Monty’s day was as follows. He awoke early, which was a habit of his and for which he claimed no special merit, and, propped up in bed, studied for a half-hour or, occasionally, an hour. At seven or thereabouts he arose. Chapel was at seven-thirty. Attendance was compulsory. Breakfast was at eight o’clock, whether one ate in the big dining-hall at Lothrop or the smaller one in Manning or a tiny one in Morris or Fuller. The first recitation was at nine and the last at two, the hour between twelve and one being devoted to dinner. Monty’s schedule provided him with four hours on Mondays and Fridays, three hours on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays and one hour on Saturdays, the latter being from nine to ten. When there was a spare hour between recitations he was supposed to spend it in preparation. If you were a member of either of the school societies you usually ascended to the society’s room on the top floor of School Hall and did the best you could in the presence of from six to twenty others, several of whom would doubtless be playing pool. Otherwise you went into the library or the common room in your dormitory or retired to your study. In Monty’s case, as Morris lay the length of the front campus away from School Hall, he usually affected the library. At a few minutes before three the last class for the day was dismissed. At three-thirty football practice began and continued for anywhere from an hour and a quarter to an hour and a half. After practice, twenty minutes or more was spent in getting a shower, dressing and returning to the room. Supper was at six. In the evening one theoretically did as one pleased, although a certain amount of “digging” was necessary to even the idlest. Visits to the village after supper were not encouraged, but one might go if one filled out a “pass,” and had it viséd by an instructor or proctor. That was the average program for a member of the two middle classes. The juniors were more restricted, and underwent an hour of compulsory study in the evening. The seniors usually had fewer hours of recitation during the week, with, consequently, more free time. On Sundays every student attended church in the morning, and could go again in the evening if he desired. There was a Bible class in the afternoon, and, in the evening, the Christian Fraternity held a meeting. Both of these were open to all members of the school.
Now, it would seem that Monty’s days were sufficiently occupied to prevent his being bored, and yet on the Thursday evening succeeding the defeat at the hands of St. James he distinctly made the assertion that he was bored. At the moment he was lying on the window-seat in Number 14 Lothrop, his hands under his head—he had brushed the pillows to the floor because he disliked having his head higher than his feet—and his gaze fixed on a spot on the ceiling. The statement was made to no one in particular, but was heard by Jimmy and Leon. Dud was upstairs visiting Ordway. For a long moment the remark brought no response. Then Leon yawned, and:
“So am I,” he responded. “I wish there was something to do.”
“You might dig a bit,” suggested Jimmy cheerfully. “I’m told that digging is quite fascinating.”
“I’m sure your personal experience is very slight,” said Leon. “I wish I had enough energy to tear myself away from your scintillant society, and do some digging, though. I’ve got a lot of Milton to read.”
“Dear old John!” murmured Jimmy, stretching his feet further across the floor from the armchair in which he was reclining on his spine. “How well, and, oh, how fondly I recall his beautiful poems! Don’t you just dote on ‘L’Allegro’?”
“I do not,” replied Leon feelingly. “How much of him do we have, Jimmy?”
“Oh, lots, dearie. There’s his lovely ‘Il Penseroso,’ yet, and likewise the absorbing ‘Comus.’ Milton was a bright and cheerful writer, what?”
“What are you hombres talking about?” inquired Monty lazily. “What other brands of cigars does this fellow make?”
“Milton was not a cigarmaker,” answered Jimmy patiently. “And the ‘Il Penseroso’ is not a five-cent bundle of cabbage leaves. Milton was a poet. What he made was trouble. I don’t suppose,” he added, thoughtfully, “that Milton realized what a heap of worry he was laying out for the upper middle class at Grafton School, though. If he had, he wouldn’t have written the stuff. But he couldn’t foresee——”
“Of course, he couldn’t. Milton was blind.”
“Hello! Listen to him, Leon! He heard about it away out in Wyoming! Wonderful the way news travels nowadays, isn’t it?”
“Guess it’s Milton’s daughters you want to speak to about it,” said Monty. “They could have hidden father’s fountain pen if they’d wanted to. I’ve seen a picture of the old gentleman dictating to one of the girls, with two or three more standing around and looking like they were wondering what they could do to stop it. Do I have to wade through that Pondoroso stuff if I make the upper middle? Because if I do I’m going to stay where I’m at!”
“I love his free and untrammeled use of the English language,” murmured Jimmy. “‘Where I am at’ is so expressive, isn’t it? Of course, you both recall the Englishman who went home from a visit to this benighted land and criticised us for saying ‘Where am I at?’ He said it should be ‘Where is my ’at?’”
“That’s funny,” said Monty.
“Why not laugh a little, then?”
“I didn’t mean that the story was funny, although it is—or was once. I meant it was funny you should remember it. I forgot it so long ago!”
“Next time stop me, sweet one.”
“You didn’t give us a chance,” laughed Leon.
“Naturally. If you want to tell a funny story, do it quick before some Smart Alick says he’s heard it!”
“All this is bright and brilliant,” observed Monty, “but it doesn’t soothe the restless longing I have for excitement.”
“Wish we could go to the movies,” said Jimmy.
“Might as well wish for grand opera,” responded Leon. “What can we do, fellows? I’ve got it now, too.”
“Why do anything?” asked Jimmy. “I’m quite comfortable here. You chaps probably ate something for supper that doesn’t agree with you. I know that feeling of unrest perfectly.” He laid a hand tenderly on his stomach. Monty snorted with disdain.
“Bet you your soul and your stomach are in the same place, Jimmy,” he said. “If I was at home I—I’d get on a bronc and run him about ten miles across country. I feel—” Monty stopped.
“Proceed, dearie,” prompted Jimmy. “Just what are your symptoms? Tell Uncle James.”
“I feel like it would do me a heap of good to take that closet door off its hinges and slide downstairs on it.”
“Why, that’s an innocent diversion,” said Jimmy. “Go to it, Monty!”
“Come along?” asked Monty hopefully.
“N-no. No, I think not, my impetuous friend. You see, my folks rather expect me to stay here until June. It would be an awful disappointment to them if I appeared, bag and baggage, back at the old home in October. Think of something—something—er—more sub-tile.”
“How about going down and doing something to Jimmy?”
“‘Something’ is so vague. What, for instance? Mind you, I’m for it, because Jimmy and I don’t love each other just now. Jimmy said things about a comp of mine that no gentleman should say to another. Go on, Monty. You interest me strangely.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Anything short of breaking him somewhere. Joking aside, fellows, let’s mosey out and shoot up something. Let’s have some excitement. I’ve been as good and quiet as a little woolly lamb ever since I struck this outfit, and now I’ve just got to spread myself a bit. Leon, you think of something.”
“Yes, Leon, let that ardent southern nature of yours loose for a spell,” Jimmy seconded. “Unfurl—er—unleash your vivid imagination. We hang on your words.”
“We might break something,” answered Leon thoughtfully. “A couple of windows.”
“With rocks?” asked Monty doubtfully. “Oh, I know! With baseball bats! Great! Come on!”
“Call that sub-tile?” scoffed Jimmy. “You fellows have no more imagination than a—than a—a hen! You’re just naughty little boys with your breaking windows stuff. Think up something artistic, original.”
“I don’t hear you coming across with any big ideas,” said Monty, scornfully. “Say, what do you fellows do here when you want some fun?”
“Oh, we go up to the society rooms and play pool or chess,” replied Jimmy sweetly. “Or we gather about the piano downstairs and sing glees. Don’t you just love to sing glees? And rounds? Know that charming thing about the Three Blind Mice? Shall we go down and sing it?”
“You make me sick,” groaned Monty.
“I’m going home to do some studying,” said Leon with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “What time is it?”
“About a quarter past nine, old dear. What’s the matter with our western friend?”
Monty had lowered his feet to the floor, and was gazing at Jimmy with a strangely earnest expression, an expression absorbed and almost exalted. “Where is this piano?” he asked softly.
“Oh, my poor Leon, he’s going to sing at us!” moaned Jimmy. “Don’t tell him! Don’t tell him!”
But Monty was already crossing the room to the door. “Come on,” he directed. “If we can’t break something let’s make a noise.”
The common room, a big apartment on the first floor comfortably furnished with leather-cushioned chairs and couches and window-seats, was deserted, but in the game room, which opened from it at one end, a dozen boys were seated about the tables at chess or checkers or dominoes. At the other end of the common room was the library, a square apartment of book-lined walls and low reading lamps, and here a few more denizens of Lothrop were ensconced. The evening was a trifle chilly in spite of the warmth of the day, and a small fire flickered in the big fireplace when Monty and Leon and Jimmy descended on the piano. Jimmy was grinning in anticipation of the disturbance about to be created. There was no rule that he knew of prohibiting the use of the piano at that hour, but he fancied the chess players and the studious youths reclining in the padded ease of the library armchairs would not be especially sympathetic toward Monty’s craving for music.
If any such thoughts assailed Monty, he hid the fact. Up went the piano lid, and he ran his fingers along the keys with a startling tri-i-ill. “Some box,” he announced approvingly. Then he seated himself on the bench, struck a chord resonantly, and put his head back. In the library five books were lowered simultaneously, and in the game room a dozen absorbed youths stared amazedly and frowned disapproval.