Tom Fairfield's Schooldays: or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall

CHAPTER VI

AN ANGRY PROFESSOR

“Tom, did you ever balance a water pitcher on your nose? I mean full of water. The pitcher full, that is to say, not the nose.”

“Never, and I’m not going to begin now.”

“Well, I am. Watch me. I used to be pretty good at juggling.”

“Say, you want to be careful.”

“Oh, I will be. I’ve never done it, but there must always be a first time. And, though balancing water pitchers may not be an accomplishment taught in all schools, still there may come a time when the knowledge of how to juggle one will come in handy. Here goes.”

Tom and Jack were in their room – the room our hero had decided to share with his new chum. The matron and monitor had been interviewed, and Mrs. Blackford was very glad, she said, to know that Tom was to have a companion.

“And such a nice, quiet-appearing lad as he is, too,” she confided to her husband. Alas, she did not know Jack Fitch!

“The other one seems very quiet, also,” said Mr. Blackford. “I wish all the students were like those two.”

But if he and his wife could have looked into the chums’ room at that moment, perhaps they would not have held to that opinion.

For Jack had taken the large water pitcher, and was preparing to balance it on his nose, while Tom, rather fearing how the experiment would terminate, had gotten safely out of the way in case of an accident.

“I wouldn’t do it, if I were you,” spoke Tom, though he could not help laughing at his chum’s odd notion.

“Why not?” demanded Jack.

“Well – Oh, because it might fall.”

“No reason at all, Tom. If would-be jugglers hesitated on that account there’d be no experts. Give me a hand until I get it up on my nose; will you?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid it will fall.”

“Oh, pshaw! Why fear? Never mind. I’ll balance it on my chin instead of my nose. On second thought it’s a little too heavy for the nose act, and my nose is like a bear’s – it’s tender. Watch me!”

Jack carefully lifted the pitcher of water, and managed to get it on his chin. He steadied it with his two hands, bending his head back, and then, when he thought he had it where he wanted it, he lowered his palms, and the pitcher – for an instant – was balanced on his chin.

“Look!” he called to Tom, not taking his eyes from the vessel of water. “Talk about jugglers! Some class to me; eh, Tom?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Now bring me a chair,” requested Jack. “I’m going to do it standing on a chair.”

“You’ll never do it!” predicted Tom.

“Yes, I will. I’ll get the chair myself, then.”

This was his undoing. As long as he remained in one spot, with his head carefully held still, the pitcher did not tilt enough to upset. But, as soon as Jack moved, there was an accident.

“Look out!” yelled Tom, but his warning came too late.

Jack made a wild grab for the slipping vessel, but his hands did not grasp it in time. A moment later there was a heavy crash, pieces of china flew about the room, and a shower of water drenched the chums.

For a moment there was a grim silence. Then Jack said:

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”

“You certainly ought to be!” and Tom laughed in spite of himself, for his new chum was much wetter than he.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps was heard.

“Oh pip!” whispered the luckless juggler.

“What is the matter? Has anything happened?” demanded the voice of Matron Blackford, in the corridor.

“Well – er – yes – we have had a slight – er – happening,” replied Tom, grabbing the clean towels, and proceeding to mop up the water from the carpet.

“Oh, is anyone hurt? May I come in?”

“Come!” called Jack, following his chum’s example, and the matron entered.

“What happened?” she asked, as she saw the water, the drenched boys, and the pieces of the broken pitcher.

“It – it sort of – fell,” replied Jack calmly, mopping away at the carpet.

“And broke,” added Tom. “We’re sorry – ”

“And the water all spilled out,” needlessly interrupted Jack. “We are very sorry for that, too.”

“Oh you boys!” exclaimed the matron, raising her hands in despair. “I was afraid something would happen. What were you doing?”

“I was reciting my lesson in juggling,” replied Jack gravely. “And the pitcher slipped. I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, no, as long as you were at your lessons when it happened, it was an accident, and you needn’t pay,” said the matron, but, later, Jack insisted, and then the story came out.

“I’ll bring you some clean towels,” said Mrs. Blackford. “Luckily there is a wooden ceiling below, or the plaster would have fallen, if there had been any,” and she hurried away.

Tom’s first day at Elmwood Hall ended quietly enough, as did Jack’s, at dinner in the big Freshman class dining room, and the two went to bed early, as they were rather tired. There was very little excitement in the school that night. A few of the older students sang some choruses on the campus, but the real life of the institution had not yet begun.

The next day was full of activity. Students – old and new – arrived by the score, and the professors, the matrons, the monitors, the proctor, and Doctor Meredith himself, had their hands full. Opus Manor filled with a laughing, chattering crowd, and Tom was glad he had selected his room in advance, as there were many disappointed boys, when they found they could not get the apartments they wanted.

“I struck it right!” declared Jack.

“And so did I!” added Tom, for he liked his new chum more and more. They made the acquaintance of several lads. On one side of them roomed Bert Wilson, to whom Tom and Jack at once took a liking, and on the other side was George Abbot, a rather lonely little chap.

“I’m sure we’re going to like it here,” declared Jack, after their first lecture, when both he and Tom found that they were well up in the subject presented.

“Sure,” assented Tom.

“It’s a jolly place, all right,” declared Bert. “I wonder if there’ll be any hazing?”

“Of course,” declared Jack. “I don’t mind, though.”

“Nor I,” said Tom.

Several days passed, and nearly all the students, save a few Seniors, had arrived. Bruce Bennington was among the missing, and Tom found himself wondering if he would come back.

“Maybe his trouble will keep him out of college,” thought our hero, and he felt some regret, for he had formed a liking for the lad, though he had met him but once.

“Come on down to the river,” proposed Tom one day, after the last lecture for himself and his chum. “I’m just aching to get into a boat, and I understand there are some on the Ware river that a fellow can hire. I wish I had my motorboat here.”

“Why don’t you send for it?”

“Guess I will. Say, don’t you think the Latin is pretty stiff here?”

“A bit. But old Skeel makes it so. He’s fierce. I guess Reddy Burke was right about what he said of him.”

“Sure he was. But never mind. Maybe it’ll be easier when we’ve been here a few weeks. Here’s a short cut to the river,” suggested Tom, as they came to the rear of a fine residence. “Let’s take it.”

“Looks as if we’d have to cross private grounds. One of the profs. lives here, I understand.”

“What of it?” asked our hero. “He won’t mind, I guess. I like to take cut-offs when I can.”

“Go ahead. I’m with you,” answered Jack.

The two cut across a lawn in the rear of the house, for they could see the glittering river just beyond a fringe of trees, and they were glad of the by-path, as they had gone a longer and more roundabout way several times.

Tom was in the lead, and he had just passed a summer house, vine-encumbered, on the rear lawn, when an angry voice hailed him.

“Where are you going?” was demanded.

“To the river,” replied Tom.

“Who told you to go this way?”

“No one.”

As Tom answered he saw a man come from the summer house, a man he at once recognized as Professor Burton Skeel, the grim Latin instructor.

“Well, you boys can just go back the way you came,” went on the angry professor. “These are my private grounds, and I allow no students to trespass. If I find you doing it again I shall take sterner measures. Go back the way you came, and don’t come here again. Ah, I see that you are Elmwood students,” the professor went on. “That makes it all the worse. You should have known that I permit no trespassing, nor trifling. Be off!”

He fairly yelled the last words at the chums, who, though abashed, were not much alarmed by the angry instructor.

As they turned to retrace their steps Tom saw another figure in the summer house. He had a glimpse of the face, and it was that of Bruce Bennington. The Senior had been in close conversation with the angry professor.

“He looks sad,” mused Tom, referring to Bruce. “I guess his trouble isn’t over yet. I wonder if that glum professor can have anything to do with it?”

CHAPTER VII

BRUCE IS WORRIED

“Nice, pleasant sort of a chap for a professor – not!” exclaimed Jack, as he and Tom went a more roundabout, and public, way to the river.

“He certainly is grouchy,” agreed our hero. “Who’d think he’d rile up just because we cut through his back yard? He may take it out of us in class.”

“Shouldn’t wonder. His kind usually does.”

“Did you see who was with him?” asked Tom.

“I saw a fellow, but no one I knew.”

“That was Bruce Bennington, the Senior I was telling you about.”

“The one you said had some trouble?”

“Yes, and to judge by his looks he has it yet. I wonder what he was doing with old Skeel?”

“Maybe explaining why he hadn’t been to lectures before this.”

“No, I understand the Senior class doesn’t have to report as punctually as we poor dubs of Freshmen. It must be something else.”

“Well, we have our own troubles, Tom. Don’t go to looking for those of other fellows.”

“I won’t, Jack, only I’d like to help Bennington if I could.”

“So would I. Look, there are some boats we might hire,” and Tom pointed to a small structure on the edge of the river, where several boats were tied. A number of students from Elmwood Hall were gathered about, and some were out in the rowing craft.

Tom and Jack learned that the man in charge kept boats for hire, and the two chums were soon out in one, pulling up the river so, as Tom explained, they would have it easier coming back with the current.

“There goes the Senior shell!” exclaimed Jack, as from the college boathouse the long, slender craft was rowed out, looking not unlike some big bug, with long, slender legs. “They’re practicing for the race, I guess.”

“I wish I was with them,” remarked Tom. “I’m going to try for the Freshman crew.”

“And I’m with you.”

The two rowed on, and soon found a quiet, shady nook, where the trees overhung the river. There they tied their boat, and talked in the shadows.

Coming back they again saw the Senior shell, the lads in it rowing more slowly, for they were tired after their practice sprint. Turning in their hired boat, Tom and Jack went to the college crew’s headquarters, and there Tom, on making cautious inquiries, learned to his regret that there would be no Freshman crew organized that fall.

“You see,” explained Reddy Burke to the two lads, who were much interested in water sports, “our rowing season is in the spring. This is only a little supplementary race the head crew is going to row with Burkhardt college, which is five miles down stream. We beat them in the spring, but they asked for another meet, and we gave it to them.

“But rowing is practically over for this year, so I guess there’s no chance for you to get in a shell. Try in the spring, if you want to.”

“We will,” decided Tom.

“Meanwhile you’d better be thinking of football,” advised Reddy. “Candidates for the team as well as for the class elevens will soon be called for.”

“That hits us!” exclaimed Jack. “I’m going to train hard. Do you think our crew will win.”

“Sure,” declared Reddy, and I might add here that when the auxiliary race was rowed, two weeks later, Elmwood did win easily over her rival.

“Bennington is here,” remarked Tom, as with Jack he walked toward the campus with Reddy.

“Is that so? It’s about time he blew in. Where did you see him?”

Tom explained, telling of the peremptory manner in which Professor Skeel had ordered them from his lawn.

“Oh, you mustn’t mind that,” advised Reddy. “He certainly is getting worse every term. I don’t see why Dr. Meredith keeps him. He’s the worst one of the faculty, and if he doesn’t look out he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

“Well, what shall we do this evening?” asked Jack, as he and his chum were in their room after supper. “I’ve done with my boning.”

“So have I. What do you say to a lark? Let’s run the guard and go to town.”

“I’m with you. Let’s get some of the other fellows,” proposed Jack. “Bert Wilson will come, and so will George Abbot, I guess, if he can stop asking questions long enough.”

“Sure we’ll go,” declared Bert, when the chums made the proposal to him.

“But what will we do when we get there?” George wanted to know.

“Oh. Why, we’ll stand on our heads!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh.

“All of us?” demanded the inquisitive lad.

“No, only you,” retorted Jack. “For cats’ sake, cut out some of those questions; will you? We’ll call you Interrogation Mark if you don’t look out, only it’s too much of a mouthful to speak in a hurry. Cut along now, before we’re caught.”

It was dark enough to elude a possible spying monitor, or one of the proctor’s emissaries, and soon the four lads were on their way to town. They went to a moving picture show, enjoying it greatly.

“Now if we can get in without being seen, we’ll be all right,” remarked Tom, when they had neared the college on the return trip.

“Pshaw, I shouldn’t much mind getting caught,” declared Jack. “It would be fun.”

“Doing double boning, or being kept in bounds for a week wouldn’t though,” declared Tom with conviction. “I vote we don’t get caught, if we can help it.”

“Maybe we can’t,” suggested Bert.

“Why not?” George wanted to know.

“Oh, ask us something easier,” laughed Tom. “Come on now, and don’t make too much noise.”

They were about to cross the campus, and make for their dormitory, when there was a movement behind a clump of shrubbery, and a figure was seen to emerge.

“There’s some one!” whispered Bert.

“Caught!” murmured Tom.

“I wonder who it is?” came from George.

“It’s Bruce Bennington, the Senior,” came from Tom. “We are safe.”

“You won’t be if you continue on this way,” came grimly from Bruce. “One of the proctor’s scouts is out to-night, just laying for innocent Freshies. You’d better cut around the side, and go in the back basement door. It’s generally open, or if it isn’t I’ve got a key that will do the trick.”

“You know the ropes,” laughed Tom.

“I ought to. I was a Freshman once. Come on, I’ll show you the way, but don’t work the trick too often.”

Bruce walked up to Tom, and remarked:

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Fairfield. Glad to see you again. I didn’t recognize you in the darkness. I just got in to-day.”

“Yes, I saw you,” remarked our hero as he introduced his chums.

Bruce continued to walk on beside Tom, the others following. The Senior led the way along a little-used path, well screened by trees from spying eyes.

“Won’t you get caught yourself?” Tom wanted to know.

“No, we lordly Seniors are allowed a few more privileges than you luckless squabs. Though I shouldn’t much mind if I was nabbed. It would be like old times,” and Tom detected a sigh in the words. Clearly Bruce was still worrying.

“I saw you in Professor Skeel’s summer house this afternoon,” went on Tom.

“Oh, so you were the lads he warned away! Yes, Skeel is a – well I guess I’d better not say anything,” spoke Bruce quickly. “It might not be altogether healthy.”

“For you?” asked Tom.

“Yes. I’m under some obligations to him, and – well, I don’t like to talk about it,” he finished.

“Then you haven’t gotten over your trouble?” asked Tom sympathetically.

“No, it’s worse than ever. Oh, hang it all, what a chump I’ve been!” exclaimed Bruce. “This thing is worrying the life out of me!”

“Why can’t some of your friends help you?” asked Tom. “If I could – ”

“No, thank you, Fairfield, no one can do anything but myself, and I can’t, just now. It may come out all right in the end. Don’t say anything about it. Here we are. Now to see if the door’s open.”

Letting Bruce lead the way, the other lads cautiously followed. They saw him about to try the knob of the basement portal, when suddenly Tom became aware of a light flickering through a side window.

“Hist!” he signalled to Bruce. “Someone’s coming!”

“All right. You fellows lay low, and I’ll take a look,” volunteered their guide. “I don’t mind being caught.”

“He’s got nerve,” said Jack, admiringly, as he and his chums crouched down in the darkness.

Tom and the others saw Bruce boldly look in the window through which the light shone.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CALL OF THE PIGSKIN

“Maybe it’s Professor Skeel,” whispered George, apprehensively.

“Or Merry himself,” added Jack.

“Nonsense!” replied Tom. “Neither of them would be in our dormitory at this hour.”

“Unless they got wise to the fact that we went out, and they’re laying to catch us when we come in,” declared Bert. “If I’m nabbed I hope my dad doesn’t hear of it.”

“Come on, fellows,” came in a shrill whisper from Bruce. “It’s only Demy, our studious janitor. He’s boning over some book, and if you help him with his conjugation, or demonstrate a geometric proposition for him, he’ll let you burn the school down and say nothing about it. Come on; it’s all right.”

They entered through the door, which was not locked, so that Bruce did not have to use his key, and at their advance, into what was a sort of storeroom of the basement, the studious janitor looked up from a book he was reading.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Is this – ahem! young gentleman, I hardly know what – ”

“It’s all right, Demy,” interrupted Bruce with a laugh. “I brought ’em in. They want to help you do a little – let’s see what you’re at, anyhow?” and he looked at the book.

“It’s Horace,” said the janitor. “I want to read some of his odes in the original, but the translating is very hard, to say the least. Still, I am determined to get an education while I have the chance.”

“Good for you!” exclaimed the Senior. “I’ll help you, Demy. Horace is pie for me. You fellows cut along to your rooms,” he added, significantly. “You haven’t seen them, have you, Demy?”

“No, Mr. Bennington, not if you don’t wish me to,” and the janitor, with a grateful look at the Senior, prepared to listen to the Latin, while Tom and his chums, grateful for the aid given them, hurried up the stairs to their apartments.

“That was fine of him, wasn’t it?” remarked Jack, as good-nights were being whispered.

“It sure was,” declared Tom, wishing more than ever that he could help the unhappy Senior.

“I wonder why the janitor wants to know Latin?” came from the human question mark.

“Oh, answer that in your dreams,” advised Tom.

From the fact that no mention was made of their little night excursion, Tom and the others concluded that the studious janitor had kept his pact with Bruce. The latter told Tom afterward that he was kept busy giving Latin instruction until nearly midnight.

“It was good of you,” said our hero.

“Oh, pshaw! I’m glad I can do somebody good,” was the rejoinder. That was Bruce Bennington’s way. As Reddy had said, the Senior was his own worst enemy.

“Hear the news?” burst out Jack, as he entered the room where Tom was studying, a few afternoons later.

“No, what news?”

“Call for Freshmen and regular football candidates is posted. Practice begins to-morrow. Let’s get out our suits.”

“Fine!” cried Tom, tossing his book on the table, and scurrying for his trunk where he had packed away his moleskin trousers and canvas jacket. Jack soon had his out, looking for possible rents and ripped seams.

“I’ve got to do some mending – worse luck!” exclaimed Tom, as he saw a big hole in his trousers.

“Can you sew?” asked Jack.

“Oh, so-so,” laughed Tom. “I can make a stab at it, anyhow,” and he proceeded to close up the rent by the simple process of gathering the edges together like the mouth of a bag, and winding string around them. “There! I guess that’ll do,” he added.

It was a clear, crisp day, and “the call of the pigskin” had been heard all through the college. Several score of lads, in more or less disreputable suits, that had seen lots of service, assembled on the gridiron under the watchful eyes of the coaches.

“I hope I make the regular eleven,” said Tom, as he sent a beautiful spiral kick to Jack.

“So do I,” was the reply. “But I hear there are lots of candidates for it, and almost a whole team was left over from last season, so there won’t be much chance for us.”

The practice was more or less ragged, and, in fact it was only designed to let the coaches see how the new lads “sized-up.” Several elevens were tentatively formed, and taken to different parts of the field to play against each other.

Tom worked hard, and he was glad to note that one of the older players had regarded him with what our hero thought were favorable eyes. Jack was also doing well.