Tom Fairfield's Schooldays: or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall. Chapman Allen
there. Opening day generally lasts a week. I thought I’d go down a day early, and get settled in my room.”
“That was my idea,” confessed Tom.
“Where are you going to put up?”
“I’ve got a room in Opus Manor. That seemed a nice place, and I picked it out when I came down for the entrance exams.,” replied Tom.
“It is nice,” admitted Reddy Burke. “It’s where all the Freshmen like to get, but usually it’s so crowded that you have to go on the waiting list. You’re in luck, Fairfield.”
“Glad you think so. Where do you room?”
“Oh, I put up with the rest of our crowd at the Ball and Bat. That’s our fraternity house you know.”
“Yes, I noticed it when I was down before. It’s a beaut place, all right.”
“Pretty fair. We have some good times there. You must come to some of the blowouts. I’ll send you a card when we get settled, and you know the ropes.”
“Thanks,” replied Tom gratefully. “And now tell me all about Elmwood Hall.”
“Oh land! It would take a week!” exclaimed the red-haired athlete. “There’s lots to tell about it, but I guess you know the history of it as well as I do, if you’ve seen a catalog.”
“Yes, but I mean tell me something about the fellows, and the professors.”
“Well, the professors are no better nor worse than at other colleges, I suppose,” spoke Reddy, with something like a sigh. “They all seem to have exaggerated notions about the value of Greek, Latin and mathematics, though I’ll be hanged if I like ’em. Baseball and football for mine, though I suppose if I’m ever to become a lawyer, which dad seems to think I’m cut out for, I’ll have to buckle down sooner or later, and assimilate some of that dry stuff. It’s time I begin, I reckon.”
“I should think so – if you’re in your Junior year,” spoke Tom with a laugh.
“That’s right. Oh, I have done some boning, and I haven’t cut lectures any more than the rest of the team did. You simply have to cut some if you play all the games, and I didn’t miss any contests, you can make up your mind to that. Most all of us at the Ball and Bat play either on the diamond, or gridiron, or row on the crew. I say though, maybe you’re that way yourself?” and Reddy looked questioningly at our hero.
“Well,” admitted Tom, modestly, “I can row a bit, and I like baseball. I’ve never played football much. I wasn’t quite heavy enough for the team at our Academy.”
“You look husky enough,” spoke Reddy, casting a critical pair of blue eyes over his seatmate. “You ought to try for the eleven down at Elmwood.”
“Maybe I will. Think I’d have a chance?”
“It’s too early to say, but have a try, anyhow.”
“Are any of the professors very savage?” asked Tom.
“Only so-so. Doctor Pliny Meredith is head master, I suppose you know.”
“Yes. How is he?”
“As full of learning as a crab is of meat in the middle of August, but he’s not very jolly. Rather stand-offish, and distant, though sometimes he warms up. We call him ‘Merry’ because he’s usually so glum. But he’s fair, and he thinks Elmwood Hall the greatest institution ever. To him a fellow’s word is as good as his bond. It all goes on the honor system there. No profs. at the exams., you know, and all that. You have to be a gentleman at Elmwood.”
“Do the fellows live up to it?” asked Tom.
“Pretty much. There are one or two a little off color, of course. But any fellow who would lie to Merry wouldn’t stay long at Elmwood if the fellows got on to it.
“Then, the rest of the profs. are about like the average, except that I don’t mind admitting that Burton Skeel is a regular grinder, and as mean as they make ’em. He’s the Latin taskmaster and maybe that’s why I hate it so.”
“Aren’t there any jolly professors?” asked Tom, beginning to think that perhaps, after all, he wasn’t going to like it at Elmwood as much as he had hoped.
“Oh, bless you, yes!” exclaimed Reddy. “I was almost forgetting Live Wire. That would never do.”
“Live Wire? Who’s he?”
“Professor Livingston Hammond. He’s fat and jolly and he almost makes you like trigonometry, which is saying a lot, and, as for solid geometry, and conic sections, well, if anybody can make them look like the comic sheet of a Sunday newspaper it’s the Live Wire. You’ll like him; all the fellows do. But he won’t stand for any nonsense. You’ve got to come ‘prepared,’ or he’ll turn you back to make it up after class.”
“I like maths.,” admitted Tom.
“Then you and the Live Wire will be friends and brothers, I guess,” predicted Reddy.
“Tell me something about the fellows,” suggested Tom. “I know one Senior, slightly.”
“You do? How’d you make his acquaintance?”
“He’s Bruce Bennington,” replied our hero, as he told of the manner of their first meeting.
“That’s odd,” commented Reddy. “Bruce is one of the nicest chaps in college. ‘Easy Money Bennington’ we call him, ‘Easy’ for short, though. He’s a good spender, and his own worst enemy.”
“How’s that?” asked Tom. “I could see that something was troubling him the day I met him, but he wouldn’t say what it was.”
“No, that’s his way,” spoke the red-haired athlete. “I mean that he’s impulsive. He’d do anything for a friend, or an enemy too, for that matter, and that often gets him into trouble. He doesn’t stop to think, but he’s got a host of friends, and everybody likes him, even old Skeel I guess, for I’ve seen ’em together lots of times.”
“I wonder what his special trouble is now?” speculated Tom.
“Give it up. Bruce will never tell until it’s settled. He’s proud – won’t take help from any one if he can help it. So you know him?”
“Well, I hardly can say I know him. He may not want to keep up the acquaintance down here,” spoke Tom.
“Oh, yes he will. Bruce isn’t that kind. Once he meets you he’s always friendly, and, if he takes a notion to you, why you couldn’t have a better friend.”
Tom was glad to hear this, and he felt a warm spot in his heart for the somewhat unhappy Senior. He resolved to find out his trouble, if he could, and help him if it were possible.
“Of course there are some mean and undesirable chaps at Elmwood,” admitted Reddy. “Just as there are anywhere, I guess, only I wouldn’t want to name any of ’em. You’ll find out who they are, soon enough. But you just play straight and they’ll soon let you alone. They may try to pick a quarrel, and there are a few who are always trying to get up a mill. Do you fight?”
“I box a little,” admitted Tom.
“Good, then you can take care of yourself if it comes to a scrap, I suppose. But don’t get into a fight if you can help it. Not that I mean to run away, but it’s against the rules to fight, and you don’t want to be suspended, though there are more or less mills pulled off every term.”
“I’ll fight if I have to; not otherwise,” spoke Tom, quietly.
“Good. Say, you’ll think I’m trying to put it all over you, and do the big brother act with such advice; won’t you?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied Tom, stoutly. “I’m glad to have you give me points.”
“All right then. I guess you’ll do. We’ve got one funny character at the school – Demosthenes Miller.”
“A student?”
“Land