The Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys

“Old-fashion’ secretary,” said the other, evidently proud of his knowledge.

“Correct! Well, you want to let down the lid – ”

“Locked?”

“Likely it is; use ther little jimmy; the money’s in the lower drawer on the left side. I don’t know what all’s there; better clean the drawer out, see?”

Satterlee 2d was thinking hard, his heart in his throat and his pulse hammering. He must get out of the spring-house somehow and warn the doctor. But how? The men were practically between him and the door. To make a dash for liberty would surely result disastrously; if they caught him – Satterlee 2d’s teeth chattered! If he waited until they went out and then followed he might be able to arouse the doctor or scare the burglars away, if they didn’t bolt the door again on the outside, and so make him once more a prisoner. The only plan that seemed at all feasible was to creep inch by inch to the doorway and then make a dash for freedom. An impatient stir across the spring-house warned him that whatever plan was to be tried must be attempted speedily. He wriggled softly out of his bath-robe, gathered the skirt of his nightgown in one hand, took a long breath, and started forward on his hands and knees. The men were talking again, and one of the pipes was sizzling loudly.

All went well for a moment, a moment that seemed an age, and he had reached a point half-way to the door, when his hand slipped on the wet boards with a noise, faint but distinct. He stopped short, his hair stirring with fright.

“S – sh!” One of the men scrambled to his feet.

“What’s the matter?” growled the other.

“I heard somethin’ – over there.”

“A frog, likely, you fool; got a match?”

Satterlee 2d was desperate. He was lost unless he could reach the doorway first. He started forward again with less caution, and one knee struck the floor sharply. A light flared out, and for a moment he stared across the pool into two pairs of wide-open, gleaming eyes. Then the match dropped into the water with a tiny hiss, and Satterlee 2d leaped for the door. The streak of light was now but a scant two yards distant. Near at hand sounded feet on the planking, and from the pool came a splashing as one of the men rushed through the water. Then a hand grasped the boy’s bare ankle. With a shriek he sprang forward, the grasp was gone, and from behind him as he fled stumbling up the steps came the sound of a heavy fall and a cry of triumph.

“I’ve got him!”

“You’ve got me, you fool! Let go!”

The next instant Satterlee 2d was through the doorway, had slammed the portal behind him, and had shot the big iron bolt despairingly. With closed eyes he leaned faint and panting against the oak while blow after blow was rained on it from within and hoarse oaths told of the terror of the prisoners. But the stout door showed no signs of yielding, and Satterlee 2d opened his eyes and looked about him. The night was cloudy, but the school-buildings were discernible scarce a stone-throw away.

When Doctor Willard, awakened from sleep by the wild jangling of the bell, drew his dressing-gown about him and looked forth, it was with astonishment and alarm that he beheld a white-robed youth pulling excitedly at the bell-knob. His astonishment was even greater when, having found and adjusted his spectacles, he made out the youth to be Satterlee 2d, who, by every rule of common sense, ought at that moment to be asleep in the dormitory.

“But – but I don’t understand,” faltered the doctor. “Do you mean that you have a gang of burglars locked up in the spring-house?”

“Yes, sir; two, sir; two burglars, sir!”

“Dear me, how alarming! But how – ?”

“Don’t you think we could get the police, sir?”

“Um – er – to be sure. The police; yes. Wait where you are.”

The window closed, and presently the tinkle of a telephone bell sounded. A minute or two later and Satterlee 2d, cold and aching, sat before the big stove in the library, while the doctor shook and punched the coals into activity.

“I’ve telephoned for the police,” said the doctor, gazing perplexedly over his spectacles. “And now I would like to know what it all means, my boy.”

“I – I was in the spring-house, sir,” began Satterlee 2d, “when I heard a noise – ”

“One moment,” interrupted the doctor. “What were you doing in the spring-house at midnight?”

Satterlee dropped his eyes. He searched wildly for an explanation that would not incriminate Donald and the others. Finally he gave it up.

“I – I’d rather not say, if you please, sir.”

“Um,” said the doctor. “Very well, we’ll pass over that for the present. What happened when you heard a noise?”

Before Satterlee 2d had finished his story there came the sound of wheels on the driveway without, which sent the doctor to the door. For a minute the boy listened to the hum of voices in the hallway. Then he commenced to nod – nod —

He awoke to find the winter sunlight streaming through the windows of the doctor’s guest-chamber, and to learn from the clock on the mantel that it was long after breakfast time. His clothes were beside him on a chair and he tumbled into them hurriedly, the events of the night flooding back to memory. He ate breakfast in solitary grandeur, his thoughts fixed miserably on the explanation that must follow. His indignation against Donald and the others had passed; he pitied them greatly for the punishment which he felt certain would soon be meted out to them. And he pitied himself because it was his lot to bring that punishment about. His visions of popularity faded into nothingness. For a moment he thought of cutting it all; of walking straight from the dining-room to the station and disappearing from the scene.

But when he pushed back his half-eaten breakfast and arose to his feet it was to grip his hands rather tight, and with pale cheeks walk, laggingly but directly, to the school hall. Prayers were over, and the doctor was rubbing his spectacles reflectively, preparatory to addressing the pupils. Satterlee 2d’s advent created a wave of excitement, and all eyes were on him as he strode to his seat. The doctor donned his glasses and surveyed the scene.

“Satterlee 2d!”

That youth arose, his heart thumping sickeningly.

“There was a portion of your story,” said the head master suavely, “which you did not tell last night. Kindly explain now, if you please, how you came to be in the spring-house at midnight.”

Satterlee 2d looked despairingly at the doctor, looked desperately about the room. Brother Donald was scowling blackly at his ink-well. Burtis, the school leader, was observing him gravely, and in his look Satterlee 2d thought he read encouragement. The doctor coughed gently.

Satterlee 2d had been taught the enormity of lying, and his conscience revolted at the task before him. But Don and the others must be spared. He made a heroic effort.

“Please, sir, I went to get a drink.”

Depressing silence followed. Satterlee 2d’s eyes sought the floor.

“Indeed?” inquired the doctor, pleasantly. “And did you get your drink?”

“Yes, sir.” Satterlee 2d breathed easier. After all, lying wasn’t so difficult.

“Ah, and then why didn’t you return to the dormitory?”

“The – door was locked, sir.”

Somebody near by groaned softly. Satterlee 2d wondered.

“On the inside?” pursued the doctor.

Too late Satterlee 2d saw his blunder. He gazed appealingly at the inexorable countenance on the platform. Then,

“No, sir,” he answered in low tones, “on the outside.”

“Strange,” mused the head master. “Do you know who locked it?”

“No, sir.” He gave a sigh of relief. That, at least, was no more than the truth.

“You may sit down.” Satterlee 2d sank into his seat.

“Which of you locked that door?” The doctor’s gaze swept the schoolroom. Silence followed. Then two youths were on their feet simultaneously. One was Burtis, the other was Satterlee 1st. The doctor turned to the former.

“Am I to understand that you had a hand in this, Burtis?” he asked, surprise in his voice.

“No, sir. If you please, sir, what I want to say is that the school as a whole had nothing to do with this hazing, sir, and we – we don’t like it. And if those that had a hand in it don’t own up, sir, I’ll give their names. That’s all, sir.”

He sat down. Young Mr. Sears signified excited approbation by clapping his hands until he found the doctor’s gaze upon him, whereupon he subsided suddenly with very red cheeks. The doctor turned to Satterlee 1st.

“Well, sir?”

Brother Donald shot an angry glance at Burtis.

“Burtis needn’t talk so big, sir; he’d better give a fellow a chance before he threatens – ”

“That will do, my boy; if you have anything to say let me hear it at once.”

“I – I locked that door, sir.”

“Indeed? And did you have any help in the matter?”

Brother Donald dropped his gaze and was silent. Then, with much shuffling of unwilling feet, slowly, one after another, five other boys stood up.

“Well, Perkins?” asked the doctor.

“I helped,” said that youth.

“And the rest of you?” Four subdued voices answered affirmatively. The doctor frowned from one to the other. Then,

“You may take your seats,” he said, severely.

The six sank into their places and miserably awaited judgment. The doctor ran his fingers thoughtfully over the leaves of the big dictionary on the corner of his desk, then began to speak. The discourse that followed was listened to with flattering attention. It dealt very fully with the evils of hazing and seemed to promise something quite unusual in the way of punishment. Brother Donald had fully five minutes of the discourse all to himself, but appeared not at all stuck up because of the attention. In fact, when he had listened to all the doctor had to say on the subject of brotherly conduct, his countenance was expressive of shame rather than conceit. Altogether, it was quite the most exhaustive “wigging” in the recollection of the oldest pupil in the school, and therefore it was with genuine surprise that the Doctor’s concluding sentences were heard.

“In the present case,” he said, “I am inclined to be lenient. Unwittingly you have prevented the probable loss to me of several hundred dollars, and have secured the arrest of two members of society who are – hem – better placed in jail than outside. This does not morally exempt you from blame; your conduct is none the less despicable; but, nevertheless, in view of these circumstances, I shall make your punishment as light as is consistent. But first you will give me your promise that never, so long as you are in my school, will you take part in or countenance hazing in any form, shape or manner whatsoever. Have I that promise?”

Six voices sounded as one.

“Very well. Now I shall require all six of you to remain within bounds until the Easter vacation. This means that you will not be privileged, as usual, to visit the village on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. That is all. You will please carefully remember what I have said. We will now take up the lessons.”

A well-defined murmur of relief passed over the room. Then,

“If you please, sir,” said a voice, quietly, from among the boys.

The doctor glanced up.

“What is it, Satterlee 2d?”

“If you please, sir, I’d like to take the punishment with the others, sir.”

“Indeed?” The doctor looked puzzled. “And for what reason?”

“For – for lying, sir.”

“For what?”

“For – for not telling the truth, sir.”

“H – m.”

The doctor removed his spectacles and polished them slowly, very slowly, as if he were doing some hard thinking. Then he replaced them and faced the class.

“I – hem – I will exempt you from punishment. It isn’t what you deserve, not by a great deal, but – you may thank Satterlee 2d.”

Satterlee 2d’s popularity began at that moment.

A PAIR OF POACHERS

Tom Pierson strode briskly down the hill, fishing-rod in hand. As long as he had been in sight of the school he had skulked in the shadow of the hedges, for he knew that Satterlee 2d was looking for him, and the society of that youth was the last thing he desired at present. For Satterlee 2d possessed the highly erroneous idea that the best way to catch trout was to make as much noise as possible and to toss sticks and pebbles into the brook. And so Tom, a devout disciple of Izaak Walton, preferred to do without his chum when he went fishing.

The time was a quarter after four of a late May afternoon. Tom had tossed the last book into his desk and slammed the lid just fifteen minutes before. From the school-hall he had sneaked to the dormitory, and secured his rod, line, and flies. Even as he had descended warily by means of the fire-escape, he had heard the voice of Satterlee 2d calling his name in the corridor. He had reached the brook path undetected by dodging from dormitory to school-hall and from school-hall to engine-house, and so to the protecting shadows of the high hedge that marked the western limit of the school-grounds. Most of the other two dozen pupils of Willard’s were down on the field, busy with balls and bats. But no form of athletics appealed to Tom Pierson as did angling, and to-day, with the white clouds chasing one another across the blue sky and the alder-bordered brook in sight, he was almost happy. Almost, but not quite; for even at sixteen life is not always clear of trouble. Tom’s trouble was “Old Crusty.” If it were not for “Old Crusty,” he thought gloomily, as he swung his pole through the new grass, he would be quite happy.

“Old Crusty’s” real name, you must know, was Professor Bailey: he was one of the two submasters; and as for being old, he was in truth scarce over forty – a good ten years younger than Doctor Willard, the head master, to whom, for some reason, the fellows never thought of referring as “Old Willard.” Professor Bailey and Tom had never, from the first, got on at all well together. The professor believed Tom quite capable of mastering mathematics as well as others of his form, and had scant patience for the boy’s sorry performances. Tom believed that “Old Crusty” dealt more severely with him than with the rest – in short, to use his own expression, that the professor “had it in for him.” One thing is certain: the more the submaster lectured Tom and ridiculed his efforts before the class, the more he kept him in after school, the less Tom knew of mathematics, and the wider grew the breach between pupil and teacher.

In all other studies Tom was eminently successful, and there is no doubt but that with a better understanding between him and the submaster the former would have made a creditable showing in the science that was at present the bane of his life. But, as it was, Tom hated “Old Crusty” with a great hatred, while the submaster felt for Tom a large contempt, if not an absolute aversion. And it must be acknowledged that Tom gave him sufficient cause.

A great deal of this passed through Tom’s mind as he descended the path and reached the shelter of the low-spreading alders that marked the course of the brook. But, with the sound of the bubbling water in his ears, he put trouble behind him. Laying aside his coat, he fitted his split-bamboo rod, and studied the sky and the pool before him. Then he chose a rather worn brown fly, and cast it gently into the center of the limpid basin. Above him the branches almost met, and he knew from experience that if he hooked a trout he would have to play him down-stream before he could land him. Ten minutes passed, but, save for the inquiring nibble of a sunfish or similar small fry, he found no encouragement. The sun went behind a large cloud, and Tom changed his fly for a bright red-and-gray one. But even that failed to entice the trout. He grew impatient, for the school rules required him to be back in bounds by half past five. Presently he drew in his line, donned his coat, and made his way noiselessly down-stream. When he had gone some ten yards, creeping from bank to rock and from rock to bank again, not without more than once filling his scuffed shoes with water, he came to a fence, the rails of which reached straight across the stream, which here narrowed to a rocky cascade. On the trunk of a big willow at one side there was a board. On the board was the legend:

PRIVATE PROPERTYTRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTEDTO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW

Tom winked at the sign, and climbed the fence. He did it so nimbly and expeditiously as to suggest a certain amount of experience. In truth, Tom had crossed that fence before, not once but several times, since the trout had commenced to bite that spring. If it will make his conduct appear any less heinous, it may be said in his behalf that he always gave a fair trial to that part of the brook within the school-grounds, and only when success failed him there did he defy the law and become a trespasser on the estate of Fernwood. It would be interesting to know whether old Father Walton always respected “No trespassing” signs. Whether he did or did not, he appears to have left as a heritage to his followers a special code of morals where forbidden property is concerned; for often a man who will hold the theft of an apple from a roadside orchard in utmost horror will not hesitate to extract a fish from a neighbor’s brook and bear it off in complacent, untroubled triumph. If I have dealt at undue length upon this subject, it is because, for the sake of my hero, I wish the reader to view such amateur poaching as his with as lenient an eye as possible.

Fernwood held one widely celebrated pool, from which, even when all of the other pools refused to give up a single fish, the practised angler could invariably draw at least a trio of good-sized trout. Toward this ideal spot Tom Pierson, making his way very quietly that he might not disturb and so cause unnecessary trouble to a couple of very alert gardeners, directed his steps. Once, in spite of care, his line became entangled, and once he went to his knees in the icy water. Yet both these mishaps but whetted his appetite for the sport ahead. When he had gained a spot a dozen yards up-stream from the big pool, he paused, laid aside pole-rod and paraphernalia, and crept cautiously forward to reconnoiter. If, he argued very plausibly, discovery was to fall to his lot, at least it were better to be found guiltless of fishing-tackle. He crouched still lower, as, over by a clump of dead willows within the school bounds, he espied through the trees the jauntily appareled Satterlee briskly whipping the surface of the brook with unsportsmanlike energy and apparent disregard of results. Tom, however, knew himself to be unobserved, so felt no fear from that source. But just as the dark waters of the pool came into sight between the lapping branches, a sound, close at hand and unmistakable as to origin, caused his heart to sink with disappointment. There would be no fishing for him to-day, for some one was already at the pool. The soft click of a running-reel came plainly to his ears.

He paused motionless, silent, and scowled darkly in the direction of the unseen angler. Then he went forward again, peering under the leaves. At least he would know who it was that had spoiled his sport. Three steps – four; then he suddenly stood upright and gasped loudly. His eyes opened until they seemed about to pop out of his head, and he rubbed them vigorously, as though he doubted their evidence. After a moment he again stooped, this time sinking almost to his knees, and never heeding the icy water that well-nigh benumbed his immersed feet. On the farther side of the broad pool, in plain sight, stood “Old Crusty!”

He was hatless and coatless, and palpitant with the excitement of the sport. His lean and somewhat sallow face was flushed above the prominent cheek-bones, and his gray eyes sparkled brightly in the gloom of the clustering branches. He stood lithely erect, the usual studious stoop of the shoulders gone for the time, and, with one hand firmly grasping the butt of his rod and the other guarding the reel, was giving every thought to the playing of a big trout that, fly in mouth, was darting and tugging until the slender basswood bent nearly double. As Tom looked, surprised, breathless with the excitement of his discovery, the fish shot under the shelter of an overhanging boulder, weary and sulky, and the angler began slowly to reel in his line. Inch by inch came the trout, now without remonstrance, now jumping and slashing like ten fishes, yet ever nearing the captor and the landing-net. It was a glorious battle, and Tom, forgetting all else, crept nearer and nearer through the leaves until, hidden only by a screen of alder branches, he stood at the up-stream edge of the basin. At length, resisting heroically, fighting every inch of the way, the trout was drawn close in to the flat rock where stood his exultant captor. The latter reached a hand softly out and seized the landing-net. Then, kneeling on the brink of the pool, with one leg, he made a sudden dip; there was an instant of swishing, then up came net and trout, and —

At the end of the pool there was a terrifying splash, a muttered cry, and Tom, forgetful of his precarious footing, sat down suddenly and forcibly on a stone, his legs up to the knees in water. The landing-net dropped from the angler’s hand, and the trout, suddenly restored to his element, dashed madly off, while the reel screeched loudly as the line ran out. The professor, white of face, stared amazedly at Tom. Tom stared defiantly, triumphantly back at the professor. For a long, long minute the two gazed at each other across the sun-flecked water. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Old Crusty” stooped and recovered his rod. When he again faced the boy there was a disagreeable expression about his mouth.

“Well, Pierson,” he said as he wound up his line, “you’re better at playing the spy than at studying your lessons, it seems.”

The blood rushed into Tom’s face, but he held his tongue. He could well afford to pass the insult, he argued with savage triumph; “Old Crusty” was in his power. He had only to inform Dr. Willard, and, beyond a doubt, the submaster’s connection with the school would terminate instantly. The head master held poaching to be the deadliest of sins, and poaching on Fernwood especially heinous. That his enemy was poaching, that he did not hold permission to whip the big pool, was evident from the confusion into which Tom’s sudden entry on to the scene had thrown him. Yes, “Old Crusty” could vent his anger to his heart’s content; for, when all was said, Tom still held the whip-hand. But then the enormity of the crime with which he had been charged struck Tom with full force, like a blow in the face. At Willard’s, as at all schools, spying, like tale-bearing, was held by the pupils to be something far beneath contempt. And “Old Crusty” had called him a spy! The blood again dyed the boy’s face, and he clambered to his soaking feet and faced the submaster angrily.

“It’s a lie!” he said hotly. “I was not spying. I didn’t follow you here.”

The submaster raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“Is that the truth?” he asked.

“I don’t lie,” answered Tom, with righteous indignation, glaring hatred across the pool.

“Ah,” said the other. “In that case I beg your pardon. I retract my remark, Pierson.”

The line was again taut, and now, apparently indifferent to the boy’s presence, he began to play the trout once more, warily, slowly. Tom looked on from his rock, the intensity of his anger past. He was forced to acknowledge that “Old Crusty” had at least apologized honestly and fairly; he wished he hadn’t: somehow, he felt at a disadvantage. And there was the enemy proceeding with his wicked sport for all the world as though Tom did not hold his fate in his hand, as it were! Tom swelled with indignation.

“I suppose you know you’re poaching?” he asked, presently, breaking the long silence. The submaster did not turn his head; he merely drew his brows together as though in protest at the interruption. Tom scowled. What a hardened criminal “Old Crusty” was, to be sure!

The trout had but little fight left in him now, and his journey back across the pool was almost without excitement. Only when he felt the imminence of the shore did he call upon his flagging strength and make one last gallant struggle for liberty. To such purpose did he battle then, however, that the man at the rod was forced to play out a yard or so of line. Tom’s interest was again engaged, and, much against his inclination, he had to acknowledge that “Old Crusty” was a master angler. And with that thought came another and a strange one, and it was just this: