LITMIR.BIZ

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Anthony, turning his lean, spectacled face toward the other in evident interest. Jack recounted the conversation and Anthony grinned.

      “Pretty cheeky, though, weren’t you?”

      “I suppose I was,” Jack acknowledged. “But I don’t care; he had no business saying I was boorish. He – he’s a cad!”

      “Easy there! Don’t call names, Weatherby; it’s a mean way to fight. White’s not as bad as he seems to you. He’s made a mistake and when he discovers the fact he’ll be the first to acknowledge it. You’ll see.”

      Anthony produced his brier pipe and began to smoke.

      “Bother you much to-day, did they?” he asked.

      “Some. I can stand it, I suppose.”

      “They’ll get tired pretty soon and forget it,” said the other kindly. “Keep your hand on the tiller, take a couple of reefs in your temper, and watch out. There’s your supper bell.”

      “Yes, I must wash up. Are you going to be busy to-night?”

      “Not to hurt. Come in and bring your knitting.”

      “I will,” said Jack gratefully.

      The growing friendship with the new lodger was the one bright feature in Jack’s existence at this time, and during the next few weeks he frequently found himself viewing with something that was almost equanimity the occurrence at the river and its results, since among the latter was his acquaintance with Anthony Tidball. Anthony had hosts of acquaintances, but few friends; friends, he declared, were too expensive. But he adopted Jack during the first week of their acquaintance, and at once became guardian, mentor, and big brother all rolled into one. Jack went to him with his troubles – and he had a good many in those days – and listened to his advice, and generally acted upon it. It was a new and delightful experience to the younger boy to have a chum, and he made the most of it, resorting to Anthony’s room whenever he wanted society, and interrupting the junior’s studying in a way that would have summoned a remonstrance from any one save the good-hearted victim. Anthony always laid aside his books and pens, filled his pipe, took one foot into his lap, and listened or talked with unfailing good nature. And after Jack had taken himself off, Anthony would discard his pipe and buckle down to work in a mighty effort to make up for lost time, not infrequently sitting with the gas-stove between his knees long after the village clock had struck twelve, and every one else in the house was fast asleep.

      Sometimes they took walks together, for both were fond of being outdoors, and it became a common thing to see the tall, awkward junior striding alongside the freshman and leaning down near-sightedly to catch his words. For a while the college world wondered and exclaimed. Tidball was a person of vast importance, a queer, quiet, serious sort of fellow, but a master at study and debate, a man whose counsels were asked for and hearkened to with deep respect, and in general opinion a person who would be heard from in no uncertain way in the future. Hence, when the college saw that Tidball had taken up Weatherby, the college began to suspect that it had very possibly been overhasty in its judgment of the latter youth. Indications of this began to be apparent even to Jack; fellows were less uneasy when lack of other seats made it necessary for them to sit beside him at Chapel or at recitations; several times he was greeted by name, rather shamefacedly to be sure, by members of his own class; and baseball practise became less of an ordeal for him, since the candidates generally showed a disposition to recognize his existence and speak him fair. But if these condescending ones looked for evidences of gratitude from Jack they were doomed to disappointment. He returned greetings politely but without cordiality, and made not the least move toward grasping the hand of fellowship so hesitatingly and doubtingly advanced.

      “If I was not good enough to associate with before,” he told himself, “I’m no better now, merely because one man of prominence walks across the yard with me.”

      He had never accepted Joe Perkins’s invitation to call. He was grateful to the captain for the friendliness the latter had shown him, and continued to show him on every occasion. But Perkins believed him a coward, just as the others did. Joe repeated his invitation twice and then gave it up. Yet the more he saw of Jack the more he was inclined to doubt the fairness of the general verdict, and so, in spite of duties that took up practically every minute of his waking hours, he found time to write a letter to his cousin, Billy Cromwell, in Auburn. Eventually he received a reply. There were eight sheets of it altogether, as was natural, considering that Billy hadn’t written to Joe previously for something over six months, but only a small portion of the epistle is of interest here.

      “I know Jack Weatherby very well [Billy wrote]. His folks and mine are old acquaintances. His father has a farm near here, but never has done very well with it, I believe. You know what some of our farms hereabout are; the Weatherby place is like them, only more so. Jack’s a smart, plucky youngster; a good sort all through. If you can help him along you’ll be doing me a favor. And I think you’ll like him if you know him better. And if you can get him on to the nine you’ll be doing well for the nine, I promise you. Jack’s one of those dependable chaps that you meet about once in a thousand years; if he says he’ll knock out a two-bagger, he’ll do it. And he isn’t afraid of work or anything else. That’s about all, I think. You said you wanted to know all I could tell you about Jack, and I think I’ve told it. Remember me to him when you see him.”

      Joe folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

      “I never knew Billy to get taken in by any one yet,” he said to himself, “and so I fancy we’ve sized up young Weatherby all wrong. I’ll have another talk with him. Only – how to get hold of him?”

      CHAPTER VII

      AT THE BATTING NETS

      Meanwhile Erskine had won a victory over Robinson, a victory which did not, perhaps, occasion as much enthusiasm as would have a triumph on the gridiron or the diamond, but which, nevertheless, pleased everybody greatly, and added new laurels to the wreath, encircling the brow of Anthony Zeno Tidball. Erskine won the debate. The result was never in doubt after Anthony delivered his argument, and when the last word had been said the judges did not even leave their seats, but, after a moment of whispered conference, awarded the victory to the visitors.

      The debaters and their small company of supporters did not return to Centerport until noon the next day, and long before that the morning papers had arrived and the college at large had proudly read their account of the contest. That explains why when Anthony, attired in a long, yellowish plaid ulster of great antiquity, and carrying his nightgown and toothbrush wrapped in a piece of brown paper, lurched from the train to the station platform and looked about him, his jaw dropped in ludicrous dismay, and he made a hurried effort to retreat. But his companions were crowding down behind him and he was forced forward into the ungentle hands of the cheering students, who filled the platform. Somehow, he never knew quite how, he was thrust and lifted to a baggage truck, from which, since his legs were securely pinioned by several enthusiastic jailers, he found it impossible to make his escape. So he hugged his bundle desperately and beamed good-humoredly about him, recognizing the advisability of making the best of things. The other debaters were hustled to his side in a wild medley of cheers, and then, clutching each other madly in an effort to maintain their balance, they were wheeled up and down the long platform in the vortex of a swirling throng and cheered to the echo, individually and collectively. For his part, Anthony was filled with a great relief when the train with its long line of grinning faces at the windows drew away, and with a greater relief when one of the occupants of the truck, losing his hold, tumbled between the framework, and so brought the triumphal procession to an end.

      The prey were allowed to escape, and Anthony drew his long ulster about his thin shanks and scuttled ungracefully into Town Lane and so out of the rabble of still cheering students. But he hadn’t escaped Jack, for that youth, somewhat out of breath, overtook him before he had reached the corner and showered fragmentary congratulations upon him.

      “I got up – almost before – light,” panted Jack, bravely trying to keep up with Anthony’s long strides, “and went – down and – got a – paper – and – read – read – Oh, don’t go so fast, please!”

      Anthony

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