Captain of the Crew. Barbour Ralph Henry
was interrupted by the subject, who appeared with a bunch of photographs in his hand.
“Do you mind if I put a couple of these on the mantel?”
“Certainly not; it’s half yours, of course.”
The tone was very chilly, and Trevor’s cheeks flushed slightly as he arranged the pictures behind the army of mugs. He started away and then came back again, and, taking a photograph from its place, looked hesitatingly at Dick, who was apparently supremely indifferent to his presence.
“That’s the pater,” he said finally, holding out the card, and speaking a little wistfully. Dick took the picture. It showed a middle-aged man, rather military looking, in riding clothes; a fine, handsome chap, Dick thought, and, having no quarrel with Trevor’s father, he said so:
“He’s awfully good-looking, Nesbitt.”
Trevor took the photograph and observed it a moment with smiling eyes ere he placed it back on the mantel. He was evidently monstrously proud of his father; but he only replied with elaborate indifference:
“He’s rather a good sort, the pater.” He took the rest of the pictures down and held them out. “Here’s some more if you care to see them.” Dick pretended to smother a yawn. “Thanks,” he said.
“I’m not boring you?” asked Trevor apologetically.
“No, indeed.” Dick was looking at the likeness of an elderly woman in a high lace cap. “Not your mother, is it?”
“No, that is my Aunt Grace; she lives in Manchester. I haven’t a picture of the mater here; we have only one, and the pater keeps that. She – she died when I was quite a youngster.”
“Oh,” said Dick softly. “I’m sorry. Mothers are – well, I wouldn’t want to lose mine, Nesbitt.”
“I fancy not. We – the pater and I – were awfully cut up when the mater died. That’s a cousin of mine; he’s at Rugby.”
The picture showed a stolid-looking boy with decidedly heavy features attired in flannels and leaning with studied carelessness on a cricket bat. It was typically English, Dick thought as he laid it aside. A photograph with “Maud” scrawled across the bottom in high angular characters showed a conscious-looking young lady of eighteen or nineteen years simpering from a latticed doorway. “That’s Cousin Maud,” explained Trevor; “she’s engaged to a lieutenant of engineers in South Africa; she’s a jolly nice girl.” When Dick had seen the last of the photographs Trevor rearranged them on the mantel, and while he was doing so there came a knock at the study door, followed by the entrance of a youth in a long ulster on which the snowflakes were melting.
“Hello, Earle, come in!” cried Dick, arising and shaking hands with the newcomer. “Where’s Carl?”
Stewart Earle, a slim, bright-faced boy of apparently fourteen years of age, shook the flakes from his coat and drew a note from his pocket.
“He couldn’t come over, Hope, so he asked me to bring this to you. I had to come over to the library. It’s snowing like all get out.”
Dick took the note and ran his eyes over it. The little creases deepened on his forehead as he tossed it onto the table. “Take off your coat, Earle, and sit down. By the way, do you know Nesbitt?” And as the two shook hands, “Nesbitt’s going to share these quarters with me.”
“Can’t stay,” answered Earle, “for I’ve got an hour’s work looking up some silly stuff about some silly Grecian war. You’re looking awfully fit, Hope.”
“So are you,” laughed Dick. “You don’t look at all like the pasty-faced little junior of two years back.”
“I don’t feel like him, either,” answered Stewart with a smile. “Shall I say anything to Carl?”
“Yes, tell him I’m awfully much obliged, and that I’ll look him up to-morrow if I don’t meet him at recitation. Good-night; sorry you won’t stay.”
When the door had closed again Dick took up the note and reread it.
“Dear Dick” (it ran), “Wheels has sent for me to go over to his house this evening; something about the indoor meeting. So I sha’n’t be able to see you to-night. What I was going to tell you was that Taylor’s been trying to raise trouble on the quiet with the crew fellows. He says we can’t turn out a crew that will stand any show of winning, and is trying to discourage the fellows. I’ll tell you more when I see you to-morrow. Stewart’s going to take this over to you.
“P. S. – Somebody ought to punch Taylor’s head – hard.”
Dick smiled as he tore up the missive, and then frowned. It was what he might have expected of Taylor, he told himself, and yet it was a bit discouraging. However, there was no use in meeting trouble half-way. He got a book and settled himself to study. In the bedroom Trevor was still distributing his belongings, and still whistling his tuneless air. When bedtime came Dick was silent and preoccupied, a fact which Trevor noticed.
“Hope you haven’t had bad news,” the latter said.
“Oh, no,” answered Dick, “nothing to hurt.”
Trevor turned out the gas and climbed into bed.
“Good-night,” he said.
“Good-night,” answered Dick.
For a long time the latter lay staring into the darkness thinking of Carl Gray’s note, and of Roy Taylor, and of Trevor Nesbitt; a good deal of Trevor. And the more he thought, the less satisfied with himself he became. His last thought as he turned over on his pillow and closed his eyes was that he had behaved like a particularly disagreeable prig.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE GYM
Trevor left the dressing-room and climbed the stairs to the running track. The gymnasium was quiet and filled with the twilight of a winter afternoon. It was but a few minutes after three, and, save for a youth who was heroically exercising with the weights, the building appeared deserted. But as he reached the head of the stairs the soft pat of shoes on the boards greeted him, and he stepped aside to let a lithe runner jog past. He recognized him as Stewart Earle, the boy who had brought the message to Dick Hope the night before, and when he next passed he nodded.
“Hello,” answered Stewart as he slowed down a little, “I didn’t recognize you. Awfully dark to-day, isn’t it?”
“Beastly,” responded Trevor. Then, with a glance at the big clock he started into a slow jog, lifting his feet high and stretching his muscles, that were somewhat stiffened by a week’s idleness. A flood of subdued white light bathed the track from the big north window, and as he passed he could hear the soft swir of the snowflakes against the glass. It had been snowing all night and all day, and showed as yet no sign of abatement. The broad skylights in the roof were covered deeply, and looked from beneath like sheets of lead.
The boy at the weights stopped and disappeared into the dressing-room. Perhaps he found it lonely work there all by himself. The pat of the runners’ shoes alone broke the stillness. Trevor took his pace from Stewart, and for some time the two circled the track. It was twenty-four laps to the mile, and when he had accomplished that distance Trevor went down and put in several minutes with the weights. Several other boys had entered meanwhile, and were changing outdoor clothing for gymnasium suits. When he had rubbed himself dry after a shower bath, Trevor took a seat by Stewart and began to dress leisurely.
“Do you run much?” he asked.
“Yes; that is, I try. I did a mile and a half to-day. I’m going to try for the two hundred and twenty yards at the indoor meet.”
“Why, so am I,” answered Trevor. Stewart grimaced.
“I guess it’s all up with me, then,” he said ruefully. “They say you’re a dandy sprinter.”
“Oh, I’m not much. I suppose there are lots of entries, eh?”
“Only