Monty did not, however, come such a cropper the next day as he had predicted, partly because he put in the best part of two hours before breakfast in studying, and partly because the instructors were lenient. He had Latin the first hour, and scraped through, had German at ten o’clock, and managed to look wise enough to arouse no suspicion, had mathematics at eleven, and knew more algebra than most of his companions, and finished with English at two in the afternoon, having for instructor Mr. Rumford, the assistant principal, who was usually known as “Jimmy,” and whom Monty had disrespectfully alluded to yesterday as “Old Whiskers.” Monty, however, had intended no disrespect, any more than when, in German class, he had mentally dubbed Mr. Teschner “Google Eyes.” The school in general called him “Jules,” but Monty didn’t know that, and would have liked his own invention better, anyway. It was not until after dinner that he had an opportunity to keep his promise to Leon Desmarais and climb the two flights of stairs in Trow Hall, and demand admittance at the portal of Number 32.
Leon was out, but his roommate, a stout, bespectacled youth named Granger, insisted that he should enter and await Leon’s return from dining-hall. Granger, whose first name was Seymour, and who was known as “Sim,” was a senior, and a “dig” of the first water. Even now, when the sun was shining brightly, and there was a fine, faint nip of autumn in the air, Granger had chosen to immerse himself in “Johnston’s American Politics,” with a pencil sticking from a corner of his mouth, and a pile of notes at his side. Monty marveled and envied, and accorded Sim Granger then and there a respect which never diminished. Granger apologized for going on with his work.
“I’m taking four extras this year,” he explained, “and it keeps a fellow rather busy.” He looked across at Monty through his big spectacles with a tolerant, even kindly expression, and gave the latter the idea that he was speaking in words of one syllable for his guest’s better comprehension. Monty, for once in his life thoroughly awed, responded somewhat indistinctly that it was quite all right, and that he supposed it must, and please not mind him at all. And, Granger smiling benignantly—he had two perfectly developed chins, which made his smiles much more effective—composed his large, round face again, and became immersed. From time to time Monty dared a glance, but only a brief one. A fellow who would willingly remain indoors on such a September afternoon, and dig political history was far too noble and great to be made the subject of mere vulgar curiosity.
Number 32 was a very ordinary room, one of at least sixteen more just like it in Trow Hall. It combined the duties of bedroom and study—there were a few suites of two and three rooms in Trow, but only a few—and wasn’t very successful at it. Two windows looked across the back campus to Crumbie Street, and the slope of Mount Grafton beyond. The only thing of interest in view, aside from the fields and woods, was the little red brick, slate-roofed building that held the heating plant. As far as view was concerned, Monty much preferred his own room, but he wondered if it wouldn’t be more fun living in one of the big dormitories like Trow than in Morris House. There was a window-seat under the casements, covered with a rather hard looking cushion and holding many pillows. Otherwise the furnishings were much the same as those in Number F, Morris, although not nearly so new. In fact, about every article of furniture there appeared to have a long and honorable history behind it, especially the study table, which, covered in green felt, had accumulated so many ink spots, and so many names and initials and strange hieroglyphics that nowadays one had to take the original color for granted. Several pictures and unframed posters hung on the walls, and there was the usual Grafton banner, in this case much larger and dingier than usual. It wasn’t difficult to determine which chiffonier of the two was Leon Desmarais’s, for one held only a pair of battered military brushes, a broken-toothed comb, a button-hook and a row of unframed photographs, and the other boasted a traveling case laid open to expose its silver and ebony articles, three silver-framed photographs of rather foreign-looking persons, and a leather belt with a buckle that looked astonishingly like gold, and was engraved with a monogram. And, in case there might still exist the chance of mistake, from the upper drawer escaped the end of a wonderful four-in-hand tie with alternating bias stripes of dark blue and bronze. Monty was growing a bit restless when footsteps sounded outside the half-open door—there had been several false alarms previously—and Leon entered hurriedly and breathlessly.
“Hello, Crail,” he greeted. “I’ve been over to your house to find you. That roommate of yours said he didn’t know where you were, and, by George, it sounded very much as though he didn’t care! Look here, have you met Mr. Granger? Granger, this is Mr. Crail, the chap I told you about. Let me see how you look, Crail. Shucks, that eye isn’t so bad, is it?”
“My ear’s the worst,” answered Monty, investigating it with a careful finger. “How’s your bump?”
“Oh, I’d forgotten about it. It doesn’t bother any. I told Granger about our little set-to, so you needn’t talk in parables. Granger seemed to think it was unfortunate we didn’t both drown!”
“Silly kids,” murmured the stout one benignly, keeping his place in Johnston’s classic with one pudgy finger. “Ridiculous!”
Leon laughed gayly. “Everything’s ridiculous to him, Crail, except the accumulation of worthless knowledge. Let’s leave him to it, and get outdoors. You haven’t anything this hour, have you?”
Monty said good-by to Granger, and followed Leon out and down the stairs. On the front steps Leon hooked an arm through Monty’s, and led him along the brick walk toward the principal’s residence and the tree-shaded road beyond. “Do you know, Crail,” he said, “I believe I’m going to like this place after all? I didn’t think so yesterday or the day before, but it looks quite jolly now. I dare say I’ll freeze to death when the cold weather comes, but until then—” He broke off to search a pocket of a gray tweed Norfolk, and produce the half of a cake of sweet chocolate. “Have some?” he asked, stripping the tinfoil off, and dividing the treasure. “Look here,” he continued, when they had sampled the chocolate, “I’m going to call you Monty. Maybe Monte Cristo. Ever read it? Great, isn’t it? Let’s climb that rock up there, shall we? What’s the thing on top of it, do you suppose?”
“Just a tower. Observatory, they call it. I guess you get some view from there. Funny, though, to call that little old hump a mountain. Out at Windlass City it wouldn’t be more than an ant hill.”
“Look here, I’m going out there some day,” said Leon. “It must be great. I looked it up on a map in the library this morning. Your place is right next door to the Yellowstone Park, isn’t it? Do you ever go there?”
Monty shook his head. “I never have yet. It’s only about forty miles, and I’ve always meant to, but somehow I don’t get to do it. You come out there next summer, and we’ll go all over the place.”
“I’d love to! How did you happen to come away off here to school, Monty? Aren’t there any good schools in the west?”
“Piles of them, but I thought I’d like a change. I guess I got it, too,” he added dryly.
“Yes, I reckon Montana—no, Wyoming is a heap different from this. But Terre Haute is quite civilized, isn’t it? That is, a regular city.”
“Oh, we’ve got a trolley car there, and several business blocks,” laughed Monty. “How did you happen to come here?”
“It was father’s idea. He said I ought to know more about the north. Rather silly, I think. I’d rather have gone to a place nearer home. Still this isn’t bad, and there are quite a few southern fellows here. I wonder how we get up this hill.”
“There’s a path over there, isn’t there?”
There was, and ten minutes later they were climbing the steps of the lookout tower that rose from the granite summit of the hill. As Monty had predicted, there was “some view.” Almost at their feet lay the school grounds, dotted with buildings and intersected with gravel walks. Further away was the athletic field, with the freshly limed markings of the tennis courts showing dazzlingly white, and beyond, a narrow ribbon of blue, curved the Needham River. Across the river lay a strip of forest, and then came fields and winding roads, and here and there, a cluster of farm buildings. The village of Grafton seemed quite near with its three church spires and square-topped town hall tower. They could see the clock on the latter, and Monty, after a surreptitious glance at his watch, said that he could even tell the time, which was twenty-six minutes after one, and Leon believed him at first, and was appropriately surprised by his powers of vision. To the right of the village was the railway station, and they could follow the single line of track for some distance westward. On all sides the distance melted into the blue haze of a warm September day.
“It really is a very pretty country,” granted Leon, “and lots greener than it is at home. I’ve never been to England, but I reckon it must look a good deal like this. I suppose you’ve been there, Monty?”
Monty shook his head. “Never been outside the old U. S. A.,” he answered. “Jasper—he’s my guardian—won’t let me go alone, and never offers to take me with him. But some day—” His voice dwindled away into a thoughtful silence.
“‘Some day,’” half grumbled Leon, “lots of things will happen. There’s too much ‘some day’ to suit me. I want things now.”
“I know,” Monty nodded slowly. “But, at that, I guess it’s a lot better to have ‘some day’ to look forward to than—than have it behind you, eh?”
“You’re a philosopher,” laughed Leon. “I don’t like philosophy. Come along down. It must be getting on toward two. What are you doing at three?”
“Not a thing. I was going to report for football practice, but my trunk hadn’t come an hour ago, and I guess it hasn’t got here since.”
“Oh, shucks! Are you going in for that sort of bunk, Monty?”
“Bunk? I’m going to try for the eleven, if that’s what you mean. What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, it’s the way you look at it, I suppose. I never could see much sense in football or baseball. I like a game that I can play by myself and——”
“Solitaire?” asked Monty gravely.
“I mean like tennis. If you lose at that it’s your fault, and no one’s else, or if you win it’s your victory. But in football, why, you’re only one of a dozen——”
“Eleven, to be exact.”
“Dry up, Monte Cristo! Your playing well may not cut any ice in football, for some other idiot—I mean some idiot——”
“I get you, partner. It’s all the way you look at it. Are you going in for tennis, then?”
“Yes. I’ve got my name down for the fall tournament that starts next week. Do you play?”
“Nary a play. It’s a girl’s game.”
“What!” Leon was outraged, and all the way back to the campus he held forth on the merits of tennis, growing more and more earnest as Monty pretended to scoff. Monty found that it was a very easy matter to fool Leon, and indulged himself in the amusement quite frequently during the first weeks of their acquaintance. After that the southerner became wise to the fact that Monty didn’t mean all he said, and that when he looked the gravest he was always laughing in his sleeve. Monty allowed himself at length to become convinced by Leon’s eloquence of the many excellencies of the game of tennis, and the two parted in the corridor of School Hall after agreeing to meet after their recitations.
It was while in the middle of “Jimmy’s” English class that Monty remembered that he had not sought to find the runaway skiff in which he had embarked last evening, and consequently, when Leon met him at a few minutes past three he broached the subject and suggested that they go down to the river and have a look. Leon didn’t seem particularly concerned in the matter, but agreed to take part in the search. Monty waited while the other ran up to his room with his books, and then they strolled across the campus to Morris, where Monty, in turn, disposed of his burdens, and after that went on to the field. The courts were already busy, and Monty had hard work dragging Leon past them.
“That’s what I ought to be doing,” declared the latter concernedly. “I need practice like anything. I wish I knew some fellow who would take me on. Maybe if I got my racket and stood around someone would ask me. Do you know any fellows yet?”
“Only three or four. I don’t know whether they play tennis, Leon, but I’ll ask them if you say so.”
“I wish you would. Who are they?”
“A couple of fellows who room together in Lothrop, Logan and Baker, and another chap named Gowen. Gowen’s a football player. And then there’s that Indian, Standart, and two or three fellows at Morris. I dare say some of them must be tennis fiends, eh?”
“I wish you’d ask. I’d like to get used to those courts a little before the tournament. They look faster than the ones I’ve played on. Come along, if we have to, and let’s find those silly boats.”
That task proved very easy, for both skiff and canoe were pulled up on the beach, and Monty’s straw hat was awaiting a claimant on the end of an upturned oar. “I never thought I’d see that again,” said Monty, as he tried to pull the soft straw back into shape. “Looks sort of—sort of——”
“Echevelé,” suggested Leon.
“Honest? As bad as that, eh? Well, I suppose a hat that’s sat around in the water all night has a right to look ‘aish-flay,’ or whatever you called it. I suppose you talk French like a headwaiter, eh?”
“A little,” acknowledged Leon.
“And read it, too?”
“Not so much.”
“And—and think in it? Can you think in French?”
“Better than I can talk it,” laughed Leon.
Monty sighed enviously. “That must be great,” he said. “The only language I know is English, and Mr. Rumford is beginning to make me think I don’t know that! And I can talk enough Spanish to navigate a burro, and can tell German when I see it printed. There comes the football mob. Want to watch them for awhile?”
Leon good naturedly consented, and they found seats on the stand, and leaned luxuriously back in the sunlight, and waited to be amused. And there Pete Gowen spied Monty, and so came hustling across to him.
“Hello, Crail, how are you getting on?” he asked. “Why haven’t you been around to see me?”
“Thought maybe you had troubles enough of your own. Shake hands with Desmarais. Leon, this is Mr. Gowen. He’s the man they’re building the team around this year.”
Pete laughed as he acknowledged the introduction, and then asked soberly: “Why aren’t you out, Crail?”
“I am out. This is me.” Monty tapped his chest.
“Out for practice, I mean. Didn’t you tell me you played, and were going to try for a place?”
“Oh, that. Why, yes, but I haven’t any togs. My trunk hasn’t caught up to me, Gowen. I’ll be on hand tomorrow, though.”
“Be sure. Don’t put it off. I told Winslow I’d found him a guard, and he’s expecting me to make good on the promise. So long. Glad to have met you, Desmarais.” Pete didn’t exactly say “Desmarais,” but he said something that sounded nearly like it, and hurried off again.
“He’s a big brute,” commented Leon. “Can he play well?”
“So they say. He seems an awfully decent hombre.”
“What’s a hombre?” asked Leon.
“Man. I like the looks of that quarter, don’t you?”
“Which is the quarter? Oh, the fellow with the reddish hair. Yes, what’s his name? He looks as though he could play tennis.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s Weston. Say, they’re a likely looking bunch, aren’t they? Snakes! I hope my trunk gets here before tomorrow afternoon. I’m crazy to get my hands on a football.”
“Well, I wish you luck, Monty. Who’s the cross-looking man with the old flannel trousers?”
“That’s Mr. Bonner, the coach. They say he’s a dandy.”
“Glad he doesn’t boss me. He looks as though he could bite a nail in two this minute. There’s a chap speaking to you, Monty.”
The chap proved to be Jimmy Logan, and when Monty returned his greeting he climbed up to them. “Hello, Crail! Say, have you seen Dud Baker? The idiot promised to play some tennis this afternoon.” Jimmy was sweeping the scattered audience in the stand and along the edge of the field with a frowning gaze. “He’s a lazy guy, though, and had rather watch other fellows exercise than do it himself. He’s probably here somewhere about.”
Monty introduced Leon to Jimmy, adding: “If Baker doesn’t show up this fellow will take you on at tennis, Logan. He’s the champion of the southern states, Desmarais is, and has never been defeated.”
“Dry up, Monty!” protested Leon.
“Do you mean it?” asked Jimmy eagerly. “Do you really want to play, Des—er—I didn’t get the name, I guess.”
“Desmarais,” supplied Monty. “The accent comes on the antepenultimate syllable. The K is silent as in French.”
“Yah! And I suppose his first name’s Harold?” jeered Jimmy. “Maybe he’s another of those Eskimo Twins!”
“Yes, he’s the third of them. Go ahead and whack your little white balls around, Leon. I’ll come over after awhile.”
“I’d like to play very much, thanks,” said Leon, “if you don’t find your friend, Mr. Logan.”
“I’m not going to look for him any longer. Have you got your racket here?”
“No, but it won’t take me a minute——”
“All right. I’ll wait for you here. Payne is keeping a court for me, so don’t be long.” Leon hurried off to Trow, and Jimmy turned inquiringly to Monty. “Who is the raven-tressed youth, Crail? What the dickens did you say his name was?”
“Desmarais. The accent——”
“Yes, but never mind that, laddie. Southerner, isn’t he? Won’t do to get him angry with me, will it? They’re a fiery lot, those southerners. Believe, though, southron is the proper word. How are you getting on? Sorry yet that you changed your mind about Mount Morris?”
“Not a bit, thanks. And I’m getting along very comfortably so far. I think I’m going to get downright fond of this place, Logan.”
“You bet you are,” said Jimmy seriously. “You’ll never regret following my advice and side-stepping Mount Morris, Crail.”
“Oh, did I do that?” asked Monty politely.
“Sure!” responded Jimmy without a quiver. “Don’t you remember? If you don’t you’re the only one,” he added with a chuckle, “because all the fellows I’ve told remember!”
“That’s all right,” Monty laughed. “You’re welcome to the credit.”
“Why haven’t you been around to see us? We’ve got the old sty fixed up corking now. Come and see it, and bring your friend Dejeuner, or whatever his name is. Listen; give me another lesson, will you? Go ahead: Des—Des——”
“Des—ma—ray. Say it quick and you won’t mind it.”
“I shan’t remember it five minutes,” said Jimmy sadly. “Here he comes now, on the dead run. Say, if you see Dud Baker tell him I hope he chokes. Good-by! My love to the Eskimo Twins!”