CHAPTER V

FESSENDEN FIDDLES

But it appeared that Jones had spoiled the party. Silence fell. Even

Fessenden grew quiet. Then some one laughed awkwardly and the spell was

broken.

“Well,” said Jones, in mild astonishment, “what’s the difficulty? Let’s

go. Any one will do; or any two.”

“Where’s your license to butt in?” growled Rusty, nursing his jaw

tenderly.

“Why, hello! Is that you, Waterman? That was a nice one you stopped

just now. They ought to have you on the nine, Rusty! Well, if the

game’s over, Locke, let’s wander. Who’s this chap?”

“He’s a pup,” answered Rusty, aggrievedly. “We were lugging him down

to the pond when this fresh guy here came up and shot off his mouth.

Said we mustn’t. I told him to beat it and then he wanted to fight.

You’d think we were doing something we oughtn’t! Isn’t this Pup Night,

Peaches?”

“As ever was!” agreed Jones, heartily. “And if you fellows expect to

see any of the fun, you’d better get a move on. It’s long after eight.”

“Well, we’re going to take this brat with us,” said Rusty. But his tone

lacked conviction. Jones shook his head.

“Not to-night,” he said gently. “Fade away, Rusty.”

“You’ve got a lot of gall,” began Rusty, blusteringly.

“I’ll say he has,” agreed one of the others. “This isn’t any of your

business, Jones.”

“Is that,” Jones inquired amiably, “your considered opinion?”

“Yes, it is, if you want to know.” Assurance, however, decreased

perceptibly toward the end of the statement.

“Well,” said Jones, “you look――or you would look if I could see

you――like a fellow ready to back his opinions. How about it?”

“Oh, dry up!” The retort was delivered in retreat, so to say, for

the speaker was already moving cautiously in a direction which could

never bring him any nearer Jones than he had been, even if persisted

in indefinitely. Jones allowed the argument to close. So did all the

others. Rusty laughed with a creditable simulation of unconcern and

moved too.

“If you’re going to make a――a serious affair of it――” he began

sarcastically.

“That’s it,” said Jones. “International complications, World Court

and all that, Rusty. Good night.” Jones re-donned his coat. The party

was at an end, disrupted, broken in halves. One half went schoolward,

discussing the affair, in dissatisfied mutters; the other set off

toward the Andersons’ house. Nearing the light, Jones turned a puzzled

regard on Fessenden.

“Well, son, what was your trouble? Think they were going to murder you?”

Fessenden shook his head, gulped, but made no answer.

“What do they do to them at the pond?” asked Barry.

“Make them swim across, if they can swim. A few get chucked in. There

are always three or four sporting enough to say ‘yes’ to that. Faculty

won’t stand for it unless the pups are willing. Those who can’t swim

get off; or maybe the others give them a bath with a pail. It’s only

fun――rather silly fun, I guess. I suppose you can’t swim, son.”

They were at the gate and Fessenden was fumbling for the latch. At

Jones’s question his head went down and a sob shook him. Jones stared

perplexedly at Barry and the latter put a hand on Fessenden’s shoulder

and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I――I’m ashamed,” gulped the boy.

“Oh, that’s it! Well, really, you know, it becomes you,” said Jones,

gently, “but I wouldn’t trouble about it any more.”

“I was in the library after supper,” began Fessenden, haltingly,

“and――and two boys were talking across the table; whispering.

They――they said a boy was drowned last year by――by the Third-Class

fellows, and――”

“Just trying to scare you, I guess,” said Jones. “Nothing in it, son.”

“Then I was coming home and I saw a light and hid and those fellows

were talking to you――” he indicated Barry――“and I heard what they said

and was frightened. I――I can’t swim! After you went along I tried to

get by on the other side of the road. I thought if I could catch up

with you―― But they saw me and I ran and they chased me. They were

shouting, ‘Drown the pup’! Then I fell and they got me.” Fessenden

ended with a final gulp and an appealing and shamefaced smile.

Jones chuckled.

“And you thought you were a goner, eh? Never mind, young―― What’s your

name, anyway?”

“Fessenden.”

“And you room here? I’ll bet you’re the fellow who plays the fiddle!”

The other nodded.

“I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you,” he said in eager apology.

“Not a bit, son, but I do wish you’d learn to wangle that tiddly-widdly

bit you’ve been struggling with for two days!”

Fessenden laughed tremulously.

“I have,” he said. “I can play it straight through now.”

“Praises be!” ejaculated Jones. “Well, better run along and get your

beauty sleep. Just remember this, though, young Fessenden. Never cry

till you’re hurt, and not then if you can help it. And never, never let

yourself get frightened. Whatever it is that gets your goat, son, go

straight up to it and poke it in the jaw. Just like Locke did! And that

was a neat swing, I’ll say.”

“I――I’ll try,” said Fessenden, gratefully. “And thanks for making

them――for everything――”

“That’s all right. If you feel under obligations to this gentleman and

me, just go up and play the tiddly-widdly thing through for us. I’d

like to know what happens after the peety-weety-weety part!”

“Queer bird,” commented Jones, as he and Barry crossed the road.

“High-strung,” said Barry. “He’s at my table and we were talking at

supper. I think he’s been sort of homesick.”

“I’d think he might be, staying in that room and playing his fiddle

all day. I can get homesick just listening to one of the things――some

kind of sick, anyway! Let’s sit here a minute and see if he fiddles for

us.” He seated himself on the porch and Barry dropped down beside him.

Across the road a front window in the opposite house became an oblong

of light.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” asked Jones.

“At home. There’s a chap who has a gymnasium and gives lessons in

boxing and wrestling. Clyde Allen and I got it into our heads a couple

of years ago that we’d like to learn and we went to him most of one

year. Some of the other fellows in high school went, too, and we used

to have boxing bouts at Clyde’s house, up in the billiard-room on

the third floor, until the plaster began to give way in Mrs. Allen’s

bedroom.”

“You and Allen are pretty chummy, then,” said Jones.

“Yes. Well, I don’t know, either. We’ve known each other a long while

and we live only three houses apart. Clyde was a year ahead of me at

school, though, and for the last two years we haven’t been quite so

thick. And then, last fall, he came here, and last summer, at Orchard

Bluff, he took up with an older crowd. But of course we’re pretty good

friends.”

“I see. Listen!”

Through the darkness, from the lighted window across the way, came the

strains of the “tiddly-widdly” air, played very softly. As the player

neared the dangerous stage Jones turned to Barry with a little smile

and held up a finger. But now the bow didn’t falter. It went swiftly

through a maze of tiny notes, unerringly, triumphantly, paused over a

thin, silvery tone, and descended to the lower notes for a repetition

of the opening movement and was still.

“That’s fiddling, young Fessenden!” murmured Jones. He clapped his

hands softly and Barry joined him. A form darkened the lighted window,

stood there a moment as though peering across, and then vanished.

“That was his amende,” said Jones, gravely. “And his thanks. A decent

kid, I guess, but brought up wrong. I’ll bet he couldn’t toss a ball

from first base to second! Or boot a football, or――or clean a fish,

always supposing he could catch one. That’s no way to bring a fellow

up, Locke. And if he is that sort, the last place to send him to is a

boarding-school. There are too many rough-necks here who don’t know

a――an andante from a――you say it, Locke.”

“Anduncle,” said Barry, gravely.

“Huh? Well, anyway, you get the idea. That kid’s in for a lot of hard

knocks in the next few months, and he won’t know how to take them

because about all he knows of life is keeping his feet dry and his

fiddle tuned! Let’s go up.”

“Come in and see my antique,” said Barry, when they had climbed the

stairs. “That is, if you have the time.”

“I’ll take time,” Jones replied, and, when the light was on: “Well! a

gen-oo-ine Chippendale! Or is it Sèvres?”

“Real Ming,” said Barry.

“Ming, eh? One of our best little designers.” Jones took the arm-chair

and surveyed the desk approvingly. “I knew him well. Also his uncle,

Grand Rapids. Say, Locke, where’d you find that relic? Is there a

public dump around somewhere?”

“I like your nerve!” exclaimed Barry, indignantly. “What’s the matter

with it?――except that it’s a bit more modern than the rest of the

stuff.”

“Maybe that’s it,” said the other, grinning. “I hope you’ve got it

clamped to the floor so Toby won’t pinch it! Joking aside, though, it’s

not half bad. Has lots of room, too. I suppose you didn’t pay anything

for having it delivered.”

“I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but what of it? Go on and spring it.”

“Nothing of it. Only, if any one gave me a nice desk like that I’d

expect him to deliver it.”

“You’re insulting. I paid six dollars for that desk, Jones, and I’ll

bet you wish you owned it.”

“I’ll bet I wish I were the fellow who got the six dollars! Well,

getting to love your little home, are you? You look quite fixed up.

Photographs and everything! Mind if I look?”

“Help yourself. Just the family, mostly.”

“This must be your father. Looks rather like you. And this is Allen,

isn’t it? Makes him look quite noble.” Jones completed the inspection

of the photographs and lounged back to his chair. Then, looking over

at Barry with a smile, he said, “I suppose he warned you against me,

Locke.”

“Warned me?” Barry repeated, confused. “What makes you think that?”

Jones chuckled.

“Oh, I just knew he would! He doesn’t approve of me, doesn’t like me.

And I don’t like him. You mustn’t mind that, because I dislike lots

of persons and things――like Napoleon and Pansy Chester and vanilla

ice-cream――that other folks admire hugely. So my taste isn’t any

criterion.”

“I guessed that you didn’t,” answered Barry. “Like Clyde, I mean. Would

you mind telling me why?”

“Not a bit, if I knew. But I don’t. Perhaps it’s more the gang he

travels with than he. Oh, I could state objections to your friend, just

as he could to me, but they wouldn’t be enough to explain it. We’ve

never spoken to each other more than a couple of dozen times, probably;

and then we just growled.”

“Well,” said Barry, after a moment, “of course Clyde isn’t perfect. No

one is――”

“Thanks be!” said Jones, fervently.

“But I’ve known him a good while, and so――” Barry broke off and his

smile deepened. “You know it would be a lot nicer if you two fellows

didn’t growl at each other, because I like Clyde and I――” He stopped

abruptly this time, looking uncomfortably embarrassed.

Jones grinned.

“And you don’t think I’m so bad. Go ahead and say it. Never mind my

blushes.”

“I don’t believe you could blush!” laughed Barry. “Anyway, I give you

fair warning that I’m going to get you and Clyde better acquainted,

so――”

“I know,” sighed the other. “You’re going to have a lingering illness

and die with an angelic smile on your face, while Allen and I clasp

hands across your bed.”

“I am not!” denied Barry, vigorously. “I don’t intend to have even a

toothache on your account. Neither of you is worth it. But I don’t

intend, either, to have a couple of decent chaps whom I――like――act so

silly. There’s no sense in it.”

“Noble sentiments, me Lud! They does you credik. Just the same and

notwithstanding――” and Jones yawned, stretched, and pulled himself out

of the chair――“before you have Allen and me shaking hands, one of two

things has got to happen: either he must change a lot or I must. I bid

you good night.”