Chapter 13

MYRON CHANGES HIS MIND

The fact that the incident would never become known and make him look ridiculous made it much easier for Myron to forgive Joe for the trick. And the latter’s account of the meeting with Eldredge—Myron got it piecemeal before and after chapel—was so funny that he had to smile more than once in spite of his determination to be haughty and unrelenting. In the end he said grudgingly: “We-ell, I suppose you meant it all right, Dobbins, but it wasn’t fair. Now was it?” And Dobbins obligingly shook his head very soberly and allowed that it wasn’t. In such fashion amity was restored and peace prevailed again.

That afternoon, encountering Harry Cater on the field before practice, Myron regarded that youth keenly, looking for signs of amusement and ready to resent them. But Katie’s countenance suggested no secret diversion. Perhaps he regarded Myron with just a fraction more interest than usual, but it was quite respectful interest. There was a big cut in the football candidates that afternoon and when Coach Driscoll had sheathed his knife again their number had been reduced to sixty-odd. Myron survived, as he deserved to, and so, naturally, did Joe. Joe was already being talked about and more than once had heard his playing discussed and praised. Good linemen are always in demand, and this year, at Parkinson, they were more than ever welcome, for graduation had deprived the eleven of several stars since last fall.

The squads were reduced to four now, and Myron had slipped into a half-back position on the third. There was nothing certain about that position. Some days he went into practice at right half and some days at left, and sometimes he sat on the bench most of the time when scrimmaging began. He was rather resentful because his work wasn’t getting recognition. As a matter of fact, however, he was showing up no more cleverly than half a dozen other candidates for the positions. He handled the ball well, remembered signals, ran hard and fast, dodged fairly and caught punts nicely. So did Meldrum, Brown, Brounker, Vance, Robbins and one or two more. Myron’s mistake was in supposing that, because none praised him, his work wasn’t appreciated. He had an idea that neither coach nor captain really knew of his existence, when, as a matter of fact, he was more than once under discussion during the nightly conferences in Mr. Driscoll’s quarters.

“Promising,” was the coach’s comment one evening when the subject of half-backs was before the meeting. “Plays a nice, clean-cut game. Lacks judgment, though.”

“Handles punts well,” said Captain Mellen. “Made a corking catch yesterday. Remember when Kearns punted down to the twenty yards? That was a peach of a punt, by the way: all of fifty, wasn’t it, Ken?”

“Forty-six,” answered Farnsworth.

“That all? Anyway, this Foster chap made a heady catch, with two ends almost on him and the ball nearly over his head. He’ll round out nicely for next year, I guess.”

It was Myron’s misfortune that he had elected to try for a half-back position at a time when there was much excellent half-back material on hand. Probably he didn’t realise the fact, for he began to get more disgruntled by the end of that week and secretly accused Mr. Driscoll and Jud Mellen of “playing favourites.” Not altogether secretly, either, for he once aired his suspicions for Joe’s benefit. “There’s no chance for a chap here unless he’s known,” he said bitterly. “Maybe if I stay here two or three years longer Driscoll will discover that I’m alive. As it is, if it wasn’t for Farnsworth keeping tabs on the fellows, I could cut practice and no one would ever know it.”

“Well, I don’t know,” answered Joe judicially. “It looks to me like you were getting the same treatment the rest of ’em are getting. Some day you’ll show ’em what you can do and they’ll wake up. I guess your trouble is that you’re bucking against a lot of good backs. Take fellows like Brown and Meldrum and Vance, now. They’re good. You’ve got to hand it to them, kiddo. Corking halves, all of them. Hard to beat. But that don’t mean that you can’t beat ’em. Buckle down and go hard, Foster. The season’s young yet.”

“I’m not anxious enough,” answered Myron, “to kill myself. I dare say I can get along without playing on the team this year. And next year I’ll go somewhere where they give a fellow a fair chance, by George!”

“Well, if that’s your idea you won’t get far,” said Joe drily. “If you don’t care yourself no one’s going to care for you. A guy’s got to hustle and be in earnest to get anywhere in this world. I know that!”

“You fell into it pretty soft,” answered Myron, with a laugh that sounded none too agreeable. “There’s nothing like getting in with the right crowd, eh?”

Joe regarded him with a frown, started to speak, thought better of it and merely grunted. But after a moment he said dispassionately: “Don’t be a sore-head, Foster. It don’t get you anything but hard looks.”

“I’m no sore-head,” laughed the other carelessly. “Gee, it doesn’t mean anything in my young life to play with their old football team. I’ve captained a better team than this school will ever turn out!”

“If I was you,” replied Joe earnestly, “I’d forget about being captain of that team, kiddo, and see if I couldn’t make a first-class private of myself.”

Myron flushed. “It’s all well enough for you to—to give advice and say cute things, Dobbins, but you’ve made yourself solid with the fellows who have the say in football matters and you’re pretty sure of a place. I haven’t, and I don’t intend to. If Mellen and Cater and some of those fellows think I’m going to kow-tow to them, they’re mightily mistaken.”

“Meaning I got my chance by—what do you call it?—cultivating those fellows?” asked Joe. “You made that crack before and I let it pass, Foster, but it don’t go this time. If I’m playing on the second squad it’s because I got out there and worked like a horse, and you know it, Brother!”

Myron dropped his eyes and a long moment of silence followed. Then he said: “I was a rotter, Dobbins. I’m sorry. I guess I am a sore-head, like you said. I guess—I guess I’ll just quit and have done with it.”

Joe laughed. “All right, kiddo! We’ll start fresh. But why don’t you cut out the grouching and just play the game? What’s it to you if you don’t get into the lime-light? Ain’t it something to do what you’re put at and do it well? Say, there’s about sixty guys out there every afternoon, ain’t there? Well, how many of them do you suppose will get places on the first team? Not more than twenty-six, probably. And about twenty more will go into the scrub team. And the others will beat it and try again next year, likely. Every one can’t be a hero, Foster. Some of us have got to lug water!”

“There’s no fun in lugging water, though,” Myron objected.

“Who says so? There’s fun in doing anything if you set out to like it, kiddo. The guys who miss the fun are those who get it into their heads that the job isn’t good enough for ’em, or that some one’s imposing on ’em. What sort of a fellow would Merriman be if he got that dope to working in his bean? He’s lugging water, all right, believe me! Living on a couple of dollars a week and working about sixteen hours a day! But he gets fun out of it, don’t he? He’s about the happiest guy around these parts, ain’t he? Mind you, Foster, I ain’t saying that a fellow’s got to be satisfied with just lugging water. He oughtn’t to be. He ought to be thinking about the time when he can chuck the pail and do something better. But while he is lugging water he wants to do it well and whistle at it!”

“All right,” laughed Myron, good temper restored, “I’ll keep on with the pail a while longer. Say, Dobbins, you ought to prepare for the ministry or the lecture platform. You’re going to waste yourself shovelling spruce gum!”

Joe smiled. “I’m not going to shovel spruce gum, kiddo. I’m going to be a lawyer. How’s that hit you?”

“If I’m ever arrested for murder I’ll certainly send for you!” answered Myron emphatically.

Two days later Myron received notice that his overdue furniture had arrived. For some reason he was not nearly so keen about it as he had been a week or more ago. And when, accompanied by Joe—he had felt the need of a practical mind in the matter of getting the things off the car and up to the dormitory and had begged Joe’s assistance—he saw how many pieces of furniture there were he was, to use his own word, flabbergasted. For his part, Joe just stared and blinked. Every piece was carefully and enormously crated, and the staring address on each was a horrible challenge. For the things were much larger than he remembered them and when he thought of the limited area of Number 17 Sohmer he gasped. The services of the Warne Warehouse Company had been called on, and three husky men were soon emptying the car while Myron and Joe sat on a baggage truck and looked on. Myron felt somewhat apologetic and shot occasional inquiring glances at his companion. But Joe was silent and seemingly unmoved after the first survey. Myron ventured at last:

“I don’t see where all the stuff is going, do you?”

Joe shook his head. “No, I don’t. Maybe they’ll let you put about half of it in the corridor.”

“It’s nothing to joke about,” Myron grumbled. “We won’t be able to move without barking our shins. I’d like to know how big mother thinks those rooms are!”

“I’m not worrying about my shins,” said Joe placidly, adding when Myron looked a question: “I won’t be there, you know.”

“Oh!” said the other. Silence again prevailed. The trucks trundled from box-car to platform and a nearby engine let off steam with disconcerting suddenness. Finally: “I shouldn’t think you’d want to live in that room if it’s like you say it is,” observed Myron. “Only one window and—and all.”

“Oh, it ain’t so worse. Merriman wants me to go over and take half his place, but that part of town’s pretty fierce.”

“Great Scott! Why, that’s an awful hole he’s in!”

“Well, with something more in it, it wouldn’t be bad.”

“I don’t see——” Myron paused and was busy for a moment detaching a splinter from beside him. “I don’t see,” he continued, “why you want to move anyhow.”

Joe turned slowly and observed him in mild surprise. “Well, considering that you invited me to,” he answered, “that’s a funny crack to make.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t let me have the rooms by myself, anyhow,” said Myron. “And I’d rather have you with me than—than some fellow I didn’t know at all.”

“Thanks, but I guess I’d better light out. I’m sort of backwoodsy for you, Foster. Maybe the next guy will be more your style, see? Besides——”

“Besides what?” demanded Myron with a frown.

Joe chuckled and nodded toward the furniture. “I couldn’t live up to that,” he said.

Myron’s gaze followed his companion’s and he viewed the crated monstrosities distastefully. “I don’t see why you need to keep rubbing it in about my—my ‘style,’” he said crossly. “Just because I have more than two suits of clothes you needn’t always try to make out that I’m a—a——”

“I don’t,” answered Joe calmly. “Besides, I’ve got four suits myself now: and an extra pair of trousers!”

“Then—then it’s just that stuff?” asked Myron, waving toward the furniture.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. You see, kiddo—I mean Foster——”

“Oh, dry up,” muttered Myron.

“You see, I’ve been used to simple things. The old man and me—I—me—whatever it is—lived pretty plain for a long time. Lately we’ve stayed in a hotel in Portland most of the time. I ain’t used to chiffoniers and enamelled tables and all those gimcracks. I’d feel sort of—of low in my mind if I had to live in a place all dolled up with ribbons and lace and mirrors and things.”

“There aren’t any ribbons and——”

“Well, you get my idea,” continued Joe untroubledly. “Me, I sort of feel freer and more contented in a log-cabin. I suppose it’s all what you’re used to, eh?”

Myron made no reply for a minute. They were loading the big moving-van now and he watched them morosely. He half wished they’d drop that grey-enamelled bookcase over the side. At last he said desperately: “Look here, Joe! If I dump all that truck into the warehouse will you stay?”

It was the first time he had ever called Joe by his first name and that youth looked almost startled. “Why—why, you don’t want to do that!” he stammered.

“Yes, I do,” replied Myron doggedly. “That’s just what I do want. It was a mistake, sending it. I sort of felt so when mother suggested it, but she set her heart on it, you know: thought I’d be more comfortable and all if I had my own things. But they’d look awfully silly, all those light grey tables and chairs and bookcases, and I don’t want them there. So—so I’m going to let these folks store them until spring. There’s no use hurting mother’s feelings, and I’ll just let her think that I’m using them; unless she asks me. When spring comes I’ll ship them back. And you’ll stay where you are, won’t you?”

“Gosh! Say, this is so sudden, kiddo! And it sure seems an awful shame to hide all those corking things. But—why, if you really don’t want them and—and you don’t mind me being sort of rough and—and all that, I’ll stick around.”

“Honest, Joe?”

“Sure, kiddo!”

Myron drew a long breath of relief and turned to the man in charge of the job. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Take those things to the warehouse, will you? And tell them I’ll be around tomorrow and fix things up.”