CHAPTER III

THE FIRST ACQUAINTANCE

Dan’s train rolled into the station at Wissining, Connecticut, at a few minutes before five. All the way from New York, and more especially since the Sound had suddenly flashed into view, he had been vividly interested in the view from the window of the parlor car, so palpably eager, in fact, to see this new country through which he was traveling that a kind-hearted, middle-aged gentleman whose seat was on the shoreward side of the car and across the aisle from Dan had insisted on changing chairs with him. Dan had at first politely refused the offer, but the gentleman had insisted with a little tone of authority in his voice and in the end Dan had accepted the coveted seat.

“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” he explained with a deprecating smile as he moved his bag across.

The gentleman smiled and nodded as though to say “I surmised as much, my young friend.” Then he settled down in his new chair and half hid his face behind a magazine. But a few moments later, when Dan happened to glance across, he encountered the gaze of the other fixed upon him speculatively. At once the eyes dropped to the pages of the magazine once more. Dan read the name on the cover, “The Atlantic Monthly,” and wondered whether the magazine was devoted to news of the fascinating ocean upon which he had been eagerly gazing. Then the absurdity of the idea struck him and he turned back to his window smiling.

Not only had Dan never seen an ocean before, but he had never looked on a body of water broader than the Ohio River. This doesn’t necessarily imply that he had spent his entire life in Graystone, for as a matter of fact the family spent an occasional summer away from home, usually in the Cumberland Mountains, and, besides this, Dan had made short trips now and then with his father to Cincinnati, Columbus, Springfield, and once as far South as Memphis. But Lake Erie, which was the nearest approach to an ocean in Dan’s part of the world, was two hundred miles north by rail and it happened that he had never reached it. And not only the ocean interested Dan to-day. The country itself engaged his pleased attention, for, although he had been born in Graystone, yet Connecticut had been the home of his father’s people for many generations and it seemed to him that the smilingly rugged, bay-indented country was holding out a welcome to him.

He had armed himself with a railroad map and had located his father’s old home some eighty miles north. The map even showed Russellville, and the tiny word there seemed a veritable welcome in itself! And so the time went quickly enough for him and almost before he knew it the porter was brushing his clothes and the train had slowed down at Greenburg, which, as he knew, was just across the river from his destination. As he tipped the porter and sank into his chair again he saw that the platform outside was thronged with boys who had left the train from the day-coaches ahead. They must be Yardley Hall boys, he thought; perhaps the train didn’t stop at Wissining and he should get off here! He looked around for someone whom he could ask and his gaze encountered that of the gentleman across the aisle, who, the magazine stowed away in his bag, had donned his light overcoat and was also apparently ready to leave the train. He noticed Dan’s anxious countenance and leaned across.

“Are you for Broadwood?” he asked.

“No, sir; that is, I’m going to Yardley Hall. Should I get off here?”

“No, your station is Wissining, the next stop. This is Greenburg and those boys are going to Broadwood Academy.”

Dan thanked him as the train started again. Suddenly the buildings dropped away from beside the track and in a flash he was looking along the estuary of a little river which wound away between low meadows for a short distance and then opened into the Sound. The sun had gone behind the clouds and a gray evening was succeeding a sunshiny day. Miles away across the quiet water the eastern end of Long Island lay like a purplish smudge against the horizon. He had time to see this, and time to catch a glimpse of a hamlet of scattered houses as the train crossed the little bridge and slowed down beside the station.

“Wissining,” announced the porter as he took up Dan’s bag. “This is your station, sir.”

He took the bag of the gentleman across the aisle also and for the first time it occurred to Dan, as he followed his cursory acquaintance toward the door, that perhaps the other was for Yardley Hall, too; that perhaps he was one of the teachers. But out on the platform he abandoned that theory, for a smart man in automobile livery took the gentleman’s bag and led the way to a big chocolate-brown touring car, and almost before Dan had had time to look about him the car was whisking itself off down the road. Some thirty other boys of various ages had left the train, and Dan, uncertain of his directions, followed them down the platform to where a number of carriages were drawn up, the drivers vieing merrily and loudly for custom. Dan hesitated. He had had in the back of his head an idea that when he left the train there would be someone looking for him. The idea had not been sufficiently concrete for him to know now whether he had expected the Principal himself or merely the school janitor. While he hesitated the other arrivals rushed for the carriages and tumbled themselves in after their luggage and in a twinkling the conveyances were all filled to overflowing and Dan alone remained on the platform, bag in hand, looking somewhat blankly about him. Several of the carriages--tiny affairs they were, holding not more than seven fellows no matter how you packed them in--had already started away when a voice hailed him from one of the remaining vehicles and a boy’s head was thrust out of the door.

“Hi, there, you chap! Coming up?”

Dan supposed that “up” meant to Yardley Hall; and of course he was coming up if he could get up, but--

“Come on in here,” called the boy. “Lot’s of room! Hold your horses, Mike!”

The driver, seated on a pile of bags and suit-cases where his seat had once been, had chirped encouragingly to his horse, but at the command he called “Whoa!” and the horse obeyed instantly, one might say almost with enthusiasm. A chorus of loud and long drawn-out “Whoas!” supplemented the driver’s injunction. Dan strode across and looked doubtfully into the interior of the carriage. At first glance there seemed dozens of occupants, but--

“Climb in,” said his rescuer merrily. “Give me your bag. Here, Tubby, hold the gentleman’s bag.” The bag was passed forward by eager hands until it was deposited unceremoniously in the lap of a stout, round-faced youth who showed no pleasure at the honor conferred upon him.

“Hold the old bag yourself,” he growled.

“Why, Tubby,” cried an outraged voice. “Such manners! I _am_ surprised! Hold it nicely; be a gentleman, Tubby, even if it hurts you.”

“I--I’ll stand up,” said Dan as he pushed his way between the almost touching knees of the occupants. But that was out of the question, for the roof was too low to permit of it.

“Sit down,” said the boy who had hailed him, a youth of about seventeen with a good-looking, merry face. He gave a sudden tug at Dan’s coat and Dan went over backward on to his knees. “That’s the ticket. You’ve got an upper. Sit still.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find it uncomfortable,” said Dan anxiously.

“Not a bit of it! All right, Mike! Go ahead, but do drive carefully!”

This remark caused an appreciative howl from the others, during which progress began again. Dan felt a trifle embarrassed at first, but everyone seemed to forget all about him on the instant, even the boy on whose knees he sat paying no more attention to him. Once as the carriage rattled and shook its way along, Dan had a brief glimpse of a cluster of stone and brick buildings crowning a low hill to the left of the road and felt comforted to know that the school catalogue had not lied either as to the number and attractiveness of the buildings or the commanding situation of them. Then he did his best to maintain his seat and listened to the chatter of the fellows around him. The talk was loud and merry and incessant, but Dan couldn’t make very much of it until the word “football” reached him. There followed a confused and animated discussion of the Yardley Hall eleven, its probable make-up, its chances of success against Broadwood and the date of arrival of a Mr. Colton, whom Dan guessed to be the head coach. The discussion was at its height when the vehicle stopped.

“All out!” was the cry and Dan struggled to his feet and stumbled down on to a stone pavement and found himself in front of a flight of broad granite steps leading to a deep, arched entrance. Rescuing his bag, he looked about him indecisively. The other boys were scattering in all directions, some few entering the doorway before him. The boy who had rescued him at the station was taking his departure with the others. Dan hurried after him and touched him on the arm.

“Where do I go, please?” he asked.

The other boy, Alfred Loring, turned and gazed at Dan in mild surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean where shall I go to--to find someone?”

“Oh, are you just entering?” asked Loring. “I thought you knew the ropes. Well, come on and I’ll show you the office.”

He led the way up the steps and into the building. A broad hall traversed the building from front to rear and was intersected by a narrower passage running lengthwise. The woodwork was dark, and the plaster statues standing at intervals upon their high pedestals gleamed ghost-like against it. Loring turned to the right and led the way down the ill-lighted corridor, past the partly-open doors of recitation rooms, until a door with a ground-glass light in it blocked their further passage. On the glass was printed the legend: “Office of the Principal.” Loring opened the door and nodded his head.

“There you are,” he said. “Tell the chap at the right-hand that you want to register. He will give you a room and look after you.”

“Thanks,” answered Dan gratefully. The other nodded again carelessly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Glad to help you. See you again, I hope.” He took his departure, whistling softly and swinging his suit-case gayly along the corridor. Dan entered the office and closed the ground-glass door behind him. The room was large and less like an office than a library. A thick carpet covered the floor. On two sides shelves ran from floor to ceiling and were filled with books, filing-cases and wooden boxes lettered mysteriously. There were two low, broad-topped desks, one at each side of the room, and between them, opposite the door from the corridor, was a second door marked “Private.” There were three boys ahead of him and so Dan dropped into one of the four high-backed, uncomfortable chairs near the door and waited. Two deeply-recessed windows at his left admitted a flood of white light, and through them he could see an expanse of turf, traversed by red brick walks which converged in the center of the space where an ancient-looking marble sun-dial stood. Across the grass the end of a modern brick and limestone building, three stories in height, met his gaze. Beyond that again were woods. The picture was framed in the green leaves of the English ivy which surrounded the big windows. In the gray failing light of early evening, the quiet vista gave Dan an impression of age and venerability which thrilled him pleasantly and which was quite out of proportion with the real facts, for Yardley Hall School, as Dan well knew, was less than forty years old. Even the glimpse of Dudley Hall, a dormitory erected but three years before, failed to disturb the impression of ancientness.

“Now, if you please.”

Dan aroused himself and approached the desk where a keen-eyed man was regarding him a trifle impatiently over the tops of his glasses.

“What name?”

“Daniel Morse Vinton.”

The gentleman, who was the school secretary, ran his finger down the pages of a book beside him until it stopped at an entry. Then he took a filing card from a drawer and wrote on it.

“Residence?”

“Graystone, Ohio.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

“Class?”

“I don’t quite know, sir. I hope to get into the Third.”

“Father’s name and business?”

“John W. Vinton, manufacturer.”

“Mother’s name, if living?”

“Mary Vinton.”

“Street address?”

“Seventy-four Washington Avenue.”

“Religious denomination?”

“Baptist.”

“Bills to be sent to father or mother?”

“Father, please.”

“That’s all. Examinations in Room N to-morrow at nine-thirty. Your room is Number 28 Clarke Hall. Your room-mate is Henry Jones, a Third Class boy. I hope you will pass your examinations and enjoy your stay here. You have a check for your baggage? Thank you. It will be delivered this evening, probably. When you go out turn to your left, please; Clarke is the second dormitory. Dr. Hewitt receives the new students to-morrow evening from eight to nine in the Assembly Hall. I hope you will attend. If any question as to dormitory accommodation arises please see the matron, Mrs. Ponder, Room 2, Merle Hall. If there is anything else you want to know about you will find someone here from nine until six every day. Good evening.”

“Good evening,” answered Dan. “Thank you, sir.”

But the secretary was already absorbed again, and Dan lifted his bag and went out. To the left was a second building of granite, a very plain, unlovely structure which the ivy had charitably striven to cover. Beyond this a handsome, modern building of brick came into sight. There were two entrances and Dan went in at the first. A sign at the foot of the stairs announced “Clarke Hall; Rooms 1 to 36.” Dan climbed two flights and sought his number. He found it at length on the last door in the entry and knocked.

“Come in!” called a voice.

Dan entered. Before him, scowling interrogatively at the intruder, was the boy who had held his bag in the carriage.