They were all there when he entered, Jimmy, Dud and Leon. Jimmy was sitting huddled up on the window seat with his banjo across his knees, Leon was stretched over as much of the seat as was left, and Dud was sprawled in a Morris chair. The light was turned low, and it was evident that Jimmy had been singing. Jimmy’s singing was always a treat. He flatted every third or fourth note, and knew it, and was not discouraged. And he especially fancied pathetic ballads. Of the two accomplishments, his banjo playing was far the better, but it was his singing that always won the applause. He stopped strumming softly as Monty closed the door behind him, and said sternly:
“Halt, thou, and give the password!”
“Forget it,” said Monty, shying his cap at Dud, and sinking into the second easy chair.
Jimmy grumbled. “What’s the use of having a password,” he asked to a low accompaniment on the instrument, “if nobody uses it? Want me to sing, Monty?”
“Is it necessary?”
“Give him the last one, Jimmy,” begged Leon. “You’ll love this, Monty. It’s no end sad, and Jimmy sings it with so much feeling.”
“Executes it, you mean,” corrected Dud.
“I composed it myself,” said Jimmy, modestly. “This morning in math. It’s called ‘I Didn’t Choose My Name.’ There’s only one verse so far, but I shall write more.”
“If you live,” suggested Monty.
“Shut up and let him sing it,” said Leon. “It’s great, Monty.”
So Jimmy strummed an introduction, and then, tilting his head back, sang:
“Chorus, now! Get into it, fellows!”
The ditty ended in a long-drawn wail of excruciating dissonance, and three pairs of eyes regarded Monty inquiringly.
“How’s that?” demanded Dud. “Didn’t that get you, Monty?”
“It sure did! It made me want to cry.”
“It would,” said Jimmy proudly. “Some pathetic, that is.”
“Y-yes, it reminded me of home,” agreed Monty sentimentally. “Many is the time I’ve heard them singing just like that.”
“Heard who?” inquired Leon, with suspicion.
“The coyotes,” answered Monty, wiping away an imaginary tear.
There was a silence of long duration. Finally: “I’m not sure that the gentleman is complimentary,” murmured Jimmy, wafting a few depressed chords from the banjo. “His remark savors of—of——”
“It’s an insult,” said Dud, decisively. “He ought to be made to hear another verse.”
“There ain’t no other verse,” said Jimmy, regretfully. “Not yet. Let me see.” He strummed thoughtfully.
Jimmy faltered! “He shook his head— He shook his head——”
“Maybe he had a chill,” suggested Leon.
“He shook— Well, I’ll have to let it go for now. I have to be in the mood. That’s the way with all of us great song writers. But you do like it, don’t you, Monty dear?”
“I’m crazy about it. Or I would be if I heard it again.” Despite a certain ambiguity, Jimmy accepted the praise at its face value and bowed. “It’s funny how the idea of that song came to me,” he remarked, dreamily. “I was listening to Wilcox explaining in that simple, direct way of his how he had arrived at a most extraordinary result in trig., and watching dear Mr. Nellis’s expression change from one of bewilderment to a sort of rapt incredulity——”
“They say he reads Henry James in the original,” whispered Dud admiringly.
“—When the great idea flashed upon me. ‘How awful,’ I thought, ‘to go through life with an impossible name like—like—well, like some of the impossible names folks do go through life with.’” Leon had a violent fit of coughing. Monty’s gaze narrowed. “One would, of course, do one’s best to cloak the—the disgrace, but eventually the horrific truth would out. What a tragedy! Imagine a man leading a blameless life for years and years, liked and respected by his neighbors, beloved by his family, and then having his name suddenly become known! Could anything be more horribly painful, more—er—dramatic? ‘There,’ said I, ‘is subject for a pathetic ballad. I will write it!’ No sooner exclaimed than executed. With my faithful fountain-pen, which happened to be working this morning for some unknown reason, I composed the words on a fly-leaf of my trigonometry. Dear Mr. Nellis interrupted me once with a request for information, but I waved him aside. The music was composed at the piano later. It is very nice music. I forget who wrote it first.”
“I like it because it’s so familiar,” murmured Leon. “You don’t have to learn it.”
“I suppose,” said Monty, “that you fellows know what your trouble is, but I don’t. If you think I’m going to sit around here and listen to your yawping all the evening——”
“Talking about names,” interrupted Dud hurriedly, “I knew a fellow once who was called Rolla.”
“Did he come?” asked Jimmy interestedly. “I shouldn’t have.”
“Rolla isn’t bad,” said Leon. “A fellow I know is named Alonzo.”
“Horace always gets me,” said Jimmy, “but the name that takes the cake is Roscoe. I knew one once. His full name was Roscoe Cassius Updike.”
“How about Chauncey?” asked Leon.
“I know a worse one,” said Dud triumphantly.
“Spring it, dearie.”
“Aloysius.”
“Come again?”
“Aloysius.”
Jimmy nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I guess you win,” he said, at last. “I presume it is German, eh? Suggests German frightfulness. And still, there’s Ezra. Now, some of the Biblical names are wonders. There was a chap here last year named Absalom. Honest to goodness, fellows. Absalom was the name his fond parents had presented him with in a defenceless moment! Say, parents are to blame for lots, aren’t they? But we haven’t heard from Monty. What’s the most—er—the most extraordinary name you ever met with, Monty?”
“James,” replied Monty briefly.
“Really? Well, I suppose I’m used to it. But it isn’t uncommon, like—like— What was that name out of the Bible I heard once?” Jimmy frowned intensely. Monty shifted his feet uneasily, and directed nervous and somewhat suspicious glances at his three companions. But only looks of the utmost innocence met his regard.
“Melchisedec?” suggested Dud.
“No, that wasn’t it. That’s good, though.” Jimmy nodded approvingly. “It was something like—like—” He cast a vacant stare about the room. “Seems to me it began with A: Ab—Ab——”
Monty fixed a scowling gaze on his shoes.
“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Jimmy in triumph. “Ab—Ab— Abner!”
Monty hoped the others didn’t hear the sigh of relief that burst from him. He cleared his throat, and remarked carelessly: “That isn’t a bad name. Lots of folks are called Abner.”
“Honest?” asked Jimmy, plainly disappointed. “Then maybe that isn’t it. Let me see, now. Ab—Ab——”
“Oh, forget your old names,” said Monty desperately. “Aren’t we going to do anything tonight? Let’s get out and go somewhere. It’s a peach of an evening. Just cold enough to be fine. I was talking to Collins before supper. You know, the colored man who looks after the furnaces. Collins had a new scheme this time. I’ve lent him——”
“What’s his first name?” asked Dud eagerly. “Colored folks have dandy names sometimes.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s Dudley, though. Well, this time——”
“Say, Monty, what’s your first name?” asked Jimmy. “You said the A didn’t stand for anything, but you were just fooling, weren’t you?”
“No, I wasn’t,” responded Monty. “It’s just A. I—I had a grandfather who was called that. You see, he had a name when he started out, but he lived to be very old, and his memory failed him and he couldn’t remember what his name was, and so they just called me A after him.”
“I see,” said Dud. “A for After.”
“But you could have found out what his name was by making inquiries, couldn’t you?” asked Jimmy solicitously. “I suppose there was a record of his birth, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, but he was born on the other side somewhere. No one knew where grandfather came from. Funny, wasn’t it?”
“Very interesting,” agreed Jimmy. “He was your father’s father?”
“Yes—no, my mother’s. She was French: came from—from France.”
“That is strange,” murmured Dud. “French folks are like that, though. They get themselves born in the queerest places!”
Monty glared. “What’s queer about a Frenchwoman being born in France?” he demanded.
“Pay no attention to him,” said Jimmy soothingly. “Most natural thing in the world, if you ask me. I suppose your grandfather’s name was Henri. That’s a popular name with them.”
“Yes, it was: Henri Montfort.”
“He spelled Henri with an A?” asked Jimmy, sweetly.
“What? No! Henri was his second name. His first name was A, like I told you. A Henri Montfort.”
“I see. Quite simple, Monty. Well, fellows, say we have one more little song before we go.” Jimmy picked up his banjo again, re-crossed his legs, bringing a grunt of remonstrance from Leon, and struck a chord. “What’ll it be now?”
“‘I Didn’t Choose My Name,’” replied Dud and Leon in unison.
“All right, but I wish I could think up that second verse, fellows. Maybe it will come to me when I get there. I’ll sing the verse, and you fellows come in on the refrain. Let her go!”
So Jimmy wailed the pathetic ballad again, and Dud and Leon howled the chorus with relish. Then, however, instead of stopping, Jimmy began a second verse.
“All together now! Chorus, gentlemen!
As the final wail died away into silence, Monty jumped from his chair, seized his cap and faced his tormentors, his cheeks very, very red. “You—you think you’re funny, don’t you?” he stammered. “Well, you aren’t! You’re a lot of—of—of——” But words failed him, and he strode to the door. There, however, eloquence returned. He encompassed the trio in a look of withering contempt. “You make me sick!” he said.
The door crashed behind him, and he hurried down the stairs, his cheeks still burning, and plunged off into the lamplit gloom. “Idiots!” he muttered savagely. “Fresh kids!”
As he vaulted the fence into School Street, however, anger gave place to curiosity. “Wonder,” he muttered, “how they found it out. I’ll bet that sneaking secretary fellow told someone. He’s the only one that knew. I wouldn’t have told him only he said I had to. He——”
He stopped abruptly on the steps of Morris House.
“That’s it!” he said to himself. “I’ll just bet anything that’s it! Huh!”
He took the stairs two steps at a time, and swung open the door of his room. Alvin Standart was wreathed over an armchair by the table, reading. As he looked up at Monty he smirked.
“Hello, Abijah!” he said.
Monty strode past him to his chiffonier in silence. Then, as what he sought was not in sight: “Where’s that School Catalogue?” he demanded.
Alvin started to reply, caught another view of his roommate’s countenance, and forebore. Instead he lifted the blue-covered pamphlet from the table, and held it forth. Monty grabbed it, and leaned under the light. “Catalogue of Grafton School,” he read. “Calendar,” “Trustees,” “Faculty,” “Students.” Here it was! “Senior Class,” “Upper Middle Class,” “Lower Middle Class”: H’m! “Ainslee, Ainsworth—” Where were the C’s? “Camp, Carpenter, Chandler, Christian, Clapp, Cook, Crail——”
There it stood in all its enormity!
Crail, Abijah Montfort. Terre Haute, Ind. M., F.
Monty stared at it a minute. Then he closed the pamphlet gently, and laid it aside. Alvin was regarding him with a doubtful grin. Monty faced him sternly.
“My name is Abijah,” he said, “but I don’t choose to be called that. Understand?”
Alvin’s gaze wandered away, but after a moment he nodded.
“All right, then. Just remember that it’s going to be awfully unhealthy for you if you forget that fact, Standart.”
“You needn’t row with me,” grumbled Alvin. “I didn’t name you——”
Monty leaned forward, and waved a finger within an inch of his roommate’s nose.
“You heard me!” he said.
Alvin looked for an instant cross-eyed at the finger. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and took up his book again.
Monty pulled his chair to the other side of the table and squared himself for study. But he didn’t do much. That beastly song of Jimmy’s kept echoing through his mind.
Once, a few minutes later, Alvin thought he heard a chuckle from across the table, but concluded he must have been mistaken.