CHAPTER II

JONES LENDS A HAND

The frog’s name was Antonio, explained the boy in the bath-robe as he

and Barry began the search. He had been having his supper――that is,

Antonio had――when Mrs. Lyle knocked. He had refused to eat and Toby had

been obliged to resort to forcible feeding. He had brought Antonio from

home, and of course the frog hadn’t had time to get used to the place

yet. Maybe he had gone downstairs.

He had. Barry found him under the telephone table. He seemed

very nervous, Barry thought, which was not unnatural under the

circumstances. Toby recaptured him expertly and bore him back upstairs.

Mrs. Lyle, recovered from her shock, was inclined to be tragic.

“Really, Toby, I don’t see how I can allow you to keep such dreadful

things in your room! I don’t mind the――the bugs, because they’re

dead, and last year I said nothing when you had those snakes in the

cracker-box, but things that jump, like frogs, and scare folks to

death――”

Toby viewed her in genuine surprise from behind the thick lenses of his

spectacles.

“Why, Mrs. Lyle, frogs won’t hurt you! Anyway, I’m going to have an

aquarium for him just as soon as I can find one. And that’s what I need

that table for. I just don’t see how I can do without it.”

Barry didn’t, either. Just now the table, which was a small affair, was

loaded with jars and tin boxes and various other articles, and if Toby

moved them they must, it seemed, go on the floor, since every other

surface appeared fully occupied. It was a strange apartment that Barry

viewed from the doorway. How its occupant managed to get around in it

was a mystery. Barry counted four tables, including the one recently

acquired, three packing-boxes substituting as tables, and a bench, the

latter evidently home-made. Then there were shelves on every side, it

seemed, and all were full. Barry caught glimpses of impaled butterflies

and moths and beetles, of gruesome objects in bottles and jars, of

receptacles of whose unseen contents he was more than suspicious, and

felt thankful for the impenetrable if unlovely wall that stood between

Toby Nott’s room and his!

“But, Toby,” Mrs. Lyle was protesting weakly, “it belongs in Mr. Key’s

room, and it’s the only one I have left. You’ll really have to――”

“It doesn’t matter a bit,” declared Barry. “Fact is, I’ve got a table

coming and Nott is quite welcome to this one.”

Toby Nott looked his gratitude and pulled his bath-robe more decorously

about him. Most of the buttons were gone and eternal vigilance was the

price of modesty. Mrs. Lyle said, “Well――” relievedly and yielded.

Outside again, with Toby Nott’s door firmly closed on their retreat,

she shook her head, sighed, and then smiled as one who realizes her

weakness.

“I suppose I ought to have made him put it back,” she said. “If Betty

were here―― She’s the only one who can do anything with him. If it

weren’t for Betty he’d have――have――goodness gracious! I don’t know

what he wouldn’t have in there! He’s a dear boy, though. Well, now, if

everything isn’t satisfactory―― Of course you won’t find things here as

you’re used to them at home, but we do want you to be comfortable, and

if there’s anything I’ve forgotten――”

Mrs. Lyle was interrupted by the expressman. Barry yielded his check,

left a half-dollar with the landlady, washed up, and hurried off toward

school, already late for his appointment with Clyde. The school

grounds began a stone’s throw from the Lyle house, their limit marked

by a stone wall which, reaching the road, became more ornamental as

it turned and went on to the nearer of the two gates. Stone pillars

guarded the entrance, and on the left-hand one was a modest panel

bearing the announcement: “BROADMOOR SCHOOL――EST. 1886.” The curving

driveway was lined with maples and as they still held their leaves, it

was not until Barry had progressed some distance that he obtained a

real view of the buildings.

Rather plain, they were, conservatively Colonial all. Croft, toward

which the drive led, was a large structure of red brick with gray-stone

trim, its slate roof broken in the center by a squat belfry. Farther

back and to the left was Dawson Hall, newer but so wrapped about in ivy

as to seem a contemporary of the original building. Occupying a similar

location to the right was Meddill, the other dormitory. Bates, most

recent of all, stood behind Croft, completing the quadrangle. Viewed

under the ruddy rays of the sinking sun, shaded here and there by elms

and maples, the buildings looked friendly and hospitable, and Barry’s

heart warmed to them. Maybe he was going to like Broadmoor, after all!

He found the school office without difficulty and the operation of

registering was soon over. He didn’t expect to find Clyde in the

dormitory, for it was already past six, but he made his way up the

stone stairway to the second floor and looked for Number 42. The

building was evidently utterly deserted and the long corridor stretched

before him dim and silent. The door of Clyde’s room was ajar and after

knocking Barry thrust it wider and peered in. It was lighter than the

corridor and showed itself much as Clyde had described it, a generously

large, square room with rough-plastered walls and a beamed ceiling.

A big study table, book-shelves, several comfortable chairs, and a

window-seat piled high with cushions met Barry’s somewhat wistful gaze.

A curtained alcove, now a pocket of gloom, opened at the left. It

looked awfully good to the boy in the doorway. All this might have been

his if――

His wandering eyes lighted on an object atop one of the low bookcases

and the thought went unfinished. What he saw was his picture, the

one on horseback taken at Orchard Bluff two summers before. It

wasn’t occupying a very prominent position amidst the assemblage of

photographs there, but its presence cheered Barry considerably and he

made his way back down the stairs and out into the twilight without

further thought of what might have been.

The dining-hall occupied the north wing of Bates Memorial Hall and a

hum of voices and a cheerful clatter of dishes guided him unerringly to

the entrance.

The sight of some two hundred and sixty hungry boys at supper may not

be inspiring, but it is at least interesting, and Barry paused at the

wide doorway to look. The room seemed vast, and the three ranks of

tables appeared to stretch away interminably. A round clock in the

center of the opposite wall proclaimed six-twelve. The captain of the

waiters caught sight of the tardy arrival and piloted him half-way

along the first aisle, to a vacant chair at Table 7. Food was placed

before him, a hospitable neighbor set a huge pitcher of milk beside

him, and Barry supped, relieved to discover that none of the other nine

occupants of the table paid him more than brief attention. The food was

good and there was plenty of it,――more than plenty, so far as Barry was

concerned, since travel and the heat had tired him,――and his hunger was

soon satisfied.

Most of those who sat with him were fellows of about his own age,

although three appeared a year or so younger; Fourth-Class boys,

doubtless. Conversation was scant and low-toned. One by one the chairs

emptied and the big hall grew quieter. Threatened with finding himself

the last at his table, Barry hurried through a saucer of canned peaches

and a square of cake and followed the exodus.

He had looked about for Clyde, but had not seen him, but now, following

the curving path toward Dawson, he descried him standing near the

dormitory steps, one of a group of three. Barry dawdled in the hope

that Clyde would detach himself from the others, but he didn’t, and so

the new-comer was presently shaking hands with Ellingham and Stearns.

Ellingham, addressed by the others as “Goof,” was a tall chap of

perhaps seventeen. He didn’t seem vastly impressed by the introduction,

but neither, for that matter, was Barry. Hal Stearns was a rather

ponderous youth, ponderous both as to build and manner, with plain

features, dark hair, and a good deal of color in his full cheeks. As

though fearing that he might be blamed for keeping Barry out of Number

42, he was extremely affable. Barry had made up his mind to like

Stearns, but now the resolution weakened. Ellingham went off presently

and the others climbed the stairs to the room.

If Barry had been inclined to think Clyde a bit casual over his advent,

somewhat unconcerned about his welfare, Clyde’s remarks during the

following ten minutes should have corrected any such assumption. Clyde

said that he and Hal had been discussing Barry; about his getting the

right sort of start and all that.

“There’s a lot in getting off on the right foot,” Clyde continued. “I

learned that myself last year. When a fellow doesn’t come in with his

class he’s sort of handicapped, you see. But I can help you a lot, Hal

and I both, and you’ll probably get on all right. The most important

thing of all is getting in with the right sort at the beginning. If

you pick up with the wrong bunch the other crowd will fight shy of you

and you’ll find it mighty hard to shake loose. Of course I don’t know

many Third-Class fellows, but I’ll snoop around a bit and get the dope

for you. And we’ll see that you meet some of our bunch. Meanwhile,

youngster, you’d better play safe and not get too chummy with any one.”

“Well,” said Barry, doubtfully, “I don’t know, Clyde. I’m sort of used

to picking my own friends, and so far it hasn’t seemed to do much harm.”

“Maybe, but you’ll find things different at a prep school. There are

all sorts here, and a lot of them won’t do you any good if you want

to get on. Take that guy Peaches Jones, who rooms at your place, for

example. Now, he’s a fair example of the sort to keep clear of, Barry.

He’s a regular pill.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hal. “He’s one of the baseball crowd; Tweet

Finch, and the Groves fellows, and that bunch.”

“Well, but I expect to play baseball,” said Barry, perplexed.

“I wouldn’t think of it!” replied Clyde, emphatically. “You won’t meet

the right sort at all. Of course there are two or three, like Jody

Hodson and――and――”

“Pete Johnston,” Hal suggested.

“Y-yes,” agreed Clyde, reluctantly, “although if Pete weren’t

Second-Class president I’d say he was a good deal of a bounder. Anyway,

Barry, it will be a lot better if you cut out baseball. How about

football? Of course you couldn’t make the First this year, but even if

you didn’t, you’d make the right sort of acquaintances.”

“I’m not much good, Clyde,” said Barry. “I tried last fall, but I

didn’t get anywhere. I wouldn’t mind trying for hockey. And I’d like

basket-ball, too. But I guess baseball’s my best bet.”

“Well, anyhow, lay off it until spring,” Clyde urged. “Fall practice

doesn’t amount to much. Maybe by spring you’ll be fixed so it won’t do

you any harm to mix with those rough-necks. Now, about clubs. You’d

better try for Attic. It isn’t exactly exclusive, but most of the right

sort belong. And you like literary stuff and debating, I guess. Then

there’s the Oracle. We’ll work that for you, but you won’t be elected

until February.” Barry tried to look properly grateful and wondered why

he didn’t feel so.

There was more discussion, more planning. Goof Ellingham appeared

presently, accompanied by a fellow who was introduced to Barry as

Greenwalk. Followed much football talk, for Clyde, Hal, and Goof were

all players. After a while Barry took his departure, followed to the

door by Clyde.

“Jake and Goof,” the latter confided in whispers, “are corkers. Glad

you met them. Follow it up, Barry.” Barry nodded, not so much in assent

as because Clyde’s earnestness demanded a reply. “Well, see you in the

morning,” said Clyde, and smote the other on the shoulder with friendly

approval.

It was dark when Barry got outside, and once he was through the gate

the darkness increased, for the village road was lighted by infrequent

arc-lamps and between them stretched long pockets of gloom wherein

crickets cheeped incessantly. There were lights in both the Lyle house

and the Anderson house, opposite. As he drew near, the strains of a

muted violin came from an upstairs window of the latter. It was a

wistful little air that he heard, one that faltered and died away at

a certain intricate run of tiny notes. Barry paused at the gate and

smiled in sympathy as the strains began again and again faded into

silence.

“He’s been at it ten minutes,” said a voice from the gloom of the

porch. “Persevering beggar!”

Barry stared curiously as he neared the speaker. Jones was seated on

something large, black, and formless that gradually resolved itself

into a trunk.

“What――” began Barry.

“Expressman dumped it here. Said he wouldn’t carry it upstairs for

fifty cents. If I’d been here I’d have shown him how mistaken he was,

but it was before I got back, and Mrs. Lyle is easy. So I thought I’d

better wait around and give you a hand.”

“Why, thanks,” said Barry. “But do you think we can do it? It’s awfully

heavy. There’s a lot of books in there.”

“I can carry one end and the middle if you can manage the rest of it,”

answered Jones. “Mr. Benjy wanted to try it, but I wouldn’t let him.”

“Who’s Mr. Benjy?” inquired Barry, dubiously lifting an end of the

steamer trunk as Jones yawningly rose.

“Mr. Lyle. Guess you’d better go first, Locke. Wait until I get the

screen door open. All ready? Let’s go!”

The sound of the struggle brought Mrs. Lyle from the sitting-room.

“Crawford, you’re not trying to get that trunk up by yourself?” she

demanded agitatedly. “I told you you mustn’t! You’ll strain your back

or――or hurt yourself dreadfully, and――”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Lyle. Locke’s here.”

“Oh! Well――” Mrs. Lyle retired again, and a murmur of voices came

through the open door below.

The boys got the trunk up the stairs finally, and then along the

hall and into Barry’s room, setting it down, with vast relief, in the

darkness.

“I’m awfully much obliged,” panted Barry, searching unsuccessfully for

a light-switch beside the door.

“Don’t mention it. If you’re looking for a button, there isn’t any.

Here, let me do it. I know where the thing is. At least, I think I do.

Ah, at last!”

A none too brilliant radiance appeared, accentuating the bareness of

the room. Jones surveyed the scene and shook his head.

“Really, Locke,” he protested, “don’t you know that it’s wretchedly bad

taste to overfurnish like this? I say――where’s your table?”

Barry explained, and Jones chuckled.

“Wonder he didn’t take your bureau, too! By the way, don’t be surprised

if you find garter-snakes and such harmless things wandering around in

here. Toby tries to keep them in bounds, but they will get away from

him at times. Where do you want this thing to live?” He kicked Barry’s

trunk gently.

“What do you think?” asked Barry. “If there were only some place

against the wall! But you see how it is. Every inch taken up.”

“Isn’t that the truth! Well, we might move the upholstered divan under

the front window or edge the buhl cabinet farther to the nor’east. Say,

what _is_ a buhl cabinet?”

“I don’t know,” said Barry. “I never had one before.”

“I see. Well, what do you say?”

“Over there in the corner, I guess.”

“All right. Careful not to scrape the parquetry, now. Gosh! you

careless duffer! you’ve gone and knocked a chip out of the Wedgwood

escritoire!”

“You’re pretty fairly ignorant,” sighed Barry, as they set the trunk on

end. “Wedgwood is pottery stuff. That escritoire is Heppelwhite.”

Jones observed the imaginary object intently.

“So it is!” he agreed. “A remarkably fine specimen, too. Well, I guess

you want to get unpacked, so I’ll leg it.”

Barry’s impulse was toward hospitality, but he recalled Clyde’s

warning and merely thanked Jones once more for his help. Jones

nodded cheerfully and departed and Barry attacked the trunk. Life

at Broadmoor, he reflected as he began unpacking, was going to be

complicated!

His bed was rather hard, but Barry slept like a top until a pleasant

voice called from beyond the door: “Hot water, Mr. Locke!” As it

wasn’t Mrs. Lyle’s voice, he decided, as he yawned himself awake, it

must be the maid Betty’s. Evidently her day off had left her in a very

cheerful state of mind. He crawled out, retrieved the pitcher, and

prepared for his first day of school.