CHAPTER IV

“PUP NIGHT”

Barry, protesting, would have taken the dust-cloth from Betty, but the

latter shook her head and went vigorously and proficiently at the task.

“We’ve got some furniture polish somewhere,” she said, “and to-morrow

I’ll put some on. It’s a real nice desk. Did you have it sent from your

home?”

“Oh, no; I bought it in the village, from an old chap with a yellow

beard. He has what he calls an antique shop.”

“Mr. Hannabury,” said Betty, nodding. “Mother has bought some things

from him.” Barry unconsciously glanced at the bureau and Betty,

observing, smiled and shook her head. “No, that didn’t come from

the antique store. That was left here three or four years ago by a

boy who had the back room. It isn’t very good, I know,” she added

apologetically. And then, frankly: “Lots of our things aren’t, Mr.

Locke.”

“It’s plenty good enough,” he declared stoutly. “And my name’s Barry.”

She nodded.

“And you know mine already. If there’s anything you want, you must let

me know. Of course,” she laughed, “we may not have it, but, then again,

we may. I’m sorry you had to buy a table. You shouldn’t have let Toby

do that.”

“Well, he certainly needed it,” said Barry, with a grin. “What does he

do with all those things in there, anyway?”

“Just has them. Toby’s a collector. Collectors are like that, you know.

They just――just _collect_!”

“But he collects such messy things,” Barry protested. “Insects and――and

frogs――”

“Oh, yes, and turtles and even snakes. But he seems to have a lovely

time doing it, and so we try not to mind. And he’s a nice boy, too.”

Betty smiled again, nodded and vanished from the doorway.

Barry spent the next half-hour arranging his desk and examining his new

books, stiff-backed and pleasantly odorous of printer’s ink. Finally,

consulting his schedule of recitations, he selected one of the volumes

and seated himself in his one easy-chair, by the side window. But he

didn’t get much studying done just then, for the window afforded a

view of the slowly curving road and a corner of the tree-shaded campus,

and of Brazer’s farm with its sentinel elms casting long shadows about

the simple, comfortable buildings. He could see the river, too, here

and there, a sunlit blue ribbon skirting the farmer’s meadow-land,

twisting about the foot of Crow Hill and at last disappearing under the

stone bridge. All this held more attraction than the book.

Occasionally voices from the gridiron reached him, and once, beyond the

tree-tops, a football floated for a moment against the sky. Every one,

he reflected with a sigh, seemed to be having a pretty good time――every

one save John Barry Locke.

It was close to six when his gaze fell on two figures just turning from

the school gate. One was Crawford Jones. They were talking earnestly,

companionably, and Barry sighed again. Just short of the Lyle lot the

two parted, the stranger crossing toward the opposite house. Barry

hoped that Jones would accept the invitation of the half-opened door

and look in. But Jones went past without pausing. Barry closed his book

and prepared for supper.

When he went downstairs, a smallish man was reading a paper, at one

end of the porch. He lowered his head and peered at Barry over the

tops of his glasses. Then he said, “Hm!” rather nervously and added,

“Good evening.” He seemed friendly and in his present desire for

companionship Barry welcomed the opportunity for speech. He returned

the greeting and walked along the porch.

“I suppose you’re Mr. Lyle, sir,” he continued, smiling and holding out

his hand.

“Yes, yes,” was the almost eager response. “Very glad to know you, my

boy! Hm! Delighted to――er――welcome you to our humble abode. Won’t you

sit down?”

He was standing, his paper clutched in one hand, his eyes peering

near-sightedly through his glasses, and, having returned Barry’s

clasp, he continued to smile. Just why he should have awakened

Barry’s sympathy the latter couldn’t have told, but he did. Perhaps

it was because, in spite of his attempt to appear at ease, to attain

the dignity of the host, he seemed to offer the constant apology

of the man who realizes his inconsequence. He looked to be about

forty-two or forty-three years of age, was short of stature, thin, and

perceptibly stoop-shouldered, although in moments of brief assurance he

straightened himself to military erectness. Barry understood why he

was known as Mr. Benjy. The name suited him perfectly.

“Thanks,” Barry answered, “but I’m on my way to supper. I just wanted

to get acquainted, sir.” He smiled winningly and Mr. Benjy looked

touchingly gratified. “My name is Barry Locke, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I know. That is, Elizabeth――I should say my wife――has spoken

of you. You are occupying――er――the southwest chamber. Very glad indeed

to have you with us, Mister――er――”

“Just ‘Barry,’ sir. Thank you.” Barry nodded and went his way. Mr.

Benjy watched him over the edge of his paper until he had disappeared.

“Fine boy,” he murmured. “Davy was rather like him when he―― Hm!” Mr.

Benjy frowned, sighed, and rustled the paper back into position a few

inches from his glasses.

Barry found himself surprisingly hungry for his supper and did

excellently by it. The boy on his right, overcoming his shyness,

ventured a remark, half-way through the repast, and for the rest of the

time they conversed quite busily. Barry had been slightly curious about

this boy, whose name, it now appeared, was Fessenden. He was fourteen,

Barry guessed, and in the Fourth Class. He had dark hair that refused

to yield to the brush, heavy brows and long lashes over somewhat dreamy

brown eyes, and pale cheeks that reddened easily. A shy, sensitive boy,

and attractive in a way, Barry concluded. He evidently was finding

life at Broadmoor School none too joyous, although he didn’t say so

outright. Barry surmised that he, too, was feeling lonely and perhaps

homesick, and he would have been glad to lend companionship to the

younger lad had he not agreed to look up Clyde. As it was, they parted

outside Bates, Fessenden, ere he turned toward the library entrance,

nodding shy gratitude for the other’s friendliness.

There was an atmosphere of unrest about the campus that evening,

and a tendency to loiter about the oval and before the steps of the

buildings. Barry wondered for a moment what was in the air, but forgot

his curiosity in the discovery that Number 42 was empty. His first

impulse was to take advantage of the fact and so avoid an evening which

offered scant attraction for him, but second thoughts held him to his

promise and he switched on the lights, picked up a magazine, and set

himself to await Clyde’s return.

He found a story absorbing enough to hold his close attention for

nearly an hour. Then, as Clyde was still absent, he decided that he was

at liberty to leave, and turned out the lights and sought the stairway.

Had he been better acquainted with Dawson Hall under normal conditions

he would have noticed an unusual quiet. Here and there, from some open

door, the sound of voices reached the corridor, but for the most part

the rooms were dark. On the steps a few fellows lingered as though

waiting for something to happen, but these things made no impression on

Barry, and he took the path past the end of Croft and went on briskly

down the drive, toward home. He had just emerged into the road when,

in the increasing gloom, a flood of white light beat into his face,

forcing a startled gasp from him as he recoiled.

“What’s your class?” demanded a voice. Barry, shielding his eyes from

the rays of the pocket torch, saw four figures, possibly more, in the

group about him. Puzzled, slightly resentful of the start they had

given him, Barry spoke sharply:

“What do you want to know for?”

“He’s a ‘pup’!” declared one of the dim forms, and, “Sure he is!”

exclaimed a second. A hand laid itself ungently on Barry’s shoulder.

He stepped back, wrenching loose.

“What’s the idea?” he demanded.

The light suddenly went out and the faces of the others took shape.

Barry saw one of the fellows move toward the edge of the sidewalk, and

coincidently memory came to his aid. The preceding winter Clyde had

laughingly told him of “Pup Night” at school. Barry had forgotten,

but it came back to him now that in Broadmoor parlance a Fourth-Class

fellow was a “pup” and that the second evening of the term was “Pup

Night,” when the Third Classmen conducted certain ceremonies at the

pond, aided――somewhat unenthusiastically――by as many of the Fourth

Class as could be rounded up. His muscles relaxed and he smiled as he

said:

“I’m Third Class, fellows. Awfully sorry!”

“What’s your name?” asked a large boy, evidently in command of the

detail, with suspicion.

“Locke.”

“That’s right, Rusty,” said another. “He’s in a couple of my classes. I

remember him.”

“Well, he’s an awfully fresh guy,” growled Rusty. Then, to Barry: “Seen

any pups around?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, we’re looking for one who lives down the road here. They said at

the house he hadn’t come back, but maybe they were kidding us. Where do

you stay?”

“Mrs. Lyle’s,” answered Barry. “There aren’t any Fourth-Class fellows

there.”

“No, but there’s a guy across the street,” said Rusty, “and we want

him. Well――” He paused indecisively.

“I’ll tell him if I see him,” said Barry, obligingly, and went on. Some

one chuckled, but Rusty took the jest poorly.

“You do,” he called hoarsely but in low tones, “and I’ll hand you a

wallop, Fresh!”

Barry strove to recall Rusty. Something about him, perhaps his voice,

perhaps his dimly seen face, was familiar. Probably he had encountered

him at one of the conferences that morning. In any case, he decided,

he didn’t like him. The decision brought him to his gate, and he was

groping for the latch when a shout from behind him along the road

made him pause. There were voices then, a second shout, and the sound

of running feet. Barry peered back into the darkness. Toward him,

across the street, sped the quarry, the pursuers strung out behind but

gaining, as yet only deeper shadows in the gloom but taking form as

they approached the radius of light from the arc-lamp just beyond the

houses. The chase ended suddenly. The pursued stumbled, a dozen yards

from the Anderson gate, and fell, and the hunters were on him! Barry’s

smile faded, for a voice of pure terror came to him.

“Oh, please! _Please!_” wailed the captive. “Let me go! Let me _go_!”

Barry didn’t like the sound of that. The boy, whoever he was, was badly

frightened, almost hysterical. Barry crossed the road quickly. There

were five forms in the group moving slowly back into the darkness. They

had the captive securely enough, but he was struggling desperately,

panting convulsively, too panicky now to control his voice.

“Oh, shut up,” growled Rusty. “We aren’t going to hurt you, you baby!”

Their own scuffling footsteps kept the captors from hearing Barry’s

approach, and the sudden sound of his voice brought an instant halt.

“Hold on a minute,” said Barry. “This chap’s too scared. I wouldn’t go

any further with this business, fellows.”

“You wouldn’t?” demanded Rusty, sarcastically. “Well, who’s asking you

to? You go roll your hoop, young feller.”

The boy had quieted, although Barry could still hear his stifled sobs.

Barry kept his temper as he answered:

“Well, I’m Third, too, you know, and I’m not trying to spoil your fun,

but you ought to be able to see for yourselves――”

“Hire a hall!” Rusty reached forward and gave Barry a shove that sent

him staggering into another of the group. “Come on, fellows! ‘Drown the

pup’!”

Barry recovered himself and slipped past the youth whose toes he had,

doubtless, damaged. The move brought his back to the fence and with

a sudden yank he pulled the captive to his side and quickly stepped

in front of him. He had recognized the boy now: he was Fessenden, his

neighbor at table. The coup left Rusty momentarily too astonished and

outraged for speech, and in that instant Barry, half turning his head,

whispered, “Run when you see the chance!” Whether Fessenden heard or,

hearing, understood, Barry couldn’t know. Rusty had pushed a companion

roughly aside and from a few inches away was glaring at the meddler.

Barry resolutely kept his hands at his sides. He was still smiling,

although perhaps the darkness concealed the fact.

“You get out of here!” roared Rusty. “Go on! Get!” He seized Barry’s

coat at a shoulder and tried to heave him aside. The cloth strained,

but Barry didn’t heave. Instead, one of his own hands went swiftly up

and caught Rusty’s wrist, a foot shot forward, and then he did heave,

while Rusty, pulled forward and tripping over Barry’s extended leg,

swung to one side and crashed into the fence. And at the instant Barry

shouted, “_Run!_”

But Fessenden was incapable of running, and only cowered beside him,

gasping and futile.

“Grab him!” raged Rusty as he found his balance and, crouching, faced

Barry again. But he was wary, now. He liked a quarrel, but he hated

punishment, and something in the attitude of the straight figure

confronting him counseled caution. Barry, who had no love for fighting

but could nevertheless fight when it was necessary, moved a step along

the fence to free himself of Fessenden, now once more securely guarded.

He had no uneasiness as to the others. They’d keep out of it. It would

be just he and the big chap they called Rusty.

The latter was silent now, and menacing. Barry watched and waited.

Then his opponent rushed, closed. Barry fell back half a pace, threw

his head to the right, and took a crashing blow on his elbow. Then he

swung his right fist upward and felt the swift pain of the impact dart

along his arm. There was a startled “_Ugh!_” from Rusty as he staggered

away, and then:

“Pretty work, old son,” applauded a voice, and a new actor in the drama

stepped to Barry’s side, draped a hastily discarded coat over the

fence, and faced the group.

“Let’s make it a foursome,” said Crawford Jones, pleasantly. “Who else

wants to play?”