Frank Armstrong at Queens

by Matthew M. Colton

  CHAPTER IV.

  FRANK HAS A NEW NAME.

  It was a gloomy lot of football players that took their shower thatnight. They dressed in silence. Horton was by no means a mild-spokencoach, yet his method was to get the best out of the players bypersuasion and infinite care. But when he occasionally did open up,the words were all the sharper.

  "Laid the hot shot into you fellows, didn't he?" said Patterson,sliding up to his classmate, Dixon, as they climbed the slope to thedormitories.

  "Yes, Horton has had a grouch for the last two weeks and we can'tplease him. Better come out and try it yourself."

  "You'd please him if you played the game," retorted the Wee One, whonever lost a chance of sticking verbal pins into the quarterback. "Inoticed a new back to-day, that young Turner fellow. He has Hillardbeaten twenty ways for Sunday," he added. "Wouldn't be surprised ifhe made the team even at this late date."

  "I didn't see him do anything wonderful," growled Chip. "Dutton wentthrough him several times. I'll bet he'll be sore to-morrow wherethose old keen bones of the big fellow hit him. He's new and heprobably put all he had into the practice to-day. To-morrow he'll belike putty."

  "If I was a betting man," retorted the Wee One, "I'd lay you somegood coin on it. He doesn't know much about it, but he has the stuffin him, and Horton will do the rest. I think he will play in theWarwick game, Chip."

  "And I say he won't," burst out Chip savagely. "Hillard is worth twoof him," and then seeing a sarcastic grin playing on the features ofPatterson, he added, "I'll see that he don't play----" and then hestopped short, fearing he had said too much.

  "O, is that so, Mr. Dixon, and when did they elect you captain andcoach of this daisy eleven of ours?"

  "O, dry up," was all the comment he could get from Chip who,having reached the yard by this time, turned abruptly and left histormentor.

  Jimmy, Frank and Lewis were a few rods behind, and the Wee One waitedfor them to come up. Frank had just been detailing the story of hisarrival at the yard that afternoon and Dixon's exhibition of badtemper. Both Jimmy and Lewis were indignant, but Frank laughed aboutthe incident. "It wasn't worth mentioning," he said, "but it showsyou what kind of a chap your quarter is."

  "I've been here only three weeks," said Jimmy, "and I've heard lotsof things about him being a bully, particularly fond of playingon the smaller fellow. I guess he can't do much to me. I'm only aFreshman, but I'll give him a dig in the ribs if he tries any of histricks on me."

  The Wee One was waiting on the flagged walk in front of Warren Hallas the three boys came along.

  "We'll be over in a minute and take you to grub," Jimmy was saying toFrank.

  "All right," said Frank, "I'll be waiting for you and getting thingsin such shape that I can comfortably rest myself to-night. Myroom-mate Gleason's a fearful and wonderful housekeeper, judging fromthe looks of his effects up to date," and he turned into his entry.

  "O, Armstrong, just a minute." Frank stopped and saw his newsophomore friend approaching at a leisurely roll with his handsshoved deep into his trousers' pockets.

  "I say," volunteered the Wee One, "that young friend of yours,Turner, looks pretty good to me. But I want to give you a tip. If heplays that way he's sure to get a chance at the team. But for thegood of the cause I'm just dropping you a weenty teenty hint. Tellhim to keep his weather eye on Chip Dixon."

  "Why?" said Frank, showing his surprise very plainly.

  "Well, Chip doesn't want him and he'd take any means, fair or unfair,to put him in bad with the coach. It's just a tip from an old fellow.That's all," and the Wee One, having delivered himself of thisadvice, went whistling on his way.

  "I don't see what Chip can do if Jimmy plays well enough to make theteam. I can't see what Chip can do to keep him off," murmured Frankto himself as he trudged up the stairs. "But I'll pass along thefriendly word of Little Willie, who seems to be a fine little chapand much bigger than his name."

  Gleason was in his room this time, curled up on the window cushion,and he slowly unrolled himself as Frank pushed open the door.

  "Hello, Armstrong," he said, "you're my wife, I guess."

  "Your what?" asked Frank.

  "My wife, my better half, my tried and trusty room-mate, for betteror for worser."

  "I'm all of that," said Frank, smiling in spite of himself at thevoluble Gleason who wasn't the sort of chap he had pictured at all.From the tumbled state of the room, he had drawn his conclusion thatGleason would also be in a tumbled state, but here was an immaculatedandy.

  Frank looked his room-mate over, and then his gaze involuntarilytraveled around the room.

  "Yes, I know," said Gleason grinning, "doesn't look right," as he sawthat Frank was trying to adjust his notions anew. "You see I haven'ttime to keep both of us tidy, the room and me, so I put the time onmyself and let the room go. I was never made for a housekeeper."

  Gleason was very tall and very thin, and had thin, dark hair whichhe parted in the middle and combed straight back. His collar was ofthe white wings variety, very high, and encircled a long, lean neck,and his necktie was of the most positive and overpowering lavender.Patent leather pumps and socks to match his cravat, and a suit witha decidedly purple cast to it, completed his attire. Gleason had theappearance of being half divinity student, half gambler, and "theother half," as the Irishman said, "dude."

  "Well, don't you like me, wifey?" asked Gleason quizzically, asFrank stood just inside the threshold eyeing this strange mixtureof a boy. "Sorry if you don't, for it's going to be no end of atrouble. They're chock-a-block with flowering youth at this blessedinstitution, and if we fight one of us'll have to go into the cellar."

  "O, we're going to get on all right," said Frank grinning, "butyou're so different from what I had expected."

  "Well, I might be worse. What are you going in for?"

  "It will be study for a while for mine. I'm three weeks late. I'm toolight for football this year, and I don't know much about it, but I'mgoing out for baseball in the spring. And maybe I will get a chanceat the track meets. I can run a little. What do you go in for?"

  "Me? O, I just sit round on the bleachers and take notes. I soakmyself in records and they just ooze out of all my pores. Very handyyoung person to have around, Frank. Don't mind my familiarity, that'syour handle--I saw it on your boxes. Good name for the family Bible,but kind of cold for school life. Haven't you got something warmer?They call me 'Codfish' because, forsooth, I came from up Cape Codway. But the cod is a good fish properly treated, so I don't object.Haven't you something in the way of a name besides your Christianticket?"

  "No, just Frank."

  "Well, it isn't right. It isn't cosey and homey enough. All right forthe school catalogue, but too chilly for everyday use. What's your'ponchong' as the French say, your big swipe, in other words?"

  "Well, I do a little swimming now and then," said Frank. "How wouldFish be?"

  "Won't do. Can't have two members of the ichthyosaurus family in oneroom. Let's see. Eel--no, eel isn't good, he spends most of his timein the mud. Duck--no, the young ladies at the seminary'd be callingyou ducky some day. I have it--web-foot, Web-foot Armstrong, how'sthat?"

  "Sounds all right," said Frank, "kind of a paddler, eh?"

  "An inspiration, my boy. Web-foot is your name from henceforth, tohave and to hold until death do you part--Web-foot Armstrong, thus Ichristen thee."

  A sound was heard on the stairs, and in another moment Jimmy andLewis appeared at the open doorway. They were already acquainted withGleason, and nodded to him.

  "Welcome to our city," cried Gleason coming forward. "Are youacquainted with my young friend, Web-foot Armstrong? He is my steadyfor whom I've been waiting for three long weeks."

  "It's a new name my room-mate has given me," explained Franklaughing. "He says Frank isn't homey enough."

  "Web-foot suits him all right. He's a perfect water-dog, you know,"said Jimmy. "One of the rising young swimmers of the generation andall that sort of thing; gave the
champion a hard rub down in Florida."

  "Ah, yes," said the Codfish, straddling. "I saw something aboutthat; let's see, I have it somewhere--yes, here it is," as he beganpicking in a big envelope among a number of clippings--"here itis--'Champion Boy Swimmer of Milton hustles the Champion,' copiedfrom the _St. Augustine Record_," and he began to read an exaggeratedaccount of the affair in the Florida tank.

  "That was going some," he concluded. "Darnell's record is 56 and 2-5seconds for the hundred. He did that at the Olympics in Athens twoyears ago and repeated it in the New York Athletic Club last winter."

  The Codfish reeled off the information with the certainty ofknowledge.

  "He knows every amateur record that was ever made, I think," Jimmywhispered to Frank, "and can tell you what the score of every leaguecontest was since he was big enough to fall out of the cradle; and heis a great practical joker, so they say. You want to look out for histricks."

  "Stop filling us up on your records, Gleason," said Lewis. "I'mhungry as a bear. Let's fill up on something more substantial."

  The boys raced down the stairs with a clatter and headed in thedirection of Howard Hall beyond Russell. Howard was the old gymnasiumwhich had been turned into a great dining hall, and there, amid thecrash of crockery, Frank sat down to his first school meal, flankedby Jimmy and Lewis. Across the table was the irrepressible Codfish.

  "We all mess together here, you see," said Jimmy, waving hishand abroad, "but the upper classes have that end of the hall tothemselves. Noisy, isn't it, but you'll get used to it."

  Frank nodded. He was taking in this part of his new life, with allhis eyes and ears to the exclusion of his stomach. What would hismother think of this rumpus, he thought, and he smiled to himself.

  "Hey, Skip, you there, don't hog all the butter, shoot it downhere," called the Codfish. "You use as much grease as a six-cylindertransmission." And the butter dish came hurtling down from SkipCongdon, caroming against the pepper and salt dishes and knockingthem off their pins.