Books: The New Boy at Hilltop
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Ralph Henry Barbour >> The New Boy at Hilltop
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Patsy appeared with the first warm day, looking thinner and littler and
older than ever. That first day the assistant manager was holding the tape
for us, and it occurred to him to pick up the shot and toss it back. But he
did it only once. The next time Patsy was astraddle of that sixteen-pound
lump and was looking the assistant manager sternly in the eye.
"I'm doin' this," said Patsy.
After that he did it and no one disputed his right. When the gates were
closed and fellows had to show their H. A. A. tickets to get in, Patsy was
admitted without question. When all the other youngsters for miles around
were gluing their faces to the iron fence watching the baseball games,
Patsy's allegiance never faltered. He was somewhere around Fosgill,
regarding that hero with worshiping gaze. It was in May, I think, that
Patsy made his Great Resolution. He confided it to us on the steps of the
Locker Building when we were waiting for one of the crowd.
"I've decided not to go into business," said Patsy.
"What are you going to do?" asked Billy Allen.
"I'm going to college," replied Patsy easily. "I'm goin' to be a shot
putter."
"Good for you, kid!" said Billy. "What college you going to?"
Billy winked at us and we watched eagerly while Patsy's countenance took on
its expression of lofty contempt.
"Huh!" said Patsy. That was all, but that eloquent monosyllable consigned
all other colleges than ours to the nethermost regions.
"But you'll have to go to school a long time, Patsy," said I, "if you
expect to get into college."
"Yep, I know. It's tough, but I guess I can do it. Was--was it hard for
you?"
I was forced to acknowledge that it had been.
"An' you ain't much of a shot putter, either," said Patsy reflectively.
Fosgill had done forty-two, eight and a half that afternoon and we were
feeling pretty hopeful and good-natured after dinner. Some, one mentioned
Patsy, and Mosher spoke up:
"Say, fellows, let's see that that little cuss does get into college. What
do you say?"
"I'll go you!" cried Fosgill. "He's an all-right kid, is Patsy, and he
deserves something better than spending his life on the streets. We'll
adopt him."
"Sure thing," said Allen. "But we'll have our hands full. And what's to
happen when we leave college?"
"We'll get some one to look after him We'll have a talk with Brother Brian
about it. But, say, Bull, imagine Patsy putting the shot!"
We laughed at that--which we wouldn't have done if Patsy had been there.
"Well, I guess he won't make much of a show at athletics," said I, "but if
we keep him off the streets we'll be doing a whole lot. And I like Patsy."
We all did. And before we left the table that night we had the thing mapped
out. Patsy was to be cared for and looked after. He was to finish grammar
school, go to Latin school, and then to Harvard. And there were to be funds
where they'd do good. Yes, we had it all fixed up for Patsy and we'd have
done it just as planned if Patsy hadn't gone and spoiled it all. And it
happened like this:
When the Dual Meet came along in June we were all to the good. We couldn't
see how we were to lose first in anything except the quarter, the high
hurdles, the hammer throw and the broad jump. And we had enough seconds and
thirds in sight to make good. If Bull Fosgill could beat Tanner with the
shot we were it.
That's the way we had the situation sized up, but of course things don't
happen just as expected; they seldom do in athletics. Some of the firsts we
had claimed went glimmering and we took in seconds and thirds where we
hadn't expected them. But the final result was just about what we had
figured it, and along toward five o'clock the meet depended on the outcome
of one event, and that event was the shot put. To be sure, they were still
fussing with the pole vault, but we were certain of first and third places
and so could discount that.
By some freak of fortune I had managed to qualify with a put of
thirty-eight, one and a half. There were four of us in the finals, Fosgill,
Tanner and Burt of the enemy, and I. Of course Patsy was there, and he
worked like a Trojan. You could see, though, that it went against the grain
with him to fetch for our opponents; Patsy had a good deal of the primeval
left in him. And it's safe to say that no one there was more interested. I
don't think he doubted for a moment that Fosgill would win, and I fancy he
thought me pretty cheeky for aspiring so far as the final round.
Fosgill was ahead with forty-one, ten and a half, Tanner had done three
inches under that, and Burt and I were fighting along for third place,
doing around thirty-eight, six. It was pretty close work, and even the
officials were excited. We had finished one round when the accident
occurred.
Tanner was in the circle. Fosgill was down near the end of the tape and
Patsy was close behind him. Tanner hopped across the circle,
overstepped--fouling the put--and sent the shot away at a tangent. Fosgill
had turned his head to speak to the measurer and never saw his danger.
Tanner let out a shout of warning, and others echoed it. But it was Patsy
who acted. He threw himself like a little catapult at Fosgill and sent him
staggering across the turf. Then Patsy and the shot went down together.
It was all beastly sudden and nasty. When we bent over that poor little kid
he was sort of greenish-white and I'll never forget the way his freckles
stood out. The shot had struck him on the breast and Patsy's weak little
bones had just crushed in. Well, we did all we could; put him in a carriage
at the gate and rushed him to the hospital. He was still breathing, but the
doctor said he never knew anything after the shot struck him--not until
evening. Well, we were all frightfully cut up, and Tanner sat down on the
ground and nearly fainted. Fosgill kept saying "Poor little Patsy! Poor
little kid!" half aloud and walking around in circles. He wanted to go to
the hospital with him, but we told him he could do no good, and we each
still had two puts.
After a while we got our nerve back after a fashion, and went on, but,
thunder! not one of us was worth a hang. I did thirty-six and thirty-seven,
eleven, and won third place at that. Neither Fosgill nor Tanner equaled his
first records and the event went to Bull at the ridiculous figures of
forty-one, ten and a half. We got the meet by four and a half points. It
was almost six o'clock by that time, and Fosgill and I and three others
piled into Alien's auto and raced up to the hospital.
They had just taken Patsy off the operating table and put him to bed. The
doctor told us that the examination showed that there was nothing to be
done; the heart had been injured and was liable to stop work any moment.
Fosgill got the doctor to promise to call him up on the 'phone if Patsy
showed any signs of consciousness. And he left orders that everything
possible was to be done. Tanner had begged us to look after the kid and let
him pay everything, but though we promised, we hadn't any idea of doing it;
Patsy was our kid. We went back to training table, but we were a
low-spirited lot. And just when we were finishing dinner the call came from
the hospital.
We made a record trip in Billy's machine and when we tiptoed into the
accident ward the nurse smiled at us. And so did Patsy. He was a
pathetic-looking little wisp as he lay there with the bedclothes lifted
away from his body, but he smiled and moved his head a bit on the pillow.
Fosgill sat down at the head of the cot and leaned over, his mouth all
atremble.
"Hello, Bull!" whispered Patsy.
"Hello, Patsy!" answered Fosgill, trying to smile.
"Did you--beat him?"
"Yes, Patsy."
"I knew--you would. I told--him so." He glanced at me: "Did
you--beat--that--other chap?"
I nodded and Patsy looked at me with a new respect.
"Good--for you," he whispered.
"Are you--does it hurt much, Patsy?" asked Fosgill.
"No, not much."
"That's good. We'll have you out before long."
Patsy grinned.
"Shut up!" he whispered. "You can't--fool me, Bull. I'm--a goner."
Fosgill muttered something and Patsy's eyes brightened.
"Bull," he whispered, "do you--think I--had a mother--like--other kids?"
"I know you did, Patsy."
"That's good," sighed the kid happily. "I guess--may be--I'll see
her--where--I'm goin'."
"You saved my life, Patsy," muttered Fosgill, "and there isn't a thing I
can do for you. I wish--oh, it's a shame, kid!"
"Huh! I'm glad--Bull. I'd--'a' done most anything--for you, Bull. You've
been good--to me; so's the--others." He closed his eyes wearily for a
moment. Then, "Do you think," he asked slowly, "I could--have learned--to
put--the shot, Bull--some day?"
"Yes," answered Fosgill sturdily. "You had the making of a great shot
putter, Patsy. You'd have made a record for yourself, I'll bet!"
"Are you--kiddin'--me, Bull?"
"No, Patsy. I'll leave it to the others. Isn't it so, fellows?"
We nodded vehemently, and Patsy closed his eyes with a smile of ineffable
content on his little face. Presently the eyes flickered open again.
"Anyhow," he said quite strongly and with an approach to his old air of
self-importance, "anyhow--I guess I won--for Harvard--to-day. Huh?"
"Yes, you did, Patsy," answered Fosgill. "We've got you to thank for it,
dear little kid."
Patsy smiled. Then:
"Good-by--Bull," he said very softly. His eyes half closed.
We waited in silence while the moments crept by, but Patsy didn't speak
again.
HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT
Tom Collins read again the inscription on the directory at the foot of the
stairs:
Room 36 _City Editor and Reporters_
glanced again toward the elevator, again drew his letter of introduction
from his pocket, and--again retreated to the doorway. Once more his heart
had failed him.
The result of the impending interview with the city editor of the
Washington Evening World meant so much to him that he feared to meet it.
Another failure and--what? Surely not starvation. To a youth of nineteen,
normally healthy and hopeful, the idea of starvation in a great city,
surrounded by thousands of human beings, seems preposterous. And yet when
the few coins yet remaining in his pocket were gone he would be absolutely
at the end of his resources; unless--unless fortune favored him in the next
few minutes. He had tried every newspaper office in the city with
disheartening results; every office save this one. He reread, perhaps for
the twentieth time, the letter he held, then placed it back in its envelope
with a sigh. The words sounded so empty and perfunctory, the _World_ was
such a big paper, his own ignorance was so great, and--and he was
discouraged. However--
He thrust the letter back into his pocket, jammed his cap resolutely onto
his head, and strode determinedly to the elevator.
"City editor," he announced gruffly.
Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Some
dozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of these
Tom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged in
cutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily large
shears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly and
pointed to a far corner of the room.
"That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses."
Tom thanked him and went on.
The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued his
writing, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparently
about thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, and
rushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he were
writing the death sentence of his worst enemy.
"Well?"
Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom's
heart sank within him.
"What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and his
eyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice and
laid the letter on the desk.
"Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside.
"Ever done newspaper work?" he asked.
"No, sir," Tom replied.
"Then what do you want to begin for?"
"To make a living."
"Oh," sneered the editor, "thought perhaps you wanted to elevate the press.
You're a college graduate, of course?"
"I went to college for a year and a half, sir; I had to leave then."
The editor's face brightened.
"Did they throw you out?"
"No, I--I had no money left; my father died very suddenly, and--and so I
had to leave."
"Too bad; if you'd been fired there might have been some hope for you." Tom
tried to detect a smile somewhere on the frowning face; there was none. "So
you think you can do newspaper reporting, do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Of course you do! I never found a college boy yet that wasn't plumb sure
he could start right in on fifteen minutes' notice and beat Horace Greeley
or old man Dana. It's so easy!"
"I don't think that," answered Tom, "but I think I could do reporting--
after a day or two. I'm ignorant as to the exact duties of a reporter, but
I can learn, and I can write English."
"But can you find out what other reporters can't? Can you interview the
last new senator in town and make him tell you what he wouldn't have
printed for a year's salary? Can you do that?" Tom hesitated; but he was
gaining courage, and the other's gibes were slowly arousing his resentment.
"If those things can be done by other fellows, I can do them."
"Well, you've got confidence," acknowledged the editor, grudgingly. "But we
don't break new men in here on the _World_; we wait until they have learned
somewhere else, then we offer them a better salary; those are our methods.
You go to work on the _Despatch_ or the _Star_, or somewhere, and when you
prove that you can do as good work as three or four men on our staff you'll
hear from us."
The city editor went back to his pencil. Plainly the interview was at an
end. Tom turned away. "Good day, sir," he muttered. There was a lump in his
throat and his hand, seeking refuge in his pocket, closed on the half dozen
coins. He turned suddenly and faced the city editor again.
"Look here," he said doggedly, "I've got a right to better treatment than
you have given me. I handed you a letter of introduction that ought to have
a little weight, and--and even if it hasn't, it entitles me to common
courtesy from you. I'm not a beggar asking for alms. All I want is a chance
to show that I can do your work decently. I don't even ask any pay, I--I--"
Tom's words died away. After all, what was the use? He had his answer and
there could be no benefit gained from prolonging the interview. But the
city editor was looking at him curiously now.
"Here, hold on there," he commanded, and when Tom again faced him: "If
you'd brought me a letter from Queen Victoria or the Angel Gabriel you'd
have gotten the same treatment. I talk to an average of ten men like you
every day of my life; young chaps who don't know what a newspaper's run
for; who don't care, either. They think reporting or editing is a nice easy
way to make a living, and so they come here expecting to fall into a
position. They don't get it. But when a fellow shows sense I give him a
chance. And I'll give you one. Hold on," he continued as Tom opened his
mouth to thank him, "I'm not offering you a place; I'm not even giving you
a fair deal."
He paused and took a card from a drawer, scowling more than ever.
"Write your name there and send it up to Senator August at the Hotel
Torrence. If he sees you, interview him on the decision of last night's
conference; find out whether they agreed on a nominee. You read the papers?
Then you'll know what we're after. Now there's your chance, just a bare
fighting chance; do you want it?" The card held the single line "For _The
Washington Evening World."_ Tom put it in his pocket.
"I know how desperate the chance is, sir, and I'll take it. And--and thank
you."
"All right. And remember that the last edition goes to press at five
o'clock," he added grimly.
As Tom passed out the youth by the railing had stopped cutting up
newspapers and was writing as though his very life depended upon it. When
he reached the street Tom remembered that he might have used the elevator.
"Senator August left ten minutes ago," said the hotel clerk affably as he
caught sight of the inscription on the card which Tom Collins held. "A new
reporter," he added to himself.
"Left?" echoed Tom in dismay. "Where has he gone?"
"New York, I think. Went to the depot for the 2.20."
Tom glanced at the clock. Another moment and he was boarding a passing car.
He had six minutes to catch the 2.20. His chances of success were slim. For
that matter, thought Tom, the whole undertaking was the merest forlorn
hope; not even the fighting chance that the city editor of the _World_ had
called it. For supposing that he found Senator August and got speech with
him, was it likely that he would tell an inexperienced chap like Tom what
the best reporters in Washington had failed to worm out of him?
The Democratic National Convention to nominate a candidate for the
presidency was but a month away. On the preceding evening, in a little room
in the Hotel Torrence, Senator August, representing the sentiment of the
Eastern democracy, and Senator Goodman, possessing full power to act for
his party in the great West, had met to decide on a Democratic nominee.
Dissension threatened. The East favored a man of moderate views on the
subject of currency reform; the West and the greater portion of the South
stood unanimous for a politician whose success in the coming battle would
presage the most radical of measures. Final disagreement between the
Democrats of East and West meant certain victory for the Republican Party.
And to-day all the country was asking: Have the leaders agreed on a
nominee; if so, which one? Senator Groodman, as uncommunicative as a
statue, was already speeding back to the far West; and Senator August,
equally silent, was on his way home. The newspapers were hysterical in
their demands for information; all day the wires leading to Washington had
borne message after message imploring news, but only baseless rumors had
sped back. And Tom Collins, knowing all this, realized the hopelessness of
his task.
At the depot he left the car at a jump and dashed into the station. A train
on the further track was already crawling from the shed. There was no time
for inquiries. He ran for it and swung himself onto the platform of the
Pullman. A porter was just closing the vestibule door.
"Is Senator August on board?" gasped Tom. The porter didn't know. But he
assured Tom that that was the train for New York and so the latter entered
the Pullman. The car held seven men and an elderly lady. Tom's idea of a
senator was a big man dressed in a black frock coat, a black string tie and
a tall silk hat. But there was no one in sight attired in such fashion and
Tom paused at a loss. Perhaps it was chance that led him halfway down the
aisle and caused him to question a military, middle-aged gentleman who wore
a quiet suit of gray tweeds and was deep in a magazine. The face that
looked up was shrewd but kindly, albeit it frowned a little at the
interruption.
"I am Senator August," was the unexpected reply.
"Oh!" exclaimed Tom blankly. Then he pushed aside a small valise on the
opposite seat and took its place. The frown on the senator's face grew.
"Reporter?" he asked laconically.
"Yes," answered Tom. "I'm from the Washington _World._ I just missed you at
the hotel so I took the liberty of following you to the train." Tom thought
that sounded pretty well and paused to see what impression it had created.
The result was disappointing.
"Well?" asked the senator coldly.
"The _World_ would like to know what decision was reached at last night's
conference, senator."
"I don't doubt it," answered the senator dryly. "Look here," he continued
with asperity, "I've refused to talk to at least two dozen reporters and
correspondents to-day. The results of last night's conference will be made
public by Senator Goodman and myself at the proper time and place; and not
until then. And that is all that I can tell you."
"But--" began Tom.
"Understand me, please; I will say nothing more on the subject."
"Will you give me some idea as to when the proper time will be?" asked Tom
respectfully.
"No, I can't do that either. Perhaps to-morrow; perhaps not for several
days."
"Are you going to New York, sir?"
"I am on my way to my home in Massachusetts."
"Thank you. Have you any objection to my accompanying you on the same
train?" Senator August opened his eyes a little.
"Is that necessary? The announcement will be made to the Associated Press
and, unless I am mistaken, the _World_ is a member of it."
"Very true, sir, but I was assigned to get the result of the conference and
I've got to do it--that is, if I can."
"Very well, I have no objection to your traveling on the same train with
me, just as long as you don't bother me. Will that do?"
"Yes, sir, thank you. I am sorry that I have troubled you."
"You're what?" asked the other.
"Sorry to have troubled you, sir."
"Hm; you're the first one to-day that has expressed such a feeling. You
must be new at the business."
"I am," answered Tom. "I've been a reporter only half an hour. In fact I'm
not certain that I am one at all."
"How's that?" asked the senator, turning his magazine face down on the seat
beside him.
And Tom told him. Told about his three weeks of dreary search for a
position, of his interview with the city editor of the _Evening World_, and
of the forlorn hope upon which he was entered. And when he had finished his
story, Senator August was no longer frowning; the boy's tale had interested
him.
"Well, he did put you up against a hard task; doesn't seem to me to have
been quite fair. He knew that every reporter had failed and he must have
known that you would fail as well. Seems to have been merely a neat way of
getting rid of you. What do you think?"
Tom hesitated a moment.
"I don't think it was quite that. And, anyhow, I knew what I was doing, and
so it was fair enough, I guess."
"But surely you had no idea of success?"
"I ought not to have," answered Tom hesitatingly, "but I'm afraid I did."
The senator looked out of the window and was silent for a moment while the
express sped on through the afternoon sunlight. When he turned his face
toward Tom again he was smiling.
"Well, you appear to have pluck, my lad, and that is pretty certain to land
you somewhere in the end even if you miss it this time. I'm very sorry that
I am obliged to be the means of destroying your chance with the _World_;
but I have no choice in the matter, I----"
"Tickets, please."
Blank dismay overspread Tom's countenance as he looked up at the conductor.
"I--I haven't any."
"Where do you want to go?"
Tom put his hand into his pocket and brought out all his money; less than
two dollars. He held it out to the gaze of the conductor.
"How far can I go for that?" he asked.
"Is that all you have?" asked the senator. Tom nodded. "All right
conductor; we'll arrange this; come around again later, will you?" The
conductor went on. Tom stared helplessly at his few coins and Senator
August looked smilingly at Tom.
"How about following me home?" he asked.
"I--I'd forgotten," stammered Tom.
"Well, never mind. I'll loan you enough to reach the first stop and to
return to Washington. Nonsense," he continued, as Tom began a weak
objection, "I haven't offered to give it to you; you may repay it some
day." He pressed a bill into the boy's hand. "At Blankville Junction you
can get a train back before long, I guess. Never mind that cold-blooded
editor on the _World_; try the other papers again; keep at it; that's what
I did; and it pays in the end. Hello, are we stopping here?"
The train had slowed down and now it paused for an instant beside a little
box of a station. Then it started on again and a train man appeared at the
far end of the car holding a buff envelope in his hand.
"Senator August in this car?" he asked.
The telegram was delivered and its recipient, excusing himself to the
sad-hearted youth on the opposite seat, read the contents hurriedly. Then
he glanced queerly at Tom, while a little smile stole out from under the
ends of his grizzled mustache.
"You are lucky," he said. Tom looked a question, and the senator thrust the
message into his hands. "Read that," he said; "it is from my secretary in
Washington." He pressed the electric button between the windows and waited
impatiently for the porter. Tom was staring hard at the yellow sheet before
him; he reread it slowly, carefully, that there might be no mistake. It was
as follows:
"_Senator Harrison M. August, "On train 36, Waverly, Md._
"Following telegram just received: 'Chicago, 8, 1.45 P.M. Have just learned
reliable source Republican managers using our silence regarding conference
to advance W's candidacy in Middle West and have published report that we
have agreed on compromise candidate. If report goes undenied many votes
will be lost, especially in Iowa and Wisconsin. Advise immediate
publication of our statement to press. Answer Auditorium, Chicago.
Goodman.' Have advised Goodman of delay in reaching you.
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