“No, sir, not as a centre.”
“Well, it isn’t hard if you put your mind on it. I’ll turn you over to Basker when he gets through signal work. If you make good, Rowland, you stand a mighty good show of getting into the Kenwood game. And if you do that you’ll get your letter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hang it, Rowland!” laughed the coach. “Don’t you ever get enthusiastic about anything? Most fellows would be tickled to death at the idea of playing against Kenwood.”
“I suppose I’d like it very much,” replied Ira in a slightly puzzled tone. “I hope I’ll be good enough.”
“If you’re not, you won’t get a chance,” said the coach drily. “All right now. Join your squad. When you get through signal work report to me again.”
Work like the very dickens Ira did, not only that day but every practice day following during the next fortnight. He was taught his duties in the line and he was taught to pass the ball in all of seven different styles and angles. It was Basker who did most of the coaching as to passing, although on one or two occasions Dannis took him in charge. Then Bill Almy, his shoulder and arm confined in a cast and a hundred yards of bandage – I’m accepting Almy’s estimate – appeared and went at Ira unmercifully. There were half-hour sessions at odd times during the day and every afternoon he stayed on the field with the goal-kickers and, always with two, and frequently with three or even four, busy coaches about him, passed and passed and passed! Or he stood up and was pushed about by Coach Driscoll or he hurled his weight against the charging machine to a chorus of “Low, Rowland, low! Now! Push up! Harder, man! You’re not working!”
Not working! Ira decided that he had never even suspected before what the word meant! And what haunted him most of the time was the bothering conviction that a whole lot of persons, including himself, were wearing souls and bodies out for no important result! Surely, if it came to all this bother it would be much more reasonable to let Kenwood win the game. Of course he realised that a victory for Parkinson would be very nice and would please everyone around him, especially Fred Lyons and Coach Driscoll, but it didn’t seem to him that the game was worth the candle. Still, he kept his nose to the grindstone without a murmur, remained good-tempered in the face of many temptations to be otherwise and worked like a dray-horse. And, at last – it was the Tuesday following the game with Day and Robins’s School – he was told that he had made good. “You’ll do, Rowland,” was what Coach Driscoll said briefly that day. “Rest up tomorrow. Thursday we’ll give you a good try-out against the second.”
If he expected signs of delight, he was disappointed. For all that Ira said was: “Thank you, sir.”
CHAPTER XVIII
“OLD EARNEST”
Humphrey was “breaking into Society,” to use his own half-contemptuous phrase. That is to say, he had made two visits with Ira, had renewed acquaintances with Fred Lyons and Gene Goodloe and Mart Johnston and Dwight Bradford, and had shaken hands with perhaps a half-dozen others. He pretended to make fun of the proceedings, but was secretly very pleased. He was received politely by new acquaintances, more on Ira’s account than his own, for Ira had become a person of prominence now, and with a fair degree of cordiality by those he had met before. He had sense enough to show his best side, and behaved quietly and even modestly and let the others do most of the talking. Perhaps his best side was his real side. At any rate, Ira began to hope so then, and later in the year he became convinced of it. Humphrey didn’t give up his friends at the Central Billiard Palace all at once, but he did confine his visits to that place to two or three evenings a week. And Ira heard a great deal less of “Billy” and “Jimmy” and the rest of the billiard-hall crowd.
Meanwhile, Ira had taken possession of Humphrey’s November allowance and Humphrey was having it doled out to him three dollars at a time. The first week he ran through his three dollars by Wednesday and Ira had to advance two more. But the next week Humphrey got along with the three, and after that he seldom had to ask for more. Boarding at Mrs. Trainor’s was the real solution of his financial problem; that and wasting less money on pool. Later in the year he became thoroughly interested in economising and eventually opened a banking account of his own. But that doesn’t belong in the present narrative.
With the end of the football season only about a fortnight away, Parkinson School became rampantly patriotic, and no one could have sanely found fault with its attitude toward the team. It was now as enthusiastically supporting the eleven as even Fred Lyons could wish. There were cheer meetings about every other night and the one principal subject of conversation whenever two or more fellows met was: “Will We Beat ’Em?” “’Em,” of course, were the Kenwood team, for no one particularly cared what happened to Day and Robins’ or St. Luke’s. Fortunately for discussion, there were plenty who believed or pretended to believe that Kenwood would repeat her last year’s performance and tie another defeat to Parkinson. Those who held that view had excellent grounds for their conviction, for Kenwood had passed, or, more correctly, was passing through a very successful season. So far the Blue had met with but one defeat, had seven victories to her credit and had played a 0 to 0 game with the State College Second Team. In fact, Kenwood had one of her Big Teams this season, if Kenwood was to be believed, and was pretty confident of a victory over the Brown. The Kenwood school paper caused a spasm of indignation throughout Parkinson by editorially calling on the Football Association to move the Parkinson game up the next Fall so that the blue team might meet in her final contest a foeman more worthy of her steel. The Leader replied scathingly to that impertinent reflection on the Parkinson team and printed a page of letters to the editor from “Patriot,” “Veritas,” “Indignant” and other well-known scribes.
Theoretically at least, Ira had no time for interests or adventures outside football, for he was an extremely busy, hard-worked youth from the Monday succeeding the Chancellor game to the Thursday before the contest with Kenwood Academy. Nor, for that matter, did any other interests win his attention or other adventures befall him, if we except, in the first case, study – he had to do more or less of that – and, in the second case, a call from “Old Earnest.”
Ernest Hicks would probably have been much surprised if anyone had connected him in any way with an adventure, for adventures didn’t lay within his scheme of life. But at a period when Ira’s days were made up of hearing, thinking and playing football, anything not connected with that all-absorbing subject possessed for him the attributes of an adventure. It was on a Friday afternoon, the Friday preceding the Day and Robins’s game, between his last recitation and the practice hour, that someone knocked on his half-closed door. He had heard footsteps on the stairs, but usually such footsteps went on to one of the other doors and he hadn’t looked up from the book he was studying. He said “Come in!” and rather expected to be confronted by the freckle-faced youth who called for and, in the course of time, brought back the laundry. But when the door opened it was “Old Earnest” who stood there, and Ira wonderingly slipped a pencil between the pages and arose.
“Have you got an encyclopedia?” inquired the visitor, his gaze, from behind the big, round lenses of his spectacles, roaming inquiringly about the room.
“No, I haven’t,” answered Ira. “At least, only a small, one-volume one. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of much use to you. I usually go over to the library.”
The visitor nodded. “Yes, you can do that.” He rubbed his chin reflectively with long, thin fingers and observed Ira dubiously. He was quite the tallest youth Ira had ever seen, and he was as thin and angular as he was tall. He had brown hair, which was worn rather too long and which looked sadly in need of brushing, grey eyes, a very sharp nose, a wide, thin mouth and a chin that came almost to a point. He looked to Ira as if he needed a square meal, or, rather, a whole series of square meals, for his face was as narrow as his body and his queer, nondescript clothes hung about him as though they had been fashioned at some far-distant time when he had weighed about three times his present weight. His coat was a plaid lounging jacket from which depended by a few threads one remaining frog. The corresponding button had followed its companions into oblivion. His trousers were of grey flannel and his feet were encased in a pair of brown canvas “sneakers.” Ira had glimpsed him frequently about the corridors of Parkinson Hall, but this present costume was not what he wore at recitations, which, as Ira reflected, was a fortunate thing for the sobriety of the classrooms!
Hicks finally removed his gaze slowly from Ira, sighed and said dejectedly: “I’ll have a look at it, I guess. It might give me what I’m after. Where is it?”
It lay in the centre of the desk, a cheap little limp-leather affair of infinitesimal print and a woeful lack of contents. Hicks shook his head as he opened it and ran his long fingers over the edges of the leaves. Ira saw, with a sort of fascination, that the tips of the fingers turned back almost at right angles under pressure. Hicks regretfully closed the book and pushed it from him. “What do you know about the Hamiltonian-System?”
“Not a thing,” answered Ira cheerfully. “What is it?”
“It’s a system of teaching languages. But who invented it? Was it James or William? And if he did invent it how does it happen that John Locke wrote about it a century before? Explain that if you can.”
“I shouldn’t want to try, thanks,” laughed Ira.
“Old Earnest” sniffed. “You couldn’t. But did Locke himself originate it? Take his Essay Concerning Human Understanding, now. All through that you’ll find evidence pointing to the contrary. Have you read it?”
Ira shook his head dumbly.
“You’ll want to some day. It’s a wonderful work. He applies the Baconian method to the study of the mind, you know.”
“Really?” murmured Ira.
“Of course, it’s not startling nowadays, but it must have been then. That knowledge results from experience and not from innate ideas is no longer novel. In fact, the whole Descartes theory can be knocked into a heap if you apply Locke’s philosophy. He doesn’t stand for dualism, you know. Nor do I. To say that the mind and body are heterogeneous substances is quite absurd. You agree with me, of course?”
“I might if I knew what the dickens you were talking about,” replied Ira helplessly.
“Oh!” Hicks looked both surprised and disappointed. “Well – ” He plunged his hands into the pockets of his cavernous trousers and looked about the room. “I used to visit a fellow up here two or three years ago. I forget what his name was. He was in my class, though, and he and I had a go at Friesian. We didn’t keep it up, for some reason. I don’t know if you ever studied it?”
“No, I never did. Is it – did you like it?”
“I think so. I rather forget. Let me see, what was it I came for? Oh, yes that Hamiltonian-System! I’ll have to go over to the library. It’s a bother. I’m always having to go over to the library. It is was more central – ”
“I’d be glad to look it up for you, if you liked,” offered Ira. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t get it right.”
“You wouldn’t,” answered Hicks calmly. “It doesn’t matter. I do miss my own library, though. It was very complete.”
“What happened to it?” asked Ira. “Er – won’t you sit down?”
“Old Earnest” evidently didn’t hear the invitation. At least, he paid no attention to it, but continued to stand there, hands in pockets, and ruminatively stared at the window. “I sold it,” he said quite matter-of-factly. “Over a hundred and twenty volumes.”
“But – but what for?”
“Why, I needed some money. You see, I had the misfortune to fail in the finals last Spring, and I hadn’t planned on another year. It costs a good deal here. Food especially. I got sixty-two dollars for them. They were worth two hundred at least. There was a twelve-volume set of the Universal Encyclopedia and a copy of the first edition of Fanning’s Morals. Some others, too. Valuable. He’s still got most of them, and I’m hoping to get them back some day. I’ve bought five or six already. I wanted the encyclopedia, but he put an outrageous price on it. I miss it a great deal. Well, I’m much obliged for your information.”
He turned abruptly toward the door and shuffled across the room. Ira was tempted to remind him that he had obtained no information, but didn’t. Instead: “Who buys books here?” he asked.
“Books? Oh, there are several. All robbers, though. I sold mine to Converse, on Oak Street. He will do as well for you as any of them. If you ever want to read that book of Locke’s, I’ve got it.”
“Old Earnest” passed out, closing the door behind him with a resounding crash. When he had gone Ira smiled at the closed door. Then he chuckled. Then, quite suddenly, he became serious and, seating himself at the table again, picked holes in the blotter with the nib of a pen for quite five minutes. And finally he tossed the pen aside with the air of one who has reached a decision, seized his cap and clattered down the stairs.
Converse’s Second-hand Book Emporium – it seemed to Ira that Warne’s merchants exhibited a marked and peculiar partiality to “emporiums” as opposed to mere “stores” – was not difficult to find, for the sidewalk in front was stacked with broken-backed books and old magazines. It was a dim and dingy place inside, and smelled of dust and old leather. The proprietor arose from an armchair before a small desk under a window and approached smilingly. He was a thin, stoop-shouldered little man in rusty black clothes and wearing a black skullcap. The smile was wonderfully benignant, but the little deep-set eyes looked crafty.
“I just wanted to look around,” said Ira.
“Of course! Certainly! Help yourself, sir. Is there any special subject you’re interested in?”
“N-no, I guess not.” Ira picked up a book from a shelf and examined it carelessly. “I might use a good dictionary, though.”
“I have a fine lot, sir. This way, please.” The proprietor led the way down one of the two dim passages and snapped on an electric light at the end. “Here we are! Big and little, sir. You’ll find the prices plainly marked in the front. Here’s a Webster Unabridged – ”
“N-no, I think a smaller one – ”
“Then a Student’s, like this.” He slapped the book on his hand and sent a cloud of dust into the air. “Only a dollar and a quarter, sir.”
Ira viewed it without enthusiasm. Finally: “I might give you fifty cents for it,” he said indifferently.
“Oh, dear, no, sir! I couldn’t do it, I honestly couldn’t! That’s one of the best dictionaries there is. I sell a great many of them to the young gentlemen at the school. Perhaps you are one of them?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t pay a dollar and a quarter for that,” said Ira, laying it down.
“Ah, but if you’re one of the young gentlemen from the school, sir, I’ll make a discount. We’ll say a dollar. Shall I wrap it up?”
“There’s no hurry. Perhaps seventy-five cents – What’s this? An encyclopedia, eh? Too bad it isn’t in better condition.”
“But it’s in very good condition indeed, sir,” protested the little man. “I bought that not more than a month ago from a gentleman who is most particular with his books. In fact, I took his whole library, a matter of – hm – something under two hundred volumes. Now if you wanted a rare bargain in a set of the Universal – ”
“No, I guess not. I couldn’t afford it.”
“You don’t know, sir, you don’t know,” chuckled the man. “Just wait till you hear the price I’m going to make. You can have that set for ex-act-ly twenty dollars! And it cost, when new – ”
“Yes, but it isn’t new,” interrupted Ira. “Twenty dollars, eh? I’ll wager you didn’t pay more than ten for it.”
“Ten! Ten dollars for a perfect set of the Encyclopedia Universal! My dear sir!”
“I might give twelve,” said Ira tentatively.
The man held up his dusty hands in horror. “You’re not serious!” he protested.
“Not very, because I don’t specially want them,” replied Ira. “What else is there here?”
“But – I tell you what I will do, sir, I’ll let you have the set for – let me see, let me see – eighteen-fifty! There, I can’t offer better than that!”
“Oh, yes you can,” answered the boy cheerfully. “You can say fifteen. But I’d rather you didn’t, for I might take it, and I oughtn’t to do it.”
“Hm. You’d pay fifteen, you think?”
“Well, I might. Yes, I guess I’d fall for it at fifteen. But – ”
“It’s an awful thing to do, but times are hard and – well, take it!”
“Thanks,” laughed Ira, “but they’re a little heavy to take with me. I guess you’ll have to send them to me.”
“Hm: I’d have to charge a little for delivering them.”
“Suit yourself, but don’t charge me,” replied Ira. “I’ll write you a cheque if you’ll show me where the ink is. Oh, thanks. There you are, Mr. Converse. And the books are to go to 200 Main Street, Mrs. Magoon’s house.”
“Eh? You said 200 Main Street? Why, that’s where – hm – yes, of course! Very well, sir. Thank you. I hope you’ll remember me whenever you want anything else, Mr. – er – Rowland. Good afternoon.”
CHAPTER XIX
CALLERS
Ira had just time to get to the field before practice began. The work today was easy, consisting principally of signal drill in preparation for the game with Day and Robins’s School on the morrow, and Ira was put in Basker’s squad and trotted around the gridiron for a good half-hour. Coach Driscoll had given them four new plays to learn and they were still far from perfect in them when time was called. The others went off to the gymnasium, all save a few kickers and Ira. Ira had still a session of passing ahead of him. On the practice gridiron the second team was playing Warne High School and, from the few brief glimpses Ira caught of the contest, getting beaten. To his satisfaction, several of the quasi-official assistant coaches went off to watch the second team game, leaving only Basker and Almy to deal with him. Coach Driscoll was hard at work with the goal-kickers.
Ira did very well this afternoon, and even Basker, who was a critical youth, said so. They kept him at it until it was almost too dark to see, by which time everyone else had departed and the second team field was deserted. “I guess Driscoll will put you in tomorrow for awhile,” observed Basker, as they went back through the twilight. “If he does, just you keep your head and you’ll get on all right.”
“The big thing to remember,” said Bill Almy, “is to take all the time you want. Don’t let anyone hurry you in getting the ball away, Rowland. And if the other side interferes with you, yell right out! Make a big fuss about it. If you do the officials will watch the other side so close they won’t dare to try it on again. In fact, it isn’t a bad idea to claim interference, anyway, if you get half a chance.”
“We won’t have much trouble with Day and Robins’s,” said Basker. “It will be a good game to get some experience in, Rowland. Are you going to get back in time for Kenwood, Bill?”
“Not likely,” replied the centre sadly. “This thing doesn’t do much. Doc says a double fracture is always slower work than a single one. He’s as pleased as pickles about it, the silly chump. Smiles all over his face whenever he looks at it. I wish he had it!”
“I don’t see then but that Rowland has a pretty good chance to get in against Kenwood.”
“Chance? It’s a dead sure thing. I’m not knocking Terry Conlon, but he won’t last the game. You know that yourself. Terry plays like a house on fire at first and then begins to let up. Oh, Rowland will get in all right. I hope he does, too. He’s worked like a Trojan.”
“I haven’t minded it much,” said Ira. “All that’s worrying me is the fear that Mr. Driscoll will change his mind about me again and try to make an end of me!”
“Look out that Beadle doesn’t make an end of you!” laughed Basker.
“Who’s Beadle?” Ira asked.
“The Kenwood centre. He’s a peach of a player, isn’t he, Bill?”
“Beadle,” replied Almy slowly, “is about as good a centre rush as you’ll find on a prep school team today. That’s saying something, too. He’s as pretty a player to watch as I ever saw. I’m sorry I’m not to try him again. I’ve been thinking I’d give him a better fight this time. Last year he put it all over me, and I don’t mind owning up to it. The man’s as quick as greased lightning.”
“He’s as strong as an elephant, too,” added Basker. “And he plays hard. You’ll subscribe to that, eh, Bill?”
Almy smiled. “Well, next to a steam roller, Beadle’s the toughest thing to stop I know of. He isn’t a dirty player, but he certainly can mess you up to the King’s taste. I’ll never forget my handsome phiz after he got through with it last Fall!”
“Is that the fellow I’ll have to play against?” asked Ira.
“Yes, if you get in,” assented Almy. “Like the sound of it?”
“Not a bit,” replied Ira. “I’m hoping that Conlon will last all through the game!”
When he got back to the room he found the encyclopedia piled up beside the door, twelve big, heavy volumes. It was a little after five and he was fairly certain that “Old Earnest” was still in his room downstairs. He left the door wide open and, during the next three-quarters of an hour, listened intently for sounds from below and several times crept to the banisters and peered over. It was not until nearly six, however, that Hicks’ door crashed shut – “Old Earnest” had an emphatic manner with doors – and Ira caught sight of him starting down the first flight. Giving him time to get clear of the house, Ira gathered up four of the books and made his first trip. Hicks’ room was in darkness, but the bracket in the hall faintly illumined a patch near the door and Ira set the volumes against the baseboard and returned for more. To his relief he completed the transfer before Humphrey appeared, for Humphrey would be sure to ask questions and Ira didn’t know that he could explain the affair to his roommate’s satisfaction. Humphrey clattered in shortly after he had returned from the final trip and they went over to supper together.
Afterwards Humphrey announced in tones that held a queer mixture of pride and apology that he was going over to see a fellow in Goss. “You know him, I guess,” he added carelessly. “Sterner. He’s a second year fellow. President of the class, I think. He spoke at the meeting that night.”
“No, I don’t know him except by sight,” answered Ira. “Where did you meet him!”
“Oh, he was with Brad this afternoon. He comes from Tonawanda. That’s near my home, you know.”
“As Mart says, no one can blame him,” laughed Ira. “I’d come away, too, if I lived in a place with such a name.”
“Tonawanda? What’s the matter with the name?” demanded Humphrey. “It isn’t half as bad as some of the names in your part of the country. What’s that one you sprung the other night? Chemquat – ”
“Chemquasabamticook? Oh, that’s just a river. Our towns have pretty names, like Skowhegan and Norridgewock and Pattagumpus,” replied Ira gravely. “Well, see you later.”
He found Mart Johnston in possession when he reached the room. Mart explained that Brad had tried to get him to go to a meeting of the Debating Society and that he had had to run off after dinner to escape that horrible fate. “They all talk,” he said, “and no one says anything. And they get most frightfully excited and tear their hair and froth at the mouth and beat on the table, and all they’re fussed up about is whether Daniel Webster was a greater man than John L. Sullivan or whether honesty is the best policy! They’re a queer bunch, those debaters, I should think! But if I’m in the way here I can go somewhere else. I can’t go home until after eight, because Brad will get me if I do, but I can walk the streets or go to sleep in a doorway.”
“You’re not in my way,” laughed Ira, “and Humphrey is calling on Mr. Sterner of Tonawanda.”
“Who’s he?”
“Sterner of the second,” explained Ira. “He comes from Tonawanda, New York, and that makes a bond of sympathy between him and Nead. Nead hails from Buffalo. From what he said I gathered that the two places were near each other.”
“No one can blame you. Well, how’s the battle going? Are you a scientific centre rush yet? I heard Fred say some nice things about you the other day. I guess he and Driscoll are real proud of you.”
“I’m afraid they won’t be when they see me play. Basker says they’ll put me in tomorrow. Bet you anything I’ll pass the ball over Wirt’s head or do something else perfectly awful!”
“Pull yourself together, old man. You can’t do any worse than some of the others Driscoll has had at centre. Someone’s at the door, I think. Oh, do you suppose it’s Brad? I won’t go without a struggle!”
It wasn’t Brad, however, but Hicks, Hicks looking oddly bewildered and embarrassed as he entered in response to Ira’s call. His embarrassment wasn’t reduced any when he found Mart there, and he started to retire, but thought better of it and slammed the door mightily behind him as one burning his bridges. Ira, surmising his errand, tried to head him off.
“You know Johnston, don’t you?” he asked.
“How are you, Hicks?” inquired Mart. “How’s the old boy?”
“How do you do?” murmured Hicks. “I – I wanted to ask – ”
“Have a chair,” interrupted Ira. “Did you – did you find out about the – er – the Hamiltonian Theory?”
“Hamiltonian-System,” Hicks corrected. “Not all I want. There’s a book in the catalogue that I couldn’t find. They’re very careless at the library about misplacing volumes, and – ” Hicks paused and frowned. “Oh, yes,” he resumed. “I want to ask you if – if you know anything about that Encyclopedia Universal. I came in awhile ago and – ”
“I’ve heard it was a very good encyclopedia,” said Ira hurriedly, winking desperately at Hicks and all to no purpose. “Don’t you think so, Mart?”
“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Go ahead and rave! Don’t mind my presence on the scene. Gibber away, you two!”
“But, what I mean,” resumed Hicks, after a puzzled look at Mart, “is how did it get there? I thought maybe – perhaps – You see, I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else – ”
“Also, you wanted to know when they were and, if so, to what extent,” rattled Mart glibly. “And, while we are inquiring into the matter, let us also consider the other side of it. For instance, fellows: If it is as we say it is, then why not let them do it? Or, failing that, and all other things being equal – ”
“Oh, dry up!” laughed Ira. “Don’t mind him, Hicks. He’s crazy. Tell you what, I’ll drop down to your room later and we’ll – we’ll talk it over.” Ira winked meaningly. Hicks stared and shook his head.
“What I’m getting at,” he said carefully, “is this. When I got in from supper I found my encyclopedia piled up on the floor of my room. I didn’t ask Converse to send it, and I thought that possibly you – ah – knew something about it.”
Ira sank into a chair and tried to look innocent. There was evidently no use in attempting to head “Old Earnest” off.
“Oh, I see,” he said affably. “You – you’ve got it back, eh?”
“Yes. At least – Yes, I’ve got it back. But what I wanted to know was – ”
“Ah, now we’re coming to it!” murmured Mart. “Go on! You interest me strangely, Hicks!”
“Well, did you – I mean – ” Hicks’s embarrassment was becoming painful and Ira took pity on him. He nodded.
“Yes, I did, Hicks,” he said apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind. You see, you needed the books and – and I happened to have the money, and Converse sold them dirt cheap – ”
“Someone,” muttered Mart, “has done something. But what? Books – money – dirt cheap! The plot thickens. Have patience, Martin, have patience! All will be revealed to you in good time.”
“Oh!” Hicks swallowed once as though it hurt him and got up from his chair. “Well – ” He observed Ira in a puzzled way. “I – I’m greatly obliged to you – er – What is your name, please?”
“Rowland,” answered Ira gravely. “I hope you won’t think it was cheeky of me, Hicks.”
“Old Earnest” shook his head slowly. “No, no, I – I don’t. I’m so – so glad to have them, you see, Rowland! It was – very good of you. Of course I’ll pay you for them. But I – you’ll have to give me time. I’m much obliged. Good evening.”
“Old Earnest” fairly bolted to the door and an instant later it crashed shut with a shock that made the walls shake. Ira stole a glance at Mart. That youth, his legs stretched far across the old brown carpet, his head back, was whistling softly and tunelessly. Silence reigned for a long minute. Then:
“Oh, don’t be an ass!” exclaimed Ira.
“I beg your pardon?” Mart turned and regarded him in polite surprise. “You spoke, I believe.”
“You heard what I said,” laughed Ira. “Why shouldn’t I buy his old books for him? He’s dead-broke and – ”
“Ira, my lad,” said Mart sternly, “what have you been and gone and done?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what dreadful crime have you committed? When I do anything like that, anything – er – kind-hearted and noble – which is very, very seldom – it’s because I’ve been naughty. That’s how I square myself with what would be my conscience if I had one. Isn’t that the way with you?”
“I got his books because I had the money and he didn’t and he needed them. You heard him say he’d pay me back. It’s merely a business arrangement.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly! My fault!”
“Well, then, dry up,” grumbled Ira.
“But I haven’t said anything, have I?”
“You’ve looked things, though.”
“Have I? Well, I’ll stop looking things, Ira. I suppose you don’t want me to say that you’re a – a rather decent sort, eh?”
“I do not,” answered Ira emphatically.
“Then I won’t. I do wish, though, that you’d let me ask you one tiny little question. It’s this. Pardon me, I prithee, if it sounds impertinent. Are you – that is, have you – oh, gosh! I’ll try again. Are you a wealthy citizen, Ira?”
“Why, no, I guess not. I have enough money, of course.”
“I see. Very nice. ‘Enough money, of course.’ Well, I only asked because I assumed – we all did, in fact, – that you were sort of hard-up.”