“Idiot!”
The voice, sharp, querulous, came from the gloom on the heels of the collision, and Monty half unseated by the shock, struggled around and peered surprisedly at the speaker. The skiff had wandered almost to the bank, and, since he was himself now in the darkness of the bordering trees, Monty had slight difficulty in making out the shadowy form of a canoe drawn close to the shore, and its lone occupant. The face of the latter was indistinct, only a grayish oval, but Monty was instantly convinced that he didn’t like it. In fact, he heartily disliked everything about the unknown canoeist, especially his voice.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” demanded the other in tones that seemed to Monty deliberately insulting, and that, very naturally, roused his anger.
“Why don’t you give warning, Harold?” he retorted promptly. “Think I’m an owl?”
“You row like one,” sneered the other boy. “Blundering all over the river like that! Don’t you suppose there are other fellows around here besides you, you silly fool?”
The skiff had floated slowly away, scraping in the twilight against the overhanging branches, but now Monty pulled it back until it was once more alongside the canoe, and he could grasp the gunwale of the latter. “Say, partner, I can’t see your face,” he replied, in the drawl that came naturally to him when he was angry, “and so I don’t know whether you smiled when you said that.”
“What if I didn’t?”
“Nothing, except that I’ll reach over and grab you, Harold.”
“Try it, won’t you?” The voice sounded really eager.
“Sure!” answered Monty. As he got to his feet in the swaying skiff he thought that perhaps this cocky youth might not be such a bad sort after all. In Monty’s present mood a scrap seemed the most desirable thing in life, and that the other fellow was apparently of his way of thinking amounted almost to a bond of sympathy. But Monty didn’t take as much time for these reflections as I have taken to record them, for he was essentially prompt in his undertakings. So, too, was the boy in the canoe, for he also was on his feet now, and when Monty made a sudden lunge for him his fist shot out, and only Monty’s quick duck of the head made the blow harmless. The next moment, gripping each other across the sides of the craft, they were struggling mightily.
“Over you go, Monkey Face!” grunted Monty.
“I reckon—you’ll go—too!” panted the other.
Wrestling under such conditions is a precarious undertaking, and presents novel difficulties. As the boys leaned together their crafts in the most natural way in the world slowly parted until presently Monty was on his knees on the gunwale, and his adversary, no longer able to stand up, became a dead weight in his arms.
“Apologize?” demanded Monty grimly as the water poured in about his knees.
“No, you—you dirty Yank!”
“Yank, eh! I’ll Yank you, you—” But Monty’s powers of invention were handicapped, and he gave his thought and strength to tearing loose the grip of his opponent. It dawned on him then that there could be just one climax to the struggle, and he found time to grin before, the skiff tiring of the unusual task required of it, he slid gently forward into the river!
Fortunately, perhaps, there was a depth of only some three feet just there. Monty, still clasping his adversary, and still clasped, went sputtering and gurgling to the bottom, or, at least, as near the bottom as the body of the other, which happened to be underneath, would permit. The taste of the water suggested that they had disturbed the muddy sediment, and Monty was all for getting back to air again. But no such idea seemed to possess the other, for the death-like grip still held, and for a fraction of a second Monty had a horrid vision of drowning! Then, however, he found his knees, and, at last, his feet, and, with the other boy still clinging to him, managed to stand up.
“Had—had enough?” he gasped chokingly.
There was no verbal reply, but the adversary’s actions plainly intimated that he hadn’t, for, once out of the water, he began beating a clenched fist into the back of Monty’s head, the only point he could reach. Monty pushed his head as far out of the way of punishment as possible, and, floundering about in the water, slowly worked his right hand up under the boy’s chin. No one can stand the agony of having the head pushed back for long, and gradually the boy’s grasp loosened until, with a sudden effort, Monty wrested himself free, at the same instant straightening his right arm. His opponent staggered back, tried to recover, failed and disappeared.
Monty awaited his reappearance, smiling grimly. The humor of the thing struck him then, and the smile became a laugh, and the laugh broke out just as the other boy came out of the water again. With a rush he returned to the fray, his hands aiming blows at Monty’s face, which the latter had difficulty in avoiding, and which caused him to give back toward the bank. He was watching for an opportunity to close in, but the other afforded him none. A staggering left to Monty’s cheek sent him reeling on the rotting debris under foot, and he brought up against the branches of an alder, and then, losing foothold, sat down on the bank.
“Get up!” sputtered the other. “I’m just started!”
Monty was dimly conscious of a small clearing a few yards to the left, and concluded that he had had quite enough of aquatic battling. Hurling himself on the other, receiving a blow on the face that jarred but didn’t stop him, he got his arms around his adversary’s body, heaved, and staggered with his struggling, infuriated burden through the shallow water, and reached the bank. But to climb out was beyond him, and in the effort he fell and they rolled apart. Each got to his feet quickly, panting, ready. There was a little light in the small clearing, enough for each to see for the first time the features of the other, and, while they paused, as though by mutual consent to recover breath, they made use of the opportunity.
Monty saw a tall, lithe, well-built boy of possibly seventeen, with very dark hair—probably black, although he couldn’t be certain of that—big dark eyes in an oval face, a determined-looking mouth, a nose that was a trifle aquiline, and a chin that was at once pointed and strong. Monty’s first verdict was: “Great Snakes, he’s a good-looking hombre!” Then he added: “A regular dude, though!” The boy’s attire was, in fact, almost too picturesque, although his immersion had left it somewhat bedraggled. His dark head was bare—perhaps he had worn a hat and lost it, as Monty had—a negligee shirt of some pale tint that in the present uncertain light might have been blue or pink or lavender clung to his body beneath a well-cut jacket of some dark-gray material, his neck was encircled by a soft collar which now lay like a twisted rag, a flowing tie hung wet and stringy from beneath it, there was a belt at the waist and a metal buckle gleamed in the half-light, and his costume was completed by dripping white flannel trousers and discolored white buckskin shoes. Before the encounter, reflected Monty, he must have been a thing of beauty!
But, after all, there wasn’t much time for studying the enemy, for the enemy was clearly impatient for a renewal of hostilities. Monty was forced to acknowledge, albeit a bit grudgingly, that the black-haired chap had plenty of spunk. The recess lasted less than a minute, and then they drew together again, Monty stepping cautiously with guard down, and the other dancing lightly on nimble feet, hands up and moving impatiently, dark eyes snapping, mouth close shut, and with a little droop at one corner.
The space they had found was barely twelve feet in length along the river bank, and less than half that in depth, and the ground was hummocky. Small bushes, protruding roots and withered brakes made uncertain footing, and the light was going fast. It was very quiet, save for the gurgle of water where the river washed past a pile of driftwood, and for the deep breathing of the two boys and the brush of their feet through the low bushes and yellowing fronds. Then the black-haired youth rushed and Monty met the onslaught.
As a boxer, Monty was not clever, and while he managed to escape punishment for a moment or two, and to even land once against the enemy’s neck, he was presently giving back. His opponent fought like fury, but with a science that was something of a revelation to Monty. He had a most disturbing way of leaving his right side unguarded, and then, when Monty tried to reach his head, ducking aside and at the same instant swinging up with his right with disastrous effect to Monty’s left ear! And every time Monty tried to beat down his guard, and get his hands on him he was brought up all-standing. It was after his opponent had landed a fourth or fifth blow to the head that Monty’s temper gave way, and, utterly regardless of consequences then, he hurled himself on the other under a rain of blows, and wrapped his arms around his body. Then his right leg went back, his grasp fell to the other’s waist, and he bore backward. A shower of short-arm blows was ringing against the back of his head and neck, and he was growing dizzy under them when, with a sudden, quick heave, he lifted the other from his feet, and sent him crashing backward to the ground. Monty was on him before he could move, pinioning his arms to the earth.
“Coward!” gasped the other. “Fight fair!”
“That was a fair throw!” grunted Monty. “Give up, do you?”
“No! Get off me! Let me up!”
“Not much, partner!” answered Monty grimly. “You’ve made jelly of my ear, I guess. You’ll stay where you are now until you cry quits.”
“Coward!” taunted the other again, writhing under the weight that held him helpless. “Can’t you fight with your fists?”
“Not so well as I can wrestle,” replied Monty calmly. “Better stop kicking, you!”
“Let me up! Fight decently, you—you cad!”
“Look here!” Monty’s right hand traveled slowly up, bringing the boy’s left arm to his stomach. “Stop calling names!”
“Cad! Coward! Rotten Yank!”
“What’s to keep me from punching your face?” asked Monty grimly, drawing up one knee and setting it on the imprisoned wrist while his left hand strained at the captive’s right.
“Nothing! It’s what I’d expect of you, you—you——”
“Easy now! Be good or I’m likely to hurt you. It would be fierce if I made a mess of that pretty face of yours!”
He was having a hard time bringing that right arm around. Both boys were panting hard. Just how it happened, Monty never knew, but suddenly he found himself sprawled aside, and, although he tried desperately to hold his adversary, the latter eluded him like a cat and was on his feet. Monty had just time to spring erect before he was once more beset. A blow on the chest almost lost him his balance, and before he could recover the black-haired youth had landed again on that long suffering ear and had danced back. With a roar of rage Monty rushed, took a blow that almost dazed him and again wrapped his arm about the slim body of the opponent. For a moment they swayed, struggled, staggered about on the treacherous ground, and then went crashing to earth, Monty on top. But this time there was no need for him to grapple the other’s arms. The boy with the black hair lay still, with eyes nearly closed. Monty, suspicious, watched a moment and then got unsteadily to his feet.
“Stunned,” he muttered. “Great Snakes, I hope he isn’t hurt!” He went to the bank and dipped cupped hands in the water and splashed it over the boy’s face. He had to make three trips to and fro before the boy on the ground stirred, sighed deeply and opened his eyes. He viewed Monty at first blankly and then dubiously in the half-darkness.
“What happened?” he asked weakly.
“Guess you hit your head on a root or something,” answered Monty. “How do you feel?”
“All right now, thanks. What—oh, yes, I remember.” He frowned and closed his eyes tiredly. “Give me a minute or two and I’ll be ready,” he added apologetically.
“Great Snakes, haven’t you had enough yet!” marveled Monty.
“Have you?”
“Gee, yes, minutes ago!”
“Oh! Well, all right. I reckon I have, too. Would you mind—” He struggled to sit up and Monty dropped on his knees and propped him in a sitting posture. “That was a fierce bump I got,” he muttered.
“Sorry,” said Monty cheerfully. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
To his surprise the boy laughed merrily if weakly.
“What’s the joke?” asked Monty, puzzled.
“Nothing, only—you said you didn’t mean to hurt me,” gasped the other. “It—it sounded funny!”
“That’s so,” Monty allowed with a chuckle. “I meant I didn’t mean to damage you, I guess. Look here, we’d better be getting back. It’s pretty nearly dark. Think you can make it?”
“Oh, yes, thanks. I’m all right.” With Monty’s help he got to his feet. But he swayed and fell against the arm that his recent adversary had put out. “I’m sort of dizzy,” he murmured apologetically.
“Take your time,” said Monty, feeling of his aching ear. “Say, where’d you learn to fight like that, hombre?”
“I took boxing lessons for awhile. Did I get you much?”
“Did you! I’ve got an ear on me that feels as big as a football. Seems about the same shape, too!”
“You asked for it,” rejoined the other calmly. “You ought to keep your guard up. I’ll show you what I mean some time, if you like.”
“You’ve shown me quite enough, thanks,” answered Monty decisively. “I know when I’m satisfied. All right now? Say, what about those boats? And I lost a perfectly good hat!”
“I reckon the boats will run aground somewhere,” replied the other boy quite unconcerned. “If you want to look for your hat, though——”
“No, let it go. Do you know how to get out of here?” Monty surveyed the underbrush with misgiving.
“No, I was never here before. I reckon school’s up that way somewhere. We’ll just have to break through the bushes, I suppose. Shall we try it?”
“Have to, I guess. Gee, but it’s getting chilly!” Monty shivered as a little night wind caressed his damp form. “I’ll go ahead. I’ve done this sort of thing before.” He started into the bushes and pushed and crashed his way through them, his new acquaintance following at his heels. It was nearly pitch dark now and Monty had to guess at his direction, but the fringe along the river was not deep and presently, somewhat scratched by branches, they stood on the edge of the field and the lights of the school buildings twinkled across at them and a million stars blinked calmly down from a purple-black sky. To their right a darker shadow loomed and Monty guessed it to be the boathouse. He chuckled as he led the way across the turf.
“If we had gone a little further we’d have had a better place for our scrap,” he said. “The boathouse float would make a fine ring, I guess. Say, what were we fighting about, partner?”
“I called you a silly ass or something, didn’t I?” responded the other mildly. “And I think you called me monkey face, and said you would lick me. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Neither do I,” laughed Monty. “Fact is—er—I say, what’s the name, eh?”
“Desmarais.”
“Des—mer—er?”
“Des—ma—ray. It’s French.”
“Oh! Well, I was going to say that you happened along when I was in just a nice mood for a scrap, Des—Des——”
“Desmarais. Seems to me it was you who happened along, though. I was sitting there in that canoe doing a little thinking when you came out of nowhere and slammed into me. I reckon I was rather ugly about it, but I was feeling out of sorts just then——”
“So was I! Fact is, I was getting homesick, er— Say, what’s your first name? I can’t get the twist of that one.”
“Leon.”
“Leon, eh? Mine’s Monty Crail. There’s more of it, but that’s enough. What’s your class?”
“Upper Middle.”
“I’m in the Lower. I’m one of those backward chaps you read about, I guess. Old Whiskers, who put me through my paces this morning, says I can get into the Upper Middle next term if I try hard, and I mean to try, but, gee, I’m up against a tough proposition, I guess. About all I know of German is that you have to gargle when you talk it! You been here long?”
“About twenty-four hours.”
“What? Are you a new fellow, too? Say, it’s sort of funny our running across each other like this, isn’t it? I’m right cheered up about it, Lon. I guess they’re right when they say misery loves company. You don’t mind my calling you Lon, do you? I never was much good at French.”
“I’d prefer to have you put the ‘e’ in,” replied Leon, “if you don’t mind. Is Monty your real name or just an abbreviation?”
“Short for Montfort.”
“Why, that’s French, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my mother was French. But, I don’t remember her at all.” They went up the steps at the end of the path, passed through the gate, and crossed the road to the Green. “Say, you’d better come up to my room and fix up a bit, hadn’t you? I live in Morris, the house on the corner there. I don’t know what they think about scrapping here, but maybe if a teacher spotted you there’d be trouble.”
“Thanks, I will, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit. Hope my roommate isn’t in, though. He’s a regular Indian. Here we are.” The steps were deserted now, and although the open doors of several rooms proved their occupants at home, Number F was dark and empty. Monty switched on the light, closed the door and viewed his new friend. And Leon viewed Monty. And after a moment their lips began to curve upward, and then, quite suddenly, Monty had subsided on his bed, and Leon on Standart’s, and they were shouting and rocking with laughter!