Right End Emerson

“Soft living plays the dickens with a fellow,” granted Jimmy. “I feel like a pulp myself. I guess if we weighed in this afternoon I’d be six pounds over. Gee, but it’s good to be back again, Mac. The old field felt mighty fine underfoot, what? What’s on for a week from Saturday? High School, I suppose.”

“Yes. They scored on us last year, too. Remember?”

“Yes, Gil Tarver missed an easy tackle that day. I didn’t get into the game. Did you?”

“No, Macon played right end. Banning scored on us, too, last fall. Maybe it’s a good plan to get a couple of kicks in the shins in the early season. Wakes you up, maybe. Anyway, we came back and beat Kenly to the king’s taste!”

“Hope we do it again, but I guess it’s her turn this year.”

“That’s the wrong thought, Jimmy. Kenly ain’t got no turn. Hold that, son. Say, maybe that shower isn’t going to feel swell! Oh, boy!”

“Some fine moment, I’ll remark! By the way, where are we eating?”

“Down town. Lawrence doesn’t open until Wednesday morning. We’ll get Mart and Rowly and some of the others and go to the Plaza. You can get a pretty good steak there.”

“Yes,” agreed Jimmy as they entered the building, “but I don’t like those unclothed tables, Mac.”

“Well, you don’t have to eat ’em! Wonder what’s at the movie theater to-night. Want to go? My treat.”

“Sure! Under such unusual circumstances – ”

But Harley had hurried away to his locker.

Stanley Hassell, who roomed with Jimmy in Upton Hall, arrived early on Wednesday, registered at the office, unpacked and bestowed his belongings in their accustomed places to a running fire of comment and information from Jimmy and then accompanied the latter to the field and looked on while the now greatly augmented company of football candidates went through a long practice under a hot autumn sun and the darting eyes of Coach Cade. “Johnny,” as he was generally called – though not to his face – was a short, compactly-built man of some twenty-eight years with a countenance rather too large for the rest of him on which various small features were set; such features as a button-like nose, two extraordinarily sharp eyes, a somewhat large mouth and a very square chin. Mr. Cade had rather a fierce appearance, in spite of his lack of height, but this was largely owing to a great deal of thick black hair that stood up bristle-like and defeated all attempts to make it lie down. Add to these items an extremely mild and pleasant voice and you have the Alton Academy football coach as he appeared to the many new candidates that afternoon.

Recitations began on Thursday morning, and the four hundred and odd youths of various ages from twelve to nineteen who composed this year’s roster took up scholastic duties again. When the nine o’clock bell pealed in Academy Hall the dormitories began to discharge their quotas. Young gentlemen, armed for the first fray of the term with text-books and note-books and pencils and pens, set their faces toward the vine-clad and venerable Academy Hall, along the flagged walk on which the morning sunlight, dripping through the trees, cast golden pools amongst the cool shadows. From Haylow, on the left of the row, from Lykes, beside it, from Borden at the extreme right and from Upton that was next, the youths trickled into the two streams that flowed briskly toward their confluence, the entrance to the big brick recitation hall. There were all sorts and conditions of boys in that larger stream that eddied through the wide doorway; short boys and tall boys, stout boys and thin boys, boys who swaggered and boys who went with the diffidence of the stranger, boys with sunburned faces and boys with cheeks too pallid, boys in short trousers and boys in long trousers, boys with straw hats, boys with soft caps and boys with bare heads, high-spirited boys and home-sick boys, eager boys and boys whose feet lagged on the steps; all kinds, all descriptions of boys; just such a medley as is always found when the bell summons to the first recitation on a late September morning.

In a month, even in so short a time as a week, maybe, the sorts will be fewer, the difference between this boy and that less apparent. Already the influences that in the end mold all toward a certain pattern will have been felt, and Jack will have begun to model his conduct and speech and attire after those of Tom, who, impressed with the stamp of one or more years at the school, already tends toward the ultimate pattern. That pattern varies with different schools, yet it is much the same in essentials, and, on the whole, it is a good pattern, being founded on a wise discipline and builded of cleanliness of mind and healthfulness of body, of self-respect and self-control and, always, the love of fair-play.

To-day there was the genial warmth of a still New England early autumn morning over the scene. The elms and maples that bordered the streets still held their verdant leaves and the grass that grew between the graveled roads and paths that intersected the School Green was still unchanged. The Green extended along the west side of Academy street for two blocks and from that quiet thoroughfare arose at an easy grade for the width of another block to the line of brick and limestone buildings that spanned it. Yet, following the center path, one passed two structures ere the wide steps of Academy Hall were met: on the right, near River street, Memorial Hall, containing library and auditorium and a few class rooms, and on the left, close to Meadow street, and partly hidden by trees, the modest and attractive residence of the Principal, Doctor Maitland McPherson, known to the School more simply, yet quite respectfully as “Mac.” Behind the main row of buildings stood two others, the Carey Gymnasium, a recently built, up-to-the-minute structure, and, to its left and directly back of Academy Hall, Lawrence, where Alton boys flocked thrice a day and performed certain rites at many long, white-draped tables. Having passed Lawrence and Carey, one passed a cluster of tennis courts and saw, spread out before him, several acres of fine turf whereon, close at hand, were set many steel-framed stands between whose tiered seats appeared the blue-gray ribbon of the running track and the gleaming white lines of the first team gridiron. To the left was the diamond, and ere the further confines of the tract stayed the wandering gaze a second baseball field and a second gridiron met the sight. Far away was a faint glint that told of the river, though the stream was hidden for most of its way by trees that, beyond its winding course, marshaled themselves into a forest and marched westward over the low hills toward the sunset.

But we have wandered far afield. Let us retrace our steps as far as Upton and climb the first flight of stairs. Half way along the corridor to the right is a door numbered 27, and under the numerals two cards are secured with thumb-tacks. These bear the following inscriptions, in the first case written, in a rather round hand, with pen and ink, in the second case imprinted by the engraver’s art: Russell Wilcox Emerson – George Patterson.

Beyond the now closed door only one of the young gentlemen named is to be found. Russell, seated in front of the study table in the center of the small yet pleasant room, bends over a sheet of paper that looks very much like a bill of goods. At the top in fat black letters appears the legend: The Proctor-Farnham Sporting Goods Company. Follows a Broadway, New York, address, and then come many typewritten lines, each ending in figures that form a column down the right-hand margin of the sheet. With pencil in hand, Russell reads, frowns and lightly checks the items, and finally, having reached the bottom of the paper, he leans back in his chair, taps the pencil against his teeth and stares dubiously across to the open window. During the last few days it has become more and more apparent that the merchant who starts in business with insufficient capital must expect anxious moments. Removing his gaze from the window, Russell opens the small drawer at the right and takes out a very new bank book. Reference to the first – and so far only – item set down therein fails, however, to lift the frown from his brow, and, sighing, he looks once more at the appalling total beneath the column of figures on the bill, shakes his head, returns the small bank book to the drawer and glances at his watch. Although the nine o’clock bell had held no summons to him, it will be different when ten o’clock comes, and it is already very close to that hour. So he places the troubling bill in the drawer, drops several other documents upon it and hides them all from sight with a slightly vindicative bang. But, had you been there to look over his shoulder, your gaze would doubtless have fallen on the topmost document and you would have perhaps wondered at the presence of what was at first glance a florist’s bill. Then, however, looking further, you would have beheld beneath the printed inscription – “J. Warren Pulsifer, Florist, 112 West Street” – the scrawled legend:

“Received of Russell W. Emerson Twenty-two Dollars and Fifty Cents ($22.50) for one month’s rent of premises.

    “J. Warren Pulsifer.”

CHAPTER IV

JIMMY READS THE PAPER

The Doubleay was written and edited in the sanctum in Academy Hall and printed in a small job printing shop over Garfield’s grocery on State street. As school weeklies go, The Doubleay was a very presentable sheet. Typographical errors were only frequent enough to encourage the reader of a humorous turn of mind to a diligent perusal of the four pages; the advertising matter was attractively displayed and the editorial policy was commendably simple, being to present the news accurately and briefly. The paper was published on Thursday and distributed to subscribers and advertisers by a more or less efficient corps of six young gentlemen, usually freshmen, who received the munificent reward of half a cent per copy. The first issue of the paper this fall came out on the second Thursday of the term, and, according to custom, contained six pages instead of the usual four, the added matter consisting of the student list arranged by classes and printed on two sides of a half-sheet under the impressive legend: The Doubleay – Supplement.

Now, if your transom was open when the carrier reached your door you found the paper on the floor when you returned to your room, or, if it happened to flutter under a bed or into the waste-basket, you discovered it the next day or a week later or not at all, as the case might be. To-day, however, Stanley Hassell pushed it aside with the opening door when he and Jimmy returned from the gymnasium and, picking it up, tossed it to the table.

“All the news that’s fit to print,” he commented. “The old Flubdub’s out again, Jimmy.” Stanley intended no disrespect to the journal: he merely used the customary name for it. Jimmy sighed as he sank into a chair and reached for the paper.

“Why, I’m glad to see its cheerful face again,” he murmured. “And doesn’t it look familiar! I wonder if any of the old friends of my youth are missing.” He was silent a minute as he turned the pages and as Stanley stretched himself on a window-seat that was four inches too short for him. “No,” Jimmy went on, “they’re all here: Sampson’s Livery, Girtle, the Academy Tailor, Go to Smith’s for Stationery, The Best Soda in the City, College Last Shoes – all the dear, familiar old friends of me youth, Stan. And here’s Gookin, the Painless Dentist, still holding out a welcoming hand, and the Broadway Theater and the New York Haberdashery and – yes, here are a couple of new ones! I tell you, Stan, the old Flubdub’s a live un! ‘After the Game – Drink Merlin Ginger Ale.’ Now, why should I, Stan? Seems to me it’s not enough to just tell me to drink the stuff: they ought to give me a reason why – hello! Well, I’ll be swiggled! Listen to this, will you? ‘The Sign of the Football. R. W. Emerson and G. Patterson announce the opening of their shop at 112 West street with a full line of Athletic and Sporting Supplies and cordially solicit the patronage of their fellow students. Quality goods at New York Prices. Academy Discount. “PandF spells Best!”’”

“That’s the Emerson we found waiting on table at the hotel,” exclaimed Stanley interestedly. “At least, I suppose it is. I don’t believe there’s another Emerson in school.”

“I’ll soon tell you,” said Jimmy, rescuing the Supplement from beside his chair. “Emerson, E., Dribble – that’s a swell cognomen, if you ask me! – Dutton, Eager – none in the senior class. And none in the junior – yes, there is, ‘Emerson, Russell Wilcox, Lawrence, N. Y., U. 27.’”

“That’s this fellow,” said Stanley. “R. W., Russell Wilcox. Any others?”

“N-no, not in the – Hold on, though. Here’s another in the freshman bunch: ‘Emerson, Ernest Prentice – ’”

“Not him. He wouldn’t be a freshie. Besides, the initials aren’t right. But who’s G. Patterson?”

“Seems to me I remember a Patterson,” mused Jimmy. “Of course! You know him; at least by sight. Tall, thin gink; curly hair; Canadian, I think. Rooms in Upton. Wasn’t he trying for baseball last spring?”

Stanley nodded. “Yes, but didn’t make it. I believe he’s a bit of a tennis shark. I remember. Maybe he and Emerson room together.”

“Right-o!” corroborated Jimmy, referring again to the list. “What do you know about them opening a store? Got their courage, what? Athletic goods, eh? Well, honest, Stan, there’s a mighty good chance for some one to handle a decent line of athletic goods here. Crocker never has what you want, or, if he has, it’s so old it falls to pieces before you can use it. Remember the glove you bought last spring?”

Stanley nodded earnestly. “Fool thing went to pieces the third time I wore it,” he grunted. “Crocker’s higher than thunder, too. He doesn’t know the War’s over yet! Wouldn’t be surprised if these fellows did pretty well, Jimmy.”

“Nor I; and I hope they do. This Emerson guy seems to have a lot of grit, or – or something. Initiative, too. Plucky chap. I liked his looks that day at Pine Harbor.” After a moment, his eyes returned to the advertisement, “Say, what do you suppose this cryptic bit means? ‘PandF spells Best.’ What’s PandF?”

“You may explore me,” replied Stanley, yawning. “Maybe a misprint for P and E, Patterson and Emerson.”

“But it’s ‘Emerson and Patterson.’ Besides, the thing’s run together, like one word.”

“It’s probably put there to make fellows curious, just as it’s made you, Jimmy. Sort of a – a – what do they call ’em? Slogans, isn’t it? Like ‘It Floats,’ or – or – ” But to save his life Stanley couldn’t think of another example, and he subsided on the pillows again with a grunt.

“Yes, but what’s ‘PandF’?” reiterated Jimmy, frowningly. “Potatoes and Farina? Pork and – and – ”

“Cabbage,” suggested Stanley. “Queer how your thoughts always run toward food, Jimmy. Isn’t there anything else in the paper?”

“I guess so. Let’s see.” Jimmy turned to the first page. “‘Record Enrollment’; that’s about the number of fellows; four hundred and twenty-four, Stan: ‘estimated.’ Don’t see why they have to estimate. Maybe they didn’t have time to count ’em, though. ‘New Courses Offered.’ Avaunt! ‘Football Situation.’ Hm, the usual twaddle. ‘Not in recent years has the Team lost so many of its first-string players by graduation.’ Guess that’s so, too. ‘Of those who started the Kenly game last Fall but three remain to serve as a nucleus about which to build this year’s Eleven; Captain Proctor, tackle, Nichols, center, and Mawson, half-back. The situation is not, though, as desperate as this fact would make it appear, as there is much excellent substitute material on hand. Rhame and McLeod, ends, Rowlandson, guard, Cravath, center, Richards, quarter-back, Harmon, Austen, Longstreth and Kruger, half-backs, and Browne and Linthicum, full-backs, have all had experience, and from them Coach Cade will doubtless be able to select a Team of no mean ability. What may develop from the new candidates is problematic, but nearly always one star appears unheralded.’ Hurrah! There’s a lot more of it, but as I don’t see my name again we’ll quit. And here’s the schedule. ‘Alton High School, Banning High School, Lorimer Academy, Hillsport School, New Falmouth High School, Mount Millard School – ’ Say, look where Mount Millard comes, Stan; second game from the last!”

“Sure! Why not?”

“How come?”

“Why, you dumb-bell, didn’t they whale us last year, 19 to 0?”

“That’s so, but – ”

“Well, we’ve put them down the list where we can handle them. Who’s next?”

“Oak Grove. Then Kenly. We have three games away from home.”

“All faculty will allow. Good thing, too, if you ask me.”

“I hadn’t, old dear, but I will. What’s the answer?”