CHAPTER XVI GERALD MAKES A BARGAIN

Dan ran across Alf in the corridor of Oxford soon after the lists were posted. Alf made a grimace of disgust as he leaned against the base of the plaster Mercury.

“Well, we lose,” he said.

Dan nodded. “Gerald will be disappointed.”

“Still, he’s made Oxford.”

“He says he won’t take it, and I guess he means it. He’s a stubborn little chump. I suppose Thompson queered the game.”

“I guess so. I’ll have a talk with Colton and Rand; they’ll probably have a fair idea what happened. Does Gerald know yet?”

“Guess not. I haven’t seen him. I think he’s in the room. Come on over with me: you’re through, aren’t you?”

“Want me to break the news to the bereaved?” asked Alf, with a grin. “All right, I’ll go along. We ought to induce him to take Oxford, although I suppose we might get him in next Fall.”

“I don’t see how. If Thompson voted against[186] him to-day he will probably vote against him then.”

“Gee, Dan, you’ll never make a politician,” said Alf. “It isn’t absolutely necessary, is it, that Thompson should be re-elected to the Admission Committee next year?”

“Oh, I see! Still, I don’t see how we could prevent it.”

“I don’t say for certain that we could, but you’re in his class, and I guess if you made up your mind to keep him out, you could do it. All you’d have to do would be to find a popular chap willing to take the place, and run him for all you are worth. Why not make a bid for it yourself? You could beat Thompson easily enough. He’s not especially popular, I guess. Besides, no one cares a whole lot about getting on the committee, anyhow. The honor doesn’t amount to much. Yes, I guess we could cook Thompson’s goose all right if we set out to. In fact, I rather like the idea. I don’t like to be beaten, Dan, and—say, hanged if we don’t get Gerald into Cambridge in spite of Mr. Thompson! What do you say? Will you go in for it?”

“Why, yes, I guess so. I suppose it’s fair enough?”

“Of course it is! Anything’s fair in politics, you know.”

[187]

“No, but really, Alf! Would it be all right to scheme around that way?”

“Absolutely!” declared Alf with emphasis. “We want Gerald in Cambridge. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be there. So we just go ahead and get him there. Come on and let’s find him. Of course, if he’s changed his mind and decides to take Oxford, all right. If he hasn’t, and he asks my advice, I’ll tell him to wait until Fall, and we’ll get him into Cambridge. And you back me up.”

They found Gerald in his room. A glance at his face showed Dan and Alf that he had learned the result of the Admission Committee’s labors, in spite of the fact that he was striving to look unconcerned.

“Say, Gerald, I’m awfully sorry about Cambridge,” said Alf heartily. “It’s a shame. And I’m afraid you’ll hate us for letting you think you were going to make it.”

“Of course I won’t,” replied Gerald soberly. “You fellows did all you could, and I’m much obliged. It isn’t your fault. It was Thompson that did it.” Gerald’s face darkened. “And I’m going to—” He stopped.

“Going to what?” asked Dan suspiciously. Gerald turned a rebellious countenance toward him.

[188]

“I’m going to tell him what I think of him! That’s what!”

“Come now, look here, Gerald,” exclaimed Dan. “You can’t do that, you know! You don’t know for certain that Thompson blackballed you. And even if you did know, you wouldn’t have any right to call him to account for it. Any member of that committee has a right to vote as he likes, and—”

“I’m going to punch his head, just the same,” said Gerald doggedly.

“No, Dan’s right,” said Alf soothingly. “You can’t do that, Gerald. At any rate, you can’t fight him on that pretense. Of course, if you happened to meet him and didn’t like the way he wore his hair, or the color of his eyes, and said so—”

“Cut it out, Alf,” said Dan. “There’s no reason for scrapping and you know it. Besides, Gerald can go into Oxford—”

“I’ve told you half a dozen times,” interrupted Gerald warmly, “that I don’t want Oxford.”

“Sure?” asked Alf eagerly.

“Yes, I’m sure,” answered Gerald.

“All right. You stick to that, my boy, and we’ll have you in Cambridge next Fall as sure as shooting.”

Gerald viewed him doubtfully.

[189]

“Do you mean it, Alf?” he asked. “You’re not just saying that to—to make me feel better?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Alf gayly. “Dan and I have got the whole thing planned. We thought that if you wanted to go in for Oxford we wouldn’t say anything about it; just let you go. But if you don’t, why, don’t even think of it. The next election is in November, and we’ll get you through with flying colors. You’ll only be in the Third then, and will have three years before you. You really aren’t missing much, you see; lots of fellows don’t make a society until they’re in the Third.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” said Gerald gratefully. “I don’t care so much now. Only—about Oxford; do you think Tom will mind if I don’t take it?”

“Not a bit,” said Dan.

“That’s right,” Alf agreed. “He knew you preferred Cambridge, and only got you through there in case you missed it with us, and wanted consolation. Tom understands perfectly.”

“Then I’ll write and decline it,” said Gerald cheerfully. “What shall I say?”

“Oh, most anything,” said Alf. “Just tell them to be blowed; tell ’em you’re sort of particular about whom you associate with, and that—”

“Shut up,” laughed Dan. “Just say that ‘Mr.[190] Pennimore declines with thanks the kind invitation of Oxford Society.’ That’s all that’s necessary, isn’t it, Alf?”

“Ye-es, I suppose so. But you might add in a postscript that you hope they’ll choke.”

Thus Gerald’s disappointment was mitigated by the promise held out by Alf, and the note declining the invitation to Oxford was despatched without regrets. Even had Gerald been inclined to feel sore over his failure he would not have had much time to indulge his feelings. The inter-class baseball games were approaching, and practice demanded much of his time. Gerald was winning friends now, for his fellow members of the Fourth Class nine had to admire his playing, if nothing else. But as they got to know him better they found other things to like. They soon discovered that his reserve, which looked so much like arrogance, was only a cloak to hide a sort of shyness that was the result of his earlier experiences at Yardley. They found that he wasn’t stuck-up—a heinous sin at Yardley—and that he never referred to wealth or influence. He was “Pennimore” now; in some cases “Gerald”; the nicknames, “Miss Nancy,” or “Moneybags,” seemed to have fallen into disuse.

Gerald thrived and grew happier every day. He stopped thinking about Thompson, and paid[191] no heed to that youth when he met him. And gradually, but perceptibly, he was undergoing a physical transformation. His work in the gymnasium under the careful supervision of Mr. Bendix, and now his daily exercise on ball-field and tennis court had not failed of effect. He had taken on flesh, his color was good, his muscles had hardened and developed, and his shoulders and chest had broadened and deepened. And with his physical betterment came an increased capacity for study. He found that after an hour’s baseball practice, followed by a shower and a brisk rubdown, he was ready to tackle cheerfully the hardest task in algebra that Mr. Wentworth could invent. I don’t mean that his marks were all A’s and B’s. On the contrary, he exhibited a seeming preference for C’s, with an occasional B by way of variety. But he was doing good work, for all of that, and Kilts was pretty well satisfied. His other studies, English, French, and Latin, were going better, too, and he was no longer worrying about his chances of passing the finals in June. He felt pretty sure of B’s in English and Latin, and believed he could get C’s in the other two studies.

The boxing lessons, which had been transferred from Saturday afternoons to Saturday mornings, when Alf’s baseball work had claimed the former[192] hours, had now ceased altogether. Alf declared that Gerald had already learned almost all he could teach him, and that further development and improvement depended on himself.

“Go up against the punching-bag, Gerald, two or three times a week, and keep your muscles limbered up. Next Fall we’ll go at it again. It’s bully exercise and it’s bully fun; and it’s a mighty good thing to know something about boxing. Maybe you’ll never need the knowledge, and maybe you will. There’s no harm in having it, anyway.”

The discontinuance of the boxing lessons left Gerald his Saturday mornings for other pursuits, and he chose to devote them to tennis. He had played tennis a good deal ever since he had been large enough to swing a racket. Sometimes his father had been his opponent, sometimes the tutor. For his age Gerald was a good player, and was extremely fond of the game. There were six courts at Yardley, and it was almost always possible to secure one at some time during the morning. There was a rule, and a necessary one it was in view of the large number of fellows who played, that if others were waiting to use a court, only three sets could be played at a time. As a general thing, Gerald’s opponent was Harry Merrow. Harry was only twelve years of age, but[193] he played good tennis and was a spirited, hard-fighting youngster. Gerald usually won, but Harry always proved a worthy foe.

On a morning in the last week of May, the two were sitting on the grass beside one of the courts, waiting for their turn. They had skimped their breakfasts in order to be early at the courts, but they found that others had been even more enterprising, and all the courts were in use. But it was still far short of nine o’clock, and they had plenty of time before them. Besides, it wasn’t bad fun lolling here on the grass in the warm morning sunlight, and there was plenty to see. On the court which they had elected to wait for, two First Class fellows, “top-notchers” both of them, and members of the Tennis Club, were putting up an exhibition well worth watching. Beyond, on the river, several canoes were in sight, their brightly-colored sides reflected gayly in the quiet water. The canoes put an idea into young Merrow’s head.

“I say, Gerald,” he asked, “can you swim?”

“Of course,” was the answer. It seemed to Gerald that Harry might as well have asked him if he could breathe. All his summers had been spent at Sound View, and looking back he could scarcely remember a time when he hadn’t been able to swim.

[194]

“Well, can you paddle?” was Harry’s next question.

“Paddle? Oh, you mean in a canoe? No, I guess not. I never was in a canoe. It doesn’t look hard, though.”

“It isn’t—very,” answered Harry. “It’s lots of fun, though. I was wondering why you and I couldn’t have a canoe, Gerald.”

“That would be dandy!” cried Gerald. “Could we?”

“Yes, we could rent one. It only costs three dollars a month. You have to be able to swim, though, or Faculty won’t let you have one. What I thought was that—”

“What?” asked Gerald, as the younger boy hesitated.

“Well, you see, I haven’t much money. I thought perhaps you’d be willing to pay the three dollars if I’d show you how to paddle.”

“Of course I will,” said Gerald. “That’s fair enough. I’d like mighty well to know how. Can we get a canoe at the boathouse?”

“Yes. Let’s go down after we finish tennis and see what they’ve got. Shall we?”

Gerald at once agreed, and for a while they talked canoeing and boating, Harry narrating some of the good times he had had at home on the river. Gerald, not wanting to be quite outdone,[195] mentioned his ability to row a boat, and then, led on by Harry, described life on his father’s big steam yacht, which Harry had often seen lying at its moorings off Sound View.

Then the talk worked around to baseball, as it was almost certain to do sooner or later at this time of the year, and Gerald exhibited with pride the callousness of his hand and showed the little finger that had been “mighty near broken, I tell you!” Harry had tried for a place on the Merle Hall team, but had failed. However, he had been made official scorer, and that had brought consolation. It was evident that in Harry’s estimation that position qualified him as a critic, for he pretended to know just what was the matter with every member of his own team and the Varsity, and would tell you on the slightest provocation.

“I tell you, Gerald, Dan Vinton played a great game at third the other day. He’s going to make a fine player when he’s had more experience. I should think you’d be mighty proud to be rooming with him.”

It had never occurred to Gerald to be proud of the fact, and he considered it a moment before replying. Then:

“I’d rather room with him than any fellow I know,” he replied with conviction. “He—he’s[196] been mighty good to me ever since I knew him. You know he—he saved my life last Fall.”

“Yes, we heard about it, but I never knew just how it was.”

So Gerald recounted the adventure of the burning playhouse, and Dan’s rescue, and Harry listened with round eyes.

“Say, though, you were a chump to go in after the dog,” he said, when Gerald had finished. “You might have been all burned up!”

“Well,” answered Gerald simply, “I couldn’t let Jack burn. He’s the best dog in the world, Jack is.”

“I’d like to know Vinton,” said Harry, after a moment’s silence, during which they watched the tennis battle. “You might ask me up to your room some night, Gerald.”

“Come whenever you like,” said Gerald. “I didn’t suppose you needed an invitation.”

“Well, Vinton might not like a kid like me bothering around him. He was awfully decent to me once, though. He and I came up from the station together after Christmas vacation, and I guess he saw that I was feeling sort of—of homesick. And he told me to come around that evening and see him if I was lonesome.”

“Didn’t you go?”

[197]

“N-no. I wanted to, but—I didn’t like to. I was afraid he’d think I was a baby.”

“Dan wouldn’t,” said Gerald. “He understands. He told me once that when he came here last Fall he was so homesick that he came near running away home.”

“Really!” exclaimed Harry. “Think of a fellow like Dan Vinton being homesick! I wish I’d known that. I’d have gone and seen him that time. But I’m going to come around some evening, if you think he won’t mind.”

“Of course he won’t,” said Gerald scornfully. “He—he isn’t that sort. Come on; they’re through. I’ll toss. Rough or smooth?”

After they had played their allowance of three sets, Gerald winning 6–3, 6–4, 7–5, they went down to the boathouse and rented a bright green canvas canoe for the period of one month, and Gerald had his first lesson in paddling.

It wasn’t long before Gerald reached the conclusion that Harry had made a very smart bargain, for paddling isn’t a thing that can be successfully taught; a fellow must pick it up himself. Gerald’s instructions consisted principally of the advice: “Now just do as I do, Gerald; see?”

And Gerald, occupying a most uncomfortable and cramped position at the stern of the canoe,[198] did as Harry did till his arms ached. Harry insisted on staying close to shore.

“Faculty raises an awful rumpus,” he explained, “if you upset. Two Fourth Class fellows went over last Fall, and Collins wouldn’t let them go out again.”

Gerald tried to emulate the example of Harry, but wasn’t very successful that day. Harry’s work with the paddle was clean and graceful, while Gerald had difficulty in refraining from using his blade like an oar. Once, in shifting his position a little, he caused the canoe to rock. Harry almost dropped his paddle as he looked around in alarm.

“Here!” he cried. “What are you trying to do? Upset us?”

“No, I was just trying to get comfortable,” answered Gerald.

“Well, you want to be awfully careful in a canoe. It’s mighty easy to upset.”

“What of it?” asked Gerald, with a laugh. “I’d rather like a dip. Besides, we could almost wade ashore from here.”

“No, we couldn’t. This river’s awfully deep, even right along shore. I—I won’t go out with you if you’re not careful. The water’s too cold for a bath.”

“All right,” Gerald agreed. “I’ll be careful.[199] Let’s go back now, though; my arms ache like anything.”

After that scarcely a day went by without seeing Gerald and Harry on the river, and by degrees the former got so that he could paddle very well indeed. One day they accepted a challenge of two Third Class fellows, and raced them from Flat Island to the boathouse, a distance of nearly an eighth of a mile, and beat them handily. But usually their canoeing took place before recitations in the morning, or after dinner, when each had an hour of freedom, for Gerald’s afternoons were pretty well occupied.

The Fourth Class team had played three games with outside nines, and although they had lost two of them, the experience had done them good, and developed team-play. The third contest, that with Greenburg Grammar School, they had won in the last inning by a single tally. The inter-class series was due the first week in June, and already fellows had begun to wear their class colors and speculate as to the outcome. It was generally conceded that Second would win the championship but the real interest lay in the game between Third and Fourth. Third had, as usual, the advantage of age and experience, but, again as usual, it was Fourth who made the greater preparation, who practised most, and who[200] excelled in enthusiasm. Nowadays little was talked of save baseball, although for a few days preceding the dual track and field meeting with Broadwood, the runners and jumpers and weight men claimed some attention.

The meet was at Broadwood, and Yardley’s team went over well supported. The track meet was the one athletic event of the school year which could be absolutely depended on to add to the Blue’s laurels, and this year’s contest was no exception. Yardley won decisively, 89 to 54. Tom did himself proud, winning two firsts and a fourth, or 11 points in all, and establishing a new dual record for the 16-pound shot of 41 feet 4 inches. First place in the hammer throw also went to him, while the broad jump, which he entered to fill the card, netted him one point. Tom was the hero of the day, and Yardley journeyed home happy and triumphant.