan, supplied Barry with the names of the various purple-and-gray clad players, adding brief but illuminating descriptions:

“The tall chap with the Napoleonic countenance is Gordon Buckley. Buck is captain. He’s a bright lad and the fellows think a lot of him. The guy playing next to him, this way, is Ellingham—a sturdy brute who goes by the name of Goof; don’t ask me why. Pete Zosker is the center. Pete says his folks are French, but personally I believe him to be a Dalmatian.”

“What’s a Dalmatian?” asked Barry.

“I haven’t the least idea. Next to Zosker is Sinclair at right guard. He wasn’t much last year. Johnny Zinn is the quarter-back, and a corker. Right here let me call your attention to the fact that this is probably the only football team having two Z’s in its line-up; Zosker and Zinn. If the Major could find nine more Z’s he’d have a real team!”

“Who’s the slight fellow playing half?” asked Barry.

“Demille. The other’s Tip Cartright, and the full-back is Ira Haviland. Ira is no relation to the china of that name, for he is absolutely non-breakable. Hoskins made that discovery last year. There’s another touchdown. That makes us eighteen—no, nineteen. Now, if Tip gets this goal—”

Tip did, and the half ended soon after. During the intermission a nice-looking fellow of perhaps eighteen lowered himself over the back of the seat beyond Jones and joined them. Jones introduced him as Bassett, but during subsequent conversation addressed him as “B. B.” He shook hands with Barry as though he liked it, which was something Barry had not been used to of late and which left him almost speechless. When Bassett had departed, with the reappearance of the teams, Jones explained him.

“Billy Bassett,” he said; “a white man. He’s President of First. Came in on a scholarship three years ago and has been an honor man every year since. They say his father is a butcher. If he is, I’ll bet he sells good meat!”

“There aren’t many fellows like him here, are there?” Barry inquired. “I mean—well, poor fellows.” Then he regretted the question, since he had gathered in one way or another that Jones himself came under that category; he recalled that back home many folks who lacked money seemed ashamed of the fact and pretended to be better off than they were. But Peaches didn’t seem to mind the remark.

“Not so many,” he answered. “Some, though. Broadmoor’s rather more expensive than a lot of other schools, you see; still, we do have a number of chaps whose folks aren’t wealthy. And some of them hate to have it known!”

“I don’t see why,” said Barry. “Just because your folks happen to have money—I mean there’s no reason why you should take credit for it, is there?”

“No, but some fellows do. We had a fellow here last year, Shafter, whose father’s a United States Senator. Sometimes, to hear Mat, you’d think he had simply made his dad! Same way with fellows whose fathers have wads. They give you the idea that it’s all their doing.”

Barry laughed.

“It’s funny, but it’s so, I guess. Clyde’s sort of like that. He seems to take a lot of credit for his father’s success.”

“His father has money, then?” asked Peaches.

“Gee, yes! Well, anyway, he’s pretty wealthy for our part of the world. He’s President of the Empire State Brass Company, you know.”

“Think of that!” said Peaches, evidently much impressed.

Fearing he had shown a lack of tact, Barry added hastily:

“Of course money isn’t everything. I mean, it isn’t really important. Some of the chaps at home, fellows I liked awfully, are what you might call poor. They don’t seem to mind it, either.”

“Quite properly,” approved Peaches. “As you say, money’s of small consequence. Personally, I prefer to have things charged.”

Barry looked at the other doubtfully. It sounded like a joke, but Peaches was absolutely grave as he watched the home team pile through the opponent’s right for a long gain. Barry reflected that perhaps he had been talking too much. He was apt to forget that Peaches was a full year older and a class ahead of him and might not always find his conversation absorbing. When he did remember those facts he wondered at the intimacy between them. Peaches was so queer about friends! He seemed to know almost every one and to be very popular, yet he didn’t go with any one. Walter Millington appeared to be the nearest approach to a pal, barring Barry himself, and even Mill wasn’t really chummy.

The reflection that, after all, perhaps Clyde was right about Peaches, occurred to him. Maybe there was some fault that kept other fellows away. Yet, the others didn’t act as if they were avoiding Peaches. No, it seemed the other way about! Barry gave it up and followed his companion’s example in watching the game. Toward the last of the third period the Major began using substitutes liberally, and both Clyde and Hal Stearns went in, Clyde at right half and Hal at left guard. Barry thought Clyde played very well and he expressed the opinion to Peaches.

“Allen? Not bad. Want any more of this? If not, let’s stretch our legs and mosey along to the Palace for a couple of chocolate-milks.”

There was still another period, but Barry decided for Peaches’ society and a milk-shake at the Palace Drug Store. The half-hearted cheering diminished in volume as they made their way to the road. As they reached it a small youth carrying a violin-case came out of a gate ahead and turned northward.

“Isn’t that the child virtuoso?” asked Peaches.

Barry assented.

“He’s taking lessons from Mr. Banks, he told me yesterday. Mr. Banks teaches music at the high school.”

Peaches hailed and Zo Fessenden waited for them. As usual, he was embarrassed for the first few minutes, and Peaches’ good-natured fun brought only shy smiles. Finally Peaches said:

“Zo, I’m going to ask you something, and I want a plain answer from man to man.” He nodded toward the violin. “Do you like doing that or was it wished on you?”

“Both, I guess,” Zo replied. “I didn’t like it at first, but my mother wanted me to learn, and after a while I liked it better. Now I like it a whole lot.”

“Spoken like a hero,” said Peaches. “My mind is at rest. Shall you make a business—no, profession—of it? Play before the crowned heads of Europe and all that?”

“Maybe by the time I can really play there won’t be any crowned heads left,” answered Zo. “But I think I shall try to make it my—my lifework.”

Peaches exchanged a swift glance of amusement with Barry.

“Well, I guess you’re lucky to find your lifework so early, Zo,” he said gravely. “Some fellows don’t find it until they’re considerably older. And some, it seems, never do find it. If you will leave your fiddle and come back, we’ll take you to the Palace and quaff a beaker to your future success.”

So Zo bounded into the Andersons’ and reappeared breathlessly in something less than forty-five seconds, and the three proceeded along the sunlit road in pursuit of milk-shakes.