Skippy Bedelle Part 9

Whereupon Snorky, having slammed a book on the table, advanced with doubled fists, exclaiming:

"You stop that, do you hear! You stop that or--or--I'll--"

Skippy, whose calm was delightfully reinforced by this show of temper, again, but without looking up, indicated the pad and pencil.

"I can lick you!" said Snorky hoa.r.s.ely.

This was too much. Skippy sprang up, fists ready, and glowered his defiance. For a long moment they held this bellicose att.i.tude, a collision imminent. But a resort to primitive methods is a serious affair between roommates. Each hesitated, seeking a dignified evasion of the crisis.

"Well, go on with your baby act, if you enjoy it," said Snorky scornfully. "Lord, I'd hate to have your disposition!"

The status quo having been restored, Skippy discarded Caesar's "Gallic Perplexities" and returned to boyhood's first heroine, while Snorky in a rage retreated to his side of the room and pondered.

"I certainly riled him that time," said Skippy joyfully to himself.

"Wonder what he'll do now?"

After a few moments Snorky began to whistle, meditating to himself, which in boyhood is always a signal that the imagination is working.

"What's the big idea now?" said Skippy, following from the corner of his eye.

Snorky rose briskly and, repairing to his closet, disappeared on all fours. A moment later he returned, with a box of large and juicy chocolate eclairs and a bottle of ginger pop, and, establishing himself at the opposite end of the table, began to enjoy himself audibly.

"The low-down hound!" said Skippy, writhing on his seat.

In his calculations, he had completely forgotten the purchase of the afternoon. In turn he rose, delved into the debris of his closet and, returning, spread before his end of the table one tin of deviled turkey (Snorky's favorite), a large piece of American cheese and a bottle of root beer.

It had now become a battle of wits, with each resolved to impress the other with the delicious satisfaction that he was experiencing and each gazing from time to time at a point directly above the other's head.

There were six eclairs. Snorky ate four rapidly, licking his fingers with gusto after each.

Then he ate the fifth eclair more slowly and with some effort. Despite all his self-control Skippy's gaze could not turn from that last-surviving member of the chocolate family. He was suffering tortures, but suffering under a calm and smiling exterior.

"h.e.l.lo!" said Snorky suddenly, talking to himself. "I almost forgot."

He rose and left the room to Skippy and the sixth eclair. Tantalus, amid his parched seeking of a cooling draught, never suffered more anguish than Skippy sitting there before that undefended eclair, with only a gesture intervening.

"Of all the mean, dirty, contemptible tricks!" he said angrily between his teeth, revolting at this most treacherous trap. For he must not, he could not, no matter what the pain he must endure, admit defeat by falling on that eclair. He rose and went to the window. Certainly he had been mistaken in Snorky; no one who would carry a quarrel to such fiendish lengths had the largeness of spirit that he had the right to demand in a chum.

When Snorky returned, he glanced in some surprise at the untouched eclair. Then he lifted it gingerly, examined it closely to see if it contained any foreign corrupting matter, and, his appet.i.te restored by the lapse of time, ate it with smacking relish.

Skippy, crouched in his chair, ground his teeth and tried to shut out the tantalizing sounds. Snorky began to hum gaily to himself. Then, proceeding across the direct line of his roommate's vision, he took up the latest photograph and contemplated it with a little exaggerated rapture. It was the last straw. Skippy's rage burst forth in a loud and insulting guffaw.

"Ha, ha!"

Snorky, to whom the advantage of the situation was now apparent, took up each photograph in turn and smiled with the pardonable pride of one who knows his own worth.

The next moment two books went flying across the room, and Skippy, now thoroughly infuriated, stood before him, arms akimbo, a sneer on his disgusted lips.

"Don't let me stop you. Go on, kiss it, fondle it. Put it under your pillow and hug it, you great big mooncalf! Say, why do you come to Lawrenceville, anyhow? Why don't you go to Ogontz or Dobbs Ferry?"

Then Snorky, tasting the sweets of revenge, went to the table and, picking up the pad and pencil, presented them to Skippy with a mocking bow.

Skippy's reply is not to be found even in the most up-to-date dictionaries. Furious at his roommate, the world in general, and himself most of all, he shed his clothes and dived into bed.

"Girls--faugh!" he exclaimed in disgust And, pulling the covers over his head, he retired to his own ruminations.

CHAPTER X

LOVE LIGHTLY CONSIDERED

TO understand what Skippy felt one must have known the springs of boyhood's impulse towards perfect manhood.

To Skippy a man was that completed being, who wore trousers that never bagged at the knees, neckties that never slipped below the collar b.u.t.ton, who displayed a gold watch-chain across a fancy vest, from whose lower lip a cigarette was pendent, who possessed a latchkey and the right to read far into the night, and who shaved once a day. The sentimental complications had escaped him. Whatever attracted man to the frizzled, giggling, smirking, smiling bipeds in shirts remained a mystery to Skippy.

All at once he had to face this problem. He had gone resolutely up the steps towards perfect manhood. He had learned the art of pressing trousers to a thin razor-edge from Snorky, who was a year his senior in boarding-school knowledge.

The necktie question was not yet settled, though every morning he subjected his throat to a strangle-hold.

He had bought a razor and twice a week, trembling and apprehensive, drew it across his maidenly cheek. He slashed himself fearfully but he did not mind that. He wore his scars proudly, a warning to all that adolescence was on him, as the young Heidelberg student flaunts his wounds.

The cigarette (known as the Demon Cigarette, the Filthy Weed, and the Coffin Nail) had been a dreadful struggle. But he had won out.

He loathed the Demon Cigarette as he abhorred tobacco in any form, but he had martyrized himself until he was able to puff up the cold-air flue in the stilly reaches of the night without having to grope his way back to the bed and watch the room careen about him. He did not inhale, but he had learned to imitate the process so as to defy detection, as he exclaimed:

"Gee! It's good to fill the old lungs, isn't it?"

These things, by dint of concentration and courage, Skippy had achieved, not to stand ashamed in the eyes of his roommate. And, having with pain and perseverance traveled this far, he suddenly, this night, realized how much was still lacking.

Yes, there was certainly something lacking in his progress towards perfect manhood, something that Snorky had and he had not.

It was all very well to be a man, to smoke, to shave, and to have acquired the sartorial evidence. This was all very well--but others must perceive it, too! This was the point. As Snorky had done, he must do.

The new world to conquer was the feminine heart.

Now, Skippy had not at this moment the slightest inclination towards the lovelier s.e.x.

He did not aspire to be a Don Juan or a Beau Brummel, but if he were to continue to room with Snorky Green he must acquire at least the appearance. He perceived this. It pained him that in the scheme of things it should be so--but a reputation he must have.

"Girls, girls! Lord, how I loathe them!" he said in a last farewell to his male independence. "What I think of a fellow who hangs around them, wears their rings and pins and carries off their handkerchiefs! But I'll be danged if I can stand any more of this conquering-hero stuff from that eyesore across the room! If it's got to be done, you bet I'll do it! I'll put it over that four-flusher, if I have to fuss every girl in Scranton!"