And, really, their appearance was cause enough for laughter. Their clothes, no longer dripping water but damp and creased and dirty, were spotted with leaves and twigs. Collars and ties hung like limp rags. Mud flaked from their shoes. They were, in short, two as disreputable looking youths as one could expect to encounter in a day’s march, and, to add to their sorry appearance, each bore evidence of the recent encounter. Leon had escaped somewhat lightly, only a bruise on one cheekbone showing, but Monty’s countenance was sadly disfigured. His nose had bled a little, his right eye promised to be purple by morning, there was a contused area around his chin, and that maltreated ear was, while not as large as the football he had likened it to, at least much bigger than the other one.
After a minute their laughter subsided into chuckles, and Monty said a bit sheepishly: “I guess we’re a couple of fools, partner!” But Leon shook his head as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “No, we’re not, Crail. We had a good time, didn’t we?”
Monty grinned. “Sure! And I guess I sort of needed exercise, for I was getting mighty glum and mean feeling. Do I look pretty bad?”
“You wouldn’t make a hit at a Peace Conference,” laughed Leon. “You’d better let me fix you up, Crail. I’m sorry I made such a mess of you. I was in a beast of a temper when you came along. Come on over to the stand here. Got a washcloth or something?”
The next ten minutes were spent in repairs. Monty discovered a bottle of witch hazel, presumably the property of Standart, and they made liberal use of it. A lump as large as a pigeon’s egg graced the back of Leon’s head, its presence making itself known when he leaned against the chair. However, it didn’t show unless you looked for it. Monty’s wounds were far more spectacular, although when the blood had been cleaned from his lip, and his other abrasions and swellings well bathed, and he had slicked down his hair with a brush, he looked fairly respectable once more. And presently the two were comfortably seated by the window, and were talking as intimately as old friends.
They had at least this much in common: both were new boys and felt strange, and both agreed that this part of the country in which they found themselves left much to be desired. Leon compared it to the south and Monty to the west, and neither comparison was favorable to this particular portion of New England. Leon, it seemed, came from New Orleans, and an awkward moment ensued when he casually announced himself a Creole. Monty gazed at him in a surprised manner. “A Creole!” he ejaculated. “But—but—I thought——”
“What?” demanded Leon stiffly.
“Nothing,” replied Monty confusedly. “I—I never met a Creole before.” But he continued to gaze with misgiving at Leon’s hair, which, although straight as his own, was undeniably black.
“You might as well say it,” challenged Leon. “You thought a Creole was a nigger, didn’t you? Most of you Yankees do think that, I reckon. It just shows what an ignorant lot you all are!”
“I’m not a Yankee,” defended Monty. “I was born in Indiana.”
“That’s what you thought, though,” sneered the other. “Now, wasn’t it?”
“N-no, not exactly. I guess I had a sort of notion that a Creole was something like a mulatto or a quadroon. I’m sorry if I said anything——”
“Oh, you northerners all have that crazy idea,” responded Leon, contemptuously. “A Creole is a person born in Louisiana of French and Spanish blood. We have the best blood in America in our veins, as anyone knows who has read history.”
“That’s why I didn’t know,” replied Monty humbly. “I never did read much history. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, old man.”
“You didn’t,” answered Leon not very graciously. “I don’t mind.” Then his face cleared, and he smiled. “I do mind, though, Crail, to be honest. You wouldn’t like it yourself if folks thought you were half negro. It’s almost as bad as being called a Cajun.”
“What’s a Cajun?” asked Monty.
“He’s a descendant of the refugees who came to Louisiana from Nova Scotia along about 1765. Acadians, they were called. Evangeline was a Cajun.”
“Was he?”
Leon laughed merrily. “I reckon you don’t know your Longfellow very well, Crail.”
“Oh, I remember. But I don’t think I ever read the whole poem. It—it’s sort of long!”
“Have you ever been in New Orleans?” asked Leon. He made it sound like “N’Orlins.” Monty shook his head, and Leon promptly started off on a glorification of that picturesque city, and Monty, listening at first only politely, but soon with real interest as Leon’s eyes glowed with fervor, and he pictured so plainly that his hearer could almost see them, the life and color and quaintness of a city so foreign to any that Monty had ever known, determined then and there to see New Orleans the very first chance he got, and, above all, to go shooting and fishing on the bayous below the city, those bayous, ablossom with floating water hyacinths and shaded by live oaks draped with Spanish moss, in which alligators and terrapin and snakes dwell amidst the swaying marsh grass, and where Filipinos fish for shrimp and Kanakas and Cajuns and Japanese and Italians and Indian half-breeds are mingled in a strange hodge-podge.
“It’s New Orleans, isn’t it,” asked Monty finally, “where they have Mardi Gras?”
But, to his surprise, Leon spoke belittlingly of Mardi Gras. “It’s all right enough,” he said, “or it used to be. But nowadays the railroads advertise it, and people flock there from all over the country and make nuisances of themselves. And they go away with the notion that all New Orleans is good for is just to hold carnivals. Which isn’t true, because we’ve got one of the livest cities in the country. Why, we export——”
And then Monty was treated to an exposition of the city’s commercial importance that bored him vastly, even if it impressed him, which, for Leon’s sake, I hope it did. And then it became Monty’s turn, and he sang the glories of Wyoming, and of his beloved mountains, and sang them so eloquently that Leon’s dark eyes warmed, and he made up his mind that he would visit that wonderful Jackson Lake country, and go hunting for elk and see the sunset on the snowy tip of Two-Horn Peak and snowshoe down Halfway Pass, and sit around the bunk-house fire with “Snub” Thompson and “Pin Head” Farrel, and the other engaging characters of Monty’s narrative! And then, Alvin Standart intruded his unpleasing presence, and introductions ensued, and Leon went his way. Monty accompanied him to the sidewalk, and promised to look him up the next morning. And at the last, as they were saying good-night, Monty put his hand out or Leon put his out—Monty never could remember which of them had made the first move—and they shook hands! Which is a most unusual thing for two healthy, normal boys to do, and which, remembered afterwards, brought something very like a blush to Monty’s tanned cheeks.
“Who’s your friend?” inquired Alvin Standart when Monty returned to the room.
“His name’s Desmarais,” answered Monty. “A new fellow. He’s in upper middle.”
“Southerner, isn’t he?”
“Yes, from New Orleans.”
“Thought so. You can generally tell by the way they talk. Sort of drawl their words, don’t they?”
“Do they? Can’t say I ever noticed it, Standart.”
“Sure, they do. They talk funny.” Considering that Standart himself talked through his nose, and flattened every vowel it was possible to flatten, it didn’t seem to Monty that criticism of Leon’s speech came well from him. But he only smiled. “You didn’t go to the reception, did you?” continued his roommate.
“What reception’s that?” inquired Monty.
“Why, Doctor Duncan’s. Didn’t you know about it?”
“I guess so, but I forgot it. What happened?”
“Just the usual things. We had a good feed, though; better than last year. Say, some of the new fellows are wonders, take it from me!”
“Very glad to. You ought to know a wonder when you see it, Standart. By the way, I used some of your witch hazel stuff. Thanks.”
“I should say you did!” exclaimed Standart, viewing the nearly empty bottle scowlingly. “I say, Crail, if you and I are going to get on, you know, you want to cut out that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” asked the other mildly. “Elucidate.”
“Why, I mean you’ve got to let my things alone, Crail. Of course, I don’t mind you using the witch hazel if you ask me, but you—you seem to have had a bath in it! It was a brand new bottle! I’d rather you asked me the next time, please.”
“Snakes! How much does the stuff cost you? And how the dickens could I ask you when you weren’t here?”
“You could have waited until I came, couldn’t you?”
“No, I couldn’t, Harold. I—I ran against something and bunged my eye up, and if I’d waited for you to trail into camp I’d have had a peach of an eye by now. It doesn’t look any too pretty as it is,” he added, observing it in the mirror.
“Stop calling me Harold,” said Alvin impatiently. “You’re always doing it. My name’s Alvin, and I wish you’d remember it.”
“I’ll try to,” Monty assured him. “Harold’s a perfectly good name, though. Guess I like it even better than Alvin.”
“I don’t care whether you do or not. It isn’t my name.” Alvin put down the witch hazel bottle with a frown. “That stuff cost me sixty cents,” he announced, meaningly.
“Sixty cents, eh? It’s fairly expensive, isn’t it? Guess I must have used about forty cents worth then.”
“I guess you did. You can get this bottle filled again at Thayers, in the village. Maybe they won’t charge more than fifty if you have the bottle.”
“Sounds fair,” said Monty. “Maybe they won’t. We’ll hope so, eh?”
“If you like, I’ll pour what’s in here into my tooth-mug, and you can get it filled tomorrow. I don’t like to be without witch hazel. It’s fine stuff for cuts and bruises and——”
“Also good on bread,” suggested Monty cheerfully. “For a cough or a cold there’s nothing like it. A prize goes with every package. The finest of these is a pearl-handled pocket-knife. Step up, gentlemen, and have your money ready!”
Alvin viewed him disgustedly. “Cut out the comedy, Crail,” he said, sourly. “Want this bottle now?”
“No, I think not. Maybe I’ll use a little more of it in the morning, since you say it’s good. You needn’t hurry about getting more, though, because I guess I won’t need it.”
“Me? I’m not going to get more! You are, aren’t you?”
“Oh, dear no! Not so’s you’d notice it. Why, if I went and had that bottle filled again I wouldn’t be under obligations to you, old man. It would be just like using my own witch hazel, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s not funny,” grumbled the other. “You ought to pay me something for what you used. Give me a quarter and we’ll call it square.”
“Standart,” replied Monty severely, “you talk like a Piute. Anybody would think you didn’t want me to have that stuff. If I didn’t know you to be the soul of generosity I’d think you wanted me to pay for it!”
“So I do,” answered Alvin shrilly. “And I want you to quit being funny. You think you’re a regular comedian, don’t you? Well, you aren’t. You make me tired. And I want you to leave my things alone after this. And if you don’t pay for that witch hazel I’ll—I’ll get square with you for it some other way.”
“Listen to me, son.” Monty seated himself on the edge of his bed, and thrusting his hands in his pockets viewed his roommate gravely. “You and I have got to bunk together here. And we’re bound to see a good deal of each other, no matter how hard we try not to. Now, I’m a great believer in being happy whenever it’s possible. And I’m not going to be happy if you annoy me. I’m queer that way. I hate to be annoyed, Standart. It—it riles me. Savvy?”
“I guess I don’t annoy you any more than you annoy me,” sneered Alvin. “I don’t see why I had to have you wished on me, anyway!”
“I’ve wondered the same, son, and I’ve concluded that it’s probably because you needed someone to lead you gently, but firmly toward better things, Standart. You needed someone to cheer you up, I guess. Say, is this grouch of yours something you were born with, or did you just cultivate it?”
“None of your business,” growled Alvin. “You let me alone.”
“I guess it’s an heirloom, then; something that’s been in the family for generations, eh? Well, it’s a good one, only—only the trouble is that I’m likely to find it tiresome, old man. Far be it——”
“Oh, shut up!”
“Far be it from me to throw asparagus on a perfectly good heirloom, Standart, but I’d be awfully much obliged if you’d mislay it some time, and wreathe your features in a genial smile. Why, snakes, man, do you know that ever since I arrived here in your midst you’ve acted just like I wasn’t welcome?”
“You’re a beastly fresh guy,” exploded Alvin, “and someone’s going to hand you what you deserve before you’ve been here long! You make me sick!”
Monty grinned, and began to disrobe himself for bed. Alvin watched him gloweringly from across the room. Finally: “You must be proud of yourself,” he muttered, “being in the lower middle at your age! Yah! You’re a smart guy, aren’t you?”
“My education’s been sadly neglected, Standart,” replied Monty gently. “But I’m going to remedy that. I’m going to—” He paused, an expression of dismay came into his face, and looked toward the table. “Snakes! I plumb forgot to do any studying! What do you know about that?” He chuckled as he tossed his towel in the general direction of the rack, and turned down his bedclothes. “Bet you I make a big hit with the instructor tomorrow!”
Alvin viewed him balefully a moment. Then: “I hope you flunk everything!” he croaked triumphantly.
“Thanks for your kind wishes, Harold! Good-night!”