Chapter II: Tom Assumes a Responsibility

Tom got separated from Jerry Benson on the way out, though it came about through no effort of his. However, that he was somewhat relieved I won’t deny. To have appeared on the platform of the tiny station in the rôle of sponsor to the uncouth North Carolinian would have required some courage! In all, six boys disembarked. The school carriage, a three-seated, covered conveyance known locally as a “hack,” capable of accommodating nine passengers and drawn by a pair of sleek black mules that were the pride of Cicero, the negro driver, was waiting, and into it clambered all save Tom. As the train had pulled up at the station Tom had descried Joe Kirkham there to meet him, and now, tossing his bag to Cicero, he elected to walk the short distance to school with Joe. He noted Jerry Benson question the driver of the vehicle and then climb into a back seat, as he did so sending a surprised glance after his newly-found friend. Tom experienced a pang of self-reproach at his desertion of the other and, impulsively, he walked back and called to Jerry.

“I’m going to walk, Jerry,” he said. “See you later. Go to the Office and they’ll look after you.”

Jerry smiled and nodded as the carriage moved away, and Tom, aware of the amused expressions on the faces of the other boys, returned to the waiting Joe. Joe’s expression was less amused than bewildered.

“Who’s that fellow?” he gasped.

Tom explained as they began their walk, ending with: “He’s in for a tough time, I guess, Joke, and it’s sort of too bad, for he seems a decent chap. I feel rather mean for shaking him just now, too. The fellows will rag the life out of him when they see him.”

“Joke” chuckled. “Reckon they will,” he agreed. His nickname had evolved itself naturally from the sound of his first and last names and was not intended to indicate his character or habits, for although he was a cheerful chap he had no special gift for joking. “Some one,” he went on, “ought to make him get some decent clothes, first thing. Say, who’s he rooming with?”

“Room――” Tom stopped short, struck speechless by a horrible thought, and gazed at Joe in wide-eyed dismay.

“What’s the matter?” asked the other. “Lost something?”

“You don’t suppose he――they――” He swallowed and made a fresh start. “Joke, they might――might put him in with me!”

“With you? Gee, that’s so! I’d forgotten Tim was gone!” Joe stared back at Tom’s troubled countenance and a look of unholy glee overspread his face. Then he gave a whoop of joy and doubled up in laughter. “Oh, boy!” he gurgled. “Oh, me! oh, my! That’s rich!”

“Oh, shut up! Listen, there are two or three fellows in Follen without roommates, aren’t there? Birkenside’s alone, and that red-headed fellow who played on the scrub last spring, Joyce or Royce or something like that.” Tom was recovering his spirits.

“I know,” gasped Joe, “but――but something tells me you’ll be the lucky guy, Tom! You’ll win the prize! I fu-feel it!”

“You’ll feel my fist if you don’t shut up that cackling,” threatened Tom, starting on scowlingly. “Anyway, I won’t have him. They haven’t any right to. I――I’ll leave school first!”

“Yes, you will,” jeered Joe.

“I will! You see if I don’t!” Tom spoke very determinedly. After a moment, during which Joe, at his side, viewed him with secret amusement, his brow cleared. “He’s only in the third class,” he said hopefully. “They’ll put him in Follen as sure as shooting. Gee, but I had a fright, just the same. I sort of took to the fellow, Joe, because he seemed sort of pathetic and all that, but I wouldn’t care a whole lot to have him for roommate.”

“Oh, I reckon you’ll get to like him,” chuckled the other.

“Dry up and tell me the news. Who’s back?”

“Not many. Lory and Danny and Billy Conger and a dozen or so others. The crowd won’t begin to get here until late. How’d you happen to come so early?”

“Got in New York at eight-forty; went down to the city with dad, you know; and thought I might as well take the nine o’clock as wait around. How did you know I’d be on that train?”

“Didn’t know, Tom, but just took a chance. There wasn’t much to do. Rod isn’t back yet.”

“Have a good time at Christmas?”

“So-so. Pretty quiet. We had some skating for a couple of days. Mother was sick for three or four days, though, and that kind of spoiled the fun. How about you?”

“Corking! I was in New York until Christmas morning with dad and my sister. Went to two plays and three movies and had a lot of bully eats. What did you get, Joe?”

Joe enumerated his presents and Tom followed suit, and for the rest of the distance they swapped reminiscences of the holidays. The road wound picturesquely through the winter woods, the sunlight was warm and the air brisk. Here and there the entrance to some summer home appeared and occasionally a clearing gave them a glimpse of the Severn, very blue under the cloudless sky. So far the Maryland winter had been fairly mild and on the southern slopes the grass still held more than a hint of green. When they had walked unhurriedly something over a half mile a hedge of privet appeared at their left and a comfortable and commodious house met their gaze. From the chimneys blue smoke drifted away to the line of nearly leafless poplars that marked the boundary of the estate, and an automobile stood before the doorway.

“Hello,” said Tom. “The Laurences are here.”

“Yes, been here right along, Cicero says. If I had a house in the country like that I’d spend Christmas in it, too. It’s a lot more fun than being in town.”

“Ye-es,” agreed Tom doubtfully. “Still, you can have a pretty good time in the city. I mean a real city, of course. I dare say it’s different in Philadelphia.”

Joe, who lived in Philadelphia, grunted, but refused the challenge. It was an old subject of debate between them, that matter of the superiority of New York and Philadelphia. A moment later the grounds of North Bank School came into view, adjoining the Laurence place. A small grove of trees hid the buildings until they were opposite the ball field. A wooden stand stood between the iron fence and the first base line and beyond it, interrupting their view again, was a similar but larger stand at the north side of the football gridiron. The school boundaries encompassed some six acres of field and woods. Near the center of the grounds was Founders’ Hall, a large and imposing brick building graced by a wooden tower that shone dazzlingly white in the afternoon sunlight. The sun shone, too, on the big bell in the open cupola, striking coppery rays from its surface. The Hall held class rooms, chapel, commons and offices within its three ivy-draped stories. On the side nearer the road the four dormitories were arranged in a half circle, their entrances facing the front of the Hall, their back toward the thoroughfare. At the farther end of the arc was McCrea House. Then came Baldwin, then Follen and, last, Ellicot. Although the Houses were all of wooden construction, they differed in age, size and appearance. Follen, at the right of the entrance driveway, was the largest, a timber and cement edifice of many gables containing forty rooms. McCrea was a modest structure, the oldest of them all, and accommodated but thirty students. These five buildings, if we omit the stable, near by, the boathouse below the gently sloping bank, and the row of bathhouses beyond, comprised the plant with one important exception. The exception was the Sharples Gymnasium. This building, standing behind Ellicot House, its glassed roof almost shaded by the trees that followed the boundary on that side to the river’s edge, had been presented to the school by the parents of a former student who had died in the service of Great Britain in the first few months of the World War, as a bronze tablet beside the handsome entrance informed one.

Passing through the entrance, where an ivied gate house presented two inquiring windows toward the passers, the boys made their way to Founders’ Hall. A hail from the steps of Baldwin House, where three boys were loitering in the sunlight, delayed them an instant. In the Office, Tom signed the register, Joe waiting outside. As he laid the pen down the assistant spoke.

“Mr. Ledyard would like to see you a minute,” he said.

In the inner office the school secretary arose as Tom entered and shook hands heartily. He was a somewhat dapper little man with a carefully trimmed brown beard and keen dark eyes. “Glad to see you back, Hartley,” he said. “Sit down, won’t you? Well, you look as if vacation had agreed with you. No use asking if you’ve had a good time, I guess. Hm.” Mr. Ledyard cleared his throat, picked a filing card from his desk, glanced at it and put it down again. “What I had to say to you was this, Hartley. We’ve had a rather extraordinary fellow come to us. Perhaps I shouldn’t say extraordinary, though; out of the ordinary is better. He’s a boy named”――he glanced at the card again――“named Jeremiah Benson, from a small town in North Carolina. His parents died when he was a baby, as I understand, and he was adopted by a gentleman named”――another glimpse of the card――“Huckins. Mr. Huckins is placing the boy here. Frankly, he is rather unsophisticated and, using the word in the French meaning, _gauche_. I don’t think he is stupid; rather the contrary; but his schooling has been somewhat neglected and he has, I think, never been long outside his home village. A boy of his sort requires careful handling, Hartley. He will run up against fellows of his own age who stand higher in class, who are more experienced and more worldly wise and who will, I fear, be tempted to ridicule his innocence and odd manners and even his appearance, for”――and here the secretary smiled reminiscently――“there’s no denying that he presented a somewhat uncouth appearance a few minutes ago. It’s no very difficult thing to wound the susceptibility of such a fellow, Hartley, and too many wounds will work ill. Naturally, the faculty can’t keep every student under constant care and supervision. Therefore the next best thing is to place Benson with some one who may, to an extent, provide the protection that we aren’t able to give, some one who will advise him and see that he gets along as smoothly as is possible. Of course he will have some battles to fight for himself. That’s proper. But the lad mustn’t be bullied and hectored and ridiculed too much. He mustn’t have his spirit broken. Now there are several vacancies in the Houses, Hartley, and several boys with whom I might have placed Benson. But after considering them all my choice fell on you.”

If Mr. Ledyard expected surprise or protest he was disappointed. Tom merely said “Yes, sir,” and waited for the other to proceed. From the first he had known what was coming. Mr. Ledyard cleared his throat again.

“You may think this something of an imposition,” he went on, “but I hope you won’t look at it that way. I’d like you to realize that here is a chance to be of real service to a brother mortal and to your school as well. And I venture to say that you’ll be doing yourself no ill service, Hartley, for if this country boy comes through right, as I fully expect him to, you’ll be proud and happy because of your share in his development. The lad has plenty of fine qualities, I think. For instance, when we entered the War he walked sixty-odd miles to enlist in his country’s service. Because of his youth――he was only fifteen, I believe――he was turned down. Six months or so later, having passed his sixteenth birthday, he made the journey a second time. He frankly admits lying on this second occasion. He told the recruiting officer――he was trying for the Navy then――that he was seventeen. This time he would have succeeded had not the armistice been signed a day or two later. Of course, I don’t excuse the falsehood, but I can view it with leniency. I mention this incident, Hartley, only to show that there must be a great deal in the boy that is worth going after and cultivating. Now, what do you say? How do you feel toward the obligation I’ve set you?”

Tom smiled. “I’ll do the best I can, sir,” he answered. “I ought to have told you before, I guess, that I’ve seen Benson. He was on the train with me and we got――got sort of acquainted, I rather took to him, sir, in spite of――of everything.”

“I certainly am glad, Hartley! Understand, please, that I’m not proposing a guardianship for you. Benson must hoe his own row. But you can make that row easier for him by advice and example. You see, my boy, I’ve a pretty fine opinion of you. We all have. You’ve been with us two years, nearly, and you’ve shown yourself clean and manly, cool-headed and sensible. In short, you’re the man for the job. And I’m mighty glad you’re assuming it cheerfully. Come to me with your problems if you can’t solve them alone and let me help. You may be sure that I’ll be watching all the time with a whole lot of interest. I’ve sent Benson over to Baldwin and you’ll probably find him awaiting you. Thanks, Hartley.”

The secretary stood up, smiling, with outstretched hand. Tom smiled, too, as he accepted the clasp, but smiled a trifle ruefully. “I hope I’ll prove up to the job, sir,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll do the best I know how.”

“I’m sure you will, my boy. Good luck to you!”

Outside, in the corridor, a bored and somewhat resentful Joe awaited him.

“Been having afternoon tea in there?” he inquired sarcastically. “Or have you and ‘Whiskers’ been rearranging the study course for the rest of the year? Gee-gosh, I thought you weren’t ever coming out!”

“He’s just been telling me,” replied Tom, “that he’s put that chap Benson in with me.”

“Benson? Who’s――you mean the country jay? Great Jumping Jehosophat, Tom! What are you going to do?”

Tom looked at his watch. “Just now,” he answered, “I’m going over and have a bath before the crowd gathers.”