Barbour Ralph Henry
Captain of the Crew

CHAPTER III
“’IS ’IGHNESS”

At the sound of the closing door the boy in the chair glanced up, laid aside his book, and pulled himself to his feet. Despite his annoyance at what he considered the other’s cheekiness in having taken possession of the study without explanation or apology, Dick was forced to a grudging admiration for the appearance of the boy who confronted him. He was such a healthy, wholesome-looking duffer, Dick thought, that it was a shame he hadn’t better sense. What Dick saw across the length of the study table was a broad-shouldered youth of sixteen years, attired in a ludicrous red dressing-gown, much worn and faded, which, despite the efforts of a knotted cord about the waist, failed by several inches to envelop his form. His face was somewhat square in contour, with a chin a trifle too heavy for beauty, but, as Dick reflected, undoubtedly appropriate to the rest of the features. The eyes were intensely blue and the hair was neither brown nor straw-colored, but of some indescribable shade between. The cheeks were full of very healthy color. For the rest, the youth was of medium height, sturdily built, and, save for an easy smile of unembarrassed greeting which annoyed Dick at the moment, was decidedly prepossessing.

During the moment of silence that followed the closing of the door, employed by Dick in a mental stock-taking of his future roommate, the latter’s eyes were not idle. He had been told that Richard Hope was the captain of the crew, a position of honor which he reverenced as devoutly as only an English lad can, and he was curious to see what manner of boy filled that important office at Hillton. He saw a tall youth, muscular rather than heavy, with shoulders that filled out the coat almost to the bursting point, and a fairly small head set well back. He saw a face with clean-cut features; a straight, sensitive nose, rounded and prominent chin, eyes rather far apart, and high cheek-bones that gave a look of thinness to the face. The eyes were brown, and the hair under the cloth cap was of the same color. Above the nose were two distinct short vertical lines, the result of a habit of drawing the brows together into something approaching a frown when anxious or puzzled. Just at present the lines were deep, and the general expression of the face was one of ill-concealed annoyance. It was the boy in the queer red dressing-gown that first broke the silence.

“I fancy you’re Hope,” he said smilingly. “My name’s Nesbitt, Trevor Nesbitt, upper middle; I’m to share your quarters, you know.”

“I’m very glad to know you,” answered Dick, without, however, much of delight in his tones. “I saw your luggage in the room before supper, although, of course, I didn’t know that it belonged to – er – ”

“To the beggar that was so cheeky on the coach, eh?” said Trevor. “I didn’t know it myself – that is, until I went to the office. They told me before recess that they’d put me in a room in Masters, but I didn’t know who I was to be with. I – ” He paused, with the slightest look of embarrassment. “Fact is, I want to apologize for what I said on the coach. I didn’t mean to be waxy, but those bally gees pulled so like thunder – and I didn’t know who you were, of course, and – ”

“It’s all right,” answered Dick. “I wouldn’t have interfered only I thought you were going to upset us, and, being a senior, it was my duty, you understand.”

“Of course, I see that,” responded Trevor earnestly. “You were right to do what you did, and you ought to have beat my silly head for me. You can now, you know, if you like.”

Dick smiled, and then was sorry. He had meant to maintain a lofty expression of hauteur, in order to impress Trevor with the fact that while he was willing to pass the other’s impertinence on the coach he could never bring himself to an approval of a youth who so needlessly endangered the lives of his companions in order to satisfy a selfish whim, and who had so stubbornly transgressed the Rules of the School (the latter suddenly appeared unusually sacred to Dick, and he mentally spelled it with capital letters). But the smile had, he feared, somewhat spoiled his effort. He hastened to reassume his expression of calm disapprobation, and asked:

“Did Professor Wheeler learn of it?” He had thrown aside his coat and had seated himself before the hearth. Trevor perched himself on an arm of the big chair and smiled a trifle ruefully.

“Yes; I had a long talk with Wheels. I fancy he said some very good things, but I was so beastly hungry that I’m not certain. He told me to stay in the Yard for a couple of weeks; rather nasty of him, don’t you think?”

“Well, Nesbitt, under the circumstances, of course – ” began Dick. Then he paused as he saw, or thought he saw, a twinkle of amusement in the blue eyes before him.

“Oh, well, two weeks is soon over with, and I had lots of fun while it lasted.” Trevor smiled reminiscently.

“You had driven before, I suppose?” asked Dick with supreme indifference.

“Yes; the pater and I used to do a good bit that way at home – in England, you know – and then last summer at Richfield I kept a nag or two rather busy.”

“Have you been in this country long?” Dick really didn’t care, of course, but one had to make conversation.

“Four years; the pater came over here to look after his business and brought me with him; the manager died. Then we thought – that is, the pater did – that he’d better stay in New York and look after the American agency himself for awhile. And we’ve been here ever since. Last summer we decided that I’d better go to school somewhere. The pater wanted me to go back to the other side and enter Rugby, but I rather fancied staying over here; so I found out about American schools, and when some one told me that Hillton generally turned out the best eights I decided to go there.” Dick displayed interest.

“Do you row?” he asked almost eagerly.

“I’ve rowed a little when I’ve had a chance, which hasn’t been often. Americans don’t seem to do much that way. When I was a little chap I was a good bit of a wetbob, and was on the water a good deal. The pater taught me all I know when I was about twelve; he rowed stroke two years in the Cambridge boat.”

“Well, I hope you’ll try for the crew,” answered Dick, with kindly condescension. “We want all the candidates we can get; and even if you don’t make the varsity boat this spring, there’s the second; and you’d have a good show for next year.”

“Thanks,” replied Trevor calmly; “I’d made up my mind to have a try for it. I rather fancy I’ll make the varsity.”

Dick stared. Such confidence staggered him, and he tried to detect amusement on the other’s countenance. But his new roommate was staring seriously into the flames, for all the world, Dick thought, as if he were trying to decide whether to accept the place at bow or stroke. Trevor swung himself from the chair arm and tried to wrap his dressing-gown closer about him.

“Well, I fancy I’d better get that luggage out of the way. I didn’t want to unpack until you came and could tell me where to put the things. I’ve got a few pictures and some books, you know.”

“You can have either side of the study you want,” answered Dick. “I was alone and so I stuck my things all round. If you like I’ll take my stuff off that wall there.”

“Oh, but I say,” expostulated the other, “don’t do that. You’ve got the den looking so jolly nice it would be too bad to spoil it by taking anything down. I’ll just stick one or two of my chromo things where there’s room. I never was much at fixing up; my den always looks like a bally stable.”

He passed into the bedroom and Dick heard him pulling at knots and straps and between whiles whistling a lugubrious tune that sounded all flats. Dick spread his feet apart comfortably, thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled at the fire; Nesbitt’s cock-suredness was truly delightful! “He fancied he’d make the varsity!” Dick’s grin enlarged and he chuckled softly. He almost wished that it wasn’t necessary for him to dislike his new roommate; there was something about the boy, possibly his placid assurance, that appealed to him. But – and Dick’s smile froze again – it wouldn’t do for him to even appear to countenance such escapades and – er – cheekiness as Nesbitt had indulged in that afternoon. The youngster – he was Dick’s junior by a year – must be taught that at Hillton fun is one thing and —

Dick’s reverie was interrupted by the subject, who appeared with a bunch of photographs in his hand.

“Do you mind if I put a couple of these on the mantel?”

“Certainly not; it’s half yours, of course.”

The tone was very chilly, and Trevor’s cheeks flushed slightly as he arranged the pictures behind the army of mugs. He started away and then came back again, and, taking a photograph from its place, looked hesitatingly at Dick, who was apparently supremely indifferent to his presence.

“That’s the pater,” he said finally, holding out the card, and speaking a little wistfully. Dick took the picture. It showed a middle-aged man, rather military looking, in riding clothes; a fine, handsome chap, Dick thought, and, having no quarrel with Trevor’s father, he said so:

“He’s awfully good-looking, Nesbitt.”

Trevor took the photograph and observed it a moment with smiling eyes ere he placed it back on the mantel. He was evidently monstrously proud of his father; but he only replied with elaborate indifference:

“He’s rather a good sort, the pater.” He took the rest of the pictures down and held them out. “Here’s some more if you care to see them.” Dick pretended to smother a yawn. “Thanks,” he said.

“I’m not boring you?” asked Trevor apologetically.

“No, indeed.” Dick was looking at the likeness of an elderly woman in a high lace cap. “Not your mother, is it?”

“No, that is my Aunt Grace; she lives in Manchester. I haven’t a picture of the mater here; we have only one, and the pater keeps that. She – she died when I was quite a youngster.”

“Oh,” said Dick softly. “I’m sorry. Mothers are – well, I wouldn’t want to lose mine, Nesbitt.”

“I fancy not. We – the pater and I – were awfully cut up when the mater died. That’s a cousin of mine; he’s at Rugby.”

The picture showed a stolid-looking boy with decidedly heavy features attired in flannels and leaning with studied carelessness on a cricket bat. It was typically English, Dick thought as he laid it aside. A photograph with “Maud” scrawled across the bottom in high angular characters showed a conscious-looking young lady of eighteen or nineteen years simpering from a latticed doorway. “That’s Cousin Maud,” explained Trevor; “she’s engaged to a lieutenant of engineers in South Africa; she’s a jolly nice girl.” When Dick had seen the last of the photographs Trevor rearranged them on the mantel, and while he was doing so there came a knock at the study door, followed by the entrance of a youth in a long ulster on which the snowflakes were melting.

“Hello, Earle, come in!” cried Dick, arising and shaking hands with the newcomer. “Where’s Carl?”

Stewart Earle, a slim, bright-faced boy of apparently fourteen years of age, shook the flakes from his coat and drew a note from his pocket.

“He couldn’t come over, Hope, so he asked me to bring this to you. I had to come over to the library. It’s snowing like all get out.”

Dick took the note and ran his eyes over it. The little creases deepened on his forehead as he tossed it onto the table. “Take off your coat, Earle, and sit down. By the way, do you know Nesbitt?” And as the two shook hands, “Nesbitt’s going to share these quarters with me.”

“Can’t stay,” answered Earle, “for I’ve got an hour’s work looking up some silly stuff about some silly Grecian war. You’re looking awfully fit, Hope.”

“So are you,” laughed Dick. “You don’t look at all like the pasty-faced little junior of two years back.”

“I don’t feel like him, either,” answered Stewart with a smile. “Shall I say anything to Carl?”

“Yes, tell him I’m awfully much obliged, and that I’ll look him up to-morrow if I don’t meet him at recitation. Good-night; sorry you won’t stay.”

When the door had closed again Dick took up the note and reread it.

“Dear Dick” (it ran), “Wheels has sent for me to go over to his house this evening; something about the indoor meeting. So I sha’n’t be able to see you to-night. What I was going to tell you was that Taylor’s been trying to raise trouble on the quiet with the crew fellows. He says we can’t turn out a crew that will stand any show of winning, and is trying to discourage the fellows. I’ll tell you more when I see you to-morrow. Stewart’s going to take this over to you.

“Yours in a hurry,

“Carl.

“P. S. – Somebody ought to punch Taylor’s head – hard.”

Dick smiled as he tore up the missive, and then frowned. It was what he might have expected of Taylor, he told himself, and yet it was a bit discouraging. However, there was no use in meeting trouble half-way. He got a book and settled himself to study. In the bedroom Trevor was still distributing his belongings, and still whistling his tuneless air. When bedtime came Dick was silent and preoccupied, a fact which Trevor noticed.

“Hope you haven’t had bad news,” the latter said.

“Oh, no,” answered Dick, “nothing to hurt.”

Trevor turned out the gas and climbed into bed.

“Good-night,” he said.

“Good-night,” answered Dick.

For a long time the latter lay staring into the darkness thinking of Carl Gray’s note, and of Roy Taylor, and of Trevor Nesbitt; a good deal of Trevor. And the more he thought, the less satisfied with himself he became. His last thought as he turned over on his pillow and closed his eyes was that he had behaved like a particularly disagreeable prig.

CHAPTER IV
IN THE GYM

Trevor left the dressing-room and climbed the stairs to the running track. The gymnasium was quiet and filled with the twilight of a winter afternoon. It was but a few minutes after three, and, save for a youth who was heroically exercising with the weights, the building appeared deserted. But as he reached the head of the stairs the soft pat of shoes on the boards greeted him, and he stepped aside to let a lithe runner jog past. He recognized him as Stewart Earle, the boy who had brought the message to Dick Hope the night before, and when he next passed he nodded.

“Hello,” answered Stewart as he slowed down a little, “I didn’t recognize you. Awfully dark to-day, isn’t it?”

“Beastly,” responded Trevor. Then, with a glance at the big clock he started into a slow jog, lifting his feet high and stretching his muscles, that were somewhat stiffened by a week’s idleness. A flood of subdued white light bathed the track from the big north window, and as he passed he could hear the soft swir of the snowflakes against the glass. It had been snowing all night and all day, and showed as yet no sign of abatement. The broad skylights in the roof were covered deeply, and looked from beneath like sheets of lead.

The boy at the weights stopped and disappeared into the dressing-room. Perhaps he found it lonely work there all by himself. The pat of the runners’ shoes alone broke the stillness. Trevor took his pace from Stewart, and for some time the two circled the track. It was twenty-four laps to the mile, and when he had accomplished that distance Trevor went down and put in several minutes with the weights. Several other boys had entered meanwhile, and were changing outdoor clothing for gymnasium suits. When he had rubbed himself dry after a shower bath, Trevor took a seat by Stewart and began to dress leisurely.

“Do you run much?” he asked.

“Yes; that is, I try. I did a mile and a half to-day. I’m going to try for the two hundred and twenty yards at the indoor meet.”

“Why, so am I,” answered Trevor. Stewart grimaced.

“I guess it’s all up with me, then,” he said ruefully. “They say you’re a dandy sprinter.”

“Oh, I’m not much. I suppose there are lots of entries, eh?”

“Only about sixteen, I think. You’re one of the upper middle relay team, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m to run last, I believe. I hope we beat the seniors,” laughed Trevor.

“I guess I’ve got more reason to want to win than you,” responded Stewart. “My father and mother are coming up for the meet. We live in Poughkeepsie, you know; I’d like awfully to win that two-twenty, but I guess I won’t.”

“Well, I don’t think you need be afraid of me,” said Trevor; “I feel rather rusty to-day. Fact is, you know, I’m a bit too heavy on my legs for sprints, I fancy. I think I’ll chuck it after Saturday night; I’m going to try for the crew.”

“Are you?” said Stewart admiringly. “You look as though you’d make a cracking good oar. I sometimes think I’d like to try for the crew; perhaps I can year after next; Beck doesn’t want me to now, he says.”

“Doesn’t want you to? Do you mean he’s forbid you?”

“N-no, he hasn’t forbidden me; but I always do as he tells me. You see” – Stewart paused in the middle of a struggle with a white sweater – “Beck’s done all sorts of things for me. Why, when I came here a year ago last fall I only weighed about eighty pounds; I was always tired, and didn’t have any – any ambition for anything; used to sit in my room and read. Of course there’s no harm in reading, but I didn’t seem to do anything else; Gray – I room with him over in the village – Gray used to call me the ‘White Mouse.’ I guess I was a pretty poor-looking youngster. Well, Professor Beck got hold of me one day and induced me to take up a course of training; of course I’d been doing my two days a week here at the weights and things, but I always shirked and got tired, and it never did me any good, I guess. But Beck made me take walks, wouldn’t let me eat anything but what was on a list he gave me, and put me at weights. Finally he got me to try jumping, and then running. I liked running right away. First thing I knew I couldn’t get enough to eat, it seemed; used to be hungry every meal. Then I entered the four hundred and forty yards last winter at the indoor meeting and came in second. After that I couldn’t run enough. I won the four hundred and forty at the handicap meet in the spring, and wanted to go to the Interscholastic Meet, only Beck said I’d better wait until this year. Of course I’m not a Samson yet, but I’m about two hundred per cent better than I was a year or so ago. And – and Beck did it. And that’s why I do what he says.”

“I see,” answered Trevor. “Well, Beck knows his business. You look about as fit as any chap I’ve seen here, and I don’t blame you for giving under to him. By the way, Gray’s the baseball captain, isn’t he? Rather tall, thin chap?”

“Yes, he’s awfully smart, regular jack-of-all-trades. He used to do stunts for the fellows, like mend golf clubs and cricket bats, and mold golf balls and things, and made pretty near enough money last year to pay his board and room rent. But he got the Carmichael scholarship last winter, and so he doesn’t do much of that sort this term. This is his second year as captain of the nine, and I guess he could be captain again if he was going to be here, but he goes up to college next fall. He – he’s been a – he’s been awfully kind to me – ever since I came here.” Stewart glanced rather apologetically at Trevor, doubtful as to whether he would feel a schoolboy’s contempt for the trace of feeling that he had unintentionally allowed to creep into his tones. But Trevor smiled understandingly.

“Must be a good sort,” he answered sympathetically. “Hello, here’s Hope.”

Dick approached and nodded smilingly to the two. He had a slip of paper in his hand, and as he greeted them he glanced over the dressing-room as though in search of some one.

“Have either of you fellows seen Professor Beck?” Both replied in the negative, and Dick folded up the slip and placed it in his pocket. “I’ve been looking all over the place for him; wanted to see him about the crew candidates. By the way, Nesbitt, we want you to report here a week from Tuesday at four o’clock. I’m going to post the notices this evening. Carl tells me you’re going to try for the two hundred and twenty yards, Stewart?”

“Yes, I’m down for it, but Nesbitt here says he’s entered too, and I’m rather doubtful of my chances now.”

“I didn’t know you ran,” said Dick, turning to Trevor.

“Oh, yes, I run a bit, now and then. I’ve been jogging round the track and feel as stiff as a poker.”

“That’ll wear off all right. I was stiff myself to-day – at recitations.”

“I should say so,” exclaimed Stewart. “I honestly didn’t know a thing. I think they ought to give us a day after recess to get caught up with things; a fellow can’t do any studying the night he gets back to school. I went to the library last night and almost fell asleep over an encyclopedia.”

“Well, you did better than I did. I scarcely looked into a book.”

“Ditto,” said Trevor. “‘Turkey’ gave us fits; there wasn’t a chap in the English class knew what the lesson was.”

“Well, I’m going to have a go at the weights,” said Dick. “See you two later.”

“And I guess I’ll go back to the room,” said Stewart. “If you haven’t anything better to do, Nesbitt, you might walk over that way.”

“Thanks, but Wheels is rather careful of my health just now, and doesn’t want me to leave the grounds; he’s afraid I might get my feet wet, I fancy; so I’ll come over and see you some other time. I have half an idea to do some studying, just to be queer.”

The two went out together, and Dick, opening his locker, proceeded to attire himself in his gymnasium clothes. The room had filled up with boys, and he was kept busy answering questions about the crew. A big youth in a blue-and-white striped sweater entered, and, seeing Dick, made for him at once.

“Say, Hope, is it so that we’re not going to have any crew this spring?”

“No, it’s not so. We’re going to have the best crew that we ever put into the water,” answered Dick. “Who told you such rot as that?”

“Blessed if I know who did say it, but I’ve heard one or two fellows talking about it. I’m glad there’s no truth in it, old chap; I didn’t think there was, you know. When are we going to work?”

“Report a week from Tuesday at four, will you? I guess we’ll start the trouble about the fifteenth. And say, Crocker, if you hear any one talking nonsense about no crew or poor material, just call them down, will you? There’s nothing in it, and it’s hard enough anyhow to get the fellows to turn out without any rumors of that sort.”

“All right.”

Crocker swung himself off, and Dick went into the gymnasium and set to work at the weights. With the cords over his shoulders and the irons sliding rhythmically in the box, he began to go over in his mind a conversation he had had a half hour before with Carl Gray. Carl’s information had not been encouraging, and Dick was more worried than he liked to own even to himself. Carl had stayed at the academy during the recess, as had Roy Taylor – the first for financial reasons, the latter because his home was half-way across the continent. According to Carl, Taylor had been very active for a week past in predicting a failure for the crew among the old men and the possible candidates. He could have but one end in view, to discourage the fellows, and render it difficult, if not impossible, for Dick to get enough good men to form a winning eight. The worst of it was, he reflected, that Taylor’s manner of creating discouragement was so artful that it was out of the question to charge him with it. Even during his loudest talk about the uselessness of trying to form a good crew, he never failed to announce his intention of reporting for practice and of doing all in his power to avert the impending defeat. And now, as evidenced by Crocker’s remark a few minutes since, he had even managed to gain circulation for the report that there was to be no crew at all!

Dick changed his position, pulling the grips with half-arm movement to his shoulders, and frowned wrathfully at the wall. Carl was right, he told himself; Taylor deserved to have his head punched! That, however, was the last remedy to be considered, if only for the reason that to lose Taylor from the boat meant almost certain defeat. For the big Nebraskan was without any doubt the best man at Number 7 that a Hillton crew had had for many years – strong, a hard worker, and an excellent oar. Plainly the last thing to do was to antagonize him. Besides, he was popular among quite a lot of the fellows, and his word undoubtedly had weight; another reason for making almost any sacrifice to retain his good-will. If there was only another man to take his place at Number 7, thought Dick, tugging the cords viciously, he’d mighty soon spoil his game, but – he ran quickly over the fellows who by any possible stretch of the imagination might be considered material for Taylor’s position in the boat, and sighed. There was no one. It might be that there was one among the newer candidates who, by dint of hard work, could be fashioned into a good Number 7, but to lose Taylor for such a possibility was risky work. No, the only course was to apparently know nothing of Taylor’s underhand work, to undo it as best he could, and to at all hazards keep him in the crew. For a moment Dick wished that Taylor had been made captain.

“Hello, Hope!”

Dick turned to find a big, good-looking youth of eighteen with a rather florid complexion and black eyes and hair smiling broadly upon him. He was dressed in knitted tights and jersey that showed an almost perfect form, and swung a pair of boxing-gloves in one hand.

“Hello, Taylor,” answered Dick, forcing himself to return the smile. “How are you?”

“First-rate. Glad to see you back. Some one said you were in here, and I thought I’d look you up; wanted to ask about crew practice. When are the fellows going to report?”

“Tuesday week.”

“All right; I’ll be on hand. Rather a tough outlook, though, I expect.”

“Oh, I don’t know; we’ve enough of last year’s fellows to make a good basis for the new crew. I think we’ll do pretty well.”

Taylor shook his head sadly, then looked up and smiled brightly.

“Well, never say die, eh? We must all do our best. You can count on me, you know, old fellow. In fact, I’ve been drumming up trade already; persuaded quite a bunch of chaps to report. The trouble is that they don’t seem to think it’s worth while; seem to be cock-sure that we’ll be beaten.”

“Do they? I haven’t heard anything of that sort. There isn’t any good reason for it, anyhow.”

“Oh, come now, Hope, you’ll have to own up we’ve got a hard row to hoe. I wouldn’t say so to any one else, you understand, but just between ourselves, I don’t think we’ve got the ghost of a show.”

“Well,” answered Dick smilingly, “all the more reason for hard work. And for goodness’ sake, don’t let the fellows hear you talking that way.”

“Me? I guess not,” protested Taylor. “I know better than that, I hope! Well, I’m going to have a bout with Miller; see you again.”

As the other turned and crossed the floor, Dick became possessed of an almost overwhelming desire to follow him and call him to account; to have it out with him then and there, and, if necessary, to – to – His fists clenched themselves and he set his teeth together. He was glad when Taylor passed from sight. Turning again to the weights he seized the cords and for many minutes the irons bumped and banged up and down in the slides as though – well, as though some one thereabouts was hopping mad.