Captain of the Crew

  CHAPTER XXI

  A DISAPPOINTING HERO

  Dick was a hero. Every one said so; and “every one” certainly ought tohave known. His advent at chapel the morning following the fire wasthe signal for an outburst of applause, a token of approval the likeof which had not occurred at Hillton since that far-famed half-back,Joel March, was a student there and had rescued a lad from drowning inthe river. Yes, Dick was a hero. Professor Wheeler sent for him andsaid all kinds of nice things, and the resident instructor, ProfessorTompkins, waylaid him in the lower hall of Masters and beamed on himover his glasses, and other members of the Faculty shook hands withhim warmly and quoted appropriate things in Greek and Latin, and thestudents played the part of a monotonous chorus and whispered when hepassed.

  But if Dick was a hero, his conception of the role was all wrong,judged by the accepted standard. Instead of wearing an expression ofmodest pride, instead of receiving the tributes of an admiring publicwith blushes and murmured expostulations as, of course, every hero hasdone since the time of Adam, he mooned around out-of-the-way cornerslike a bear with a sore head, while his most gracious response to theadmiring public was a muttered “Oh, dry up, will you?” delivered insomething between a growl and a groan.

  “You’re absolutely the most disappointing hero I ever heard of!” saidTrevor in disgust. “Why, if I’d done a thing like that I’d be struttingaround the yard with my head back and my thumbs in my waistcoatpockets! A chap would think you were grouchy about it!” Whereupon Dickturned angrily:

  “Trevor, if you don’t shut up I’ll pound you good and hard! Now, I meanwhat I say!”

  “Some are born to greatness,” murmured Trevor, “some achieve greatness,and some have greatness thrust upon them--and are exceeding wroth. Ihave spoken!” And having spoken, he bolted out the door a fractionof a second ahead of a German dictionary thrown with much vigor andprecision.

  But, despite Dick’s displeasure, there was both truth and justicein Trevor’s charge. Dick was disappointing. And the school at largemarveled, and finding that their admiration for the plucky rescue wasnot wanted, thereafter refrained from further mention of the matter inDick’s presence. And that youth kept to his room a good deal, where,instead of delving in his books, he sat glowering into space, or walkedrestlessly around like a caged lion. He became extremely taciturn, andeven rowing affairs failed to arouse any but the most indifferentreplies. Trevor wondered and grew alarmed.

  By the burning of Coolidge’s house--due to the upsetting and subsequentexplosion of a patent non-explosive lamp--seven boys found themselveshomeless and less about everything save the scanty wardrobes in whichthey had made their escapes. Coolidge’s was a mere pile of ashes andcharred timbers. For the family charity was unnecessary, since thehouse and contents had been well insured, but for the boys who had lostalmost everything a scheme was speedily set on foot. A meeting washeld in Society House, and the president of the senior class, WallaceOsgood, made a stirring address, which every one applauded, and thenasked for suggestions as to a means of raising money to reimburse, tosome extent at least, the victims of the fire. There was no responseuntil Malcolm Kirk, who, with several members of the Faculty, presidedon the stage, moved that an amateur performance, the exact characterof which was to be later decided upon, be given in the Town Hall.He was sure, he said, that there was enough talent in the school toafford an interesting program, and believed that enough tickets couldbe sold at the academy and in the village to more than fill the hall.The plan met with instant favor; Professor Wheeler indorsed it, andmoved that Mr. Kirk be asked to assume charge of it; Mr. Kirk assentedand moved, in turn, that committees to work with him be appointed fromthe four classes; the classes made their appointments on the spot; aSaturday night some two weeks distant was chosen as the date of theentertainment, and the meeting broke up with great enthusiasm.

  Boys hurried to their rooms, and brought down dusty banjos, guitars,and mandolins, and for nights afterward the dormitories were madehideous with chromatic scales and strange, weird chords. Dick foundhimself one of the senior committee, and throwing aside some of hislethargy worked busily with the rest. The first meeting of the jointcommittee of arrangements was held in Kirk’s room the followingevening, and he outlined his plan. There was not, he thought,sufficient time before the date agreed upon in which to find performersfor and rehearse anything in the way of a play. Instead, he wouldsuggest that scenes from some well-known book be presented, eachcarrying only enough dialogue to make themselves clear. For instance,there was Tom Brown at Rugby; that afforded numerous opportunitiesfor interesting stage pictures; there was Tom’s leave-taking with hisfather at the inn, in which the father’s excellent advice would, hethought, appeal to the risibilities of the audience. And then therewas the fight with “Slogger” Williams, the hazing scene before thefireplace, and so on through the book. For the first part of theentertainment he suggested that the musical talent of the school couldbe levied upon; some of the fellows could undoubtedly sing; manycould perform on some instrument or other; perhaps some could giverecitations; and no doubt the band would do its share. For a furtherattraction, to constitute a third part of the program, Kirk suggesteda series of representations of various sports, each to be picturedby a single person in appropriate costume--as Football, Baseball,Bowing, Lacrosse, Cricket, Hockey, Basketball, Skating, Tobogganing,Snow-shoeing, Tennis, and so on, all to be grouped together on thestage afterward for a final tableau.

  The plan was adopted, and for the next two weeks every one was verybusy, Kirk and Dick especially, since rowing affairs claimed more andmore of their attention every day. May had brought fine, clear weatherand sunny skies, under which it was a pleasure to work. The littlechilling breezes that had been ruffling the blue waters of the Hudsonhad crept away in the track of winter, and the valley was green withfresh verdure and warm with the spring sunshine. Each day brought freshhope to those who were interested in the success of the crew. The eightmembers of the varsity worked together with something approachingaccord, and even Taylor’s continued absence from the boat was nolonger a reason for constant dismay; for Jones, by dint of eternalvigilance and much tongue-lashing, had at last made of himself a fairlyacceptable Number 7. Taylor was still laid up, for the fire and hisefforts to fight his way from the building before Dick’s arrival hadset back his recovery at least a fortnight.

  Many times Waters had brought word to Dick that Taylor had asked tosee him, and Dick had as many times answered that he would go over toWaters’s room as soon as he found time. But he took good care never toallow himself opportunity. Trevor told him he was a brute. Dick growled.

  On the Saturday afternoon preceding the entertainment the varsity andsecond crews met for their first tussle on the water, and the resultwas surprising even to the varsity. The two boats raced from thedown-stream end of Long Isle up the river for a half mile, and thevarsity’s victory was too decisive to allow of its being explained bycrediting the second with unusually slow work. In fact, even the secondmade favorable time for the course, while the varsity, which finishedtwelve lengths to the good, came within a few seconds of equaling thebest record. But this was a fact known only to Kirk, Dick, and Keene,for the former pointed out dryly that it wouldn’t do them any harm iftheir rivals at Marshall continued to believe them in poor shape. “Itmay lead to overconfidence on St. Eustace’s part,” said Kirk, “andoverconfidence is usually a winning card--for the other side.”

  But, despite the brightening prospects, Dick was not happy. In fact,he didn’t remember of ever having been so utterly miserable and outof humor with himself. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand the cause;he was, he told himself savagely, at least honest with Dick Hope, nomatter how much of a scoundrel he was in reality. He knew that if hewent to Roy Taylor like a man and absolved him from the promise sovillainously extorted, he would, in a measure at least, recover hisself-respect. He tried at first to justify his conduct to himself bycraftily pointing out the fact that he had used Taylor’s own weapons;
that if Taylor had not acted like a thief there would have been nocall for Dick to act like one; and that, when the matter was observeddispassionately, he had only taken advantage of his opportunity to workfor the good of the crew and the school. But the pose of disinterestedpublic benefactor didn’t satisfy him, and, although he ground his teethand knit his brows and doggedly determined to hold on to the vantagehe had gained, he was not happy, but, on the contrary, loathed himselfheartily, hated Trevor because that youth insisted upon thinking him ahigh-minded hero, detested Taylor because the latter was primarily toblame for it all, and lost his appetite, didn’t half know his lessons,and was, in short, at odds with the whole world.

  And then came the night of the benefit performance in the Town Hall.St. Eustace had subscribed for fifty tickets at a dollar apiece, andhad then returned them to the committee to be resold. As a resultof this, and of the activity of the class ticket-sellers, the hallon the night of the entertainment was altogether too small for thepurpose. The villagers had responded generously to the appeal, andhad bought seats until it had begun to look as though there would beno places left for the students. But every one in the end managed tosqueeze in somehow; and as every member of the audience, whether hesaw the performance from a comfortable seat in the front of the hallor only caught an occasional glimpse of it from behind a wall of lessfortunate persons, paid a dollar for the privilege; and as the expenseswere almost nil, the exchequer when the curtain went up held the verysatisfactory total of $354, a fraction over $50 for each of the firevictims.

  There is not space enough here to do justice to the excellency ofthe program. It will serve to say that some twenty boys sang, playedon a marvelous variety of instruments, from accordion to piano, andrecited. Williams gave operatic selections on a zither, and for encorerendered Way Down Upon the Suwanee River; a youth named Billings sangMassa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground, not so much because it was intenselymusical as because it was about the only thing that accommodated itselfto his voice; Todd sat down in a straight-backed chair at the frontof the stage and did all kinds of stunts on a banjo, which pleasedhis audience vastly; Osgood sang The New Bully in a manner that sentthe younger boys into spasms of laughter; Trevor, attired in hastilyimprovised costume, sang a number of coster songs in a sweet tenor,and gained much applause; Jones recited the tragic termination of thebaseball career of one named Casey; and so it went. And when Part Firsthad come to an end the stage was set for the first of the Scenes fromTom Brown at Rugby, and it fell to Dick, as his contribution to theevening’s entertainment, to go before the curtain and explain whatwas to follow. His appearance was greeted with the heartiest applausethat had thus far fallen to the lot of any. The audience was in goodhumor, Dick was a hero, and here was an opportunity to show approvalof the gallant rescuer. The boys cheered, the villagers clapped andstamped applause, the less polite members of the community thatfringed the gathering yelled vociferously, and Dick--well, he did amost unaccountable thing: he grew pale, faltered, and even turnedtoward the wing as though meditating escape. “Such modesty!” breatheda kind-hearted lady in the second row. But after the first impulsetoward flight Dick waited for silence, white-faced, unsmiling, and whenit came made his speech calmly, in well-modulated but unenthusiasticvoice, bowing himself off finally under a second bombardment ofapplause. Then the curtain arose on Tom Brown and his father in thetap-room of the inn. Mr. Brown, Sr., impersonated by Crocker of thevarsity crew, was a hale and hearty country squire in wig, long coat,and top-boots; while a small junior, in ridiculous long trousers andchimney-pot hat, made up excellently as a rather nervous Tom. Crockerdelivered his speech of advice in a manner that captured the audience,Boots appeared at the door to announce that the stage-coach was waitingand the curtain descended amid applause.

  Dick, however, saw nothing of this. Having gained the wings he seizedhis hat from a chair, and, unobserved, made his way out of the doorinto the rear hall, clattered down the stairs and into the darkness.From the brightly lighted building came the sound of clapping handsand laughter; ahead the village street stretched in semidarkness. Ayellow gaslight flared at each corner of the little triangle known asThe Park. Dick almost ran. As he passed Watson’s stables a challengingbark told him that Muggins had heard his footsteps. On the next cornerstood Bradford’s boarding-house. Dick found the front door unlocked,and after a moment’s hesitation climbed the stairs. On the landingabove five portals confronted him, but from under only one of them didany light shine. He knocked. A voice bade him enter. Obeying, he foundhimself in a long, low-studded room, handsomely, almost luxuriouslyfurnished. On a broad couch under the strong light of a big bronzelamp, a book in his hand and his listless eyes turned inquiringlytoward the door, lay Roy Taylor.