CHAPTER XXI

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

I have never found any one with sufficient courage to defend the winters at Centerport. At the best they are bearable, at the worst they are beyond description. Nothing any one might say would be too harsh to apply to what the residents call “a hard winter.”

In short, from January to April the weather is everything detestable, and reminds one of a very bad little boy who has made up his very bad little mind to be as very bad as he possibly can.

And then--as like as not between a sunset and a sunrise--spring appears, and it is just as though the very bad little boy had grown sorry and repentant and had made up his mind to be very, very good and sweet and kind, and never do anything to grieve his dear, _dear_ parents any more. And there is a soft, warm breeze blowing up the river valley, the grass on the southern side of the library is unmistakably green, a bluebird, or maybe a valiant robin, is singing from a branch of the big elm at the corner of the chapel, and there is a strong, heartening aroma of moist earth in your nostrils. And you know that from thenceforth until you leave the old green town the last of June your lines are cast in pleasant places and that it is going to be very easy to be happy and good.

Well, I suppose there are other places where spring is superlatively pleasant, where the trees and sod are extravagantly green, and where youth finds life so well worth living. Only--I have never found them. And I doubt if there is an old Erskine man the country over who can recollect the month of May at Centerport without a little catch of the breath and a sudden lighting of the eye.

For in those Mays his memory recalls Main Street and the yard were canopied with a swaying lacework of whispering elm branches, through which the sunlight dripped in golden globules and splashed upon the soft, velvety sod or moist gravel and spread itself in limpid pools. And the ivy was newly green against the old red brick buildings, the fence below College Place was lined with fellows you knew, and the slow-moving old blue watering-cart trundled by with a soft and pleasant sound of splashing water. Fellows called gaily to you as you crossed the yard, the muslin curtains at the windows of Morris and Sesson were a-flutter in the morning breeze, and from Elm Street floated the musical and monotonous chime of the scissor-grinder’s bells. What if the Finals were close at hand? The sky was blue overhead, the spring air was kind and--you were young!

I think something of this occurred to Allan when, at a quarter of ten on a mild, bright morning three days before the dual meet, he crossed the street from his room, books under arm, and turned into College Place.

Perched on the fence in front of the chapel were Clarke Mason, the editor of the Purple, and Stearns, the track team captain. After exchanging greetings, Allan dropped his books back of the fence and swung himself onto the top rail.

The sun was pleasant, the ten o’clock bell would not ring for several minutes, and there was an invitation in the way in which Mason edged away from the post. Allan was a warm admirer of Mason, and the fact that, as was natural, he seldom had an opportunity to speak with him made him glad of the present opportunity. There was but one topic of overwhelming interest at present, and that was the track and field meet with Robinson. With two successive defeats against them, and the added result of the last football game still in memory, it is not strange that Erskine men had set their hearts on administering a trouncing to the Brown and regaining something of their old athletic prestige. The boat race and the baseball contests were too far distant for present consideration.

“I don’t know when there’s been so much enthusiasm over the athletic meet as there is this year,” said Mason. “And it’s bound to tell, too. I’ve noticed that when the college as a whole wakes up and wants a thing it generally comes pretty near getting it.”

“We wanted the football game badly enough,” said Stearns.

“Yes, just as we want all of them, but there wasn’t the enthusiasm there has been some years. I think we expected to win, and so didn’t get much wrought up over it. But next year--although you and I won’t be here to see it, Walt--I’ll bet the college will be red-headed over football; there’ll be mass-meetings and the band up from Hastings, and Ware here will be marching out to the field singing ‘Glory, Glory for the Purple’ at the top of his lungs. And the team will just naturally go in and win.”

“At that rate,” ventured Allan, “we ought to lick Robinson on Saturday, for, as you say, the fellows are all worked up over it.”

“I think we’re going to,” answered Mason, with quiet conviction. “But, of course, I don’t know so much about it as Walt here, and he says I’m off my reckoning.”

Allan looked at the captain with surprise. All along Stearns had displayed a confidence that, in Allan’s case at least, had been a great incentive to hard work. Stearns frowned a little as he answered:

“Oh, well, maybe to-morrow I’ll be hopeful again. A fellow can’t help having a spell of nerves now and then, you know.”

“Well, if it’s only that, we’ll forgive you,” Mason replied. “I thought maybe something had happened. Things have a way of happening, I’ve noticed, just before a meet; Jones lames his ankle, Brown is put on probation, Smith is protested, or something else unforeseen plays havoc.”

“That’s so,” said Stearns, emphatically, “and maybe one reason I feel uneasy is because nothing _has_ happened; Robinson hasn’t protested any one and no one has sprained his ankle or got water on the knee. I think I’d feel safer if something of the sort had occurred.”

“Well, I guess you’re safe now,” laughed Mason. “The men have quit practise and Robinson’s opportunity for protesting our best men has passed.”

“I don’t know,” said Stearns, doubtfully. “Something will turn up, you see if it doesn’t.”

“Nonsense! How about you, Ware? Going to win the two miles?”

“I’m scared to think about it,” answered Allan, uneasily. “That Robinson crack can do better than I’ve succeeded in doing yet, and so I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with second place.”

“Oh, Ware’s all right,” said Stearns, encouragingly. “He’s going to present us with five points, and we’ll need ’em!”

This sounded more like the Stearns Allan was accustomed to.

“They tell me that chum of yours, Burley, is going to do great things with the shot, Ware,” said Mason, questioningly.

“I hope so,” Allan answered. “He can, all right; the only thing is whether he will get fussed and forget how; he’s funny that way.”

“Well, Billy thinks he’s a wonder, and says that by next year he’ll be able to give a foot to the best college man in the country. Well, there’s the bell. I hate to waste a day like this indoors, but--needs must when the faculty drives!”

The trio slipped off the fence and went their separate ways, but before they parted Stearns drew Allan aside.

“I say, Ware,” he said, “don’t say anything to any one about what--what you’ve heard. There’s no use in discouraging them, you know, and what I just said doesn’t amount to anything; I guess I’m feeling a bit nervous. You understand?”

But Allan, as he crossed the yard to College Hall, in the tower of which the bell was clanging its imperative summons, couldn’t help feeling apprehensive and worried. It was so unlike Stearns to admit even the possibility of defeat. On the steps Allan ran against Pete, big, smiling, and serenely satisfied with life.

“How’d you get on yesterday?” asked Allan, as they went in together.

“Oh, pretty middlin’,” said Pete, cheerfully. “I got within four inches of that cayuse of a Monroe.”

“But you’ll have to beat him if you expect to win over Robinson,” said Allan, anxiously.

“Oh, I’m not bothering about Robinson,” answered Pete. “If I can do up Monroe, that’s all I give a hang about!”

The next afternoon, Thursday, Stearns appeared at Allan’s room, looking excessively cheerful.

“Hello!” he said, as he sat down. “How are things?”

“All right,” answered the other, wondering at the track captain’s errand. “How about you?”

“Fine as silk,” he said. “Say, Ware, Robinson has sent a foolish letter, and asks the committee to look up your record. Of course,” he went on, carelessly and hurriedly, “it’s all poppycock, but they think they have a case, and so maybe you’d better walk over with me and see Nast about it; just explain things so he can write back to ’em, you know. Are you busy?”

Allan, bewildered and dismayed, looked across at Stearns with wide eyes and sinking heart. The track team captain’s forebodings of yesterday flashed into memory, and it was with a very weak voice that he asked finally:

“You mean that--that Robinson has protested me?”

Stearns laughed carelessly, but something in the other’s tone sent a qualm of uneasiness to his heart.

“Oh, there’s no question of a protest,” he answered, “because the time for protests has gone by. But, of course, they knew the committee would investigate the matter, and that if everything wasn’t all right they wouldn’t allow you to run. But, of course, as I say, it’s all nonsense. They say you were entered in the mile run at the St. Thomas Club Meet, in Brooklyn, during vacation, and came in third. And--and there’s a silly newspaper clipping with your name in it. But, as I told Nast, you can explain that all right, I guess. Fact is, you know,” he continued, with a little annoyed laugh, “you’ve got to; we can’t afford to lose you, Ware.”

Allan took his cap from the desk.

“Come on,” he said, quietly.