Left Tackle Thayer

CHAPTER I

A NEW BOY AND AN OLD ONE

A boy in a blue serge suit sat on the sec­ond tier of seats of an oth­er­wise emp­ty grand-​stand and, with his straw hat pulled well over his eyes, watched the progress of a horse-​drawn mow­er about a field. The horse was a big, well-​fed chest­nut, and as he walked slow­ly along he bobbed his head rhyth­mi­cal­ly. In the seat of the mow­er perched a thin lit­tle man in a pair of blue over­alls and a shirt which had al­so been blue at one time, but which was now fad­ed al­most white. A broad-​brimmed straw hat of the sort af­fect­ed by farm­ers, pro­tect­ed his head from the noon­day sun. Be­tween the over­alls and the rusty bro­gans on his feet sev­er­al inch­es of bare an­kle in­ter­vened, and, as he pa­rad­ed slow­ly around the field, al­most the on­ly sign of life he showed was when he oc­ca­sion­al­ly stooped to brush a mosquito from these ex­posed por­tions of his anato­my. The horse, too, wore bro­gans, big round leather shoes which strapped over his hoofs and pro­tect­ed the turf, and, hav­ing nev­er be­fore seen a horse in leather boots, the boy on the grand-​stand had been for a while mild­ly in­ter­est­ed. But the nov­el­ty had palled some time ago, and now, lean­ing for­ward with his sun-​browned hands clasped loose­ly be­tween his knees, he con­tin­ued to watch the mow­er mere­ly be­cause it was the on­ly ob­ject in sight that was not mo­tion­less, if one ex­cepts the white clouds mov­ing slow­ly across a blue Septem­ber sky.

Now and then the clouds seemed to shad­ow the good-​look­ing, tanned face of the youth, pro­duc­ing a trou­bled, som­bre ex­pres­sion. The truth is that Mas­ter Clin­ton Boyd Thay­er was lone­some and, al­though he would have de­nied it vig­or­ous­ly, a lit­tle bit home­sick. (At six­teen one may be home­sick even though one scoffs at the no­tion.) Clin­ton had left his home at Cedar Run, Vir­ginia, the evening be­fore, had changed in­to a sleep­er at Wash­ing­ton just be­fore mid­night, and reached New York very ear­ly this morn­ing. From there, al­though he had un­til five in the af­ter­noon to reach Brim­field Acade­my, he had de­part­ed af­ter a break­fast eat­en in the Ter­mi­nal and had ar­rived at Brim­field at a lit­tle be­fore nine. An hour had suf­ficed him to reg­is­ter and un­pack his bag and trunk in the room as­signed to him in Tor­rence Hall. Since that time--and it was now al­most twelve o'clock--he had wan­dered about the school. He had peeped in­to the oth­er dor­mi­to­ries and the recita­tion build­ing, had ex­plored the gym­na­si­um from base­ment to tro­phy room and, fi­nal­ly, had loi­tered across the ath­let­ic field to the grand-​stand, where, for the bet­ter part of an hour, he had been sit­ting in the sun, get­ting lone­li­er ev­ery minute.

Clint--ev­ery­one had al­ways called him Clint and we might as well fall in line--had nev­er been far­ther north than Bal­ti­more; and to­day he felt him­self not on­ly a long way from home but in a coun­try some­how strange­ly and un­com­fort­ably alien. The few per­sons he had en­coun­tered had been quite civ­il to him, to be sure; and the sun­light was the same sun­light that shone down on Cedar Run, but for all of that it seemed as if no one much cared where he was or what hap­pened to him, and the air felt dif­fer­ent­ly and the coun­try looked dif­fer­ent, and--and, well, he rather wished him­self back in Vir­ginia!

He had nev­er been en­thu­si­as­tic about go­ing North to school. It had been his moth­er's idea. Mr. Thay­er was will­ing that Clint should pre­pare for col­lege in his na­tive state, but Clint's moth­er had oth­er ideas. Mr. Thay­er had grad­uat­ed from Prince­ton and it had long been set­tled that Clint was to be ed­ucat­ed there too; and Clint's moth­er in­sist­ed that since he was to at­tend a North­ern col­lege it would be bet­ter for him to go to a North­ern prepara­to­ry school. Clint him­self had not felt strong­ly enough about it to ob­ject. Sev­er­al of his chums had gone or were go­ing to Vir­ginia Mil­itary Col­lege; and Clint would have liked to go there too, al­though the mil­itary fea­ture didn't es­pe­cial­ly ap­peal to him. Brim­field Acade­my, at Brim­field, New York, had fi­nal­ly been se­lect­ed, prin­ci­pal­ly be­cause a cousin of Clint's on his fa­ther's side had once at­tend­ed the school. The fact that the cousin in ques­tion had nev­er amount­ed to much and was now clerk­ing in a shoe store in Nor­folk was not held against the school.

So far the boy had liked what he had seen of Brim­field well enough. The thir­ty-​mile jour­ney from New York on the train had been through an at­trac­tive coun­try, with now and then a fleet­ing glimpse of wa­ter to add va­ri­ety to the land­scape; and the woods and fields around the Acade­my were pret­ty. From where he sat at the east end of the ath­let­ic field he could look along the backs of the build­ings, which ran in a row straight along the edge of a plateau. Near­est at hand was the gym­na­si­um. Then came Wen­dell and Tor­rence, the lat­ter hav­ing the hon­our of be­ing Clint's abode for the en­su­ing nine months. Next was Main Hall, con­tain­ing recita­tion rooms, the as­sem­bly room, the li­brary and the of­fice; an old­er build­ing and built all of brick where­as the oth­er struc­tures were uni­form­ly of stone as to first sto­ry and brick above. Be­yond Main Hall were Hensey and Billings, both dor­mi­to­ries, and, at the west­ern end of the row and slight­ly out of line, The Cot­tage, where dwelt the Prin­ci­pal, Mr. Fer­nald, of whom Clint knew lit­tle and, it must be con­fessed, cared, at the present mo­ment, still less. In front of the build­ings the ground fell away to the coun­try road over which Clint had that morn­ing trav­elled be­hind a som­no­lent grey horse and a vol­uble driv­er, to the last of which com­bi­na­tion he owed most of his in­for­ma­tion re­gard­ing the Acade­my.

Be­hind the build­ings--in school par­lance, the Row--lay the ath­let­ic field, al­most twelve acres in ex­tent, bor­dered on the fur­ther side by a ris­ing slope of for­est. Here there were foot­ball grid-​irons--three of them, as the six goals in­di­cat­ed--quar­ter-​mile run­ning-​track, a base­ball di­amond and a dozen ten­nis courts. The di­amond was most in ev­idence, for the grand-​stand stood be­hind the plate and the base paths, bare of turf, formed a square in front of it. Even the foul lines had not been ut­ter­ly oblit­er­at­ed by sun and rain, but were dim­ly dis­cernible, where the mow­er had passed, as yel­low­er streaks against the vivid green. It was a splen­did field; Clint had to ac­knowl­edge that; and for a time the thought of play­ing foot­ball on it had al­most dis­persed his gloom. But the af­ter-​re­flec­tion that for all he knew his ser­vices might not be re­quired on the Eleven, that very pos­si­bly his brand of foot­ball was not good enough for Brim­field, had caused a re­lapse in­to de­pres­sion. Thrice he had told him­self that as soon as the plod­ding horse reached the fur­ther turn he would get up and go back to his room, and thrice he had failed to keep his promise. He won­dered who his room-​mate was to be and whether that youth had yet ar­rived, but his cu­rios­ity was not strong enough to get him up. Now, how­ev­er, the mow­er was again travers­ing the op­po­site end of the field, and again ap­proach­ing the fur­ther cor­ner, and once more he made the agree­ment with him­self, re­al­ly mean­ing to live up to it. But, as events proved, he was not des­tined to keep faith.

From around the cor­ner of the stand fur­thest from the Row ap­peared a boy in a suit of light grey flan­nels. The coat, hang­ing open, dis­played a soft shirt of no un­cer­tain shade of he­liotrope. A bow-​tie of lemon-​yel­low with pur­ple dots nes­tled un­der his chin and be­tween the cuffs of his trousers and the rub­ber-​soled tan shoes a four-​inch ex­panse of he­liotrope silk stock­ings showed. A straw hat with a par­tic­ular­ly nar­row brim was adorned with a rib­bon of al­ter­nat­ing bars of ma­roon and grey. He was in­deed a cheer­ful and colour­ful youth, his cheer­ful­ness be­ing fur­ther ev­idenced by the jaun­ty swing­ing of a stick which he had ap­par­ent­ly cut from a wil­low and by the gay whistling of a tune. On sight of Clint, how­ev­er, the stick stopped swing­ing and the whistling came to an end in the mid­dle of a note.

“Hi!” said the youth in sur­prised tones.

“Hel­lo,” an­swered Clint po­lite­ly.

The new­com­er paused and viewed the boy on the stand with frank cu­rios­ity. Then his gaze wan­dered across to the mow­er, which was at the in­stant mak­ing the turn at the fur­ther cor­ner, over by the ten­nis courts. Fi­nal­ly,

“Boss­ing the job?” he asked, nod­ding to­ward the mow­er.

Clint smiled and shook his head. “No, just--just loaf­ing.”

“Hot, isn't it?” The oth­er pushed the gai­ly-​rib­boned hat to the back of his head and drew a pale laven­der hand­ker­chief across his fore­head. “Been mo­sey­ing around over there in the woods,” he con­tin­ued when Clint had mur­mured agree­ment. “Study­ing Na­ture in her man­ifold moods. Na­ture is some warm to­day. There's a sort of a breeze here, though, isn't there?”

Clint agreed again, more doubt­ful­ly, and the boy who had been study­ing Na­ture seat­ed him­self side­wise on a seat be­low, draw­ing his feet up and clasp­ing his hands about his knees. He was a good-​look­ing, mer­ry-​faced chap of sev­en­teen, with dark-​brown eyes, a short nose lib­er­al­ly freck­led un­der the tan and a rather promi­nent chin with a deep dim­ple in it. His po­si­tion re­vealed a full ten inch­es of the startling hose; and, since they were al­most un­der his nose, Clint gazed at them fas­ci­nat­ed­ly.

“Some socks, are they not?” in­quired the youth.

Clint, al­ready a lit­tle em­bar­rassed by the oth­er's friend­li­ness, re­moved his gaze hur­ried­ly.

“They're very--nice,” he mur­mured.

The oth­er el­evat­ed one an­kle and viewed it ap­prov­ing­ly. “Saw them in a win­dow in New York yes­ter­day and fell for them at once. I've got an­oth­er pair that are sort of pinky-​grey, ash­es of ros­es, I guess. Watch for them. They'll glad­den your heart. You're new, aren't you?”

“Yes, I got here this morn­ing,” replied Clint. “I sup­pose you're--you're not.”

“No, this is my third year. I'm in the Fifth Form. What's yours?”

“I don't know yet. I reck­on they'll put me in the Fourth.”

“I see. How's ev­ery­thing be­low the Line?”

“Be­low the line?” re­peat­ed Clint.

“Yes, Ma­son and Dixon's. You're from the South, aren't you?”

“Oh! Yes, I come from Vir­ginia; Cedar Run.”

The oth­er chuck­led. “What state did you say?” he asked.

“Vir­ginia,” re­spond­ed Clint in­no­cent­ly. “Great! 'Vay-​gin-​ya.'” He shook his head. “No, I can't get it.”

It dawned on Clint that the oth­er was try­ing to mim­ic his pro­nun­ci­ation of the word, and he felt re­sent­ful un­til a look at the boy's face showed that he in­tend­ed no im­per­ti­nence.

“I love to hear a South­ern­er talk,” he went on. “There was a chap here named Broland year be­fore last; came from Al­aba­ma, I think. He was fine! Red-​hot he was, too. You could al­ways get a fall out of Bud Broland by men­tion­ing Grant or Sher­man. He used to fly right off the han­dle and wave the Stars-​and-​Bars fit to kill! We used to tell him that the war was over, but he wouldn't be­lieve it.”

Clint smiled doubt­ful­ly. “Is he here now?” he asked.

“Broland? No, he on­ly stayed a lit­tle while. Couldn't get used to our ways. Found school life too--too con­fin­ing. He used to take trips, and Fac­ul­ty didn't ap­prove.”

“Trips?” asked Clint.

The oth­er nod­ded. “Yes, he used to put a clean col­lar in his pock­et and run down to New York for week-​ends. Fac­ul­ty was sort of nar­row-​mind­ed and re­gret­ful­ly packed him off home to Al­abam'. Bud was a good sort, but--well, he need­ed a larg­er scope for his tal­ents than school af­ford­ed. I guess the right place for Bud would have been a good big ranch out West some­where. He need­ed lots of room!”

Clint smiled. “What time do we eat?” he asked present­ly, when they had silent­ly watched the pas­sage of the mow­er. The oth­er boy tugged at a fob which dan­gled at his belt and pro­duced a sil­ver watch.

“Let's see.” He frowned in­tent­ly a mo­ment. “I was twelve min­utes fast yes­ter­day af­ter­noon. That would make me about twen­ty min­utes ahead now. I'd say the ab­so­lute­ly cor­rect time was some­where be­tween eleven-​fifty-​eight and twelve-​six. And din­ner's at half-​past.”

“Thank you,” laughed Clint. He pulled forth his own watch and looked at it. “I make it two min­utes af­ter,” he said, “and I was right this morn­ing by the clock in the sta­tion in New York.”

“Two min­utes past, eh?” The boy be­low set his time­piece and slipped it back un­der his belt. “It must be great to have a watch like yours. I used to have one but I left it at the rink last Win­ter and it fell in­to the snow, I guess, and I nev­er did find it. Then I bought me this. It's guar­an­teed for a year.”

“Why don't you take it back, then?”

“Oh, I've got sort of used to it now. Af­ter all, there's a cer­tain ex­cite­ment about hav­ing a watch like this. You nev­er know whether you're go­ing to be late or ear­ly. If I have to catch a train I al­ways al­low thir­ty min­utes lee­way. It's twelve o'clock, all right. Solomon's quit.” He nod­ded to­ward where the man in the blue over­alls was un­hitch­ing the horse from the mow­er. “You can't fool Solomon on the din­ner hour.”

“Is that his name?” in­quired Clint.

“I don't sup­pose so. That's what he's called, though. He nev­er says any­thing and so he seems to be all-​fired wise. There's a lot in that, do you know? Bet you if I didn't talk so much I'd get the rep­uta­tion of be­ing re­al brainy. Guess I'll have to try it.” He grinned broad­ly and Clint smiled back in sym­pa­thy.

“Let's tell our names,” said the oth­er. “Mine's Byrd; first name, Amory; nick­named Amy. Pret­ty bad, but it might be worse.”

“Mine's Clin­ton Thay­er.”

“Thay­er? We've got some cousins of that name. They're North­ern­ers, though. Live in New Hamp­shire. No re­la­tion to you, I guess. I sup­pose fel­lows call you Clint, don't they?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Clint, let's mo­sey back and have some din­ner. I had a re­mark­ably ear­ly repast this morn­ing and feel as though I could tri­fle with some re­al food.”

“So do I,” replied Clint as he climbed down. “I had my break­fast at half-​past six.”

“Great Scott! What for?”

“The train got in at six and there was noth­ing else to do. I got here be­fore nine.”

“You did? I thought I was one of the ear­ly Byrds--Joke! Get it?--but I didn't sight the Dear Old School un­til af­ter ten. Couldn't find any fel­lows I knew and so went for a walk. Most of the fel­lows don't get here un­til af­ter­noon. By the way, who do you room with?”

“I don't know,” replied Clint. “I didn't ask. They put me--”

“I don't know ei­ther,” sighed Amy. “I found a lot of truck in my room, but I haven't seen the own­er yet. The fel­low who was in with me last year has left school. Gone to live in Chi­na. Wish I could! I sup­pose the fel­low I draw will be a reg­ular mutt.” They had reached the cor­ner of Wen­dell, and Amy paused. “The din­ing room's in here. If you don't mind wait­ing un­til I run up and wash a bit we'll eat to­geth­er.”

“I'd like to,” an­swered Clint, “but I reck­on I'll wash too.”

He moved along with the oth­er to­ward the next dor­mi­to­ry.

“Aren't you in Wen­dell?” asked Amy.

“No, this next one. Tor­rey, isn't it?”

“Tor­rence.” Amy stopped and viewed him With sud­den in­ter­est. “Say, what num­ber?”

“Four­teen.”

“_Well, what do you know about that_?”

“What?” Clint fal­tered.

“Why--why--” Amy seized his hand and shook it vig­or­ous­ly. “Clint, I want to con­grat­ulate you! I do, in­deed!”

Clint smiled. “Thanks, Byrd, but what about?”

“Byrd?” mur­mured the oth­er dis­ap­point­ed­ly. “Is that the best you can do af­ter our long ac­quain­tance? You--you grieve me!”

“Amory, then,” laughed Clint.

“Call me Amy,” begged the oth­er. “You'll call me worse than that when you've known me longer, but for now let it be Amy.”

“All right. And now, please, what am I be­ing con­grat­ulat­ed for?”

Amy's face be­came sud­den­ly earnest and sober, “Be­cause, my young friend, you are es­pe­cial­ly for­tu­nate. A kind­ly Prov­idence has placed you in the care of one of the wis­est, most re­spect­ed, er--finest ex­am­ples of young man­hood this in­sti­tu­tion af­fords. I cer­tain­ly do con­grat­ulate you!”

Amy made an­oth­er grab at Clint's hand, but the lat­ter foiled him.

“You mean the fel­low I'm go­ing to room with?” he asked.

“Ex­act­ly! Fac­ul­ty has in­deed been good to you, Clint. You will take up your abode with a youth in whom all the virtues and--and ex­cel­len­cies--”

“Who is he?” de­mand­ed Clint sus­pi­cious­ly.

“His name”--Amy drew close and dropped his voice to an awed and thrilling whis­per--“his name is--Are you pre­pared?”

“Go on. Ill try to stand it.”

“His name, then, is Amory Mun­son Byrd!”

“Amory Mun--”

“--son Byrd!”

“You mean--I'm in with you?”

“I mean just that, O for­tu­nate youth! For­ward, sir! Al­low me to con­duct you to your apart­ment!” And, putting his arm through Clint's, he dragged that as­ton­ished youth in­to dor­mi­to­ry.