He turned away from the window and punched a cushion vindictively2. Phillip laughed and took his place beside him, glancing upward at the source of Chester’s discontent. In the upper end of the Yard a little army of men in brown jumpers, armed with pruning-shears attached to bamboo poles, were swarming3 over the elms, waging a war of extermination4 against the brown-tail moths5 whose nests dotted the tips of the topmost branches.
“I shouldn’t want to be up there,” said Phillip.
“There isn’t the least danger,” answered Chester. “They never fall. They walk around up there, seventy feet or more from the ground, and balance themselves on twigs6 and leaves and poke7 those poles around and have a perfectly8 elegant time. Why, they won’t even make believe to fall or lose their[316] balance or anything! Well, I’ve simply wasted two hours, that’s all.”
“It’s hard luck,” grinned Phillip.
“Oh, I suppose you don’t care,” complained Chester. “You have no art in your soul. I’m disgusted. For two hours I’ve sat here and waited patiently to see a body come hurtling downward. But nary a hurtle! Not one corpse9 has dropped with a dull, sickening thud upon the snow-covered ground. Not a speck10 of gore11 decorates the landscape. I shall write to the Crimson12 about it.
“By the way, Phil, talking of gore; there’s a peach of a show at the Bowdoin Square this week: ‘The River Pirates.’ They say it’s simply lovely. There’s one scene on the East River where a police launch chases the pirates, with a dandy fight; the launch blows up and a big ocean liner comes along just in the nick of time and rescues everybody. All right on the stage! It’s great! I’m going in Thursday evening; want to come?”
“No; I can’t, Chester.”
“Got something on for Thursday? How about Saturday? I rather like Saturday nights, anyway.”
“I can’t afford it,” answered Phillip. “Fact is, Chester, I’ve got to go awfully13 slow the rest of the[317] year. Things haven’t turned out very well with us at home. When father died I thought he had left plenty of money, but I’ve found out just lately that we have practically nothing. So, you see, I’m out of theatres and such things.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Phil; I know how it is to be hard up. But, look here; come along with me; I’ll treat. I’d have done it before, only I imagined you had plenty of tin. Will you?”
“I’d rather not, thanks,” Phillip answered.
“Oh, come on; don’t be so fussy14! I’d let you pay if I was hard up!”
“No, Chester. I’m much obliged to you, but I’ve sworn off on theatres.”
“Oh, all right. But I wish you would. By the way, I met John North yesterday. He said you’d changed your room and wanted to know if I could tell him where you were living. But I didn’t know anything about it. He said he’d been looking all over for you.”
“Yes; I gave up those rooms I had. They were rather high, and I found I could give them up by paying a month’s rent. I’m rooming on Dewolf Street.”
“Jumping Moses! Dewolf Street! Man, that’s[318] the limit! It must be awful, isn’t it? All babies and muckers and pushcarts15 and things like that?”
“Well, it isn’t as nice as some places,” answered Phillip evasively, “but it will do all right. It’s good and cheap.”
Chester observed him commiseratingly for a moment. Then he asked suddenly:
“Did you bring Maid back?”
“No, I left her. She’s happier at home, I reckon.”
“Good work! Then look here, Phil; what’s the matter with coming here? I wish you would! It would only be forty dollars for the rest of the year. Would that be too much?”
“No; that’s what I pay where I am; only—if I really thought you wanted me and weren’t just taking pity on me, I’d like mighty16 well to come.”
“Pity be blowed! Of course I want you. I wish I’d known before that you were going to change.”
“But I haven’t any furniture,” Phillip objected. “I sold about everything.”
“You wouldn’t need anything except a bed, and you can get that cheap any old place. Will you come?”
“Yes. You’re mighty good, Chester.”
“I don’t see that,” was the answer. “Fact is, I’m[319] rather lonesome. I thought when I started out it would be nice to have a place by myself. At Exeter I had a roommate, but I didn’t like it. He always wanted to cut up when I had to grind, and always had to grind when I wanted to have fun. We were always scrapping17.”
“I’ll move in on Monday if that’s all right for you.”
“Monday be hanged! What’s the matter with to-day? We can find a bed in ten minutes and get them to send it right over.”
But Phillip held out for Monday. “It will be mighty handy for my meals,” he said. “I have to walk a pretty good way as it is now.”
“Where are you eating? North said you’d left your table at The Inn.”
“Yes, I had to. I’m eating at Randall.”
Chester whistled. “Well, you are going the whole hog18, aren’t you? Do you like it?”
“Yes; it’s just what I want. I can pay as little or as much as I wish to.”
Chester grinned. “I never tried Randall,” he said. “I’ll go to dinner with you some time. Well, come on and let’s go down to Holmes Field and watch the hockey. Your friend Kingsford’s playing coverpoint[320] on the freshman19 team and just tearing holes in the ice. It’s beautiful to see him. I think he’s smashed everything except his left leg so far. How are you coming with your exams?”
The winter term was two weeks old and the mid-years were upon them in full force. Life was very serious, and the popular subjects of conversation were seminars and flunks20. Phillip was passing through the ordeal21 very well, while Chester, although he spoke22 vaguely23 on every possible occasion of having “a fighting chance” and of “never saying die,” was forced to acknowledge to himself that the probabilities were strongly in favour of his passing with disgustingly commonplace success.
Kingsford was not among the freshman players that afternoon—Chester said he supposed he had finally killed himself—and after standing24 about in the snow for nearly an hour watching the ’varsity practice, the two walked back to the union and had five o’clock tea. Phillip found a letter for him in the rack and with a frown recognized John’s writing. He slipped it into his pocket and did not open it until he was in his room.
The most optimistic person could have found but one meritorious25 feature about that room; it was[321] cheap. The house was an ugly, yellow, box-like erection, which contained a never-failing odour of boiled cabbage and onions. Phillip’s room was on the third floor, under the eaves, and was just large enough to accommodate the slim iron bedstead and three other articles of furniture. His trunk stood under the narrow dormer window and was spread with a saddle blanket, making, so he assured himself, an excellent imitation of a window-seat. He had kept three of his pictures, and these, with numerous photographs and his collection of whips and spurs and bits, ornamented26 the sloping walls. This evening as he climbed the dark stairway, entered the room and lighted the gas, it looked meaner and more squalid than ever, and the prospect27 of leaving it pleased him greatly. It was very cold up there, since a somewhat mythical28 furnace never sent its heat higher than the first floor. He lighted the little gas radiator29 beside the washstand and pulled up the chair until the crackling contrivance of stovepipe was between his knees. Then he drew forth30 John’s letter and opened it.
“Dear Phil” (he read)—“Where under the sun have you disappeared to? We looked for you on Sunday evening, but you didn’t show up, and so I[322] went around to your house. There the buxom31 landlady32 professed33 complete ignorance of your whereabouts. You had gone; she knew nothing else, and didn’t seem to care. At the post-office they coldly refused to divulge34 your present address; I think they mistook me for a bill collector. Your friend Baker could give me no assistance, and so I am sending this to the union as a last desperate resort. If you ever receive it, come around to the room. If you don’t appear before Saturday I shall place the affair in the hands of the police.
“Yours, John.”
Phillip sat for a moment in thought after finishing the note. Then he placed it back in the envelope and gravely and deliberately35 tore it across and across. For want of a waste-basket he dropped the pieces back of the washstand. Unlocking the trunk, he selected a quarter from a small horde36 and went to dinner.
John confidently expected Phillip at his rooms the following Sunday evening, and when ten o’clock came without him his perplexity became uneasiness.
“Maybe the boy’s sick, Davy,” he suggested.
David woke up from his doze37 and blinked.
“Sick? Phil?” he asked. “Oh, I don’t believe so. He’s probably tired of us middle-aged38 codgers[323] and has found more congenial places to spend his Sunday evenings. Maybe he’s in love. I thought I saw symptoms of it before recess—an unnatural39 gaiety, a sort of feverish40 excitement.”
“You seem to know the symptoms,” laughed John. “One would almost think you’d been in love yourself at some time?”
“Once,” answered David, reaching for his pipe, which had dropped to the floor, leaving a long trail of ashes over his waistcoat and trousers, “only once, John. I was twelve. It was desperate while it lasted. She was my teacher. I discovered that if I failed at my lessons I was kept after school and that she stayed with me. After that I never knew a thing; I developed a sudden colossal41 ignorance that astounded42 her and alarmed my parents. Day after day I sat in my seat after the others were dismissed and feasted my eyes on her from behind my geography or slate43. Then—” he sighed deeply—“then the natural thing happened. Fate parted us. I was taken out of her room and relegated44 to the next class below, which was presided over by a young man with mutton-chop whiskers and red neckties. It was an awful blow, John.”
“It must have been,” John said sympathetically.
[324]
“Yes. Of course, my whole ambition then was to get back to her room again. I became the brightest scholar in the class. I astonished every one. The man with the red necktie was tickled45 to death and went round telling everybody about me and taking great credit to himself. In three months they put me back in her class.”
He paused and sighed disconsolately46.
“But she wasn’t there. She had married a druggist two days before. I never saw her again.”
“And your young life was blighted47!”
“Forever!”
“Which being the case,” said John, “let’s go to bed. To-morrow I shall go in search of Phil.”
“You might take a dinner bell and go around like a town crier,” suggested David, “yelling ‘Boy lost! Boy lost!’”
But Monday was a busy day for John and it was not until three o’clock that he was able to start out on his search. His first step was to look up Everett Kingsford. This occupied him the better part of an hour, but resulted in what apparently48 meant success.
“He’s got a room on Dewolf Street,” said Everett. “He told me the number, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten[325] it. However, it won’t be very hard to find, I guess. If you like, I’ll go along with you.
“I don’t know what’s come over Phil,” he continued, as they began their quest. “He’s left our table and he hasn’t been around to see me once. I met him at the union the other day and that’s the only time I’ve had sight of him. He said the reason he left the table was because he couldn’t afford it.”
“Ah,” said John. He thought he knew the solution of Phil’s disappearance49. Somehow, he told himself, Phil had discovered the condition of the family finances and, animated50 by some idiotic51 pride, was keeping aloof52 from his friends. “Just the sort of fool thing he would do,” thought John.
They hadn’t far to seek. The second house they stopped at was the yellow one with the boiled-cabbage aroma53. The landlady, a red-haired slattern who wiped the soapsuds from her hands and arms as she opened the door, informed them somewhat crossly that Mr. Ryerson had roomed at her house, but that he had moved away that very day.
“Not an hour ago,” she said. “No; I don’t know where he’s gone. Likely the expressman could tell you. His name’s Donovan and he has a stand on the corner there beyond. All I know is the gentleman[326] took my room until college ended and now he’s gone and thrown it up.” She closed the door behind them with angry violence.
“I can’t honestly blame him,” said Kingsford dryly. “The smell is enough to make one throw up anything, even a room.”
The expressman was absent, and inquiries54 at the corner grocery failed to enlighten them as to his whereabouts or as to the time of his return. “We’ll have to give up for to-day, I guess,” John said. “You might ask around, Kingsford. Surely, somebody must know where he is!”
But what search failed to find, accident revealed. Phillip could not hope to avoid John forever. He knew that sometime they must meet, and, incensed55 as he was by what he termed the other’s treachery, he dreaded56 the meeting. It took place that Monday evening.
In honour of his installation in the new quarters, Chester had persuaded Phillip to take dinner with him at his boarding-house. As it happened, John, at the invitation of a friend, had also been a guest at the same place. When John came downstairs after dinner he literally57 ran into Phillip and Chester at the front door. Phillip did not see John until the[327] latter had seized him by the arm and swung him around.
“Well, Phil! You’re really alive?”
Phillip moved away from the other’s grasp coldly and pretended not to see the outstretched hand. John stared in perplexity. Then he stepped forward and again laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“Phil, what does this mean?” he asked sternly. The little group of men about the door watched curiously58. Phillip found his calmness deserting him. The blood seethed59 into his cheeks and his eyes blazed. He tore his arm from John’s hand and swept it around in something between a blow and a shove that sent the other reeling against the newel post.
“Take your hands off me, North!” he cried angrily, shrilly60. Chester sprang between and pushed Phillip toward the door. John grew very white. His perplexity remained, but was swallowed up in a sudden flood of intense anger at the indignity61 put upon him. He strode forward, his eyes darkening, his hands clenched62 at his side. He had no thought of returning Phillip’s blow, if blow it was; he wanted to take the other by the collar and shake him until[328] his teeth rattled63. He found himself confronted by Chester Baker, white and determined64.
“You be careful, North!” he said defiantly65. Phillip strove to push by him.
“This is my affair, Chester,” he cried. But John paused and contemptuously thrust his hands into his pockets.
“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly. “I mistook you for a friend.”
“It was the biggest mistake you could have made,” replied Phillip, his voice a-tremble. Then Chester pushed him before him out the door.
The episode caused talk. A half-dozen men had witnessed it, and by the next afternoon various accounts of it had reached John’s friends and acquaintances, and it was being generally discussed, for John was a public character whose affairs interested the entire university. It became known that he had been Phillip’s guest during the holidays, and various and wonderful were the theories evolved to account for the quarrel. Phillip gained not a little notoriety; he was pointed66 out as “the fellow who slugged John North”; but beyond his small circle of personal friends, who, despite that he had vouchsafed67 to them no explanation of the affair, stood by[329] him loyally, he was looked upon with disfavour and voted “darned fresh.”
John spoke of the affair to none save David. The latter heard of it with mingled68 dismay and delight, and when John had finished surprised him by the decision he rendered.
“Don’t take any more notice of him,” he said. “I don’t know any more than you what the boy’s got against you, but you may depend that it’s something he considers serious. Phil’s honest, John, whatever else he is. I suppose it’s all some silly misunderstanding, but it’s quite evident that Phil takes it very much in earnest. I suppose nothing happened down in Virginia that he could have taken exception to? Nothing about his sister, eh?”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded John angrily.
“I mean,” answered David undisturbedly, “that there was nothing—look here, to be plain, did you get into any flirtation69 down there? Did you do anything that Phil might construe70 into a slight against his sister?”
“If you don’t shut up I’ll smash you,” John threatened.
“By which I presume you mean me to understand[330] that there was nothing of the sort? Well, the next question is, does Phil think there was anything?”
John’s wrath71 gave way to thoughtfulness. Finally he said:
“I can’t see how he could, Davy, honestly. There was not a thing—— Look here, Davy, I asked his sister to marry me and she refused. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?”
“Nothing, I should say, except her decision,” answered David. “I’m sorry she turned you down, old man, if you really care for the girl. But, to tell the truth, it seems to me you’re rather fortunate not to marry into such a fire-eating family. I suppose the girl couldn’t have told Phil any yarns72 that—er——”
“David!”
“Oh, well, I don’t know her, of course. Women are damned strange, though, just the same. I’ve got two sisters of my own, if you remember.” He smoked in silence awhile and John sat scowling73 crossly at him through the smoke. Then, “Well, I give it up, Johnnie. Let him alone; maybe he’ll have the grace to apologize and explain things.”
“He may apologize until he’s blue in the face,”[331] said John wrathfully, “for all I care. But I would like to know what in thunder it all means!”
David shook his head sadly.
“Children are contrary and exasperating74 things,” he said, “and the guardian’s lot is not all roses.”
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1
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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3
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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pushcarts
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| n.手推车( pushcart的名词复数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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scrapping
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| 刮，切除坯体余泥 | |
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hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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flunks
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| v.( flunk的第三人称单数 )；（使）（考试、某学科的成绩等）不及格；评定（某人）不及格；（因不及格而） 退学 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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44
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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45
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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46
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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47
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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50
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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51
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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52
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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53
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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54
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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55
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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56
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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59
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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60
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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62
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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65
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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66
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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67
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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68
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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69
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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70
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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71
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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72
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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73
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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74
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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