CHAPTER II
A VISITING CARD
When Allan Ware recovered enough to take an interest in things he foundhimself lying in the dressing-tent with some one--it afterward provedto be Harris--striving to draw a coat from under him. No one was payingany special attention to him, and the tent was filled with the hardbreathing of the runners, who were now only intent upon getting intotheir clothes. Allan took a deep breath and obligingly rolled over sothat Harris could have his coat. Then he sat up.
He had not fainted at the end of the race; it is very seldom thata runner loses consciousness, no matter how hard or prolonged thestruggle has been. The collapse is produced by oppression of thechest, less frequently of the heart in particular, and the consequentdifficulty of breathing is the most painful feature of it. Allan hadbeen dimly aware from the moment he pitched into the throng until nowof what had passed, but his interest in events had been slight; heknew that arms had reached out and saved him from falling and thatsome one--a very strong some one, evidently--had picked him up like afeather and carried him the short distance to the tent. Allan wondered,now that he could breathe again without exertion, who the fellow hadbeen.
Every one was intent upon dressing and no one looked as thoughexpecting thanks. Rindgely, still blowing like a porpoise, wasbalancing himself on one leg and trying to thrust the other into histrousers, while he explained to Hooker that the track was like mush andno one should be expected to run on it. Hooker, looking amused, gruntedas he pulled his shirt over his head. Allan scrambled to his feet andbegan to dress. He couldn't help wondering what the others thought ofhis victory; it seemed rather important to him, but he had never wona race before, although he had taken part in a good many, and so itprobably appeared more wonderful than it really was. The trainer stuckhis head in at the door.
"Hurry up, now," he commanded. "Get up to the gym, and don't be afraidof the water when you get there."
This familiar formula met with the usual groans and hoots, and Kernahangrinned about the tent. Starting to withdraw his bullet-shaped headwith its scant adornment of carroty hair, the trainer's eyes fell onAllan. He picked his way over the tangle of legs.
"Well, are you done up?" he asked. Allan shook his head.
"That's the boy, then!" continued Billy, heartily. "You'd better comeout Monday and we'll see what you can do. Did you ever run much?"
"Some," answered Allan, "at school."
"Well, you see me Monday."
When the trainer had gone, Hooker called across:
"Say, Ware, you're done for now."
"How's that?" asked Allan.
"Why, when Billy takes a fancy to you, he just merely works you todeath. You weigh when you get over to gym and then weigh again, say,three weeks from now. You won't know yourself."
A laugh went up. Rindgely chimed in with:
"You'll find your work different from winning a mile with a couple ofhundred yards handicap."
Allan had only had one hundred and twenty, but he didn't think it worthwhile correcting Rindgely, who was evidently rather sore over hisdefeat. Harris unexpectedly took up for him.
"He didn't have that much handicap, Larry; and if he had, it wouldn'thave made any difference to you, you old ice-wagon. What was thematter with you, anyhow?"
Rindgely entered into elaborate explanations, which concerned the stateof the track, the injustice of the handicapping, and many other things,and Harris laughed them to scorn.
"Oh, you're just lazy," he jibed. "Your name's Lazy Larry."
A howl of delight went up, and Allan looked to see Rindgely becomeangry. But, after a moment of indecision, he added his chuckle to thegeneral hilarity. Allan turned to Harris.
"I was rather done up after the run," he said, "and some fellow musthave lugged me over here. Did you happen to see who he was?"
"Yes; one of your class, a whopping big fellow named Burley. Know him,don't you?"
Allan shook his head thoughtfully.
"Well, you will when you see him."
Harris picked up his togs and hurried off. Allan would have liked towalk back with him to the gym, but he thought the junior might thinkhim "fresh" if he offered his company, and so he started back alone.It was almost dark now, and the lights in the college yard and in thevillage were twinkling brightly when he reached the corner of PoplarStreet and turned down that elm-roofed thoroughfare toward his room.Poplar Street ends at Main Street in a little triangular grass-grownspace known as College Park, and Allan's room was in the ramblingcorner house that faces the park and trails its length along MainStreet. Allan thought his address sounded rather well: "1 CollegePark" had an aristocratic sound that pleased him. And since he hadbeen unable to secure accommodations in one of the dormitories, heconsidered himself lucky to have found such comfortable quarters asMrs. Purdy's house afforded.
His room was large, with two windows in front reaching to the floor andfour others arranged in couples along the side, and affording a clearview of the college yard, from McLean Hall to the library. The factthat former denizens had left comfortable window-seats at each sidecasement was a never-failing source of satisfaction to the new occupantof what the landlady called the "parlor study." In Allan's case, it wasstudy and bedroom too. Next year Allan meant to room in the Yard, andfor the present he was very well satisfied.
His occupancy of less than a month had not staled the pleasure derivedfrom knowing himself sole owner of all the apartment's array ofbrand-new furniture, carpeting, and draperies. To-night, after he hadlighted all four of the burners in the gilded chandelier above thetable, he paused with the charred match in hand and looked about himwith satisfaction.
The carpet was beautifully crimson, the draperies at the windows wereequally resplendent, if more variegated in hue, the big study-tableshone richly and reflected the light in its polished top, and the morefamiliar objects on the mantel and on the dark walls, accumulations ofhis school years, seemed to return his gaze with friendly interest.To-night, with the knowledge of his victory on the track adding newglamour to the scene, it seemed to Allan that his first year of collegelife was destined to be very happy and splendid.
He stayed only long enough to change collar and cuffs, and then, with aboy's cheerful disregard of economy, left the four lights flaring andhurried across Main Street to Brown Hall and dinner.
The afternoon's work had put a sharp edge on his appetite, and, havingnodded to one or two acquaintances, he lost no time in addressinghimself to the agreeable task of causing the total disappearance ofa plate of soup. His preoccupation gives us an excellent opportunityto make a critical survey of him without laying ourselves open to thecharge of impoliteness.
Allan Ware was eighteen years old, a straight, lithe lad, with ratherrebellious brown hair and a face still showing the summer's tan. Hisfeatures were not perfect by any means, but they were all good, andif you would not have thought of calling the face handsome, you wouldnevertheless have liked it on the instant. There was a clearness andsteadiness about the brown eyes, a gentleness about the mouth, and afirmness about the chin which all combined to render the countenanceattractive and singularly wholesome. It was a face with which one wouldnever think of associating meanness. And yet to jump to the conclusionthat Allan had never done a mean act would have been rash; he was onlyan average boy, and as human as any of them.
Allan had come up to Erskine from Hillton without heralding; he wasnot a star football player, a brilliant baseball man, nor a famousathlete; he had always run in the distances at the preparatory schoolprincipally because he liked running and not because he believedhimself cut out for a record breaker. His afternoon's performance hadbeen as much of a surprise to him as to any. At Hillton he had beenrather popular among his set, but he had never attempted to become aleader. His classmates had gone to other colleges--many to Harvard andYale, a few to Columbia and Princeton, only one to Erskine. Allan hadchosen the latter college to please his mother; his own inclinationshad been toward Yale, for Allan had lived all his life i
n New Haven,and was blue all through.
But Allan's grandfather had gone to Erskine--his name was one of thoseengraved on the twin tablets in the chapel transept, tablets sacred tothe memories of those sons of Erskine who had given their lives in thestruggle for the preservation of the Union--and Allan's father had gonethere, too. Allan couldn't remember very much about his father--thelatter had died when the boy was ten years old--but he sympathized withhis mother's wish that he also should receive his education under theelms of Centerport.
His family was not any too well supplied with wealth, but his mother'stastes were simple and her wants few, and there had always been enoughmoney forthcoming for the needs of his sister Dorothy, two years hisjunior, and for himself. If there had been any sacrifices at home, hehad never known of them. At Hillton he had had about everything hewanted--his tastes were never extravagant--and the subject of money hadnever occupied his thoughts. At eighteen, if one is normal, there areheaps of things far more interesting than money. One of them is dinner.
Allan was much interested in dinner to-night. He even found itnecessary to indulge in a couple of "extras," in order to satisfya very healthy appetite. For these he signed with an impressiveflourish. When the last spoonful of ice-cream had disappeared hepushed back his chair and went out. In the coat-room he found adark-complexioned and heavily built youth in the act of drawing on apair of overshoes.
"Couldn't find my boots," explained Hal Smiths, "so I put these over myslippers. Wait a minute and I'll go along."
They left the hall together and walked briskly toward Main Street.Allan and Hal Smiths had never been particularly intimate at Hillton,but as they were the only two fellows from that school in the freshmanclass, they had naturally enough felt drawn toward each other sincethey had reached Erskine. During the last week, however, Hal had beenmaking friends fast, and as a consequence Allan had seen less of him.Hal had quite a reputation, gained during his last year at Hillton, asa full-back, and he was generally conceded to be certain of making thefreshman football team, if not the varsity second. To-night Hal wasfull of football matters, and Allan let him talk on uninterruptedlyuntil they had reached the corner. There:
"Come on down and play some pool," suggested Hal.
But Allan shook his head. He liked pool, but with a condition inmathematics to work off it behooved him to do some studying.
"I'll play some other night," he said. And then: "Say, Hal," he asked,"do you know a chap in our class named Burley?"
"Pete Burley? Yes; what about him?"
"Oh, nothing. What's he like?"
"Like an elephant," answered Hal, disgustedly. "A big brute of a chapfrom Texas or Montana or somewhere out that way." Hal's ideas of theWest were rather vague. "Met him the other day; struck me as a bigidiot. Well, see you to-morrow."
Hal swung off down Main Street and Allan turned toward his room,feeling quite virtuous for that he had resisted temptation in the shapeof pool and was going home to toil. When he opened his door a sheet ofpaper torn from a blue-book fluttered to the floor. There was a pin init and it had evidently been impaled on the door. Allan held it to thelight and saw in big round, boyish characters the inscription:
"PETE BURLEY."