Full-Back Foster

  CHAPTER III

  THE "IMPOSSIBLE FELLOW"

  Dobbins was gone the better part of half an hour and when he finallyreturned his expression showed that he had met with failure. "Still," heexplained hopefully, "Hoyt says he will give me the first vacancy thatturns up. Sometimes fellows have to drop out after school begins, hesays. Fail at exams or something. He says maybe he can put me somewhereelse within a week. Mind you, he doesn't promise, but I made a prettygood yarn of it, and I guess he will do it if he possibly can." JoeDobbins chuckled reminiscently. "I told him that if he didn't separateus I wouldn't answer for what happened. Said we'd already had two fightsand were spoiling for another. Said you'd pitched my things out thewindow and that I'd torn up all your yellow neckties. Maybe he didn'tbelieve all I told him: he's a foxy little guy: but I guess I got himthinkin', all right!"

  "You needn't have told him all that nonsense," demurred Myron. "He willthink I'm a--a----"

  "Not for a minute! I told him you were a perfect gentleman.Incompatibility of temperament is what I called it. He said why didn'tI leave off the last two syllables. Well, that's that, kiddo--I meanFoster. Better leave it lay until we see what happens, eh?"

  "Not at all. I shall send this telegram, Dobbins. I don't believe he hasany idea of--of doing anything about it."

  "We-ell, you're the doctor, but--Say, where'll you go if you leave thisplace?"

  "I don't know yet. There are plenty of other schools around here,though. There's one up the line a ways. I think it's called Kenwood. Orthere's----"

  "Kenwood? Gee, boy, you don't want to go there! Don't you read the crimecolumn in the papers? Why, Kenwood is filled with thugs and hoboes andthe scum of the earth. A feller on the train told me so coming downhere. Parkinson and Kenwood are rivals: get it? You don't want to throwdown this place and take up with the enemy, eh?"

  "I don't see what that has to do with it," Myron objected. "I'm not aParkinson fellow. And I dare say that Kenwood is quite as good a schoolas Parkinson."

  But Joe Dobbins shook his head. "That feller on the train talked mightystraight. I wouldn't like to think he was lying to me. He said thatKenwood was--was--now what was it he said? Oh, I got it! He said it wasan 'asylum for the mentally deficient.' Sounds bad, eh?"

  "Rot!" grunted Myron. "I'm going over to the telegraph office."

  "All right. If the Big Boss drops in I'll tell him."

  When Myron had gone Joe promptly removed coat and vest once more,dropped his suspenders about his hips and kicked off his shoes. "Mightas well be comfortable when His Majesty's away," he sighed. "Gee, buthe's the limit, now ain't he? I suppose I ought to have spanked himwhen he called me a stable--or whatever it was. But I dunno, he's sortof a classy guy. Guess he isn't so worse if you hack into him. Bark's alittle punk, but the wood's all right underneath, likely. Don't know ifI could stand living with him regular, though. Not much fun in life ifyou can't slip your shoes off when your feet hurt. Well, I guess I'llget these satchels emptied. What was it he called those bureaus, now?Chiff--chiff--I'll have to get him to tell me that again. One thing,Joey: living with Mr. Foster'll teach you manners. Only I'd hate tothink I'd ever get to wearing a lemon-yellow necktie!"

  Still feeling deeply wronged and out-of-sorts, Myron made his way backto Maple Street and set out toward the business part of Warne. Thebreeze that had made the late September afternoon fairly comfortable haddied away and the maples that lined the broad, pleasant thoroughfaredrooped their leaves listlessly and the asphalt radiated heat. Myronwished that he had shed his waistcoat in the room. Students were stillarriving, for he passed a number on their way to the school, bagsin hands, and several taxis and tumble-down carriages went by withhilarious occupants oozing forth from doors and windows. One of thetaxi drivers honked brazenly as his clattering vehicle passed Myron andthe latter glanced up in time to receive a flatteringly friendly waveand shout from Eddie Moses. Myron frowned. "Folks here are a lot ofsavages," he muttered.

  The telegram despatched, he made his way to a nearby drug store, seatedhimself on a stool and asked for a "peach-and-cream." The freckle-faced,lanky youth behind the counter shook his head sadly. "Ain't got no peachtoday. I can give you vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, rasp----"

  "I didn't mean syrup. Haven't you any fruit? I want a peach-and-cream."

  "Don't know what that is. Anyway, we ain't got it. How about a chocolatesundae with puffed rice? Lots of the fellers call for them."

  "No, thanks." Myron descended from the stool and went out, more thanever assured of the undesirability of Parkinson School as a place ofsojourn. Think of a town where you couldn't get a peach-and-cream! Why,even the smallest shops in Port Foster knew what a peach-and-cream was!He cast contemptuous looks upon the modest stores and places of businessalong Adams Street, and even the new Burton Block over on the cornerof School Street, six stories high and glittering with broad glasswindows, only drew a word of derision. "Suppose they call that thing askyscraper," he muttered. "Huh! Puffed rice!"

  Returning, he went through School Street to Washington Avenue. Thesouth side of that shady thoroughfare, called Faculty Row, presenteda pleasing vista, in each direction, of neat lawns and venerable elmsand glowing beds of flowers. Here and there a sprinkler tossed itsspray into the sunlight. Myron had to acknowledge, albeit grudgingly,that Port Foster had nothing prettier to offer. Facing him, acrossthe Avenue, since School Street ended there, was the main gate to thecampus, and straight ahead a shady tunnel roofed with closely-set lindentrees led the eyes to the gleaming facade of Parkinson Hall, which,unlike the other school buildings, was of light-hued sandstone and wassurmounted by an imposing dome. From the gate in front of him two othersimilar paths led diagonally away, and choosing the right-hand one Myronfound grateful relief from the sun. He removed his hat and wiped theperspiration from his forehead with an immaculate handkerchief, and whenhe had finished returned the handkerchief to his breast pocket verycarefully, allowing a corner--it happened to be the corner bearing theembroidered monogram--to protrude carelessly.

  As he neared Sohmer he passed a group of four boys lying on the grassbeneath the trees. Their conversation dwindled as he approached, ceasedentirely as he came abreast and then went on again subduedly after hehad gone by. His former irritation returned. What was there about himto make fellows stare or giggle or smile? Even down town he had noticedit, and now, although he could not hear what was being said behind him,he felt that he was being discussed. He was conscious of being betterdressed than any of the boys he had seen yet, there was nothing unusualin his looks so far as he knew and he believed that he carried himselfand walked in an ordinary manner. He decided again that they were all alot of savages or "small town" gykes. He was glad he was leaving themtomorrow.

  Back in Number 17, he found that Dobbins had gone out. In the bedroomthat remarkable youth's suit of rough red-brown material--it wasmuch too heavy for summer wear and reminded Myron somewhat of ahorse-blanket--that he had worn on his arrival lay carelessly tossedacross a bed. It was the bed that Myron had chosen for himself, and hedistastefully removed the clothes to the other one. As he did so helooked for the maker's tag inside the collar and smiled ironically whenhe read "Bon Ton Brand."

  "Ready-made," he murmured.

  Dobbins had decorated the top of his chiffonier with two photographsand Myron examined them. One was a group picture of four persons; awoman rather thin and angular but with a kind and sweet face, a girlof some fourteen years, awkward and staring, and two younger girls,the littlest perhaps six. All were dressed in their finest and all, atleast to Myron's sophisticated sight, were dowdy. He concluded that thepersons were Dobbins' mother and sisters. The second photograph was amore ambitious affair and showed a man of about forty years. He had asquare, much seamed face from which two keen eyes looked straight at thebeholder. A funny little patch of beard adorned the chin and above ita wide mouth was drawn severely down at the corners. In the photographthe man looked stern and hard and even cross, Myron thought, but therewas som
ething nice about the countenance in spite of that, somethingsuggesting that behind the weathered face were clean thoughts andkindliness.

  "That's the Spruce Gum King," he reflected. "I guess if he hadn't beenscared at the camera he'd have looked rather a fine old chap, in spiteof the little bunch of whiskers. He looks something like Dobbins, too:same sort of eyes and--and same expression about the chin. Only Dobbinsis more lazy and good-natured, I guess."

  Later, his trunks came--there were two of them--and he had theexpressman set them behind the door, one atop the other. There was nosense in opening them, for his kit-bag provided all he needed for thenight. By that time it was nearing the supper hour and there was arustling in the leaves of the lindens and the air was cooler. He toldhimself that whether Dobbins ever returned was nothing to him, and yethe found himself listening for the other's heavy tread in the corridor.He wondered where Dobbins had gone, and rather resented his absence.The magazine which he had been reading beside the open window ceased tohold his attention and he glanced at his watch. A quarter to six. Thesupper hour was six o'clock. He had looked that up in his copy of theschool catalogue. And you ate in Alumni Hall, which, as the plan of theschool showed, was the building on the extreme left of the line. FinallyMyron stripped to his waist and had a good splurge with soap and water.Some kindly soul had supplied a towel and it wasn't until he was throughusing it that he saw the inscription "Dobbins" on one end.

  "Well, how was I to know?" he grumbled. "Maybe I'd better dig into thetrunk and get out a few of my own."

  But after supper would do, and just now he was feeling decidedly hungry,and washing up had refreshed him and made life look more pleasant.He hoped there would be something fit to eat, but he didn't expectit. He was getting back into his clothes when the approach of histemporary room-mate was announced from some distance down the hallby the _clump-clump_ of heavy shoes. Dobbins was peculiarly ungentlewith doors. He flung them open and didn't care what happened to themafterwards. In the present case the door crashed back against the trunksbehind it with a most annoying _bang_, but Dobbins didn't appear to haveheard it. He was strangely attired, was Dobbins, and Myron, one arm inhis shirt, gazed in astonishment and for a moment forgot to go on withhis dressing.

  A faded yellowish-brown jersey with half of the left sleeve missingand the other torn and mended--and torn and not mended--was surmountedby a canvas football jacket held together down the front with a blackshoe-lace and a piece of twine. The jacket was so old and stained thatMyron could easily believe it an heirloom, something handed down throughgenerations of football-playing Dobbinses! A pair of rather new khakipants, woollen stockings of brown twice ringed with light blue thatwell matched the jersey in condition, and scuffed and scarred footballshoes completed the costume. Dobbins' hair was every which way andthere was more or less dirt on his broad countenance through which theperspiration had flowed in little rivulets with interesting results.

  "Hello, kiddo!" Dobbins greeted jovially. "How's the grouch coming on?Say, they've got a swell gridiron here; two or three of 'em, in fact.Wonderful turf. It's a pleasure to fall on it, honest! Hear from yourold man yet?"

  "Hardly," replied Myron drily. "What have you been doing?"

  "Me? Sweating, son, mostly. Practising football some, too."

  "Oh! I didn't know you played."

  "Me? That guy Camp and I wrote the rules! Looks like we had enoughfellers to build forty teams. Must have been 'most a thousand of 'emover there. Every time I turned around I trod on some one. You didn't goover, eh?"

  "No, I--I was busy. Besides, I didn't know they were holding practicetoday. I supposed they'd start tomorrow."

  "Been at it three days already, I hear. Got a coach here that looks likehe knew his business, Foster. Ever try football?"

  "I've played some," answered Myron, with a smile that seemed to combinepatience and pity. "I expect to go out for it when I get settledsomewhere."

  "Still thinking of leaving, are you? You're going to lose a mighty goodschool, son. I sure do like this place. Well, I've got a hunger like ariver-boss. Guess I'll get back to store clothes and find the trough.You going now?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "Well, tell 'em to save a little of everything for me." Dobbins' voicecame muffled from above the basin in the bedroom, and Myron, rememberingthe towel, hurried out.