The appearance of the study seemed to have been changed in his absence, and Dick’s second glance showed that the change was in the shape of several pictures on the wall, some books on one of the study tables and a large packing case in the centre of the floor from which emerged the corner of a brilliant blue cushion and the lower half of a boy. While Dick looked the rest of the youth emerged slowly until at last, somewhat flushed of face, he stood entirely revealed, clutching triumphantly a pair of battered running shoes. At that moment his eyes fell on Dick and a surprised and very pleasant smile came to his face. He tossed the shoes to the floor, dusted his hands by a simple expedient of rubbing them on his trousers, and nodded, stepping around a corner of the big box.

“Hello!” he said. “I suppose you’re Bates. My name’s Gard.”

He held out a hand and Dick took it as he answered: “Yes. Glad to meet you. We’re in here together, I take it.”

Gard nodded. “Yes. I got here this noon and helped myself to a desk, but I’m not particular which I have. Same about the beds. We can toss up, if you like.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Dick replied. “Suppose you take the first choice of a desk and I’ll take the bed I want. That suit?”

“Sure.” Gard was looking at Dick with frank interest, leaning against the packing case, his arms, on which he had rolled up the sleeves of a good-looking shirt, folded. “Yes, that’s fair enough. I took that desk because it happened to be nearest the box, and I’ll keep it.”

Dick laid his hat down and seated himself on the window-seat.

“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” he said, looking about the study.

“Oh, big enough, isn’t it? It is one of the small ones, though. Some of the rooms on the front are corkers, Bates. I couldn’t afford one of those, though, and this is a lot better than the room I had last year in Goss.”

“Then you – you’re not a new fellow?”

Gard shook his head. “This is my second year. I’m in the Third Class. Are you?”

“Yes. I think I could have passed for the Fourth, but I guess I’d had to work mighty hard to keep up, and I want to play football, you see. So – ”

“Of course! There’s no sense rushing through things too much, Bates. If you’d gone into the Fourth you’d have been through just when you were beginning to like the school. You will like it, I’m sure.”

“I expect to. I had a brother here five or six years ago, and he’s always cracked it up high.”

“That so?” Gard pulled the blue cushion from the box and tossed it across the room. “Put that behind you. Guess I’ll leave the rest of this truck until after supper.” He seated himself in one of the easy chairs and stretched a pair of rather long legs across the carpet. “Let’s get acquainted,” he added, smiling.

Dick liked that smile and answered it. But for a moment neither followed the suggestion. Gard was looking critically at the pictures he had hung, and Dick had a good chance to size him up. His room-mate was a bit taller than Dick, with rather a loose-jointed way of moving. He didn’t look exactly thin, but there certainly wasn’t any excess flesh about him. The running shoes suggested that he was a track athlete, and Dick surmised that he was a good one. You couldn’t call Gard handsome; perhaps he wasn’t even good-looking in the general acceptance of the word; but Dick liked his face none the less. The forehead was high and the lightish hair of a rather indeterminate shade of brown was brushed straight back from it. That happened to be a style of wearing the hair that Dick had always objected to, but he had to own that the fashion suited Gard very well. It emphasised the lean length of the face and added to the sharp, hawk-like appearance produced by a curved beak of a nose, thin and pointed, and the narrow jaws. But if Gard reminded Dick of a hawk, it was a gentle and kindly one, for the mouth was good-natured and the eyes, darkly grey, were soft and honest. Gard wore good clothes with no suggestion of extravagance. In age he was fully seventeen, perhaps a year more. He moved his gaze from the wall and it met Dick’s. Involuntarily both boys smiled. Then each began to speak at once, stopped simultaneously and laughed.

“You say it,” said Gard.

“I was going to ask if you were a runner.”

“I’m a hurdler. I’ve tried the sprints, but I’m only as good as a dozen others. Sometimes I ‘double’ in the broad-jump if we need the points. You look as if you might be fast on the track, Bates. By the way, what’s the rest of your name?”

“Richard C. The C’s for Corliss.”

“That means Dick, doesn’t it?”

“Surely,” laughed the other.

“All right. Mine’s Stanley; usually abbreviated to Stan. Have you ever done any running, Dick?”

“Yes, I’ve done some sprinting. What’s the hundred-yards record here?”

“A fifth. It hasn’t been bettered in years.”

“That’s a fifth better than I can do.”

“Same here. I tried often enough, too, but I only did it once, and that was in practice, with a hard wind at my back. You play football, you said?”

“Yes, do you?”

Stanley shook his head. “Too strenuous for me. I like baseball pretty well, but it interferes with track work. Guess we’re going to have a corking good eleven this year, and I hope you’ll make it, Dick.”

“Thanks. I may. The fellows look a bit older and bigger than I expected they would, though.”

“Well, they say you have a good deal of fun on the Second Team, if you don’t make the first. And next year you’ll probably be a lot heavier. I don’t know many of the football crowd, or I’d take you around and introduce you. I wonder if Blash would do you any good.”

“Who is he?”

“Wallace Blashington’s his full name. He plays tackle on the team; right, I think. He might be a good fellow for you to know if – ” Stanley’s voice trailed into silence.

“If what?” prompted Dick.

“Well, Blash is a queer customer. He’s really a corking chap, but doesn’t take to many fellows. That’s no insult to you, Dick. He – he’s just funny that way. And he’s the sort that won’t do a thing if he thinks you’re trying to pull his leg. Blash hated me – well, no, he didn’t hate me; he didn’t take the trouble to do that; but he certainly had no use for me the first of last year. We get along all right now, though.”

“What happened? To make him change his mind, I mean.”

“That was sort of funny.” Stanley smiled reminiscently. “We had some scrub skating races last winter on the river and Blash and I were entered in the two-mile event. There were about twenty starters altogether, but we had them shaken at the beginning of the last lap and Blash and I hung on to each other all the way up the river to the finish. I just managed to nose him out at the line, and he was a bit peeved, I guess. He didn’t let on, but he was. So, a little while later, when we were watching the other events, he came over where I was and said: ‘I believe I could beat you another time, Gard.’ ‘Well, perhaps you could,’ I answered. ‘Maybe you’ll have a chance to find out.’ I wasn’t cross, but I thought it was a bit unnecessary, if you see what I mean. ‘Wouldn’t care to try it now, I suppose?’ he said. I told him I was tired out, but I’d race him if he liked as soon as the programme was finished. ‘Oh, never mind the rest of it,’ he said. ‘We’re both through. Say we skate down the river a ways and settle the question by ourselves.’ So we did. We went about a mile down, beyond the flag, and Blash said we’d skate a mile down and a mile back, and that we’d turn at the old coal wharf. So we went off together, Blash trying to make me set the pace. But I wouldn’t and so we lagged along abreast for half a mile or so. Then Blash laughed and spurted and I went after him and we had it nip and tuck all the way to the wharf. Coming back there was a wind blowing down on us and we had harder work. Blash was a half-dozen yards ahead and when we came to a turn in the river he stayed along the bank, thinking he’d be more out of the wind. That seemed good sense and I hugged in close behind him. Then, first thing I knew, the ice went crack, and down went Blash. I managed to swerve out and get by, but of course I had to go back and see if he was all right.

“He was about ten feet from shore, flapping around in a little squarish hole he’d made for himself. I asked him if he could break the ice and get ashore and he said he couldn’t, that it was too thick to break with his hands. So I laid down on the ice and crawled over to him, and he got hold of my hands and I had him pretty nearly out when the crazy ice broke again and we were both in there! In fact, I went down so far that I came up under the ice and Blash had to pull me out to the hole. By that time we were both laughing so we could hardly keep our heads out. The water was just over our depth and the ice was too hard to break with our hands, and we didn’t have anything else until I thought of using a skate. That meant getting boot and all off, and Blash sort of held me up while I tried to untie the laces and everything. We were getting pretty stiff with the cold by then, Blash especially, but I finally managed to get one boot off and began hacking at the ice with the skate blade. It was slow work until I had chopped off about a yard. Then we got our toes on the bottom and after that it was easy and we crawled out. I wanted to beat it back to school as fast as I could, but Blash said that we’d catch cold and have pneumonia and die. He said the best thing to do was light a fire. Of course, I thought he was joking, but he pulled out one of those patent water-proof match-safes and if you’ll believe it the matches were perfectly dry!

“But the awful thing was that there were only two matches there! However, we got a lot of wood together and some dry marsh grass and twigs, and all this and that, and I kept the wind off, and we made the second match do the trick. In about two minutes we had a dandy hot fire going, took off our outer things and hung them around and we sat there with our backs to the mud bank and steamed. I don’t believe any fire ever felt as good as that one did, Dick! Well, that’s all of it. Just before dark, we started back and we never told anyone about falling into the river for months afterwards. We never found out which is the best two-mile skater, but we did a lot of chinning and got to know each other, and since then Blash and I have been quite pally.”

“Quite an adventure,” said Dick. “It’s a wonder you didn’t catch cold, though.”

Stanley laughed. “We did! For a week we were both sneezing and snuffling horribly. Tell you what, Dick. If you haven’t got anything better to do, we might go over and see Blash after supper. I guess this truck can wait until tomorrow. Only don’t say anything about football to him. If you do he will think I brought you over on purpose, so as to – well, you see what I mean.”

“Yes, I see. He might think I was swiping,” Dick laughed. “But, look here, Stan, what could he do, anyway? A fellow has got to make his own way, hasn’t he?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so. But it does help – somehow – to know the crowd if you’re going in for football. At least, it does with making the track team. I don’t mean that there’s favouritism, but – oh, I suppose if you happen to know a fellow and know that he’s all right, you just naturally take a bit more interest in him. That’s the way I figure it out, anyway.”

“Yes, but suppose this fellow Blash – er – ”

“Blashington. Quite a mouthful, isn’t it?”

“Suppose he asks me if I play football? Then what?”

“Oh, just say you do and change the subject. By Jupiter, Dick, it’s ten after six! Let’s beat it over and get some supper. Say, if you see the steward tonight maybe you can get at my table, if you’d like to. Tell him you’ve got friends there. It’s Number 9. You can sit there tonight, anyway, for Eaton’s not back yet, and you can have his place. Know where the lavatory is? Got any towels? Here, take one of mine. Your trunk won’t get up until morning, probably. They have so many of them that they can’t begin to handle them all today. If you need anything let me know and I’ll dig it out of the box for you.”

“I’ve got everything I want in my bag, I think. Much obliged just the same, Stan.”

Five minutes later the new friends closed the door of Number 14 and made their way along The Front, as the brick walk leading from side to side of the campus was called. Stanley named the buildings for Dick as they went along: the gymnasium, then Goss Hall, Parkinson, Williams and Alumni. Their journey ended there, but there was still another dormitory nearby, Leonard, and, beyond that, the residence of the Principal. Dick nodded, but it was food he was thinking of just then.

CHAPTER IV
BLASHINGTON

“Of course,” said Stanley, “you can go to ‘Jud’s’ reception if you’d rather, but you’ll have a poor time. You just shake hands with Jud and a bunch of the faculty and Mrs. Jud and stand around until you get tired and go home again.”

“Jud being Doctor Lane?” asked Dick.

“Right! The idea is that you’re to become acquainted with the other fellows and the instructors, but the old boys fight shy of it and the new boys just stand and look at each other, and the faculty always forgets your name the next morning.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound exciting,” acknowledged Dick, “and I’m for cutting it out unless it’s required.”

“It isn’t, it’s elective,” laughed Stanley. “We’ll blow over to Blash’s room presently. He may not be there, but we can try.”

They had finished supper and were strolling along the walk toward the west gate. Windows were open in the dormitories and from the nearer ones came the sound of voices and laughter. Occasionally someone hailed Stanley and they stopped for a moment while the latter held conversation. There were groups of fellows on the turf along The Front, for the evening was warm and still. A bluish haze softened the twilight distances and somewhere toward the centre of the town a church bell was ringing. It was all very peaceful and homey, and Dick felt no regrets for Leonardville. At the gate which led onto the junction of Linden and Apple Streets they paused a moment. A belated arrival climbed tiredly out of a decrepit taxi in front of Williams and staggered up the steps bearing suit-case and golf-bag. Along the streets and less frequently across the campus the lights gathered brightness in the deepening twilight, although westward the sky was still faintly aglow.

“Where does Blashington room?” asked Dick as they turned their steps back the way they had come.

“Goss,” answered Stanley. “He rooms with Sid Crocker, this year’s baseball captain.”

“Goss?” Recollection came to Dick. “I wonder if you know a fellow named Quiggle – no, that’s not his name. I don’t know what his name is, but he rooms in Goss. He’s a tall, lanky chap with a long nose.”

“Where’d you meet him?” asked Stanley, interestedly.

Dick recounted the incident and, since he didn’t happen to look at Stanley’s countenance while doing so, was not aware of the smile that trembled about the hearer’s lips. “He’s going to pay me the rest of that money when I find him,” ended Dick resolutely. “I thought maybe you’d know who he is.”

“Well, the description isn’t very – er – whatyoucallit, Dick,” replied the other gravely. “I dare say the fellow was just having a joke with you.”

“I dare say, but he was too fresh. I felt like an awful fool when the taxi driver called me down for offering him half a dollar instead of seventy-five cents. Well, I suppose I’ll run across him pretty soon.”

“Oh, you will,” Stanley assured him almost eagerly “You’re absolutely certain to, Dick!”

“What’s the joke?”

“Joke?”

“Yes, what are you snickering about?”

“Oh, that? I – I thought I wanted to sneeze. It’s sort of dusty this evening.”

“I hadn’t noticed it,” said Dick suspiciously. But Stanley’s countenance was quite devoid of amusement, and he accepted the explanation. In front of Goss, Stanley backed off onto the grass and looked up to one of the third floor windows.

“There’s a light in his room,” he announced. “Somebody’s in, anyhow. Let’s go up.”

So, Stanley leading the way, they climbed the two flights of worn stairs, for Goss didn’t boast slate and iron stairways, and traversed a length of corridor to where the portal of Number 27 stood partly open. Stanley thumped a couple of times on the door and entered. Someone within said, “Come in, Stan,” and Dick, following his friend, saw a rather short, stockily-made youth stretched on the window-seat at the end of the room. “Excuse me if I don’t rise,” continued the boy. “I happened to look out a minute ago and saw you rubbering up here.” He shook hands with Stanley and then, seeing Dick for the first time, muttered something, and swung his feet to the floor.

“Shake hands with Bates, Sid,” said Stanley. “Dick, this is Mr. Crocker, well-known in athletic circles as a shot-putter of much promise.”

“Shut up,” grumbled Crocker. “Glad to meet you,” he added to Dick. “Sit down, you chaps, if you can find anything to sit on. Blash has got his things all over the shop. Bring up that chair for your friend, Stan. You can sit here, and I’ll put my feet on you. Pardon me if I return to a recumbent position, will you? I’m very weary.”

“Where’s Blash?” asked Stanley. “Gone over to Jud’s, I suppose.”

“Not exactly. He’s down the hall somewhere. He suggested tossing up to see whether he or I should unpack the bags, and he lost. So, of course, he remembered that he had to see a fellow and beat it. He will be back in a few minutes, I guess. This is a fair sample of the way in which he meets his obligations, gentlemen. I’m ashamed of him.”

Sid Crocker sighed, stretched, and deposited his feet in Stanley’s lap. He was a nice looking boy of apparently eighteen years, with light hair and a round, much tanned face. He seemed unnecessarily serious of countenance, Dick thought, but afterwards he found that Sid’s expression of gravity was no indication of mood. Sid caught Dick’s gaze and was reminded of his duties as host.

“I guess I didn’t quite get your name,” he said, politely.

“Bates,” said Stanley. “We’re together over in Sohmer. This is his first year.”

“Bates?” echoed Sid. “Bates! Where have I – Ah! I remember.” He sank back against the cushions again, closing his eyes as though in deep thought. Dick determined to be modest, but it was flattering to find that someone here had heard of him. He waited for Crocker to proceed, and so did Stanley, but instead Sid wriggled off the window-seat. “Just excuse me a minute, will you?” He crossed to a chiffonier, opened a drawer and fumbled within. “Just remembered something. Fellow downstairs wanted me to lend him – er – ” Whatever it was the fellow downstairs required they didn’t learn, for Sid removed something from drawer to pocket and made for the corridor. “While I’m about it,” he added from the doorway, “I’ll find Blash and fetch him back.” Dick got the impression that he was seeking to convey to Stanley more than his words expressed, for he stared very hard at that youth as he spoke and continued to stare for an instant longer before he disappeared.

“Rather a jolly old room,” said Stanley, when they were alone. “These old places fix up nicely, I think.”

Dick agreed. Personally he didn’t care for the idea of sleeping and living in the same room, but the low studding, and the deep window embrasure and the scarred, dark-painted woodwork were somehow very homelike. The walls held dozens of pictures of all sorts: photographs, posters, engravings, etchings, a veritable hodge-podge. Amongst them were strange trophies, too: part of a wooden board bearing the strange legend “TE WAY S PASSING” in two lines, evidently half of a sign that had been sawed in two; a fencing mask; a canoe paddle with a weird landscape painted on the broad end; a cluster of spoons and forks tied together with a brown-and-white ribbon; several tennis rackets; a lacrosse stick; a battered baseball adorned with letters and figures and tacked to the moulding by its torn covering; several faded or tattered pennants, one bearing a big blue K which Dick presumed stood for the rival school of Kenwood. Between the two narrow beds was a good-sized study table littered with books and clothing and odds and ends awaiting Blashington’s return. Two chiffoniers and three chairs about completed the furnishings. The beds held bags, partly unpacked, and two steamer trunks blocked the passages between beds and table.

“Blash has had this room four years,” mused Stanley. “Says he would be homesick if he went anywhere else. The joke about Sid’s shot putting, by the way, is that he tried it last fall and Blash got a cannonball that weighed about thirty pounds, and worked it off on him. Sid almost killed himself trying to putt it more than twelve feet. Then he noticed that Blash and the others were using another shot, and got onto the joke. Here they come.”

With Sydney Crocker was a tall, thin fellow who, to Dick’s utter amazement, wore a long and drooping black moustache. Perhaps the gorgeous luxuriance of that moustache was a surprise to Stanley as well, for Dick noted that the latter stared at it fascinatedly for a long moment ere he greeted its wearer. Even then he seemed to find difficulty in speaking. Perhaps the dust was annoying him again. Dick awaited an introduction while the thought that there was something wrong with that moustache, grew from a mere suspicion into a certainty. In the first place, no fellow of Blashington’s age could grow such a thing. In the second place he wouldn’t be allowed to wear it in a preparatory school. In the third place it was much too good to be true; too long, too black, too – Why, of course, it was a false one stuck on! Dick smiled knowingly as Blashington stepped over a trunk and held out a bony hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bates,” said Blashington, heartily. “Any friend of Stan’s is mine to the extent of ten dollars. Sit down, everyone. Dear me, you haven’t got these things put away yet, Sid. So sorry to have you chaps find the room in such a mess. I don’t know what Sid’s been doing, I’m sure.” Blashington chatted on, but Dick noted that there was a distinct air of restraint about the others. Indeed, Stanley appeared to be actually suffering from restraint, for his face was very flushed, and the low sounds that came from him spoke of deep pain.

“You are a new-comer, I understand, Bates,” Blashington continued, smiling amiably behind that ridiculous moustache. “I hope you will like us and spend a pleasant and profitable year in these classic shades.”

He said more, but Dick wasn’t listening now. “Classic shades!” Where had he heard that expression recently, and who had used it? Then memory came to his aid and he knew! His face stiffened and his cheeks paled. Blashington, reading the symptoms aright, paused in his rhetorical meanderings and laughed.

“Bates is on, Stan,” he said. “I see the warm light of recollection creeping over his face. Further attempts at disguise are futile, not to say idle. The clock strikes twelve. Unmask!” Blashington pulled the moustache from his face and tossed it to the table. “Excuse the little jest, Bates. It was Sid’s thought. Like most of his ideas, it didn’t work.”

Stanley and Sid were laughing enjoyably, but Dick couldn’t find any humour in the trick. He remained silent, while Sid gasped: “Gee, Blash, you did look an awful ass with that thing on!”

“Did I? Well, I seem to have offended Bates. He doesn’t look as though he thought I was a bit funny.”

“I don’t,” said Dick, stiffly. “Either now or this afternoon.”

“Oh, come, Dick!” protested Stan. “Take a joke, won’t you?”

“Dry up, Stan,” said Blashington. “Bates has a right to feel peeved if he likes to. Look here, Bates, I’m sorry I offended you. When you know me better you’ll understand that I didn’t mean to. Will that do for an apology?”

“I think the whole thing is awfully silly,” replied Dick coldly, “but it’s of no consequence: not enough to talk about.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Stanley said hurriedly: “That’s all right then! You mustn’t mind Blash, Dick: nobody does.”

Blash, whose expression of deep contrition Dick had thought suspiciously emphatic, chuckled. “I thank you, Stan, for them few kind words. Well, now that the entente cordial has been restored, how are you and everything? Have a good summer?”

“Oh, yes, bully. Did you?”

“I had a busy one, anyway. I’ll tell you about it some time. I suppose you’ve heard that Pat isn’t coming back this year?”

“No! Why? What’s the matter?”

“Gaines told me that he had a letter from Pat about two weeks ago, saying that his father had lost a lot of money and that he was going to work; Pat, I mean, not his father: although it is likely that Mr. Patterson will work, too. It sounds reasonable, eh? I’m awfully sorry. Pat was a dandy chap. Besides, he’s going to leave a big hole to be filled.”

“That’s right,” agreed Sid Crocker. “Patterson was a corking quarter-back. And he would have played on the nine next spring, I’ll bet. He swung a mean bat on the Second last year, and would have made a mighty good fielder for us, I guess. Who will get his place, Blash?”

“Stone. Gus isn’t bad, but Pat came pretty close to being a marvel. We’re talking about our last year’s quarter-back, Bates. Do you care for football?”

Dick felt Stanley’s anxious look on him as he answered: “Yes, I like football, thanks.”

“Do you play?”

“I have played – some.”

“That’s good. We need talent this year, and you look as if you might be clever.” Dick knew, however, that Blash was only being polite.

“Do you play baseball?” asked Sid.

“N – No, not much. Of course I have played it, but I’m not good enough.” His manner was still stiff, and he made no effort to remain in the conversation. The others chatted on for some time longer, Stanley frequently seeking to get Dick to talk, but not succeeding, and then the visitors took their departure.

“Drop in again, Bates,” said Blash. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

Dick thanked him non-committingly. Outside Stanley shook his head. He was smiling, but Dick knew that he wasn’t pleased. “I guess that didn’t get us much, Dick,” he said.

Dick frowned. “Well, I can’t help it!” he said defensively. “He makes me tired. Anyway, if I can’t get along in football without his help, I’m quite willing to stay out of it.”

“Oh, that won’t make much difference, I suppose. I only thought that if Blash took to you – ”

“Well, he didn’t: any more than I took to him.”

“I suppose I ought to have told you he was the fellow you rode up from the station with, but I didn’t realise that you were really so peeved with him. It’s sort of too bad you couldn’t have taken it as a joke, Dick.”

“I’m sorry,” answered the other haughtily. “I won’t trouble you to introduce me to any more of your friends, Gard.”

“Well, don’t be waxy,” said Stan, good-naturedly. “There’s no harm done. You may like Blash better when you get to know him, and – ”

“I don’t think so. And it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“N – No, except that it’s always nicer to like fellows than not to. You get more out of – out of life, Dick. Well, never mind Blash. Want to go over to Jud’s for a few minutes? It isn’t too late.”

“I don’t know. Yes, I guess I will, but you needn’t bother unless you want to.”

“Oh, I’ll come along. We don’t have to stay. Hope there’ll be some eats, though.”

When they had turned back and were retracing their steps along The Front, Dick broke a silence of several minutes’ duration.

“Anyway,” he said a trifle resentfully, “I noticed one thing.”

“What’s that?” inquired Stanley.

“Blashington took mighty good care not to say anything about that twelve cents he owes me!”