CHAPTER IV
MYRON DECIDES TO STAY
At dining hall it appeared that places had not yet been assigned andMyron was conducted to a seat between a large, stout youth who seemedafflicted with asthma and a shy, red-cheeked boy who promptly upset hisglass of milk when Myron asked for the biscuits. Rather to his surprise,the food was excellent and plentiful. There were many tables, eachseating ten boys, and most of them were filled when Myron reached thehall. There was a good deal of noise, as was natural when nearly fourhundred normally healthy boys were being fed. At Myron's table no oneappeared to be acquainted with any one else and in consequence there waslittle conversation. The asthmatic youth wheezily ventured a remark, butMyron's reply was not encouraging and the youth gave all his attentionagain to dropping bits of biscuit in his stewed pears and salvagingthem noisily. Myron was glad when the stout chap, finding nothing elseto devour, sighed heavily and left the table. His place was filledagain, however, a moment later by a clean-cut fellow of about nineteenyears, a good-looking, neatly-dressed boy of what Myron mentally calledhis own sort. Conversation with him seemed natural and desirable, andMyron broke the ice by offering the biscuits. The newcomer accepted one,said "Thanks" politely and cast a brief and appraising glance over hisneighbour.
"They're not bad," said Myron.
"No, they never are," answered the other. "I wonder if you can reach thebutter."
Myron could and did. "Not up to the biscuits," he offered.
"No? What seems to be wrong with it?"
"Too salty for me."
"I see. Well, you'd naturally like it fresh."
Myron shot a covert and suspicious glance at the other. It seemed tohim that there had been a faint emphasis on the word "fresh." Perhapshe had only imagined it, though, for his neighbour's expression wasquite guileless. He was leisurely buttering a portion of the biscuitand appeared to have forgotten Myron's existence. Myron felt faintlyuncomfortable and applied himself silently to his food. Across the boardanother chair was pushed back and, almost before its occupant wasout of it, again taken. Myron observed rather annoyedly that the newoccupant of the place was Dobbins. He nodded across and dropped his eyesto his plate. He hoped that Dobbins wouldn't try to converse. Somehow,he didn't want the chap at his right to think him a friend of Dobbins'.But Dobbins, after an approving look about the table, did just whatMyron had hoped he wouldn't do.
"How you making out, Foster?" he inquired. "Grub meeting your approval?"
"Yes, thanks," responded Myron coldly.
"That's good. I see you--Hello!"
"Hello," said the boy at Myron's right affably. "How do you feel now?"
"Great! It sure was hot, though. Bet you I dropped five pounds thisafternoon. But I'll get it back right now if they'll give me half achance!" Dobbins chuckled and Myron's neighbour smiled responsively.Myron wondered how Dobbins and this chap beside him happened to be sochummy. He wondered still more when, a minute later, his neighbourchanged his seat for one just vacated beside Dobbins, and entered intoan animated conversation with him. Myron couldn't catch more than anoccasional word above the noise of talking and clattering dishes, but heknew that the subject of their discourse was football. He was glad whenhe had finished his supper and could leave the table.
There was a reception to the new students that evening at thePrincipal's residence, but Myron didn't go. What was the use, when bynoon tomorrow he would have shaken the dust of Warne from his shoesand departed for a school where fellows of his station and worth wereunderstood and appreciated? Joe Dobbins, however, attended and didn'tget back to the room in Sohmer until nearly ten o'clock, by whichtime Myron had exhausted all the reading matter he could find and,pyjama-clad, was sitting at a window and moodily looking out into thedimly lighted yard. Joe entered in his usual crash-bang manner andbreezily skimmed his hat toward the table. It missed the table and wentto the floor, where, so far as its owner was concerned, it was allowedto stay. Myron reflected that it wasn't hard to account for the batteredcondition of that hat.
"Heard from your old man yet?" asked Joe, dropping into a chair andstretching his long legs across the floor.
"Meaning my father?" asked Myron stiffly.
"Yep. Has he telegraphed?"
"No, unless he's sent a night message. He might. Sometimes he doesn'tget back from the yard until rather late."
"Yard? What sort of yard?"
"Shipyard. He builds boats."
"Oh, boatyard, you mean. I know a fellow in Portland has a boatyard.Makes some crackajack sloops."
"We build ships," corrected Myron patiently. "Battleships, passengerships, cargo carriers and such. Some of them are whopping big ones:sixteen and eighteen thousand tons."
"Gosh! I'd like to see that place. I suppose you'll be going to workwith him when you get through here."
"Not exactly. I shall go through college first, of course."
"Oh! Well, say, honest injun, Foster, do you think a college course cutsany ice with a fellow? The old man says I can go to a college--if I canget in,--but I don't know. I wouldn't get through until I was twenty-twoor twenty-three, and seems to me that's wasting a lot of time. What doyou think?"
"Depends, I suppose, on--on the individual case. If you feel that youwant to get to work in the chewing-gum factory and can't afford to gothrough college----"
"Where do you get that chewing-gum factory stuff?" asked Joe.
"Why, I thought you said your father made spruce gum."
"No, the Lord makes it. The old man gathers it and sells it. Spruce gumis the resin of spruce trees, kiddo."
"Oh," said Myron vaguely. "Well, I dare say he will need you to help himgather it. In your case, Dobbins, going through college might be wastingtime."
Joe laughed.
"What's the joke?" asked the other suspiciously.
"Well, I was having what you call a mind picture of the old man andme picking that gum. Know how many tons of the stuff he handles in ayear? Nearly a hundred and thirty: about two hundred and fifty thousandpounds! He has over a hundred pickers employed, and buys a lot fromfellows who pick on their own hook."
"Oh!" said Myron. "Well, how was I to know? You distinctly said the Lordmade it and your father gathered it, didn't you?"
"That's right; my error, kiddo----"
"Kindly cut out that----"
"Sorry; I forgot. Well, I don't have to worry about college just yet,do I? We'll see first if I can stick here long enough to get my time! Iwouldn't mind playing football on a good college team, though: Harvardor Yale or Dartmouth or one of those big 'uns."
"Probably not," replied Myron drily. "Nobody would. I wouldn't myself."Somehow he managed to convey the impression that in his case such athing was not only possible but probable, but that for Joe to set hishopes so high was absurd. Joe's greenish-grey eyes flickered once, buthe made no comment. Instead:
"You played much?" he asked.
"Quite a bit," answered the other carelessly. "I captained the PortFoster High team last fall."
"Must have then! Where'd you play?"
"Position? Left half. End the year before that. What do you play?"
"Me? Oh, most anything in the line. I'm not fussy. Played tackle most oflast year. Like to play guard better, though. Football's a great game,isn't it?"
"Not bad," acknowledged Myron. "By the way, who was the fellow you wereso thick with at supper tonight?"
"Him? Name's Keith or something. Played on last year's team and wascoaching the linemen today. Nice guy. Bet he can play, too."
"Looked rather light to me," commented Myron.
"Think so? Maybe. Anyway, he knows how to drill the line, or I'm aDutchman. What time is it? I'm getting sleepy. You weren't over at theparty, were you?"
"No, it didn't interest me. As I'm not going to stay, why be bored bythat sort of thing?"
"Hm," said Joe.
"What's 'Hm' mean?"
"Nothing. Just thinking. Say, what's your objection to this place,Foster? If it's just me, wh
y, say, I'll get out gladly. Fellow I mettonight told me he has a dandy room in the village. I'm not fussy aboutliving on the campus."
"Oh, it isn't just that," said Myron. "I don't like the--the atmospherehere."
"Well, it is sort of close tonight, but I guess it would be anywhere inthis part of the country. September's likely to----"
"I wasn't referring to the air," corrected the other loftily. "I usedthe word in its other sense."
"Didn't know it had another sense," said Joe cheerfully. "All right. ButI was just thinking that if you had to have this place to yourself Icould beat it, and no hard feelings."
"They'd stick some one else in here, I guess. Besides, I wouldn't wantto put you out. After all, you've got as much right here as I have,I suppose." That statement had a rather dubious sound, however, andagain Joe's eyes flickered and the very ghost of a smile hovered for aninstant about the corners of his wide mouth.
"Yeah, but the next chap might be more your style, Foster. I'm sort ofrough-and-ready, I guess. Don't run much to etiquette and wouldn't knowwhat to do in one of those silk collars you wear. I should think they'dmake your neck awfully warm." And Joe ran a finger around inside his ownvery low linen collar apprehensively.
"I hope I haven't said anything to make you think that I--that you----"
"Oh, no, you haven't _said_ anything: at least, not much: but I cansee that I'd be _persona non compos_, or whatever the word is, aroundthese diggings. You think it over and let me know. I guess that Hoyt guywouldn't mind if I got a room outside somewhere. Well, here's where Ihit the hay."
"There's no sense in my thinking it over," answered Myron a bitquerulously, "as I tell you I'm not going to stay here."
"Don't think there's any doubt about it, eh?"
"Certainly not!"
"All right. I was only thinking that if you _did_ stay----"
"I haven't the least intention of staying. I wish you'd get that fixedin your mind, Dobbins."
"Sure! I'll go to sleep and dream about it!"
If Myron dreamed of anything he had no recollection of having done soin the morning. He awoke in a far more cheerful frame of mind to finda cool and fragrant breeze flapping the curtain and a patch of goldensunlight lying across his bed. He had slept like a log. A glance atthe neighbouring bed showed that Joe Dobbins was up, although Myron'swatch proved the time to be still short of seven-thirty. From acrossthe campus a bell was ringing loudly. It was doubtless that sound thathad awakened him. Usually he turned over and had a nap before gettingup, but this morning, although he buried his head in the pillow again,sleep didn't return to him. Perhaps it was just as well, he reflected,for that telegram from his father ought to be along soon, and he wouldprobably have a busy morning getting away. So far he had not consideredwhat he would do in case they couldn't take him at Kenwood. He ratherhoped they could, though. It would be a big satisfaction, and an amusingone, too, to play on the Kenwood eleven and show these unappreciativefellows at Parkinson what they had missed! Myron could play footballand knew it, and knew as well that in losing his services Parkinson waslosing something worth while. It would be fun to say carelessly to someParkinson fellow after he had aided Kenwood to beat her rival: "Yes, Idid think of going to your school: in fact, I actually spent a nightthere: but they treated me rather rotten and I got out. They promised mea room to myself, you know, and then tried to make me go in with anotherchap. It was rather coarse work, and I told them so before I left."Whereupon the Parkinson boy would tell it around and there'd be regretsgalore.
That was a pleasing dream, and under the exciting influence of itMyron jumped out of bed and sought a bath. While he was shivering inthe icy water he recalled the fact that there was such a thing aschapel or morning prayers or something, and he wondered if he was underobligations to attend that ceremony. He decided the question in thenegative and, returning to his room, dressed leisurely, selecting a greytie with a yellow figure and a yellow handkerchief with a narrow greyborder. The bell had long since ceased its clamour and peace had settledover the yard. Dressed, he went downstairs. In the corridor, close bythe entrance, was a notice board and a letter rack. He didn't botherto peruse the few notices nor would he have paid any attention to therack had his fleeting glance not been arrested by the sight of a buffenvelope. He stopped and looked more closely. It was a telegram and,yes, it was addressed to Myron W. Foster, Parkinson School, Warne, Mass.In blue pencil was "S 17."
At last! He took it to the entrance and paused on the top step in thesunlight and tore off an end of the envelope very carefully. Then hewithdrew the folded sheet of buff paper and with a satisfied smile beganto read it. But the smile vanished in the next instant and, although heread the message through a second and even a third time, he could notmake the sense of it correspond with his expectation.
"Your mother and I very sorry about your room letter from school arrived after your departure explaining satisfactorily Think you had better stay there however for the present and arrange for single suite when same can be had Love from us both Father."