Tom Fairfield's Schooldays: or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall. Chapman Allen
Tom Fairfield's Schooldays; or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall
CHAPTER I
TOM HEARS STRANGE NEWS
“Hi, Tom, give us a ride in your boat; will you?”
“Take us across to the other side of the river.”
The request and the suggestion came from two lads who were walking toward a small boathouse, on the edge of a rather wide river. The youth to whom they spoke looked up from a small motorboat, the engine of which he was cleaning.
“What do you want to go over to the other side of the river for, Dick Jones?” asked Tom Fairfield, of the lad who had made that suggestion.
“Got to go on an errand for dad, and it’s too far to walk away around by the bridge. Take me over, will you?”
“I will if I can get this engine to run.”
“What’s the matter with it?” asked Will Bennett, the companion of Dick Jones. The two were chums, and friends of Tom Fairfield, all of them living in the village of Briartown. Tom, whose parents were quite well off, had recently bought a motorboat, not very large, but of sufficient size to enable him to take out several of his chums. “What’s the matter with the engine?” asked Will again, as he and his chum walked out on the small dock, at the end of which the motorboat was made fast.
“Matter with it? What isn’t the matter with it?” asked Tom in some disgust. “The cylinder is flooded with oil, that’s what’s the matter, and I don’t know how many more things I’ll find wrong before I get through. It’s all that Dent Wilcox’s fault.”
“How’s that?” asked Dick, as he and his chum watched Tom trying to drain some of the lubricating oil out through a small valve.
“Oh, I took Dent out for a ride last night, and as I was in a hurry to get up to the house when I got back, I asked him to shut off the oil cups. But it’s like everything else he does – he’s too lazy, almost, to breathe. He didn’t turn off the oil, and all that was in the cups ran into the cylinder during the night. I’ve tried for the last half hour to get the engine started, but she won’t run.”
“That’s too bad,” spoke Will sympathetically.
“I’ll never trust Dent to do anything for me again,” went on Tom. “I ought to have seen to the oil cups myself, and I will next time. Wait until I catch him!”
“There he goes now!” exclaimed Dick, pointing to a lad crossing a field some distance away. “Shall I run and tell him you want to see him?”
“No, it isn’t worth while,” replied Tom. “Besides, he’s so lazy he wouldn’t walk down here. But I’ll talk to him like a Dutch Uncle when I do see him. Now let’s see if the engine will work. If it does, I’ll give you fellows a ride.”
Once more Tom turned the flywheel over several times, but, though the engine coughed, wheezed and spluttered, as though in apology at having such poor health, it did not start.
“Say, you haven’t got your forward switch on!” suddenly exclaimed Will. “There’s no spark.”
“No wonder!” cried Tom. “I remember now, I had it on, and then, as I didn’t want to get a shock when I was cleaning the spark plug, I shut it off. Then I forgot to put it on again. Hop in, and close the switch, Will, and then maybe we can start. I guess most of the oil is out, now.”
The two chums got in the boat, and Will, making his way forward, closed the connection. Then Tom, who had remained near the motor, again turned over the flywheel. This time there was an explosion, and the engine worked rapidly. The propeller churned the water, and the painter strained as the boat moved forward.
“Hurray!” cheered Dick.
“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Will, at the prospect of a ride.
“Yes, I guess it’s all right now,” assented Tom. He shut off the engine by pulling out a switch near it, and added: “Wait until I get some more oil from the boathouse, and I’ll be with you.”
As Tom started up the dock toward the little building, which he had built, with the help of his chums, to house his boat, he saw, coming along the road that ran near the river, a young man in a small auto runabout. The youth was well dressed, but on his face was a look of sadness and worry, in contrast, Tom thought, to the cheerful expression he should have worn.
“If I had a natty little car like that, I wouldn’t look so glum,” reasoned Tom, as he opened the boathouse door. The runabout came nearer, and the lone occupant of it, bringing it to a stop opposite Tom, called out:
“Is there any place around here where I can hire a boat for a row of an hour or so?”
“Not near here,” replied Tom.
The young man’s eyes rested on Tom’s own trim rowing craft.
“Is that one to hire?” he asked, nodding toward it.
“No,” replied our hero. “But if you’d like to take it I’ve no objections. I’ve got a motorboat, and, if you like, I’ll take you for a ride in that. Did you want to go anywhere in particular?”
“No, I just want to get off by myself, and worry over my troubles,” and the newcomer laughed, but the laugh had no merriment in it.
“Troubles?” questioned Tom, now that the other had given him an opening. “You don’t look as if you had troubles.”
“Well, I have – lots of ’em. I’ve acted like a blamed chump, and now I’ve got to pay the piper. A man is trying to make trouble for me, and I guess he’ll succeed, all right. I’m too easy, that’s the trouble. But I’m not going to bother you with my woes.”
“Do you want to come for a ride with me?” asked Tom. “I’m going to take a couple of friends across the river.”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to seem stiff, but really I’d be better off by myself for a time. So, if you really mean it, and will lend me your boat, I’ll go for a row alone. I was out on a little country run – I live in Camden – and when I saw this river, looking so calm and peaceful, I just felt as though I’d like to row on it, and forget my troubles.”
“You may take the boat, and welcome,” went on Tom, looking at the other, and forming a liking for him at once.
“Thanks. My name is Bennington – Bruce Bennington. I haven’t a card, or I’d give you one.”
“My name’s Tom Fairfield,” spoke our hero, and the two shook hands.
“Know how to row?” asked Tom, as the newcomer started toward where the small boat was moored.
“Yes, I’m on the crew at Elmwood Hall. I’m a senior there,” Bruce explained.
“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, for he had often heard of that place of learning. “That’s quite a school,” he added. “I’ve often wished I could go there.”
“Yes, it’s quite a place,” admitted Bruce Bennington. “And we have a pretty fair crew. You won’t want your boat right away?”
“No. And the reason I asked if you could row was because there are some stiff currents in the river. You’re welcome to come in the motorboat if you like, though it isn’t much of a craft.”
“No, thank you, I’d rather row off by myself, and do some good hard thinking. I’ve got to go back to school as soon as the fall term opens, which will be in about two weeks, and I’d like to find a way out of my troubles before then, if I can.”
“It’s too bad,” spoke Tom sympathetically, for he had, somehow, come to form a strange and sudden liking for this lad. Tom looked into the other’s frank and pleasant face, and really wished he could help him.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to squirm out of it the best I can,” went on Bruce. “A good row, and a rest in the cool shadows, will calm me down, maybe, and I’ll try to make some plans before I have to get back to the grind. I’ll take good care of your boat.”
By the manner in which he entered it, and took up the oars, Tom saw that Bruce knew how to handle the craft. The auto runabout had been left near the dock, and a little later the senior was sculling down the stream.
“Who was