Chapter 22

MYRON COMES BACK

“Afraid I’ve spoiled your beauty sleep, Myron,” said the visitor. “Sorry, but I’ve been up so long I forgot how early it was.”

“What—what are you doing over here?” gasped Myron.

“Looking for you, of course,” replied Andrew easily as he seated himself on the bed. “Nice quarters you’ve got. Next time, though, I wish you’d locate further up on the alphabet. It’s a long way to the M’s!”

“Are you crazy or—or am I?” asked Myron helplessly.

“Neither, I hope,” answered the visitor calmly. “You see, I set out to find you on the telephone and had to call up about twenty hotels before I got the right one. I started with the A’s and you, as it happened, were among the M’s.”

“What did you want to find me for? Who sent you?”

“Well, I suppose you might say that Joe sent me. At least, he had the idea first. After that, I sort of sent myself.”

“You might have spared yourself the trouble,” said Myron defiantly. “I’m not going back!”

Apparently Andrew didn’t hear that. “Joe was all fussed up, like a hen who’s hatched out a duck. He came around about half-past eight and loaded me with money and handed me my hat, so to speak. Got in here around five-thirty. You didn’t show up at the station for the seven-twelve, so I changed my money into nickels and proceeded to make the telephone company enormously wealthy. You’ve cost me—or, rather, Joe—a lot of money, Myron.” Andrew shook his head sadly. “And I’m not sure you’re worth it, either.”

“I didn’t ask him to spend money on me,” said Myron sulkily. “He hadn’t any business butting in, anyway. It’s my own affair. If I want to leave school I’ve got a right to, and——”

“Back up! Who told you that?”

“Told me what?” asked Myron blankly.

“That you had a right to leave school.”

“Why, no one told me! But it’s so!”

“No, sir, it isn’t,” said Andrew emphatically. “You haven’t any more right to leave school than a soldier has to leave his post, or a policeman his beat. Not a bit more, Myron.”

“That isn’t so,” answered the other excitedly. “It isn’t the same at all. Duty is one thing and—and staying where you don’t get a square deal’s another. My folks have a right to take me away from Parkinson whenever they want to!”

“Have they taken you out?”

“No, they don’t know yet. But they will when I ask them to.”

“That’s all right, then. What your folks do is another matter, old man. It’s what you do that I’m talking about. Why do you say you haven’t had a square deal?”

“Because I haven’t! Look at what Jud did to me! First of all, they made me take too many courses, courses I didn’t want to take at all, some of them. Then when I couldn’t keep them up just as—just as they think I ought to, they came down on me! Jud says I can’t play football. Just because Addicks has it in for me. Addicks calls on me twice as often as any other fellow in class. I hate Latin, anyway. I didn’t want to take it this year. Next year would be time enough. Driscoll made me work like a slave, and I didn’t have time enough for all the things I’m supposed to study, and Jud socked it to me. I’d been trying for a month to get on the team, and now, just when I was sure of a place, Jud springs this! Call that a square deal? I don’t!”

“Well, it’s sort of tough luck, old man. How long are you off for?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. Said we’d wait and see, or something. He can wait. I’m through.”

“Still, I don’t see how you’re helping things much by running away,” said Andrew mildly. “If you want to play on the team you’ll have to do it by mail, won’t you?”

“Oh, I’m done wanting to,” answered Myron roughly. “I’m done with the whole rotten place.”

“And Joe and me? I see.”

“I didn’t say I had anything against you and Joe,” retorted Myron indignantly. “Or—or some other fellows. The fellows are all right. It—it’s the school. The way they do things. They don’t give you a chance. They aren’t fair.”

“So you even up by not being fair, too?”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Myron, glowering.

“Why, you get mad because you think faculty has treated you badly, and then you turn around and treat other folks badly.”

“What other folks?” asked Myron.

“Your friends, the football team and, through that, the whole school.”

“How do you make that out?” Myron demanded, frowning.

“Well, take Joe and me, for instance. We’re in the picture. You let us take a liking to you, which we wouldn’t have done if we hadn’t thought you a good, square sort, the sort that does his duty even if it looks hard. Then when duty gets a bit tiresome you kick us in the shins and run away. Same way with the team. You went out for it and the coach and the rest spent time and effort on you. They thought you were a square sort, too. They wouldn’t knowingly make a poor investment any more than Joe and I would. Then, when you hit a snag, you repudiate your debt to them and beat it. You had a chance to make a good player of yourself and win a position on the team and help bring about a victory for the school. Because you get mad with Jud, you tell the school to go to the dickens. In other words, Myron, old man, you’re a quitter.”

“I’m not!” cried the other desperately. “You’re making it out all wrong! Besides, it wouldn’t make any difference to the school if I stayed. I’m out of football.”

“I don’t see it. You’re out of football until you get back your class standing. The right thing to do is to get it back as soon as you can. It’s your fault that you lost it. There’s no use kidding yourself, Myron. You got in trouble with Addicks because you didn’t play fair with him. You got in trouble with Jud for the same reason. Now you won’t play fair with the rest of us. Think it over.”

“It’s not so, Andy! I tell you I didn’t have time to study that beastly Latin! Joe knows I didn’t. I was too tired at night. I couldn’t!”

“If that’s really so you should have told Driscoll to let up on you. But I think the trouble was that you didn’t make the best use of the time you had. You have two hours every morning, to my certain knowledge, when you’ve no classes, and I’ve never heard of you making use of them for study.”

“It’s all well enough for you to preach,” retorted Myron bitterly. “You like the wretched stuff! You don’t have any trouble with it. I do. I—even if I went back I’d never catch up in class.”

“Oh, yes, you would. I’ll guarantee that. I’ll promise you that you’ll be in good standing with Addicks by next Saturday.”

Myron stared, surprised, doubtful. “How?” he asked at length.

“I’ll look after the ‘how,’ old man.”

“You mean you’ll tutor me again?”

Andrew nodded. Myron dropped his gaze to the counterpane. A minute of silence followed during which the ticking of Myron’s watch on the bedside table sounded loudly in the room. Then said Andrew briskly: “There’s a New York train at ten, I think. That’ll give you time for breakfast and let us catch the one-something back. You get your bath and dress and I’ll go down and buy a paper. Don’t know but what I’ll have a bite more myself. My breakfast was a trifle sketchy. How long will you be?”

Myron continued to study the counterpane. Another silence ensued. Finally, though, it was broken by Myron. “Twenty minutes,” he said in a low voice.

It was dark when they stepped off the train at Warne. As they did so a form detached itself from the lamp-lit gloom of the platform and a voice asked cautiously: “That you, Andy?” Then Myron felt a hand tugging at his suit-case, and: “Let me have it, kiddo,” said Joe. “We’ll go over to Andy’s and leave it there until tomorrow. Better not take any risks.”

They skirted the end of the train, avoiding publicity as much as was possible, and made their way toward Mill Street. Only when they were a block from the track was the silence broken again. Then Andy asked: “Everything all right, Joe?”

“I think so. But I’m sure glad you didn’t leave it until the next train. I’d have had nervous prostration long before that! I had the dogs out three times and fed them. There wasn’t anything else to do. Maybe they’ve bust themselves eating, but it can’t be helped. That kid over in Williams—Wynant or something—has a grouch a mile long, Andy. You’ll have to kiss him, I guess, before he will ever smile again! How are you, kiddo?”

“All right, thanks,” answered Myron rather constrainedly.

“That’s good. By the way, I had to give the impression that you were having dinner out somewhere. So if any one mentions it you’d better play up.”

“Who did you tell?” asked Myron.

“I don’t think I exactly told any one, but I let Jud Mellen go away with the idea.”

“Was he looking for me?”

“Yeah, wanted you to hurry up and get back to work,” replied Joe carelessly. “I told him that if you weren’t back inside a week I’d bust every bone in your body.”

“He will be,” said Andrew grimly. “If he isn’t you may bust mine!”

Just before supper time Joe beat a tattoo on the portal of Number 16 Goss. Chas Cummins’ voice bade him enter. Joe, however, only stuck his head into the room, and, nodding to Brown, said in a deep, mysterious whisper: “Yes-s-s!” Then he closed the door and went off down the corridor, chuckling. In Number 16, Brown raised his brows and looked inquiringly at his chum.

“Batty?” he asked.

A day passed before Joe and Myron breathed freely. By Monday evening it seemed quite safe to assume that Myron’s absence had passed undetected. They went across town and brought the suit-case home then, Joe, however, transferring certain articles, such as Myron’s pyjamas, to his pockets in case some inquisitive member of the faculty should insist on looking inside the bag. But none challenged and the suit-case went back to the closet and Myron’s toilet articles to their places, and the episode was closed. The two spoke of it but briefly. That was Sunday night, as they were preparing for bed. Then Joe remarked conversationally: “You’re a crazy loon, kiddo, aren’t you?” After a moment of reflection Myron said “Yes,” quite humbly.

“Sure are,” agreed Joe, tossing his trousers in the general direction of a chair. “Any time any guy accuses you of having sense, you knock him down. I’ll stand by you. Still, you have your uses, and I’m glad to see you in our midst again. How about being here, now that you are!”

“Tickled to death,” owned Myron a bit shamefacedly.

Joe chuckled. “Knew you would be,” he said. “We ain’t—aren’t such a bad lot when you take us, right. Good night, kiddo.”

“Good night, Joe. I—you—I mean, thanks!”