“Sure to be,” answered Dave, who was arranging the spread on the study table of No. 2 Hampton, now denuded of its customary litter of books, paper, and rubbish. “And he’ll be here pretty quick; I told him we’d wait until nine, and if he wasn’t here then we’d start in.”

“Thunder!” yelled Don, suddenly leaping up and dancing around the table.

“What?” cried the others, in a breath.

“Where’s the water? All the mustard in those pickles got on top and – ” He buried his face in the pitcher that Dave held out.

“Serves you right,” grinned Wayne. “Had no business tasting things.”

“I like your cheek,” said Don indignantly. “You’ve been sitting there eating biscuits for five minutes. Look, Dave, he’s eaten the whole top layer off!”

“Pig!” cried Dave, and rescued the tin, placing it on the table, where it was flanked by sheets of writing paper in lieu of dishes holding potted duck, mince tarts, a pineapple cheese, and preserved figs, the latter overflowing in sticky streams on to the table top.

“What’ll we crack the nuts with, Dave?” asked Don.

“Nuts? Find one of Paddy’s football brogans in the closet. Crack ’em on the hearth and stuff the shells in Paddy’s bed. Too late, though – he’s coming, and he’s got some one with him. Let’s welcome ’em.”

Paddy and Greene entered amid a fusillade of walnuts and cork stoppers, and by concerted action ran Dave into a closet and turned the key on him.

“Are you It?” asked Don eagerly.

“I’m It,” replied Paddy, striking an attitude. “And Greene’s a back number – aren’t you, Greeney? And I can pommel you all I want and not lose my place on the team, can’t I?”

“Hooray!” It was the muffled tones of Dave from the closet.

“Shut up, you! Greene withdrew and so I got the captaincy. He could have had it again if he’d wanted it.”

“Rot!” said Greene. “I was out of it, and I knew it. Besides, I didn’t want it again. Three times is too much. I’m awfully glad it went to Paddy. He’ll make a good captain, Cunningham; don’t you think so?” Don’s reply was interrupted by the sound of breaking wood. Dave emerged from the closet in a heap, and, picking himself up, seized Paddy and forced him into a wild dance about the room.

“Hooray for Paddy – Captain Paddy!” he shouted. In the dance Paddy’s nice white bandage came off and exposed a very black eye, which lent a thoroughly desperate and disreputable look to the countenance of the newly elected captain of the football team.

“By the way, Greene, do you know Gordon?” asked Paddy, as the boys found seats about the table and without further ceremony began the feast. Greene didn’t, and very graciously shook hands.

“You’re the fellow that got spunky to-day, aren’t you?” he asked smilingly. Wayne nodded, looking bored.

“Wayne doesn’t like the subject,” said Dave. “It’s a matter of lasting regret to him that he didn’t reach that chap Kirkwell.”

“Well, don’t worry, my boy,” said Paddy, as he filled his mouth with cracker and jam. “I reached him once. I didn’t do it the way I should have liked to, of course, because I was seeing double and having hard work to keep my pins, but I fetched him a very decent little jab on the neck. He got me four times before I gave up – hang him! Mind you, fellows, I don’t believe in slugging, and I never did it before – that is, since I have been on the team – but to-day I got tired of having him bang me every time there was a mix-up, so I forgot myself.” And Paddy grinned reminiscently and tried to wink his damaged eye at Wayne.

“Kirkwell’s a dirty player,” said Greene. “Pass some of that cheese, will you? – He played last year, you know, and Jasper caught him slugging once in the game with the Yates freshmen and put him off. Jasper’s St. Eustace’s captain,” he explained to Wayne. “He’s an awfully decent chap, too, and he promised me to-day that Kirkwell shouldn’t play again if he could help it.”

“Dave, Wallace was up yesterday to ask about the hockey team – wants you and me to join again. He’s got seven games arranged; one with St. Eustace and one with a high school club at Troy, or somewhere. Want to go in?” And Don poised a tart in front of his mouth and waited a reply.

“I guess so. You going to try, Paddy?”

“I might. There’s lots of time to decide. There’ll be no decent ice on the river, I dare say, for a month yet.”

“I’m going to try for it,” continued Don. “We had lots of fun last year. Can you skate, Wayne?”

Wayne hesitated and munched a sandwich.

“Yes, I can skate,” he said finally. “But – ”

“Then you’d better report next Saturday in the gym,” said Don. “Greene, are you trying for a scholarship this term?” Greene sighed.

“Trying? Oh, yes, I’m trying; but I haven’t the least idea of making it. But I’m going to buckle down now and put in some hard licks at grinding. I suppose you’re sure of one, aren’t you, you lucky beggar?”

“No, I’m not at all sure; but I may win a Master’s. Paddy’s the only fellow here, I suppose, that’s certain of a scholarship.”

“Indade an’ I’m not certain at all at all,” said Paddy. “I’ve done well with Latin and fairly well with Greek, but, whisper, English has me floored. And old ‘Turkey’ has been putting the screws on me all term, bad scran to him. But,” continued Paddy, with beautiful modesty, “me deportment has been of the best.”

“Well, we’ll all know in a month; and there’s no good in worrying,” said Dave. “Somebody have some more of everything.”

“I can ate no more,” answered Paddy sorrowfully. “It’s out of practice I am altogether.”

“And I’ve had enough,” said Don.

“Same here,” echoed Greene. “I must be getting home. It’s ten o’clock, and I’m dog tired. Good night, fellows; and better luck next year, Paddy. Any one going my way?”

Wayne and Don arose, and the three said good night and picked their way out through the darkened hall and across the dimly lighted green toward their dormitories.

“By the way, Gordon,” said the ex-captain of the football team, breaking the silence, “that was well meant to-day, you know – your jumping on that St. Eustace fellow – and nobody blames you; but – well, it isn’t just the thing, you see – we don’t do it at Hillton. You – you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” answered Wayne gloomily. “I see what you mean, but I don’t understand – Never mind, though, I’ll remember next time.”

“Glad you take it that way,” said Greene. “It’s not my place to mention it to you, only – being a chum of Cunningham’s – and your first term here – Well, good night, fellows.”

Wayne had almost fallen asleep, when he was aroused by a muffled chuckle from the direction of Don’s bed.

“What’s up?” he asked sleepily.

“Nothing,” was the response. “I just remembered that I put the walnut shells in Dave’s boots.”

When Wayne told Don that he could skate, he had not been quite truthful.

“He asked me, ‘Can you skate?’” reasoned Wayne; “not ‘Do you skate?’ And of course I can if I try hard enough!”

But the argument didn’t quite satisfy him, and he set out to lend veracity to it by purchasing a pair of half-clamp skates in the village and seeking an unfrequented pond fully a mile from the school. About Wayne’s home in Virginia skates were seldom seen and more seldom used. But the boy had been ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance before the others who did so many things well. He had been about to qualify his assent by adding that he could not skate very well when Don interrupted him.

To learn to skate without instruction is almost as difficult as to learn to swim unaided, and Wayne’s troubles began on the first afternoon that he eluded his friends and sneaked off through the village. The pond was hidden from the road by willows, and he had little fear of interruption. After a struggle of several moments he at last managed to affix his skates – he put the left one on the right shoe, and vice versa– and stepped on to the ice. The immediate result was as surprising as it was disappointing, for his first step resulted not in progress but in prostration, his head coming in violent contact with the frozen earth at the margin of the ice. He arose with a thumping headache, and after a moment of painful bewilderment turned his steps homeward, with a vastly increased respect for the art of skating and a heightened dislike for it as the result of his first lesson.

But he was back again the next day. He found a friendly branch leaning out over the ice, and with its aid experimented on his runners, making numerous remarkable discoveries in the next ten minutes. He found that it was necessary to place the rear foot at an angle while he advanced the front one, and that as long as the center of gravity of his body remained in advance of one foot he was in little danger of falling. But as soon as the branch was discarded he sat down just where the ice was hardest, and it took him a whole minute of the most careful management to get his feet under him again; and when that was accomplished he discovered to his dismay that he was sliding, as though propelled by invisible force, toward the very middle of the pond, his skates gradually parting company and his body held as though in the act of sitting. The thing was so disconcerting that he was heartily glad when he did take a seat, even though it was at a disheartening distance from shore. He first considered crawling back to terra firma on his hands and knees, but that would seem too much like giving up; so he again went through the remarkable contortions necessary to recover his equilibrium, and finally reached the shore after a series of exciting adventures, during which one skate became detached at the toe and his breath forsook him entirely. Four more falls completed that day’s lesson, and he went back to the school with his head buzzing like a hive of bees and his body covered with bruises.

A thaw set in that night, and for the next few days he had to content himself with studying the art from a volume of the Badminton Library. The book wasn’t much of a help. It seemed as though the famous skater who had written the chapter headed First Principles of Skating, and Suggestions to Beginners, had been so overpowered by the magnitude of his task that he had given up in despair before he had begun. The few facts of practical value which he had mentioned Wayne had already discovered by painful experience.

But two weeks before Christmas, and a week before the end of the fall term, the ice on the ponds again froze to a respectable thickness, and Wayne continued his self-instruction. Six excursions had been made to the little pond, and the boy had attained to a degree of skill which allowed of his circling the ice without falling, and he was fast becoming both fond of the sport and proud of his ability. But pride goes before a fall, especially in skating. One afternoon Wayne had twice encompassed the pond, and was seriously considering an attempt at skating backward, when one runner encountered a twig imbedded in the surface, and he took a most undignified tumble. His wounded feelings were in no measure relieved by the peals of boisterous laughter that issued from across the pond, where, hidden by the willows, Paddy and Dave had crouched, interested spectators of his disaster.

“Bully for Old Virginia!” bawled Paddy.

“I say, Wayne,” shouted Dave, “do that again, won’t you? I didn’t see the first of it!”

And then, as Wayne strove to recover his feet and his dignity, their gibes took a new turn, and Dave asked Paddy with elaborate politeness what the young gentleman on the ice was doing; and Paddy assured him that he wasn’t at all certain, but thought that the young gentleman was looking for something he had dropped; whereupon Dave thanked Paddy ceremoniously, and explained that he had supposed, judging from the fact that the young gentleman wore skates, you know, that the latter was skating; and Paddy assured him that he was mistaken, oh, quite mistaken, and that the young gentleman had no idea of skating; and Wayne floundered dejectedly up and sat down meekly on the bank, and told them mournfully that he didn’t mind, only they might just cut out a little of it!

When Don was gleefully informed of the affair by Paddy, he grinned delightedly.

“That’s just like Wayne,” he exclaimed. “Pluckiest and obstinatest chump in school.”

CHAPTER X
GRAY GOES INTO BUSINESS

The end of the fall term at Hillton is a busy time. The examinations occur then, and the award of scholarships is made on the last day of school. The less said about Wayne’s performance at the examinations the better for any good opinion the reader may entertain of that youth. He struggled through; let that suffice. The highest scholarship for the upper middle class, the Goodwin, went to “Charles Fitzgerald Breen, New York city,” and Paddy, blushing like a veritable junior, awkwardly bowed his thanks and received a salvo of most flattering applause. Don came in for the Carmichael scholarship, the next in importance, and Wayne cheered loudly, until kicked into silence by his chum. Dave’s name was not mentioned, but he declared cheerfully that Paddy’s success was “glory enough for all,” and displayed neither disappointment nor envy. Wayne, you may be sure, expected no honors, and so was not one of the many youths who took their way out of the school hall in deep dejection.

Wayne was to spend the winter vacation with Don at the latter’s home in Boston; Paddy’s holidays were to be observed in New York; and Dave, alone of the four, was to remain at school during the recess. Dave’s only near relatives – for his father and mother were both dead – lived in California, and a visit to them was out of the question. Both Don and Paddy extended invitations, but Dave was shy of strange people and houses and preferred to eat his Christmas dinner in the academy dining hall; and so one bright and cold morning he said good-by to his three friends at the station, waved a golf club cheerfully after the receding train, and loitered back to Hampton House, whistling bravely but feeling very lonesome.

The winter vacation lasted two weeks, and Don and Wayne enjoyed every instant of it, and returned to Hillton when the new year was already a week old, refreshed in body and mind, Don full of plans for the track team and a victory for the crimson, and Wayne with his head crowded with admirable resolutions regarding study. Acting upon the suggestion of the principal, he had paid several visits to Professor Durkee, whose rooms were on the first floor of Bradley Hall, and the result had been most encouraging. The professor of English was a lean and wrinkled little man, well past middle age, whose crabbed manner and stern enforcement of discipline had gained for him the dislike of many pupils and the sobriquet of “Turkey.” He was a hard taskmaster but a just one, and many a boy could have told a tale of leniency and kindness in which the little professor would have figured well. Wayne found him goodness itself under his crusty exterior, and a most patient and lucid instructor in the studies that bothered the boy most. And even after Wayne no longer needed the professor’s assistance he continued his occasional visits to the quiet study, and the two became firm friends.

Adhering to his resolves, Wayne spent more time at lessons, threatening to become, according to Paddy, a regular “grind.” Paddy professed to feel the wildest alarm over Wayne’s conduct, and suggested the infirmary as a suitable residence for a while; but Wayne didn’t mind, and before long even Don was forced to acknowledge that his roommate was exhibiting a most commendable studiousness. Alone in the study one afternoon, before a comfortable fire, and doggedly struggling with Greek, Wayne was interrupted by the entrance of Carl Gray. Ever since the latter had accepted Wayne’s loan he had punctually appeared each week with the promised fifty-cent payment, and a certain intimacy had sprung up between the two as a result of the visits. To-day he accepted the chair that Wayne shoved forward and put his wet shoes up to the blaze. But, contrary to custom, he did not at once bring forth his half dollar, and his host thought he detected signs of embarrassment on the younger boy’s countenance and in his manner. They talked for a few minutes about school topics and the prospects for skating on the river. Then Gray edged uncomfortably forward in his chair and cleared his throat.

“‘Wheels’ told me, that day you were in the office, Gordon, that when you have an explanation to make the best way is to go at it straight.” He paused and seemed to be looking for inspiration in the glowing fire.

“Hang it, Gray,” exclaimed Wayne, “I don’t know what you’re driving at; but if you’re trying to tell me that you haven’t – that it isn’t convenient for you to pay that old money to-day – why, cut it out! I’ve told you already that I don’t need it. How many more times do you want me to tell you?”

“Well, that’s it,” responded Carl Gray, breathing easier and looking grateful for the assistance. “But I’d like to explain about it. When I promised to pay you fifty cents a week I wanted to do it and meant to, and I still want to. I shan’t forget the – the kindness – ”

“Cut it,” warned the other.

“Well, but I couldn’t know that – the fact is, Gordon, that I didn’t get any allowance this week, and, what’s more, I don’t think I’ll get any next week. My mother writes that she has had to spend a lot of money on – on something she hadn’t foreseen. And she says she knows I won’t mind very much, since I have probably got a little saved from what she has sent before.” The boy paused and sighed. “I – I never told her, you know.”

“Of course not,” said Wayne cheerfully. “But don’t bother about my little old fifty cents, Gray. Tell your mother that you have gobs of money – just rolling in it; and if you don’t mind taking a loan – ”

“No,” cried Gray sharply. “I’m not going to borrow any more money. But it’s awfully good of you – indeed it is. I don’t need any money – much; at any rate, I’m not going to take any more from you. But I wanted to tell you how it was, so that you’d understand that the reason I didn’t pay you anything this week was because I didn’t have it.”

“All right. Only don’t bother about it. Are you lower middle fellows in the Anabasis?”

“Yes, the first book. But there is something else I wanted to – to ask you about, Gordon. You see you’re almost the only chap in the upper classes that I know; in fact, I don’t know very many fellows, anyhow; and I thought that if you could help me you would.”

“Of course I will,” answered Wayne heartily. “What is it?”

“I want to earn some money. Not for myself exactly, but I’d like to pay you, and I’d like to send a little to my mother. I guess it would be a lot easier for me to send her money than it is for her to send it to me. I was hoping I’d get a master’s scholarship, Gordon, but I suppose that affair of Porter’s bill spoiled that; it would have been awfully nice.”

“Yes, it would. But how can you earn any money, Gray?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I might make a little in this way. Do you play golf?” Wayne shook his head. “Well, fellows that do play have to give about thirty cents for balls; they’re expensive little things, and after they have been used a bit they’re likely to be dented and out of shape. Then they need to be remolded. Of course, remolded balls are never quite as good as new ones, but they’re all right for ordinary use and good enough for lots of the fellows here.”

Wayne had jumped up and now returned to the fireside with a handful of damaged golf balls, collected from various parts of the room.

“Are those the things?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Gray. “I can remold those. I learned how last year. A fellow I know has loaned me his press and I have everything else necessary. I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind speaking to the fellows you know, just telling them that I’ll remold their old balls for ten cents apiece, and do it well. Then, if they had any for me I could call and get them. Don’t you think that would be all right?”

“You bet,” said Wayne. “That’s a jolly good idea. I’ll get lots of balls for you to fuss with. And you can take these along with you now. Let’s see – two, four, six, nine of ’em in all. They’ll do to practice on.”

“But, I say, Gordon, they’re not yours, are they?”

“Mine? Great Jupiter, no! What would I be doing with the silly things? They’re Don Cunningham’s.”

“But will he want them remolded?” asked Gray doubtfully.

“Of course he will, when I explain it to him. Here, put ’em in your pockets. And to-morrow, Gray, come around here about this time and I’ll let you know what can be done. I think it’s a jolly good scheme, and there are so many fellows here that play golf that we ought to be able to find heaps of old balls. If we could get hold of, say, a hundred, that would mean ten dollars, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, only it wouldn’t be all profit, you know. Gutta percha costs quite a bit and so does paint. But it would be a lot of money, just the same; though if I could get fifty balls I’d be satisfied, Gordon.”

“Fifty? Pooh!” said Wayne. “We’ll get lots more than that. Just you wait and see.”

“You’re very good to help me; it will be a bother, I know; and you are so busy with your lessons, too.”

“Oh, I’ll find time between recitations, you know,” replied Wayne. “Come up about this time to-morrow. So long.”

“Good-by,” answered Gray, “and – and thanks awfully, Gordon.” Wayne scowled.

“Say, Gray, I wish you weren’t so full of ‘thank you’s.’ You just tire me to death with them.” Gray smiled from the doorway.

“All right; I’ll try to remember. Good-by.” He closed the door behind him, and Wayne turned back to his book. “I’ll bet Dave’s got a lot of old golf balls,” he muttered as he found his place. “I’ll speak to him to-night if I see him.”

But Dave didn’t turn up that evening, and the next afternoon, as soon as the last recitation was over, Wayne took a pad of paper and a pencil and started out to drum up trade. His first visit was to Hampton House, where he discovered both Dave and Paddy writing fast and furiously at the table, an atmosphere of excitement about them. Paddy stopped long enough to explain what was up.

“We’re going to have a grand spectacular skating carnival on the river next Wednesday. All the fellows are going in for it. Wallace and Greene and I are the committee, and – ”

“What committee?” asked Wayne.

“Oh, just a committee, you know, to get up the programme and arrange for the prizes and all that. We’re going to have a lot of races, handicap, novice, class, and a hurdle race. Say, will you enter the novice?”

“I reckon so. – Are you going to try, Dave?”

“Yep,” answered Dave, looking up for a moment from his work. “I’m down for everything.”

“But how do you know that there’ll be any ice by Wednesday, Paddy?” asked Wayne. Paddy nodded gleefully toward the front window.

“Look at the thermometer, my lad; it was only twenty above a minute ago, and it’s been going down steadily since noon. Oh, don’t you worry about the ice. That’s all right.”

“Well, just as you say, Paddy. – Dave, have you got any old golf balls?”

“Yep, somewhere. Why?”

“I want ’em.”

“Well, look about the place. There’s one or two in that mug over there.” Wayne searched the mantel and what drawers he came across, and soon had seven badly battered little globes before him. He shook his head.

“Those aren’t nearly enough,” he muttered. He looked around and his eyes lighted on Dave’s closet. The boys at the table were too busy to heed him as he opened the door and brought out a box containing eight brand-new Silvertowns. At the hearth he laid his find down and picked up the fire shovel. Placing one of the immaculate white balls on the hearth he proceeded to knock dents in it. It was hard work, but he at last managed to disfigure six of the eight and was hammering at the seventh when a glancing blow sent the little ball whizzing into the air to the table where it landed with a bang under Dave’s nose.

“What in thunder?” he cried, staring at Wayne.

“Beg pardon, Dave,” said that youth, as he attacked the last ball with the fire shovel.

“But what – what are you doing, you idiot?” shrieked Dave.

“Why, you see, I could only find seven old ones, Dave, and I had to have lots more than that.” Then he explained about Carl Gray, and Paddy forgot the skating carnival, for laughing at Dave’s dismay at sight of his new balls. But the latter was soon won round to what Wayne called a proper view of it, and consented to pay ten cents apiece to have the fifteen balls remolded, and Wayne took himself off with his pockets bulging out as though each had the toothache. In the next hour he paid innumerable calls on his acquaintances – he was surprised to find how many he had – and at five o’clock returned to Bradley with a list which ran thus:

Cooper, 25 Masters, 3.

Benson, 36 Turner, doesn’t know how many.

Moore, 30 Masters, 6.

Duane, 8 Bradley, 2.

Harrington, Goodrich’s house, lots of balls.

Greene, 17 Warren, 10. Wants to know if you can mend a club; told him thought you could. Call at noon.

Bradford, 4 Turner, 6. Call after chapel.

There were as many more entries on the list, and Gray was delighted and full of gratitude to Wayne. When he saw some of the fifteen balls that Wayne produced from his overcoat pockets he examined them curiously.

“These eight are awfully queer-looking balls,” he said. “Look as though they’d been kicked about in a coal bin.”

“Oh, you can’t tell what Dave may have been doing with them,” Wayne answered. “I dare say he’s been trying to burn them in the grate. But don’t you care; take ’em along and fix ’em up, and if they’re harder to do than the others, why, charge fifteen cents for them.”

“They won’t be,” said Gray, laughing. “There isn’t much wrong with them, and a coat of paint will do for several. And I’ll take the list around to-morrow and get the balls. I think I can fix that club of Greene’s; perhaps I could find others to mend. Really, Gordon, I’m awfully much ob – ”

“Get out of here!” shrieked Wayne savagely. Gray got out, but in the hall he stopped.

“O Gordon!” he shouted.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Then he scuttled downstairs.