CHAPTER III
DICK AND JIM GO ON A SHOOTING TRIP.
Two months of the fall term had come and gone; Thanksgiving Day wasclose at hand. Dick stood in front of his locker, dressing leisurelyafter his practice on the track, and chatting with Jim Putnam, thecaptain of the crew. Athletics were uppermost in their talk. Theydiscussed everything in turn--the arguments, pro and con, for winningthe cup; the chances of the crew, the nine, the track team; the rivalmerits of Dave Ellis and Johnson for the Pentathlon; then all at oncePutnam abruptly changed the subject. "Oh, say, Dick," he remarked; "Iwas going to ask you something and I came pretty near forgetting it.What about Thanksgiving? You're not going home, are you?"
Dick shook his head. "No, it's too far," he answered. "I'm going towait till Christmas. I suppose, though, most of the fellows do gohome."
Putnam nodded. "Yes," he answered, "it's so near for most of them,they can do it all right without any trouble. I guess you and I liveabout as far away as any two fellows in the school. But I wasthinking--as long as we're going to be here--I've got what I call abully good scheme. Did I ever tell you about the lake, away up northof the village, where they get the ducks?"
Dick shook his head, his interest at once awakened. "No," he answered;"I didn't know that there were any ducks around here, Jim."
"Well, there are," returned Putnam; "but most people don't know it. Ididn't get on to it until last spring. I was taking a tramp up throughthat way in the spring recess, and I stopped at a farm-house for thenight. The folks were as nice as they could be. There's a young fellowthat runs the farm, and his wife and three or four kids. Well, aftersupper we got talking about the country around there and the lake, andthen he started telling me about the ducks. He says there are a lot ofthem every fall that keep trading to and fro between the lake and saltwater, and that stay around, right up to the time things freeze. Theyleave the lake at daylight and don't come back till afternoon. Andthat's the time to shoot them. You set decoys off one of the points,and make a blind, and he's got a dandy retriever that brings in theducks. He only shoots a few. He says he's busy about the farm, and helives so far away there's not much use gunning them for market. So hejust kills what he can use himself. But he told me any time I wantedto come up, he'd give me a good shoot and I've been meaning to do itall the fall; only the crew has taken so much of my time, I haven'tgot around to it. It takes a day to do it right, anyway.
"So I figured like this. First of all, we'll ask Mr. Fenton if we cango; but that will be only a matter of form. As long as he knows we'reused to shooting, and are careful with our guns, he'll let us go allright; that's just the kind of a trip he likes fellows to take. Thenwe'll get word up to Cluff--that's the farmer, you know--that we'recoming; and then we'll hire a team down in the village and we'll startThanksgiving morning. It'll take us two or three hours to get upthere, and then we'll have dinner, and have plenty of time to geteverything ready for the afternoon. Cluff's got decoys, and I suppose,as long as it's Thanksgiving, he'll go along with us, and see that weget set in a good place. Then we'll have the afternoon shooting, andwe can get supper there, and drive home in the evening. It's fullmoon, so if it stays clear it'll be as light as day. How does thatstrike you, Dick? Are you game?"
"Am I game?" repeated Randall. "Well, I should rather say I was. Ihaven't fired a gun for a year. They laughed at me at home for packingaway my old shooting-iron in the bottom of my trunk; but I'll have thelaugh on them now. I do certainly like to shoot ducks. What kinds dothey have here, Jim?"
"Why, Cluff says there are lots of black ducks," Putnam answered; "andpintails, and teal. And some years, if there comes a good breezeoutside, they have a flight of blackheads and redheads. Oh, if what hesaid was so, I guess we'll get some ducks all right. Let's make astart, anyway. I vote we go and see Mr. Fenton now."
They found the master in his study, and were forthwith questioned andcross-questioned, with good-natured thoroughness, until Mr. Fenton hadsatisfied himself that it would be safe to let them take the trip.Then, as Putnam had predicted, permission was readily enoughforthcoming, though Mr. Fenton was frankly skeptical as to the amountof game they were going to bring home. "I doubt the ducks, boys," hetold them smilingly; "but you'll have a fine time, just the same, nomatter how many you kill. And don't forget that I'm trusting you. Takecare of yourselves in every way. Don't shoot each other, and don'tfall into the lake; and be sure and bring yourselves back, anyway; itwon't matter so much about the ducks."
With many promises of good behavior they left him and hastened down tothe village to hire their team and to send word to Cluff that theywould arrive in time for dinner, on Thanksgiving Day. All that eveningthey talked of nothing but their plans; and that night, as Dick fellasleep, he was busy picturing to himself the appearance of the lake,seeing himself, in imagination, concealed upon a wooded point, withthe retriever crouching at his side, and a big flock of redheadsbearing swiftly down upon the decoys. So real did the scene becomethat half-asleep as he was, he came suddenly to himself to find thathe was sitting bolt upright in bed, trying to bring an imaginary gunto his shoulder. Then, with a laugh, and with a half-sigh as well, tofind that the ducks had vanished before his very eyes, he lay downagain, and this time went to sleep in good earnest.
Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and bright, warm for the time of year,with a fresh breeze blowing from the south, and a faint haze hangingover the tops of the distant hills. By nine o'clock the boys wereready at the door of the dormitory, guns under their arms, shell-bagsin hand. Shortly they perceived their buggy approaching, and Putnamgave a shout of laughter at sight of their steed, a little,shaggy-coated, wiry-looking black mare, scarcely larger than agood-sized pony. As the outfit drew up before the door, Putnam walkedforward and made a critical examination; then turned to the driver, arawboned, sandy-haired countryman, with a pleasant, good-natured face,and a shrewd and humorous eye. "Will we get there?" he demanded.
The man grinned. "You worryin' about Rosy?" he asked. "No call to dothat. She's an ol' reliable, she is. Ben in the stable twenty-fiveyears, an' never went back on no one yet. Oh, she'll _git_ ye there,all right, ain't no doubt o' that at all; that is--" he added, "'thoutshe sh'd happen to drop dead, or somethin' like that. No hoss is goin't' live for ever; specially in a livery stable. But I'll bet ye evenshe lasts out the trip."
Dick laughed, though there was something pathetic, as well, in theresigned expression with which the mare regarded them, as one whowould say, "This may be all right for you young folks, but it's apretty old story for me." "Well, I guess she won't run away," hehazarded hopefully.
The man shook his head with emphasis. "No, _sir_," he answered, "Ican't imagine nothin' short of a tornado and a earthquake combined,would make Rosy run. But then again--" he added loyally, "she ain'tnear so bad as she looks. O' course, she couldn't show ye a mile intwo minutes, but that ain't what you're lookin' for. Six mile anhour--that's her schedule--an' she'll stick to it all right, up-hilland down, good roads an' bad, till the cows come home. An' that's thekind o' hoss you want."
Putnam nodded. "Yes, sir," he returned, as they stowed away the gunsin the bottom of the buggy, "horse or man--we're for the stayers,every time. And if Rosy's been sticking it out for twenty-five years,we'll see she gets treated right now. I guess she deserves it. Allaboard, Dick?"
"Sure," Randall answered; then, turning to the man, "You'd better getin behind. We'll be going pretty near the stable, so we might as wellgive you a lift," and somewhat heavily laden they started, with lighthearts, on their journey toward the lake.
They found their passenger decidedly communicative. "It's lucky foryou boys," he presently remarked, "that you ain't no older'n ye be. 'Fyou were men, now, you might fairly be expectin' trouble, 'fore ye gitthrough town."
Both boys looked at him with some curiosity. "Why, what do you mean bythat?" asked Putnam. "What's wrong in the village?"
"Big row," the man answered, "over in the paper mills.
They ben havin'trouble all the fall, fightin' over wages, an' hours, an' mosteverythin' else. They'd kind o' manage to agree, an' then, fust thingyou know, they'd be scrappin' again, wuss'n ever. They got a passel o'furriners in there now," he added with contempt; "guess they thinkthey're savin' money employin' cheap labor. Mighty _dear_ labor, Iexpect 't'll be, 'fore they git through with 'em. These dagoes an'sich, a-carryin' knives--I do' know, I ain't got much use for 'em. Myopinion, ol' Uncle Sam would do better to have 'em stay home wherethey b'long."
He paused and spit thoughtfully over the side of the buggy, evidentlycontemplating with disgust the presence of "dagoes an' sich," on NewEngland soil.
"Well," queried Dick, "what's happened? Have they struck?"
The livery man nodded with emphasis. "Surest thing you know," heanswered. "They went out yesterday, the whole gang, an' they benloafin' round the town ever since. Things look kind o' ugly to me.'Cause the owners, they got their sportin' blood up, too, an' theysent right out o' town for a big gang o' strike-busters, 'n they gotin this mornin'. So there we be; an' as I say, it's lucky you boysain't no older, or you might see trouble 'fore night. Well, guess thisis about as near th' stable as we'll come. Much obliged to ye for thelift. Enjoy yourselves now, an' don't let Rosy git to kickin' up toolively, so she'll run with ye, an' dump ye out in a ditch. You keepher steadied down, whatever ye do."
With a good-natured grin, he jumped from the buggy and disappeared inthe direction of the stable. The boys, driving onward through thevillage, looked around them with interest. The state of affairsappeared, as their friend had said, "kind o' ugly." Little knots ofdark-skinned foreigners stood here and there about the streets,sometimes silent and sullen, again listening to the eloquence of someexcited leader, haranguing them in his native tongue, accompanying thetorrent of words with wildly gesticulating arms. As they turned intothe road leading to the north, a dark-browed, scowling striker at thecorner glared angrily at them as they passed, muttering words whichsounded the very reverse of a blessing. Putnam whistled as they droveon. "Golly, Dick," he observed, "what did you think of that fellow? Iflooks could kill, as they say, I guess we'd be done for now. I hopethey don't have a row out of it. Imagine running up against a chaplike that, with a good sharp knife in his fist. I guess it takes somenerve to be a strike-buster all right."
Dick nodded assent, but twenty minutes later, strikes andstrike-breakers were alike forgotten, as they left the village behindthem, and struck into the level wood road leading northward to thelake. The change from civilization to solitude was complete. To rightand left of them, squirrels chattered and scolded among the trees;chickadees bobbed their little black caps to them as they passed.Farther back in the woods a blue-jay screamed; overhead, high up inthe blue, a great hawk sailed, circling, with no slightest motion ofhis outspread wings. The road stretched straight before them,narrowing, in the distance, to a mere thread between the wall of treeson either hand. The wind blew fair from the south; old Rosy settleddown to the six miles an hour for which she was famed. Both boysleaned back in the seat, extended their legs ungracefully, but inperfect comfort, over the dashboard of the buggy, and then heaved along sigh of well-being and content.
Dick was the first to speak. "Jim," he observed, "this is great. Thisis what I call living. It's just as Mr. Fenton said; this is goodenough as it is if we don't get any ducks."
Putnam nodded assent. "You bet it is," he answered, "but we'll get theducks, too. We'll surprise Mr. Fenton, if we can." He was silent for amoment, then added, "Say, Dick, you've been here two months now. Whatdo you think of the master anyway; and what do you think of theschool?"
Dick did not hesitate. "I think they're both bully," he answeredpromptly. "At first I used to laugh at Harry Allen for the way he wenton about Mr. Fenton. I thought it sounded pretty foolish; buteverything he said is so. I can't imagine how any one could be muchnicer. It's just as Allen told me once--he doesn't preach, you know; Ihate the pious kind of talk like anything; but he's just--well, Idon't know--just so darned _square_ to a fellow, somehow. And then, ifyou try to do anything yourself--just in little ways, I mean--you'vekind of got the feeling that he's on to it, right away. He never givesyou any soft soap, either, but if you're trying to plug along aboutright, you've got a sort of idea that he knows it; and if you're up tosomething you oughtn't to be up to, you've got just the same feelingthat he's on to that, too. It's hard to explain; it's just like--justas if--oh, well, confound it, Jim, I can't put it into words, but youknow what I mean."
Putnam nodded. "Sure I do," he answered; "and it _is_ hard to put intowords just the way you say. That was the reason I asked. I wanted tosee how it hit you, coming into the school new the way you have. Butit's so, isn't it? He never _talks_ about being good, or about doingyour duty, or any of that sort of thing--he only makes a speech once ayear, at commencement, and that's a short one. But I'll tell you whatI guess the secret is. I could never have expressed it--I'm not smartenough--but my father was up here last year, at graduation, and Iasked him afterward, when we got home, what he thought it was aboutMr. Fenton that made every one like him so. He said that was an easyone; that every man, who really made a success of his life, had twothings back of him. First, he was in love with his work, and second,he had high ideals _about_ his work. And he said you couldn't talkwith Mr. Fenton for five minutes, without seeing what an interest hetook in his school, and in his boys, and that more than makingscholars out of them, or athletes out of them, he wanted to make theminto men. And I guess that's about what we were trying to put inwords, and couldn't."
Dick thought hard; then nodded. "Well, I guess so, too," he answered,and then, after a pause, "But now look here, Jim, if that's so, whatdo you think about this business of class president? Because that's anawfully important thing for the school. It shows people at graduationthe kind of fellow we want to put forward to represent the class; andthe honor sticks to him in college, and really, you might say, in akind of way all through his life. And you can't tell me that you thinkDave Ellis is the fellow Mr. Fenton would honestly like to see electedpresident, now can you?"
Putnam shook his head. "No, I can't," he answered; "but that isn't upto Mr. Fenton, Dick; he never would interfere in anything like that.And I'll tell you why. I met a fellow last summer who was quiteprominent here in the school four or five years ago. We got to talkingabout different things and finally I told him about Dave and thepresidency. He said that the year he graduated there was a lot offeeling in his class over the election and that finally some of thefellows went to Mr. Fenton and asked him if he wouldn't use hisinfluence to try and get the right man in. He told them that wassomething he couldn't do; that if school life did anything at all itfitted fellows to meet some of the obstacles they'd have to run upagainst later in their lives and that this was just one of the thingsthey would have to do their best to work out by themselves withoutcoming to him. And, of course, you can see, when you come to think ofit, that he was right. It's just like a republic and a monarchy; wewouldn't want even as good a man as Mr. Fenton to rule us like a king.It's his part to get as much sense into us as he can, and if he can'tmake us smart enough to tell a good fellow from a bad one, why, thatisn't his fault. We've got to take the responsibility for thatourselves."
"Yes, I see," Dick assented; "but it's too bad, just the same, if weelect Dave. Because he isn't in it with Allen as a fellow. Harry's_white_ clear through. But it's funny about Dave. He's certainly gotan awful following; and I suppose he's dead sure to win."
Putnam nodded. "Yes, I think he is," he answered; "and reallyyou can't wonder at it, either. Athletics count for such a lotnowadays--too much, I think--and somehow if a fellow is a starathlete, that seems to blind every one to his faults. And then youknow what they say--that nothing succeeds like success. And Dave'sreally done a lot for the school in an athletic way. And they allthink he'll be the big winner this spring; they think he'll land thePentathlon, and help win the track meet, and of course that all helps.And then he's got that kind of a don
't-give-a-darn manner. It jars alot of the fellows, of course, just as it does you and me, but then,on the other hand, with a lot of the younger boys, it goes in greatstyle. I think they imagine it's just about the sort of air that areally great man ought to have. It's funny to see some of them tryingto imitate it. No, Dave's got the inside track.
"Allen's the better fellow, of course--Harry's about as nice as theycome--but I don't see how he can win. And it's queer, too, you know;but his being such a corker in a literary way hurts him just as muchas it helps him. He doesn't mean any harm by the way he's quoting hisold poets all the time, but it doesn't go with the crowd. You know howit is. If you don't know a thing, and the other fellow does know it,and you have kind of a guilty feeling all the time that you ought toknow it and don't, why then you sort of square up with yourself bygetting to dislike the other fellow for knowing more than you do.That's sad, but it's true. And yet, of course, as I say, right down atthe bottom, there's no comparison between the two fellows. Allen's asfair and square as a die, and the most kind-hearted chap that everstepped, nice to everybody, big boys and small. And Dave--well, Idon't know. I wouldn't slander a fellow for anything, but I don'tthink I'd trust old Dave very far. Did I ever tell you about NedBrewster and the daily themes?"
Dick shook his head. "No, I don't think you ever did," he answered."What about it?"
"Why," said Putnam; "it happened like this. There's an English coursein college, you know, where they have to write a theme every day. Wehave the same thing here, for a month, second half year--EnglishFourteen. Well, Ned Brewster was talking to a crowd of fellows one dayabout a letter his brother had written him from college, telling quitea lot about this daily theme business--all about the good ones, andthe funny ones, and a lot of things like that. Ned never thoughtanything more about it, but a little while after that Dave came tohim, and asked him if he didn't think it would be an awfully goodscheme to get Ned's brother to have copies of all his themes made andsent down to Ned, so they'd be all solid for that month of EnglishFourteen. Bright idea, wasn't it?"
Dick whistled. "Well," he ejaculated; "the mean skunk! What nerve!What did Ned say?"
Putnam grinned. "Not very much," he answered. "He told me he thoughtat first Dave was joking, but when he got it through his head that hewas really in earnest I guess his language was quite picturesque. Davehates him like poison now, and it makes it hard for Ned, being captainof the track team, you know, and Dave being the star athlete. It givesDave all sorts of mean little chances to try to make the fellows thinkNed isn't being square about the work, and all that sort of thing. Youknow what I mean. He keeps grumbling all the time, and saying that Nedshows favoritism to fellows he likes, and a lot of rot like that. Andit hurts, too, because there are always some fellows foolish enough tobelieve it, and the first thing you know, you've got a split in theclass. However, we're none of us perfect, so I suppose we can't be toohard on Dave. Maybe we can elect Allen, anyway. Something may happenin the next six weeks. I know one thing, anyway; Dave's got to hustlelike a good one if he means to keep up in his work. I understand thathe's right on the danger line now, and the mid tears are always prettystiff, harder than the finals, I always thought. If he shouldn't pass,he wouldn't be eligible for the presidency--and as far as that goes,he wouldn't be eligible for athletics either. Wouldn't that raise thedeuce? I suppose the track team would crumple like a piece of paperwithout Dave in the weights and the Pentathlon. Golly, though, thatreminds me, Dick. Ned Brewster says you're the coming man on thetrack. Is that straight? Did you really do five six in the gym?"
Dick nodded. "Well, yes," he answered; "I believe I did. Only once,though. You know how it is. A fellow will get in a lucky jump, once ina while."
Putnam laughed. "Don't be so ashamed of it," he said good-naturedly."That's a corking good jump for any one. Some fellows go pluggingalong half their lives, and don't get that high. Who can beat it,besides Johnson?"
Dick pondered. "Well, I can't think of any one," he said at last;"still, there may be a lot of fellows I don't know about--"
Putnam cut him short. "Oh, nonsense," he cried; "don't we get all thegossip from the school papers, and from the fellows we see? Didn't weknow, the very same day, when Johnson broke the Clinton record, thattime he did five eight and a half? No, sir, you're good for secondplace in the high, in the big meet, and that means your 'F.' What moredo you want than that? Your first year at the game."
Dick was silent. Finally he said hesitatingly, "Well, Jim, I know I'ma fool, but I'd like awfully well to have some show for thePentathlon."
Putnam looked at him in amazement. "Well, for Heaven's sake!" heejaculated. "You don't want a great deal, do you? With Dave andJohnson both in the game? Why, where would you fit with them, Dick?"
Randall reddened a trifle. "Oh, well, probably I wouldn't," hereturned; "but you see, they've both got their weak points. Dave'smighty good in the weights--I couldn't touch him there--but then inthe jump he's really poor, and in the hundred and hurdles he's no morethan fair. And Johnson's a great jumper, and a good man at the hundredand hurdles, but he isn't up in the weights, by a long shot. I don'tmean," he added quickly, "that I think I can beat either of them now;maybe I never can beat them; but they could be beaten, just the same,easier than people think. It isn't as if either of them was so goodthat you'd know right away it was no use tackling them; and I don'tknow about Johnson, but I don't think Dave's going to improve a greatdeal on what he did when school began. He's really pretty stupid aboutathletics, just the way he is about books. He can't learn the knack ofthat high jump, to save himself. No, they could be beaten, all right,if a fellow could only get good enough."
Putnam considered. "Well, maybe that's so," he doubtfully admitted atlast. "What can you do with the shot, Dick? And the hammer?"
"I'm putting the shot around thirty-five," Randall answered; "but thehammer is my weak spot. I can throw it pretty well from a stand, but Ican't seem to learn the turn. I can beat Ellis sprinting, though, andI'm pretty sure I can beat him hurdling. But, of course, the hammerand shot would make all the difference. Still, it doesn't matter,anyway--the whole thing--as long as Dave can win for the school, onlyI figured that since it was so close between him and Johnson, it wouldbe better for us to have two men training, in place of one. But Iguess it's only a dream, anyway; I've got to learn to throw a hammerbefore I can make any sort of show."
Putnam nodded. "Yes, that's so," he answered. "The Pentathlon's anevent where you've got to be pretty good at everything; you can't haveany one weak spot, where you won't score at all, or you might as wellstay out. Still, if you could get the knack with the hammer, I don'tsee but what you really might have a chance, after all. I didn'trealize you could put a shot thirty-five feet. But for goodness' sake,Dick," he concluded, "promise me one thing. If you get to be the bestthat ever happened, _don't_ go and get a swelled head; I've seen thatso many times, where a new fellow makes good. It's natural, I suppose,but awfully painful for his friends."
Dick colored. "Of course I wouldn't," he replied with someindignation. "I don't believe there's much danger of my gettinganywhere, in the first place; but even if I ever did, I wouldn't besuch a fool as that. There's no sense in it. Mr. Fenton gave me adandy book the other day--the best book I ever read--_Rodney Stone_.There's a lot about prize-fighting in it, and it tells about LordNelson, and Beau Brummel, and all about those times. But theprize-fighting was the best. There's one chapter, _The Smith's LastFight_, why, I could feel the shivers running up and down my back,just as if I'd been there myself. Oh, it was bully! And it comes in,in the book, how every one of the champions, first and last, had tomeet his match. 'Youth will be served, my masters,' that's what oneold fellow keeps saying, and you can learn something from a book likethat, now I tell you. You can learn that no matter how good you are,there's always some one that will beat you and the greatest athlete inthe world has to go down with the rest. But it's all right to try towin, just the same. You want to turn out a winning crew just as muchas I want to s
ee the track team win, but I don't tell you not to getswelled headed. Come, now, isn't that right?"
Putnam hastened to assent. "Oh, sure," he answered; "I was onlywarning you; I didn't really believe there was any danger. 'Andspeaking of the crew, Dick, I think, by gracious, we've got more showthan people imagine. Most of the fellows have an idea that Clinton'sgoing to win, because they made a fast time row this fall, but I'm notworrying much over that. They only beat us half a length last year,and we're seconds better now than we were then. This new fellow,Smith, is a dandy at three, and Jimmy Blagden is twice the man he waslast spring. He was really the weak spot in the crew, but now he's asgood a bow as I'd want to see. So don't think your old track team isthe only pebble; you're going to hear from us, too. We want that cup."
For two hours the talk flowed steadily along. Athletics, lessons, thepresidency, the ducks, all taking their turn. And then at last, alittle before noon, they passed the northern limit of the woods; thelake lay bright and blue before them, and a half mile or so ahead, inthe middle of a sunny clearing, they beheld Cluff's farm.
Dick Randall, the Young Athlete Page 3