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?”