Books: The New Boy at Hilltop
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Ralph Henry Barbour >> The New Boy at Hilltop
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"You're sure I shan't be intruding, Doyle?" he asked.
Doyle gasped in amazement. Satherwaite removed his coat. A shiver of
consternation passed through the room. Then the host found his tongue.
"Glad to have you. Nothing much doing. Few friends, Quiet evening. Let me
take your coat."
Introductions followed. The man in the cricket-blazer turned out to be
Doak, '03, the man who had won the Jonas Greeve scholarship; a small youth
with eaglelike countenance was Somers, he who had debated so brilliantly
against Princeton; a much-bewhiskered man was Ailworth, of the Law School;
Kranch and Smith, both members of Satherwaite's class, completed the party.
Satherwaite shook hands with those within reach, and looked for a chair.
Instantly everyone was on his feet; there was a confused chorus of "Take
this, won't you?" Satherwaite accepted a straight-backed chair with part of
its cane seat missing, after a decent amount of protest; then a heavy,
discouraging silence fell. Satherwaite looked around the circle. Everyone
save Ailworth and Doyle was staring blankly at the fire. Ailworth dropped
his eyes gravely; Doyle broke out explosively with:
"Do you smoke, Satherwaite?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid--" he searched his pockets perfunctorily--"I haven't
my pipe with me." His cigarette case met his searching fingers, but somehow
cigarettes did not seem appropriate.
"I'm sorry," said Doyle, "but I'm afraid I haven't an extra one. Any of you
fellows got a pipe that's not working?"
Murmured regrets followed. Doak, who sat next to Satherwaite, put a hand in
his coat pocket, and viewed the intruder doubtingly from around the corners
of his glasses.
"It doesn't matter a bit," remarked Satherwaite heartily.
"I've got a sort of a pipe here," said Doak, "if you're not overparticular
what you smoke."
Satherwaite received the pipe gravely. It was a blackened briar, whose bowl
was burned halfway down on one side, from being lighted over the gas, and
whose mouthpiece, gnawed away in long usage, had been reshaped with a
knife. Satherwaite examined it with interest, rubbing the bowl gently on
his knee. He knew, without seeing, that Doak was eying him with mingled
defiance and apology, and wondering in what manner a man who was used to
meerschaums and gold-mounted briars would take the proffer of his worn-out
favorite; and he knew, too, that all the others were watching. He placed
the stem between his lips, and drew on it once or twice, with satisfaction.
"It seems a jolly old pipe," he said; "I fancy you must be rather fond of
it. Has anyone got any 'baccy?"
Five pouches were tendered instantly.
Satherwaite filled his pipe carefully. He had won the first trick, he told
himself, and the thought was pleasurable. The conversation had started up
again, but it was yet perfunctory, and Satherwaite realized that he was
still an outsider. Doyle gave him the opportunity he wanted.
"Isn't it something new for you to stay here through recess?" he asked.
Then Satherwaite told about Phil's Aunt Louise and the telegram; about his
dismal dinner at the restaurant and the subsequent flight from the tomblike
silence of the club; how he had decided, in desperation, to clean up his
study, and how he had come across Doyle's notebook. He told it rather well;
he had a reputation for that sort of thing, and to-night he did his best.
He pictured himself to his audience on the verge of suicide from
melancholia, and assured them that this fate had been averted only through
his dislike of being found lifeless amid such untidy surroundings. He
decked the narrative with touches of drollery, and was rewarded with the
grins that overspread the faces of his hearers. Ailworth nodded
appreciatingly, now and then, and Doak even slapped his knee once and
giggled aloud. Satherwaite left out all mention of Phil's sister,
naturally, and ended with:
"And so, when I saw you fellows having such a Christian, comfortable sort
of a time, I simply couldn't break away again. I knew I was risking getting
myself heartily disliked, and really I wouldn't blame you if you arose _en
masse_ and kicked me out. But I am desperate. Give me some tobacco from
time to time, and just let me sit here and listen to you; it will, be a
kindly act to a homeless orphan."
"Shut up!" said Doyle heartily; "we're glad to have you, of course." The
others concurred. "We--we're going to light up the tree after a bit. We do
it every year, you know. It's kind of--of Christmassy when you don't get
home for the holidays, you see. We give one another little presents
and--and have rather a bit of fun out of it. Only--" he hesitated
doubtfully--"only I'm afraid it may bore you awfully."
"Bore me!" cried Satherwaite; "why, man alive, I should think it would be
the jolliest sort of a thing. It's just like being kids again." He turned
and observed the tiny tree with interest.
"And do you mean that you all give one another presents, and keep it
secret, and--and all that?"
"Yes; just little things, you know," answered Doak deprecatingly.
"It's the nearest thing to a real Christmas that I've known for seven
years," said Ailworth gravely. Satherwaite observed him wonderingly.
"By Jove!" he murmured; "seven years! Do you know, I'm glad now I am going
home, instead of to Sterner's for Christmas. A fellow ought to be with his
own folks, don't you think?"
Everybody said yes heartily and there was a moment of silence in the room.
Presently Kranch, whose home was in Michigan, began speaking reminiscently
of the Christmases he had spent when a lad in the pine woods. He made the
others feel the cold and the magnitude of the pictures he drew, and, for a
space, Satherwaite was transported to a little lumber town in a clearing,
and stood by excitedly, while a small boy in jeans drew woolen
mittens--wonderful ones of red and gray--from out a Christmas stocking. And
Somers told of a Christmas he had once spent in a Quebec village; and
Ailworth followed him with an account of Christmas morning in a Maine-coast
fishing town.
Satherwaite was silent. He had no Christmases of his own to tell about;
they would have been sorry, indeed, after the others; Christmases in a big
Philadelphia house, rather staid and stupid days, as he remembered them
now, days lacking in any delightful element of uncertainty, but filled with
wonderful presents so numerous that the novelty had worn away from them ere
bedtime. He felt that, somehow, he had been cheated out of a pleasure which
should have been his.
The tobacco pouches went from hand to hand. Christmas-giving had already
begun; and Satherwaite, to avoid disappointing his new friends, had to
smoke many more pipes than was good for him. Suddenly they found themselves
in darkness, save for the firelight. Doyle had arisen stealthily and turned
out the gas. Then, one by one, the tiny candles flickered and flared bluely
into flame. Some one pulled the shades from before the two windows, and the
room was hushed. Outside they could see the flakes falling silently,
steadily, between them and the electric lights that shone across the
avenue. It was a beautiful, cold, still world of blue mists. A gong clanged
softly, and a car, well-nigh untenanted, slid by beneath them, its windows,
frosted halfway up, flooding the snow with mellow light. Some one beside
Satherwaite murmured gently:
"Good old Christmas!"
The spell was broken, Satherwaite sighed--why, he hardly knew--and turned
away from the window. The tree was brilliantly lighted now, and the strings
of cranberries caught the beams ruddily. Doak stirred the fire, and Doyle,
turning from a whispered consultation with some of the others, approached
Satherwaite.
"Would you mind playing Santa Claus--give out the presents, you know; we
always do it that way?"
Satherwaite would be delighted; and, better to impersonate that famous old
gentleman, he turned up the collar of his jacket, and put each hand up the
opposite sleeve, looking as benignant as possible the while.
"That's fine!" cried Smith; "but hold on, you need a cap!"
He seized one from the window seat, a worn thing of yellowish-brown otter,
and drew it down over Satherwaite's ears. The crowd applauded merrily.
"Dear little boys and girls," began Satherwaite in a quavering voice.
"No girls!" cried Doak.
"I want the cranberries!" cried Smith; "I love cranberries."
"I get the popcorn, then!" That was the sedate Ailworth.
"You'll be beastly sick," said Doak, grinning jovially through his glasses.
Satherwaite untied the first package from its twig. It bore the
inscription, "For Little Willie Kranch." Everyone gathered around while the
recipient undid the wrappings, and laid bare a penwiper adorned with a tiny
crimson football. Doak explained to Satherwaite that Kranch had played
football just once, on a scrub team, and had heroically carried the ball
down a long field, and placed it triumphantly under his own goal posts.
This accounted for the laughter that ensued.
"Sammy Doak" received a notebook marked "Mathematics 3a." The point of this
allusion was lost to Satherwaite, for Doak was too busy laughing to explain
it. And so it went, and the room was in a constant roar of mirth. Doyle was
conferring excitedly with Ailworth across the room. By and by, he stole
forward, and, detaching one of the packages from the tree, erased and wrote
on it with great secrecy. Then he tied it back again, and retired to the
hearth, grinning expectantly, until his own name was called, and he was
shoved forward to receive a rubber pen-holder.
Presently, Satherwaite, working around the Christmas tree, detached a
package, and frowned over the address.
"Fellows, this looks like--like Satherwaite, but--" he viewed the
assemblage in embarrassment--"but I fancy it's a mistake."
"Not a bit," cried Doyle; "that's just my writing."
"Open it!" cried the others, thronging up to him.
Satherwaite obeyed, wondering. Within the wrappers was a pocket memorandum
book, a simple thing of cheap red leather. Some one laughed uncertainly.
Satherwaite, very red, ran his finger over the edges of the leaves,
examined it long, as though he had never seen anything like it before, and
placed it in his waistcoat pocket.
"I--I--" he began.
"Chop it off!" cried some one joyously.
"I'm awfully much obliged to--to whoever--"
"It's from the gang," said Doyle.
"With a Merry Christmas," said Ailworth.
"Thank you--gang," said Satherwaite.
The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were crowding
about Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket and, writing on
it hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it from the tree, when
the others turned again.
"Little Harry Doyle," he read gravely.
Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself.
"Open it up, old man!"
When he saw the gun-metal paper knife, he glanced quickly at Satherwaite.
He was very red in the face. Satherwaite smiled back imperturbably. The
knife went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic admiration.
"But, I say, old man, who gave--?" began Smith.
"I'm awfully much obliged, Satherwaite," said Doyle, "but, really, I
couldn't think of taking--"
"Chop it off!" echoed Satherwaite. "Look here, Doyle, it isn't the sort of
thing I'd give you from choice; it's a useless sort of toy, but I just
happened to have it with me; bought it in the square on the way to give to
some one, I didn't know who, and so, if you don't mind, I wish you'd accept
it, you know. It'll do to put on the table or--open cans with. If you'd
rather not take it, why, chuck it out of the window!"
"It isn't that," cried Doyle; "it's only that it's much too fine----"
"Oh, no, it isn't," said Satherwaite. "Now, then, where's 'Little Alfie
Ailworth'?"
Small candy canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more around
the hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery enjoyingly. Smith
insisted upon having the cranberries, and wore them around his neck. The
popcorn was distributed equally, and the next day, in the parlor car,
Satherwaite drew his from a pocket together with his handkerchief.
Some one struck up a song, and Doyle remembered that Satherwaite had been
in the Glee Club. There was an instant clamor for a song, and Satherwaite,
consenting, looked about the room.
"Haven't any thump box," said Smith. "Can't you go it alone?"
Satherwaite thought he could, and did. He had a rich tenor voice, and he
sang all the songs he knew. When it could be done, by hook or by crook, the
others joined in the chorus; not too loudly, for it was getting late and
proctors have sharp ears. When the last refrain had been repeated for the
third time, and silence reigned for the moment, they heard the bell in the
near-by tower. They counted its strokes; eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve.
"Merry Christmas, all!" cried Smith.
In the clamor that ensued, Satherwaite secured his coat and hat. He shook
hands all around. Smith insisted upon sharing the cranberries with him, and
so looped a string gracefully about his neck. When Satherwaite backed out
the door he still held Doak's pet pipe clenched between his teeth, and
Doak, knowing it, said not a word.
"Hope you'll come back and see us," called Doyle.
"That's right, old man, don't forget us!" shouted Ailworth.
And Satherwaite, promising again and again not to, stumbled his way down
the dark stairs.
Outside, he glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes. Then he grinned,
and, scooping a handful of snow, sent it fairly against the glass.
Instantly, the windows banged up, and six heads thrust themselves out.
"Good night! Merry Christmas, old man! Happy New Year!"
Something smashed softly against Satherwaite's cheek. He looked back. They
were gathering snow from the ledges and throwing snowballs after him.
"Good shot!" he called. "Merry Christmas!"
The sound of their cries and laughter followed him far down the avenue.
THE TRIPLE PLAY
"If they hadn't gone and made Don captain last year," said Satterlee, 2d,
plaintively. "That's where the trouble is."
"How do you mean?" asked Tom Pierson, looking up in a puzzled way from the
hole he was digging in the turf in front of the school hall.
"Why," answered Satterlee, 2d, with a fine air of wisdom, "I mean that it
doesn't do for a fellow to have his brother captain. Don's been so afraid
of showing me favoritism all spring that he hasn't given me even a fair
chance. When I came out for the nine in March and tried for second he was
worried to death. "Look here, Kid," he said, "there's no use your wanting
to play on second because there's Henen and Talbot after it." "Well, how do
you know I can't play second as well as they?" says I. He was--was
horrified. That's it; a fellow can't understand how a member of his own
family can do anything as well as some one else. See what I mean?"
Tom Pierson nodded doubtfully.
"'You try for a place in the outfield,' said Don. 'But I don't want to play
in the outfield.' I told him. But it didn't make any difference. 'There's
three fellows for every infield position.' said Don, 'and I'm not going to
have the fellows accuse me of boosting my kid brother over their heads.'
Well, so I did as he said. Of course I didn't have any show. There was
Williams and Beeton and 'Chick' Meyer who could do a heap better than I
could. They'd played in the outfield ail their lives and I'd always been at
second--except one year that I caught when I was a kid. Well, maybe next
year I'll have a better show, for a whole lot of this year's team graduate
to-morrow. Wish I did."
"I don't," said Tom. "I like it here. I think Willard's the best school in
the country."
"So do I, of course," answered Satterlee, 2d. "But don't you want to get up
to college?"
"I'm in no hurry; you see, there's math; I'm not doing so badly at it now
since Bailey has been helping me, but I don't believe I could pass the
college exam in it."
"You and 'Old Crusty' seem awfully thick these days," mused the other.
"Wish he'd be as easy on me as he is on you. You were fishing together
yesterday, weren't you?"
Tom nodded. "Sixteen trout," he said promptly.
"Wish I'd been along," sighed Satterlee, 2d. "All I caught was flies during
practice. Then when they played the second I sat on the bench as usual and
looked on."
"But Don will put you in this afternoon, won't he?"
"I dare say he will; for the last inning maybe. What good's that? Nothing
ever happens to a chap in center field. And when a fellow's folks come to
visit him he naturally wants to--to show off a bit."
Tom nodded sympathetically.
"Hard lines," he said. "But why don't you ask your brother to give you a
fair show; put you in the sixth or something like that?"
"Because I won't. He doesn't think I can play baseball. I don't care. Only
I hope--I hope we get beaten!"
"No, you don't."
"How do you know?" asked the other morosely.
"Because you couldn't," Tom replied. "Is 'Curly' going to pitch?"
"No, Durham's agreed not to play any of her faculty. Willings is going to
pitch. I'll bet"--his face lost some of its gloom--"I'll bet it will be a
dandy game!"
"Who's going to win?" asked Tom anxiously.
"You can search me!" answered Satterlee, 2d, cheerfully. "Durham's lost
only two games this season, one to St. Eustace and one to us. And we've
lost only the first game with Durham. There you are, Tommy; you can figure
it out for yourself. But we won last year and it's safe to say Durham's
going to work like thunder to win this. What time is it?"
"Twenty minutes to twelve," answered Tom.
"Gee! I've got to find Don and go over to the station to meet the folks.
Want to come along? Dad and the mater would like to meet you; you see I've
said a good deal about you in my letters."
"Won't I be in the way?"
"Not a bit. In fact--" Satterlee, 2d, hesitated and grinned--"in fact, it
would make it more comfortable if you would come along. You see, Tom, Don
and I aren't very chummy just now; I--I gave him a piece of my mind last
night; and he threw the hairbrush at me." He rubbed the side of his head
reflectively. Tom laughed and sprang to his feet.
"All right," he said. "I'll go, if just to keep you two from fighting.
We'll have to hurry, though; you don't want to forget that dinner's half an
hour earlier to-day."
"Guess you never knew me to forget dinner time, did you?" asked Satterlee,
2d, with a laugh.
Three hours later the two boys sat nursing their knees on the terrace above
the playground. Behind them in camp chairs sat Mr. and Mrs. Satterlee. To
right and left stretched a line of spectators, the boys of Willard's and of
Durham surrounded by their friends and relatives. Tomorrow was graduation
day at the school and mothers and fathers and sisters and elder
brothers--many of the latter "old boys"--were present in numbers. At the
foot of the terrace, near first base, a red and white striped awning had
been erected and from beneath its shade the principal, Doctor Willard,
together with the members of the faculty and their guests, sat and watched
the deciding game of the series. The red of Willard's was predominant, but
here and there a dash of blue, the color of the rival academy, was to be
seen. On a bench over near third base a line of blue-stockinged players
awaited their turns at bat, for it was the last half of the third inning
and Willard's was in the field. Behind the spectators arose the ivy-draped
front of the school hall and above them a row of elms cast grateful shade.
Before them, a quarter of a mile distant, the broad bosom of the river
flashed and sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. But few had eyes for that,
for Durham had two men on bases with two out and one of her heavy hitters
was at bat. Thus far there had been no scoring and now there was a
breathless silence as Willings put the first ball over the plate.
"Strike!" droned the umpire, and a little knot of boys on the bank waved
red banners and cheered delightedly. Then ball and bat came together and
the runner was speeding toward first. But the hit had been weak and long
before he reached the bag the ball was snuggling in Donald Satterlee's
mitten, and up on the terrace the Willardians breathed their relief. The
nines changed sides.
"That's Fearing, our catcher, going to bat, sir," said Satterlee, 2d,
looking around at his father. Mr. Satterlee nodded and transferred his
wandering attention to the youth in question. Mr. Satterlee knew very
little about the game and was finding it difficult to display the proper
amount of interest. Mrs. Satterlee, however, smiled enthusiastically at
everything and everybody and succeeded in conveying the impression that she
was breathlessly interested in events.
"Er--is he going to hit the ball?" asked Mr. Satterlee in a heroic endeavor
to rise to the requirements of the occasion.
"He's going to try," answered his youngest son with a smile. "But he isn't
going to succeed, I guess," he muttered a minute later. For the catcher had
two strikes called on him and was still at the plate. Then all doubt was
removed. He tossed aside his bat and turned back to the bench.
"And who is that boy?" asked Mrs. Satterlee.
"That's Cook," answered Tom. "He plays over there, you know; he's
shortstop."
"Of course," murmured the lady. "I knew I had seen him."
Cook reached first, more by good luck than good playing, and the Willard
supporters found their voices again. Then came Brown, third base-man, and
was thrown out at first after having advanced Cook to second.
"Here comes Don," announced his younger brother with a trace of envy in his
tones.
"I do hope he'll hit the ball!" cried his mother.
"Oh, he'll hit it all right," answered Satterlee, 2d, "only maybe he won't
hit it hard enough."
Nor did he. Durham's third baseman gathered in the short fly that the
batsman sent up and so ended the inning.
"Something's going to happen now, I'll bet," said Tom. "Carpenter's up."
"He didn't do much last time," objected Satterlee, 2d, "even if he is such
a wonder. Willings struck him out dead easy."
Carpenter, who played third base for the visitors, was a tall, light-haired
youth with a reputation for batting prowess. In the first game of the
series between the two schools Carpenter's hitting had been the deciding
feature. Three one-baggers, a two-bagger, and a home-run had been credited
to him when the game was over, and it was the home-run, smashed out with a
man on third in the eighth inning, which had defeated Willard's. In the
second game, played a fortnight ago, Carpenter had been noticeably out of
form, which fact had not a little to do with Willard's victory. To-day the
long-limbed gentleman, despite his retirement on the occasion of his first
meeting with Willings, was in fine fettle, and scarcely had Satterlee, 2d,
concluded his remark when there was a sharp _crack_ and the white sphere
was skimming second baseman's head. It was a clean, well-placed hit, and
even the wearers of the blue had to applaud a little. Carpenter's long legs
twinkled around the bases and he was safe at third before the ball had
returned to the infield. Then things began to happen. As though the spell
had been broken by the third baseman's three-bagger, the following
Durhamites found the ball, man after man, and ere the inning was at an end,
the score book told a different tale. On Durham's page stood four tallies;
Willard's was still empty. And Willard's supporters began to look uneasy.
Then there was no more scoring until the sixth inning, when a single by
Donald Satterlee brought in Cook who had been taking big risks on second
and who reached the plate a fraction of a second ahead of the ball.
Willard's got the bases full that inning and for a time it seemed that they
would tie the score, but Beeton popped a fly into shortstop's hands and
their hopes were dashed.
Durham started their half of the sixth with Carpenter up and that
dependable youth slammed out a two-base hit at once. The flaunters of the
red groaned dismally. Then the Durham pitcher fouled out and the next man
advanced Carpenter but was put out at first. Willard's breathed easier and
took hope. Over on third base Carpenter was poised, ready to speed home as
fast as his long legs would carry him. Willings, who had so far pitched a
remarkable game, suddenly went "into the air." Perhaps it was the coaching
back of third, perhaps it was Carpenter's disconcerting rushes and
hand-clapping. At all events, the Durham first baseman, who was a
cool-headed youth, waited politely and patiently and so won the privilege
of trotting to first on four balls. Fearing, Willard's catcher, walked down
to Willings, and the two held a whispered conversation. They didn't lay any
plots, for all Fearing wanted to do was to steady the pitcher.
Then came a strike on the next batsman, and the Willardians cheered
hopefully. Two balls followed, and Carpenter danced about delightedly at
third and the two coaches hurled taunting words at the pitcher. The man on
first was taking a long lead, pretty certain that Willings would not dare
to throw lest Carpenter score. But Willings believed in doing the
unexpected. Unfortunately, although he turned like a flash and shot the
ball to Satterlee, the throw was wide. The captain touched it with his
outstretched fingers but it went by. The runner sped toward second and
Carpenter raced home. But Beeton, right-fielder, had been wide-awake. As
Willings turned he ran in to back up Satterlee, found the ball on a low
bounce and, on the run, sent it to the plate so swiftly that Fearing was
able to catch Carpenter a yard away from it. The Durham third baseman
picked himself up, muttering his opinion of the proceedings and looking
very cross. But what he said wasn't distinguishable, for up on the terrace
the red flags were waving wildly and the boys of Willard's were shouting
themselves hoarse.
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