Chapter 9

MYRON LOSES HIS TEMPER

The next morning Joe was as cheerful and smiling and good-natured as ever, but Myron wasn’t yet ready to forget, and his responses to his room-mate’s overtures were brief and chilling. After breakfast, which on Sundays was a half-hour later, Joe suggested that Myron walk over to the village with him and visit Merriman and see the puppies. Myron wanted to go, for the day was chill and cloudy and generally depressing, but his pride wouldn’t let him and so he answered shortly that he had seen the puppies and he guessed they hadn’t changed much. When Joe had taken himself off Myron felt horribly out-of-sorts and was heartily glad when church time came and, immaculately but soberly attired, he could set forth across the campus. Dinner was at one o’clock, a more hearty repast than most of the fellows needed after a morning spent in comparative idleness. However, no one skimped it. Myron went right through from soup to ice-cream, becoming more and more heavy and gloomy under the effects of an overloaded stomach. He had been placed at a table near the serving-room doors, and, while some of his companions declared that you got your things quicker and hotter by being so close to the source of supplies, Myron disliked having the doors flap back and forth directly behind his back and detested the bursts of noise and aroma that issued forth at such times. Today he resented those annoyances more than ever and found the conversation about him more than ordinarily puerile.

There were a good many third class boys at his table, fellows of fourteen and fifteen, whose deportment was anything but staid. They were much given to playing practical jokes on each other, such as surreptitiously salting a neighbour’s milk or sprinkling pepper in his napkin. And they were not above flicking pellets of bread when the nearest faculty member was not looking. Each table had a “Head” whose duty it was to see that proper decorum was observed. In some cases the Head was one of the faculty, in other cases he was an older boy. The Head at Myron’s table was a second class chap named Rogers, a stoutish, easy-going fellow who was generally so busy eating everything he could lay hands to that he had no time for correcting his charges. It was unfortunate that young Tinkham, the pink-cheeked, sandy-haired little cherub who sat almost opposite Myron, should have selected today for his experiment with the bread pellet. Tinkham had longed for days to see if he could lodge a pellet against Myron’s nose. To Tinkham that nose looked supercilious and contemptuous and seemed to fairly challenge assault. Until now Tinkham had never been able to summon sufficient courage to dare the sacrilege, but today there was a demoralising atmosphere about and so when, having eaten his ice-cream and having nothing further to live for anyway, he saw Myron’s gaze wander toward the further end of the hall Tinkham drew ammunition from under the edge of his butter dish and with an accuracy born of long practice let fly. His aim proved perfect. Myron dropped his spoon and sped a hand to his outraged nose. Before him, perched on the remains of his ice-cream, was the incriminating missile, and of all those who had witnessed the deed only one remained unsmiling, demure and innocent, and that one was the cherubic, fair-haired Tinkham.

Myron lost his temper instantly and completely. “That was you, Tinkham! I saw you!” The latter statement was hardly truthful, but Tinkham didn’t challenge it. He only looked surprised and pained. “You try that again and I’ll box your silly little ears for you! Remember that, too!” Myron flicked the bread pellet disgustedly aside and glowered at the offender.

“Boo!” said one of Tinkham’s friends, and the younger element became convulsed with laughter. At that, Rogers, who had been bending absorbedly over his dessert, looked up.

“Cut that out, fellows,” he remonstrated feebly.

“We’re only laughing,” giggled one of the boys.

“Wake up, Sam,” said Eldredge, who was Rogers’ age and had viewed the proceedings with unconcealed amusement. “You’re missing all the fun. If you didn’t eat so much——”

“If he didn’t eat so much he might keep order at the table,” said Myron.

Rogers was too surprised to reply, but Eldredge took up the cudgels in his behalf. “Oh, don’t be a grouch, Foster,” he sneered. “The kid didn’t hurt you. It was only fun.”

“I don’t like the kind, then,” answered Myron haughtily. “After this he can leave me out of his ‘fun.’”

“Oh, piffle! Come back to earth! If I’d been Tinkham I’d have shied the whole loaf at you. Then you’d have had something to kick about.”

“The something would have been you, then,” retorted Myron.

“Would it? Is that so?” Eldredge glared angrily across the table. “Think you’re man enough to kick me, do you? Why, say——”

“Dry up, Paul!” begged Rogers. “Tasser’s got his eye on you.”

“I won’t dry up,” retorted the insulted Eldredge. Nevertheless he dropped his voice beyond the hearing of the neighbouring instructor. “If that stuck-up mollycoddle thinks he can talk about kicking me and get away with it he’s all wrong, believe me!” The younger boys were listening in open delight and Tinkham was fairly squirming with excitement. “Get that, Foster?”

“I heard you,” replied Myron indifferently.

“You did, eh? Well, any time you feel like——”

“Rogers, what’s wrong at your table?” It was Mr. Tasser’s voice, and Eldredge stopped suddenly and gulped back the rest of his remark.

“I—I—that is, nothing, sir,” stammered the Head. Then, to Eldredge in an imploring whisper: “Shut up, will you?” he begged. “Want to get me in wrong?” Eldredge muttered and shot venomous looks at Myron while the youngsters sighed their disappointment. Myron folded his napkin and arose leisurely, aware of the unsympathetic regard of his companions, and walked out. In the corridor he waited for a minute or two. He had no desire to carry matters any further with Paul Eldredge, but he felt that if he hurried away that youth might misconstrue the action. However, Eldredge didn’t appear and so Myron went across to Sohmer, still sore and irritated, to find an empty study. Eldredge’s failure to follow Myron out of the dining hall had been due entirely to discretion. With Mr. Tasser’s penetrant and suspicious gaze on him, he decided that it would be wise to avoid all seeming interest in Myron.

Joe failed to return to the room, and after trying to do some studying and finding that he simply couldn’t keep his mind on his task, Myron pulled a cap on and sallied forth again. It was misting by then, and a chilling suggestion of autumn was in the air. When he had mooned along the country road that led toward Cumner for a mile or so without finding anything of interest he turned back toward the town. A hot chocolate in a corner drug store restored his spirits somewhat and, having no better place to go, he crossed the railroad and made his way through the dreary quarter that held the residence of Merriman. He didn’t suppose Merriman would be in, but it was something to do. Recalling former instructions, he didn’t bother to ring the bell this time, but opened the door and climbed the dark stairway to the second floor. That Merriman was in became known to him before he had groped his way to the room, for from beyond the closed portal came the sound of voices. For a moment Myron hesitated. He hadn’t bargained on finding visitors there. But the loneliness of Number 17 Sohmer on this Sunday afternoon decided him, and he knocked. Merriman’s voice bade him enter and he opened the door on a surprising scene.

On the decrepit window-seat reclined Joe Dobbins. Close by, in the room’s one armchair, with his feet on a second chair, was Merriman. Between the two was a corner of the deal table, dragged from its accustomed place, and on the table was the remains of a meal: some greasy plates, a coffee pot, cups, bits of bread, about a third of a pie, a half-eaten banana, a jar of milk. The room, in spite of a wide-open window, smelled of sausages. On Joe’s chest reposed Tess, the terrier, evidently too full of food and contentment to bark, and in Merriman’s lap was a squirming bunch of puppies.

“Come in, Foster,” called the host genially. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, but just now I am weighted with family cares. Find a chair and draw up to our cosy circle. Have you had food? There’s some pie left, and I can heat some coffee for you in a second.”

“I’ve had dinner, thanks, a good while ago.” He carefully lifted a dozen or so books from a chair and took it across to the window. He felt rather intrusive. And there was Joe grinning at him from the seat, and he was supposed to have a grouch against Joe.

“Well, have a piece of pie, won’t you?” begged Merriman hospitably. “Sure? We were sort of late with our feed. What time is it, anyway? Great Scott, Dobbins, it’s nearly four! How long have we been sitting here?”

“I’ve been here ever since I worried down that last piece of pie,” said Joe, “and I guess that was about an hour and a half ago. You ought to have showed up earlier, Foster. You missed a swell feed!”

“Sausages and potatoes and pie,” laughed Merriman. “Still, we managed to nearly kill ourselves: at least, I did.” Joe groaned and shifted the terrier to a new position. “Been for a walk, Foster?”

“Yes. It’s a rotten day, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Merriman glanced through the window in faint surprise. “I hadn’t noticed. Sort of cloudy I see. By the way, I’ve sold one of these little beggars.”

“Have you? They’ve got their eyes open, haven’t they?”

“Sort of half open,” chuckled Merriman. “Maybe they’re too fat to open them any wider. This is the one that’s sold. His name is—what was it you named him, Dobbins?”

“Zephaniah,” answered Joe gravely, “Zephaniah Q. Dobbins.”

“What’s the Q for?” laughed Merriman.

“Haven’t decided yet. I just put that in for the sound. You see, Foster, I’m calling him Zephaniah after an old codger who used to live near us up at Hecker’s Falls, Maine. Zephaniah Binney was his name. He used to be a cook in the logging camps, but he got so fat tasting the things he cooked that he had to quit. After that he used to sit in front of his shack all day, tilted back in a chair, and look for work.”

“Look for work?” laughed Merriman.

“Yeah, he was always on the look-out for a job. ’Most strained his eyes looking. But somehow he never found one; leastways, he hadn’t when I saw him last. Funny old codger. Warren Wilson, who was postmaster and ran the store and one thing and another, used to bring the Bangor paper to Zeph every day and Zeph would study the advertisements mighty carefully. Guess he knew more about the Bangor labour market than any man alive. ‘I was readin’ where one o’ them big dry-goods houses is wantin’ a sales manager,’ Zeph would tell you. ‘It don’t say how much they’re willin’ to pay, though. If I knew that I’d certain’y communicate with ’em, I would so. Maybe they’ll make mention o’ the salary tomorrow. I’ll just wait an’ see.’”

“And he’s still waiting?” chuckled Merriman.

“As far as I know.”

“What does he live on?” asked Myron. “Has he got money saved?”

“No, he’s got something better; he’s got an up-and-coming wife who works just as hard as Zeph—looks. She’s a wonderful woman, too, Mrs. Binney is. She’s lived with Zeph thirty years or more and she ain’t—hasn’t found him out yet. Or, if she has, she don’t let on. If you ask her has Zeph got a job yet she’ll tell you, ‘No, not yet, but he’s considerin’ acceptin’ a position with a firm o’ commission merchants down to Boston.’ And all the considering Zeph has done is read an advertisement in the Bangor paper where it says the Boston folks want a few carloads of potatoes!”

“It’s sort of tough on the puppy, though,” murmured Myron.

“Well, there’s a strong resemblance between him and Zephaniah,” said Joe. “I’ve been watching him. He doesn’t push and shove for his food like the rest of them. He just waits, and first thing you know he’s getting the best there is. If that ain’t like Zeph I’ll eat my hat.”

“Where are you going to keep him?” inquired Myron.

“In my room—when I get it. He won’t want any better than I have, I guess. I don’t suppose he’s going to kick because there isn’t much of a view.”

Merriman asked about the new quarters and Joe supplied a drily humorous description of them. The room began to grow dark and the boy’s faces became only lighter blurs in the twilight. Tess went to sleep and snored loudly. Myron listened more than he talked, conscious of the comfortable, home-like atmosphere of the queer, illy-furnished room and putting off from minute to minute the return to school. But at last the town clock struck six and Joe lifted the terrier from his stomach, in spite of protests, and swung his feet to the floor.

“I’ve got to be going,” he announced. “Haven’t peeked into a book since Friday.” He yawned cavernously. “You coming along, Foster?”

“Yes, I guess so.” Myron was glad to be asked, but he was careful to keep any trace of cordiality from his voice.

“Well, come again,” said Merriman heartily. “Both of you. Sunday’s an off-day with me and you’ll usually find me in about noon.”

“Me? I’ll be back,” declared Joe. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal since I left home like I enjoyed that dinner. Brother, you sure can cook sausages!”

“I like that guy,” said Joe when he and Myron were traversing the poorly-lighted street that led toward school. “He don’t have any too easy a time of it, either, Foster.”

“No, I guess coaching isn’t much fun,” Myron agreed.

“Well, he told me he liked it. Maybe he has to. He says he’s put himself clean through school that way. His father and mother are both dead and the only kin he’s got is an old aunt who lives out West somewhere. He says she’s got a right smart lot of money, but the only thing she ever does for him is send him six handkerchiefs every Christmas. Says it’s a big help, though, because he doesn’t have to buy any. He’s a cheerful guy, all right, and the fellows hit on a swell name for him.”

“What’s that?” asked Myron.

“Why, his name is Andrew Merriman, you know, and so they call him ‘Merry Andrew.’ Cute, ain’t it? He works hard every summer, too. Last summer he was a waiter at a hotel and did some tutoring besides. He’s a hustler. Doggone it, Foster, you’ve got to hand it to a guy like that!”

“Yes,” Myron agreed. Mentally he wondered that Merriman didn’t choose a less menial task than waiting on table. It seemed rather demeaning, he thought. Joe was silent until they had reached the end of School Street and were entering the campus gate. Then:

“Say, I’d like to do something for him,” he said earnestly. “Only I suppose he wouldn’t let me.”

“Do something? What do you mean?” asked Myron.

“Well, help him along somehow. Fix it so’s he wouldn’t have to work all the time like he does. The guy’s got a great bean on him. Bet you he knows more than the Principal and the rest of the faculty put together. A fellow like that ought to be able to go ahead and—and develop himself. See what I mean? He’s too—too valuable to waste his time serving soup and fish in a summer hotel. If I did it it wouldn’t hurt none, but he’s different. If I had my way I’d fix him up in a couple of nice rooms with plenty of books and things and tell him to go to it.”

“But I don’t just see how you could do anything much for him,” said Myron.

“No, I guess he wouldn’t let me.”

“Maybe not. Anyway, it would take a good deal of money, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Well, I’m just talking. No harm in that, eh? I’m not going over to supper. I couldn’t eat anything more if I was paid for it. See you later, kiddo.”

For once Myron failed to resent that form of address. In fact, he scarcely noticed it. Going across to Alumni Hall, he found himself looking forward with something akin to dismay to the time when Dobbins should have left him to the undisputed possession of Number 17!