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

“Why,” he asked himself, “if he can be as wonderfully patient with a trout as all that, why can’t he be a little patient with me?”

Suddenly, with the trout almost under the bank, the angler paused and looked about him, at a loss. Tom instantly divined his quandary; the landing-net was floating on the surface of the pool fully three yards distant. Tom grinned with malicious satisfaction for a moment; but then —

“Will you take the rod a minute?” asked “Old Crusty,” just as though there was no enmity between them. “I’ll have to get that net somehow.”

Tom looked from the net to his soaking shoes and trousers. There was but one thing to do.

“I’ll get it,” he answered. “I’m wet already.”

He threw aside coat and hat, and waded in. The professor watched him with expressionless face. Tom secured the runaway net, and came out, dripping to his armpits, at the submaster’s side. But when he offered the net the other only asked anxiously:

“Do you think you can land him? The leader’s almost cut through, and I’m afraid to bring him in any farther.”

Tom hesitated, net in hand.

“That will be all right,” continued the other; “I promise you I’ll never tell that you had a hand in it.”

Tom flushed.

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said. “Hold him steady, and I’ll get him.”

He knelt on the rock and looked for the trout. It was nearly two yards away and well under the water. He put one foot over the edge and groped about until he found a support for it below the surface. But even then his arm was too short to get the net to the fish.

“Can’t you coax him in another foot?” he asked anxiously.

“I’ll try,” answered “Old Crusty.” “If the line will hold – ”

He wound gingerly. The gleaming sides of the trout came toward the surface. Tom reached out with the net, slipped it quietly into the pool, and moved it toward the prey.

“Now!” whispered the professor, intensely.

Up came the landing-net, and with it, floundering mightily and casting the glittering drops into the air, came the captive.

“Well done!” cried the professor, laying aside his rod. Praise from an enemy is the sweetest praise of all, and Tom’s heart gave a bound. The professor seized the trout, took it from the net, and, laying it upon the bank, removed the hook from its gasping mouth. Then, with a finger crooked through its gill, he held it admiringly aloft.

“Isn’t he a beauty?” he asked.

“You bet!” replied Tom, in awestruck tones. “The biggest I ever saw in this stream. Must be two pounds and a half, sir?”

“Well, two pounds easily,” answered “Old Crusty,” shutting one eye and hefting his troutship knowingly.

“What will you do with him?” asked Tom.

The other smiled. For answer he knelt again on the rock, and, removing his hold, allowed the fish to slide from his open palms back into the pool. Tom’s eyes grew round with surprise. The trout, after one brief moment of amazement quite as vast as the boy’s, scuttled from sight. Tom turned questioning eyes upon the professor. The latter shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“I don’t want him; he would be of no use to me, Pierson. All I want is the joy of catching him.”

He turned, donned his hat and coat, and began to wind up his line, examining the frayed leader critically. Tom began to feel uncomfortable; it seemed to him that the truce should be at an end now, and that he ought to take his departure. But he didn’t; he merely stood by and watched. Presently the professor turned to him again, a rather rueful smile on his lips.

“Pierson,” he said, “what are you going to do with me now that you’ve caught me here where poachers and trespassers are forbidden?”

Tom dropped his gaze, but made no answer. The submaster thrust the sections of his rod into a brown leather case and slipped his fly-book into his coat pocket. Then he said suddenly:

“Look here, Pierson, I’m going to ask a favor of you: don’t say anything about this to the doctor, please.”

Tom’s momentary qualm of pity disappeared. “Old Crusty” was begging for mercy! The boy experienced the glow of proud satisfaction felt by the gladiator of old when, his foot on the neck of the vanquished opponent, he heard the crowded Colosseum burst into applause. But with the elation of the conqueror was mingled the disappointment of one who sees the shattering of an idol. “Old Crusty” had been to him the personification of injustice and tyranny; but never once had Tom doubted his honesty or courage. An enemy he had been, but an honored one. And now the honesty was stripped away. “Old Crusty” had not the courage to stand up like a man and take his punishment, but had descended so low as to beg his enemy to aid him in the cowardly concealment of his crime! And this man had dared to call him a spy! Tom gulped in an effort to restrain his angry indignation.

And all the while he had been looking across the pool, and so was not aware that the submaster had been studying his face very intently, or that the submaster’s lips held a queer little smile oddly at variance with the character of a detected criminal at the mercy of his enemy.

The detected criminal continued his specious pleading.

“You see, Pierson,” he said, “there’s just one thing that can happen to a person in my position convicted of poaching, and that’s discharge. Of course you don’t recognize much difference between discharge and resignation; but I do: the difference is apparent when it comes to obtaining a new position. A discharged instructor is a hopeless proposition; one who has resigned may, in the course of time, find another place. And so what I ask you to do is to keep quiet and give me time to resign.”

“Oh!” said Tom. His faith in mankind was reestablished. He had misjudged the enemy. After all, “Old Crusty” was worthy of his hatred. He was very glad. But before he could find an answer the other went on:

“If I were a younger man, Pierson, my chances would be better. But at my time of life losing my position means a good deal. You must see that. And – could you give me until to-morrow evening?”

Tom nodded without looking up. He wanted to say something, he didn’t at all know what. But the elation was all gone, and he felt – oh, miserably mean!

“Thank you,” said the submaster, pleasantly. “And now I think we’d best go home. You should get those wet clothes off as soon as possible.” He looked at his watch. “I had no idea it was so late,” he muttered. “We’ll have to hurry.” He moved off along the edge of the stream, and Tom recovered coat and hat and followed. He didn’t feel happy. His thoughts were fixed on matters other than his footing, and more than once he went into the brook. Presently he broke the silence.

“Are you going to – resign, sir?”

“Doesn’t that seem best, Pierson?”

“I – I don’t know,” muttered Tom. There was another silence, lasting for a few yards. Then, “I – I wish you wouldn’t, sir,” he said with a gulp.

“Eh?” The submaster paused, turned, and faced him in surprise. “What’s that, Pierson?”

Tom cleared his throat.

“I said – I wished you wouldn’t; resign, you know.”

“What do you mean?” asked the other. “Do you want to have me discharged, or – ”

“No, sir, I don’t,” answered the boy, getting his voice back. “I – I’m not going to tell at all, sir – ever!”

“How’s that?” asked the submaster, in puzzled tones. “You don’t like me the least bit in the world, my boy; in fact, I’m not sure you don’t hate me heartily. Doesn’t it strike you that you’ve got your chance now? Get rid of me, Pierson, and there’ll be no mathematics – for a while.”

“I don’t want to get rid of you,” muttered Tom, shamefacedly. “I – I didn’t like you: you’d never let me; you’ve always been as hard on me as you could be. I can get those lessons – I know I can! – if you’ll only not be down on me. I did hate you, sir” – he looked up with a gleam of the old defiance – “but I don’t any longer.”

“Why?” asked “Old Crusty,” after a moment, very quietly and kindly. Tom shook his head.

“I don’t know – exactly. I guess because you’re a good trout fisher, and you begged my pardon, and – and you treated me like – like – ” He faltered and came to a pause, at a loss for words. But the other nodded his head as though he understood.

“I see,” he muttered. Then, “Look here, Pierson,” he said, “I see that I’ve been mistaken about you; I’ve been greatly at fault. I tell you so frankly; and – I’m sorry. If I were going to remain I think you and I would get on a lot better together.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, eagerly. “And – and couldn’t you stay, sir?”

The other was silent a moment, looking smilingly at the boy’s bent head. At length, “If I should accept of your – ah – mercy, Pierson, it would have to be understood that there was no bargain between us. I think we’d get on better, you and I, but I wouldn’t buy your silence. If you ever needed a wigging or any other punishment I’d give it to you. Would you agree to that?”

“I don’t want any old bargain, sir,” Tom cried. “And I’ll take the punishment. I’m – I’m not a baby!”

“Good! Shake hands. Now let us hurry home.”

“Yes, sir, but – just a minute, please.” Tom darted into the wood and came back with his rod and flies. He did not try to conceal them, but he looked sheepishly up into the submaster’s face. This was a study of conflicting emotions. In the end amusement got the better of the others, and he viewed Tom with a broad smile.

“And so there is a pair of us, eh?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom. The submaster laughed softly and put one hand companionably upon the boy’s shoulder.

“Pierson,” he said, “suppose you and I agree to reform?”

“All right, sir.”

“No more poaching, eh? After this we’ll stick to our own preserves.”

“Yes, sir. I’m willing if you are.”

“Because, after all, we can’t improve on that trite old proverb which says that honesty is the best policy, can we?”

“No, sir,” Tom responded.

They left the thicket together and began the ascent of the meadow hill. Twilight was gathering, and a sharp-edged crescent of silver glowed in the evening sky above the tower of the school-hall. It was the submaster who broke the silence first.

“And yet there are fine trout in the big pool,” he said, musingly.

Tom sighed unconsciously. “Aren’t there, though?” he asked.

“I took one out one day last spring that weighed nearly three pounds,” continued the submaster.

Tom sighed again. “Did you?” he asked dolefully.

“Yes; and – look here, Pierson, tell me, how would you like to fish there as often as you wanted through the trout season?”

“I’d like it!” answered Tom, briefly and succinctly, wishing, nevertheless, that the submaster wouldn’t pursue such a harrowing subject.

“Would you? Well, now, I haven’t the least doubt in the world but that I can obtain permission for you. Mr. Greenway is a friend of mine, and while he wouldn’t care to allow the whole school to go in there, I’m certain that – ”

“A friend of yours?” gasped Tom. “Then – then – ”

The submaster smiled apologetically as he replied:

“No, Pierson, I wasn’t poaching.”

Tom stared in amazement and dismay.

“But – but you said – ”

“No, I didn’t say it, but I allowed you to think it; and I plead guilty to a measure of deceit. But I think you’ll forgive it, my boy, because it has led to – well, to a better understanding between us. Don’t you think it has?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, wondering but happy.

“Good; and – Hello, there’s the bell!” cried the submaster. “Let’s run for it!”

And they did.

BREWSTER’S DÉBUT

I

The gong clanged, the last man sprang aboard, and the car trundled away to the accompaniment of a final lusty cheer from the crowd which still lingered in front of the hotel. Then a corner was turned, and the last long-drawn “Er-r-rskine!” was cut short by intercepting walls. The throngs were streaming out to the field where, on the smooth green diamond, the rival nines of Robinson and Erskine were to meet in the deciding game of the season. For a while the car with its dozen or so passengers followed the crowds, but presently it swung eastward toward the railroad, and then made its way through a portion of Collegetown, which, to one passenger at least, looked far from attractive.

Ned Brewster shared one of the last seats with a big leather bat-bag, and gave himself over to his thoughts. The mere fact of his presence there in the special trolley-car as a substitute on the Erskine varsity nine was alone wonderful enough to keep his thoughts busy for a week. Even yet he had not altogether recovered from his surprise.

Ned had played the season through at center field on the freshman nine, and had made a name for himself as a batsman. On Thursday the freshman team had played its last game, had met with defeat, and had disbanded. Ned, trotting off the field, his heart bitter with disappointment at the outcome of the final contest, had heard his name called, and had turned to confront “Big Jim” Milford, the varsity captain.

“I wish you would report at the varsity table to-night, Brewster,” Milford had said. Then he had turned abruptly away, perhaps to avoid smiling outright at the expression of bewilderment on the freshman’s countenance. Ned never was certain whether he had made any verbal response; but he remembered the way in which his heart had leaped into his throat and stuck there, as well as the narrow escape he had had from dashing his brains out against the locker-house, owing to the fact that he had covered most of the way thither at top speed. That had been on Thursday; to-day, which was Saturday, he was a substitute on the varsity, with a possibility – just that and no more – of playing for a minute or two against Robinson, and so winning his E in his freshman year, a feat accomplished but seldom!

Ned had been the only member of the freshman nine taken on the varsity that spring. At first this had bothered him; there were two or three others – notably Barrett, the freshman captain – who were, in his estimation, more deserving of the good fortune than he. But, strange to say, it had been just those two or three who had shown themselves honestly glad at his luck, while the poorest player on the nine had loudly hinted at favoritism. Since Thursday night Ned had, of course, made the acquaintance of all the varsity men, and they had treated him as one of themselves. But they were all, with the single exception of Stilson, seniors and juniors, and Ned knew that a freshman is still a freshman, even if he does happen to be a varsity substitute. Hence he avoided all appearance of trying to force himself upon the others, and so it was that on his journey to the grounds he had only a bat-bag for companion.

The closely settled part of town was left behind now, and the car was speeding over a smooth, elm-lined avenue. Windows held the brown banners of Robinson, but not often did a dash of purple meet the gaze of the Erskine players. At the farther end of the car McLimmont and Housel and Lester were gathered about “Baldy” Simson, the trainer, and their laughter arose above the talk and whistling of the rest. Nearer at hand, across the aisle, sat “Lady” Levett, the big first-baseman. Ned wondered why he was called “Lady.” There was nothing ladylike apparent about him. He was fully six feet one, broad of shoulder, mighty of chest, deep of voice, and dark of complexion – a jovial, bellowing giant whom everybody liked. Beside Levett sat Page, the head coach, and Hovey, the manager. Then there were Greene and Captain Milford beyond, and across from them Hill and Kesner, both substitutes. In the seat in front of Ned two big chaps were talking together. They were Billings and Stilson, the latter a sophomore.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Billings was saying. “If we lose I’ll buy you a dinner at the Elm Tree Monday night; if we win you do the same for me.”

“Oh, I don’t bet!”

“Get out! That’s fair, isn’t it, Brownie?”

A little round-faced chap across the aisle nodded laughingly. His name was Browne and he played short-stop. He wrote his name with an e, and so his friends gave him the full benefit of it.

“Yes, that’s fair,” said Browne. “We’re bound to lose.”

“Oh, what are you afraid of?” said Stilson.

“No; that’s straight! We haven’t much show; we can’t hit Dithman.”

“You can’t, maybe,” jeered Stilson.

“I’ll bet you can’t either, my chipper young friend!”

“I’ll bet I get a hit off him!”

“Oh, one!”

“Well, two, then. Come, now!”

“No; I won’t bet,” answered Browne, grinning. “If there’s a prize ahead, there’s no telling what you’ll do; is there, Pete?”

“No; he might even make a run,” responded Billings. “But it’s going to take more than two hits to win this game,” he went on, dropping his voice, “for I’ll just tell you they’re going to pound Hugh all over the field.”

“Well, what if they do get a dozen runs or so?” said Stilson. “Haven’t we got a mighty batter, imported especially for the occasion, to win out for us?”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Billings.

“I mean the redoubtable Mr. Brewster, of course – the freshman Joan of Arc who is to lead us to vict – ”

“Not so loud,” whispered Browne, glancing at Ned’s crimsoning cheeks.

Stilson swung around and shot a look at the substitute, then turned back grinning.

“Cleared off nicely, hasn’t it?” he observed, with elaborate nonchalance.

Ned said to himself, “He’s got it in for me because he knows that if I play it will be in his place.”

The car slowed down with much clanging of gong, and pushed its way through the crowd before the entrance to the field. Then, with a final jerk, it came to a stop. “All out, fellows!” cried Hovey; and Ned followed the others through the throng, noisy with the shouts of ticket and score-card venders, to the gate and dressing-room.

II

Ned sat on the bench. With him were Hovey, the manager, who was keeping score, Hill and Kesner, substitutes like himself, and, at the farther end, Simson, the trainer, and Page, the head coach. Page had pulled his straw hat far over his eyes, but from under the brim he was watching sharply every incident of the diamond, the while he talked with expressionless countenance to “Baldy.” Back of them the grand stand was purple with flags and ribbons, but at a little distance on either side the purple gave place to the brown of Robinson. Back of third base, at the west end of the stand, the Robinson College band held forth brazenly at intervals, making up in vigor what it lacked in tunefulness. In front of the spectators the diamond spread deeply green, save where the base-lines left the dusty red-brown earth exposed, and marked with lines and angles of lime, which gleamed snow-white in the afternoon sunlight. Beyond the diamond the field stretched, as smooth and even as a great velvet carpet, to a distant fence and a line of trees above whose tops a turret or tower here and there indicated the whereabouts of town and college.

Ned had sat there on the bench during six innings, the sun burning his neck and the dust from the batsman’s box floating into his face. In those six innings he had seen Erskine struggle pluckily against defeat – a defeat which now, with the score 12-6 in Robinson’s favor, hovered, dark and ominous, above her. Yet he had not lost hope; perhaps his optimism was largely due to the fact that he found it difficult to believe that Fate could be so cruel as to make the occasion of his first appearance with the varsity team one of sorrow. He was only seventeen, and his idea of Fate was a kind-hearted, motherly old soul with a watchful interest in his welfare. Yet he was forced to acknowledge that Fate, or somebody, was treating him rather shabbily. The first half of the seventh was as good as over, and still he kicked his heels idly beneath the bench. Page didn’t seem to be even aware of his presence. To be sure, there were Hill and Kesner in the same box, but that didn’t bring much comfort. Besides, any one with half an eye could see that Stilson should have been taken off long ago; he hadn’t made a single hit, and already had three errors marked against him. Ned wondered how his name would look in the column instead of Stilson’s, and edged along the bench until he could look over Hovey’s shoulder. The manager glanced up, smiled in a perfunctory way, and credited the Robinson runner with a stolen base. Ned read the batting list again:

Billings, r. f.

Greene, l. f.

Milford, 2b., Capt.

Lester, p.

Browne, ss.

Housel, c.

McLimmont, 3b.

Levett, 1b.

Stilson, c. f.

There was a sudden burst of applause from the seats behind, and a red-faced senior with a wilted collar balanced himself upon the railing and begged for “one more good one, fellows!” The first of the seventh was at an end, and the Erskine players, perspiring and streaked with dust, trotted in. “Lady” Levett sank down on the bench beside Ned with a sigh, and fell to examining the little finger of his left hand, which looked very red, and which refused to work in unison with its companions.

“Hurt?” asked Ned.

“Blame thing’s bust, I guess,” said “Lady,” disgustedly. “Oh, Baldy, got some tape there?”

The trainer, wearing the anxious air of a hen with one chicken, bustled up with his black bag, and Ned watched the bandaging of the damaged finger until the sudden calling of his name by the head coach sent his heart into his throat and brought him leaping to his feet with visions of hopes fulfilled. But his heart subsided again in the instant, for what Page said was merely:

“Brewster, you go over there and catch for Greene, will you?” And then, turning again to the bench, “Kesner, you play left field next half.”

Ned picked up a catcher’s mitt, and for the rest of the half caught the balls that the substitute pitcher sent him as he warmed up to take Lester’s place. Greene didn’t keep him so busy, however, that he couldn’t watch the game. Milford had hit safely to right field and had reached second on a slow bunt by Lester. The wavers of the purple flags implored little Browne to “smash it out!” But the short-stop never found the ball, and Housel took his place and lifted the sphere just over second-baseman’s head into the outfield. The bases were full. The red-faced senior was working his arms heroically and begging in husky tones for more noise. And when, a minute later, McLimmont took up his bat and faced the Robinson pitcher, the supporters of the purple went mad up there on the sun-smitten stand and drowned the discordant efforts of the Robinson band.

McLimmont rubbed his hands in the dust, rubbed the dust off on his trousers, and swung his bat. Dithman, who had puzzled Erskine batters all day and had pitched a magnificent game for six innings, shook himself together. McLimmont waited. No, thank you, he didn’t care for that out-shoot, nor for that drop, nor for – What? A strike, did he say? Well, perhaps it did go somewhere near the plate, though to see it coming you’d have thought it was going to be a passed ball! One and two, wasn’t it? Thanks; there was no hurry then, so he’d just let that in-curve alone, wait until something worth while came along, and —Eh! what was that? Strike two! Well, well, well, of all the umpires this fellow must be a beginner! Never mind that, though. But he’d have to look sharp now or else —

Crack!

Off sped the ball, and off sped McLimmont. The former went over first-baseman’s head; the latter swung around the bag like an automobile taking a corner, and raced for second, reaching it on his stomach a second before the ball. There was rejoicing where the purple flags fluttered, for Captain Milford and Lester had scored.

But Erskine’s good fortune ended there. McLimmont was thrown out while trying to steal third, and Levett popped a short fly into the hands of the pitcher. Greene trotted off to the box, and Ned walked dejectedly back to the bench. Page stared at him in surprise. Then, “Didn’t I tell you to play center field?” he ejaculated.

Ned’s heart turned a somersault and landed in his throat. He stared dumbly back at the head coach and shook his head. As he did so he became aware of Stilson’s presence on the bench.

“What? Well, get a move on!” said Page.

Get a move on! Ned went out to center as though he had knocked a three-bagger and wanted to get home on it. Little Browne grinned at him as he sped by.

“Good work, Brewster!” he called, softly.