CHAPTER II
AN INTERRUPTION
Erskine College, at Centerport, is not large. Like many another NewEngland college its importance lies rather in its works than in wealthor magnificence. Its enrolment in all departments at the time of whichI write was about 600. I am not going to describe the college, it wouldtake too long; and besides, it has been done very frequently and verywell, and if the reader, after studying the accompanying plan, whichis reproduced with the kind permission of the authorities, feels theneed of further description, I would respectfully refer him to Balcom'sHandbook of Erskine (photographically illustrated) and May's History ofErskine College. And if in connection with these he examines the annualcatalogue he will know about all there is to be known of the subject.
Leaving Washington Street and going west on Elm Street, he will find,facing the apex of the Common, a small white frame cottage profuselyadorned with blinds of a most vivid green. That is Mrs. Dorlon's. Itis by far the tiniest of the many boarding- and lodging-houses thatline the outer curve of Elm Street, and, as might be supposed, itsrooms are few and not commodious. Mrs. Dorlon, a small, middle-agedwidow, with a perpetual cold in the head, reserves the lower floor forher own use and rents the two up-stairs rooms to students. Betweenthese second-floor apartments there is little to choose. The westernone gets the afternoon sunlight, while the one on the other side ofthe hall gets none. To make up for this, however, the eastern room is,or was, at the time of my story, the proud possessor of a register,supposed, somewhat erroneously, to conduct warm air into the apartment;while the western room, to use the language of Mrs. Dorlon, was "het bygas."
Aside from these differences, apparent rather than real, the twochambers were similar. In each there was a strip of narrow territoryin which it was possible to stand upright, flanked on either sideby abruptly sloping ceilings whose flaking expanses were broken bydormer-windows, admitting a little light and a deal of cold. It was theeastern room that Jack Weatherby at present called home, a feat whichimplied the possession of a great deal of imagination on his part. Forwhen, having escaped the hostile throng by the river and made his wayup Washington into Elm Street, and so to the house with the painfullygreen blinds, the room in which he found himself didn't look the leastbit in the world like home.
The iron cot-bed, despite its vivid imitation Bagdad covering, failedto deceive the beholder into mistaking it for a Turkish divan. Thefaded and threadbare ingrain carpet, much too small to cover thefloor, was of a chilly, inhospitable shade of blue. The occupanthad made little attempt at decoration, partly because the amount ofwall space adapted to pictures was extremely limited, partly becausefrom the first the cheerless ugliness of the room discouraged him.The green-topped study table near the end window was a sorry pieceof furniture. Former users had carved cabalistic designs into thewalnut rim and adorned the imitation leather covering with evenmore mysterious figures; there were evidences, too, of overturnedink-bottles. A yellow-grained wardrobe beside the door leaned wearilyagainst the supporting angle of the ceiling.
The brightest note in the room was a patent rocker upholstered in vividgreen and yellow Brussels carpet. If we except a walnut book-shelfhanging beside the end window and a wash-stand jammed under one dormer,the enumeration of the furnishings is complete. Even on days when thesun shone against the white gable of the next house, the apartmentcould scarcely be called cheerful, and this afternoon with the eveningshadows closing down and the wind whipping the branches of the elmsoutside and buffeting the house until it creaked complainingly, theroom was forlorn to a degree.
After slamming the door behind him Jack tossed aside his cap, andsubsiding into the rocker stretched his legs and stared miserablythrough the window into a swaying world of gray branches and darkeningsky. The overmastering anger that had sent him striding home asthough pursued dwindled away and left in its place a loneliness anddiscouragement that hurt like a physical pain. Things had been badbefore, he thought, but now, branded in public a coward and despisedby his fellows, life would be unbearable! He pictured the glancesof contempt that would meet him on the morrow in hall and yard, orwherever he went, and groaned. He recalled the professor's bitingwords: "I didn't think we had any cowards here at Erskine!" andclenched his hands in sudden overmastering rage. The injustice of itmaddened him. Would Professor White, he asked himself, have gone intothe river after the drowning boy if, like himself, he were unable toswim a stroke and sickened at the mere thought of contact with the icyflood?
Presently his thoughts reverted to the morrow and the punishmenthe must undergo. His courage faltered, and the alternative, that ofpacking his few things there and then and leaving college by an earlytrain in the morning, seemed the only course possible. Well, he woulddo it. It would mean disappointment to his parents and a loss of moneythey could ill afford. To him it would mean five months of studywasted. But better that than staying on there despised and ridiculed,to be pointed out behind his back as The Coward.
With a gasp he leaped to his feet, his cheeks tingling and his eyesmoist with sudden tears. The room was in darkness. He fumbled overthe desk until he found the match-box. When the gas was lighted heremembered the condition of his feet, and drawing a chair before theregister he removed his wet shoes and placed them against the warmgrating that they might dry overnight. His battered silver watch showedthe time to be a few minutes before six. He found dry socks, anddrawing them over his chilled feet donned a pair of carpet slippers.Then he washed for supper, bathing his flushed face over and over,and got back into his coat just as a weak-voiced bell below summonedthe small household to the evening meal. As he went out he noted withsurprise that the door of the opposite room was ajar, allowing a streakof light to illumine the upper hall with unaccustomed radiance. Theroom had been vacant all the year, but now, evidently, Mrs. Dorlon hadfound a tenant. But the fact interested him little, for his mind wasfirmly made up, and on the morrow his own room would be for rent.
When he entered the tiny dining-room Mrs. Dorlon and her daughter, ashy wisp of a girl some twelve or thirteen years of age, were alreadyseated at the table. Jack muttered greetings and applied himselfsilently to the cold meat and graham bread which, with crab-apple jellyand weak tea, comprised the meal. But his hostess was plainly elated,and after a few pregnant snuffles the secret was out. The westernchamber was rented!
"And such a nice, pleasant-mannered young man he is," she declared. "AMr. Tidball, a junior. Perhaps you have met him?"
Jack shook his head.
"Well, I'm sure you'll like him, and it'll be real pleasant for you tohave another student in the house. I know what it is to be alone"--shesniffed sadly--"since Mr. Dorlon died, and I guess you feel downrightlonely sometimes up there. If you like I'll introduce Mr. Tidball aftersupper?"
The widow appeared to find a mild excitement at the thought, and herface fell when Jack begged off. "Not this evening, please," he said."I'm going to be very busy, Mrs. Dorlon."
"Oh, very well. I only thought--" What she thought he never knew, forexcusing himself he pushed back his chair and returned to his room. Ashe closed his door he heard the new lodger whistling cheerfully andtunelessly across the hallway.
He dragged a steamer trunk from under the bed, threw back the lid andunceremoniously hustled the contents on to the floor. Then he tooka valise from the wardrobe and proceeded to pack into it what fewbelongings would serve him until he could send for his trunk. Thelatter he couldn't take with him. In the first place, there was no wayof getting it to the depot in time for the early train; in the secondplace, as he was not now able to pay Mrs. Dorlon the present month'srent, he felt that he ought to leave something behind him as security.The prospect of going home raised his spirits, and he felt happierthan he had for many months. He even hummed an air as he trampedbusily between the wardrobe and the trunk, and the result was thatthe first knock on the door passed unheeded. After a moment the knockwas repeated, and this time Jack heard it and paused in the act ofspreading his Sunday trousers in the till and lo
oked the consternationhe felt. Who was it, he wondered. Perhaps Mrs. Dorlon come to hintabout the rent; perhaps--but whoever it might be, Jack didn't wanthis preparations seen. He softly closed the trunk lid and wished thathe had locked the door. He waited silently. Perhaps the caller wouldgo away. Then, as he began to think with relief that this had alreadyhappened, the knob turned, the door swung open, and a lean, spectacledface peered through the opening.
"I thought maybe you didn't hear me knock," said a queer, drawlingvoice. "I've taken the room across the way, and as we're going to beneighbors I thought I'd just step over and get acquainted."
The caller came in and closed the door behind him, casting aninterested look about the shabby apartment. Jack, after an instant ofsurprise and dismay, muttered a few words of embarrassed greeting. Ashe did so he recognized in the odd, lanky figure at the door the heroof the accident at the river.
Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball Page 2