The Whirligig of Time Part 14

Harry did eventually bestir himself to the extent of hiring a locker in the track house and going out and "exercising," as he called it, three or four afternoons a week. He enjoyed it, but he obviously did not take it very seriously. He was neither good enough nor enthusiastic enough to attract the attention of the coach and captain, and it was something of a surprise to all concerned when he took a first place in the low hurdles in the fall meet and became ent.i.tled to wear his cla.s.s numerals.

"Fine work," said the captain, a small and insignificant-looking senior, who could pole vault to incredible heights without apparent effort.

"Macgrath tells me you haven't come within two seconds of your time to-day in practise."

"No," said Harry; "I've been working more at the jumps."

"Well, you'd better stick to the hurdles from now on. We're weakest there. You practise and train regularly this year and next year you'll probably be the best man on the hurdles we have. Except Popham, of course. But we never can depend on Popham for a meet; he's always on pro, or something."

That evening after dinner Harry strolled into Trotwood's room.

"Say, you're the h.e.l.l of a fine hurdler, you are," growled the latter, from the depths of a Morris chair. Harry was somewhat taken aback till his friend suddenly clutched at his hand and began swinging it up and down like a pump handle. Then he realized that objurgation was merely Trotwood's gentle method of expressing pleasure and affection. Delight shone in his face; not delight in his triumph but in the thought that it meant something to Trotwood and that he understood Trotwood's peculiar way of showing it.

"That's all right, Trotty dear," he said. "Never mind about giving me back my hand; I shall have no further use for it."

"I suppose you think you're quite a man now, don't you?" continued Trotwood in the same vein. "Just because you won a d.a.m.ned race against people that can't run anyway."

"Sweet as the evening dew upon the fields of Enna fall thy words, O sage," said Harry. "You're really quite a wonderful person at bottom, aren't you, Trotty? How did you know that the last thing I'd want was to be slathered over with congratulations by you? Good Lord, you ought to have heard Junius LeGrand on the subject!"

"Never mind about LeGrand. Speaking seriously, it's a great thing for you, Harry. I don't suppose you realize that, bar that unspeakable rounder Popham, you're the coming man in the hurdles from now on? Why, you've got your Y absolutely cinched for next year, with him going on the way he does!"

"So it seems," said Harry dryly. "I seem to have heard the name of Popham before. Suppose we talk about something else.... Look, Trotty; will you room with me next year?"

"Yes," answered Trotwood, blushing deeply, and continued, after a pause: "I've wanted to arrange that for some time, but I thought you'd better be the one to mention the subject first."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know; I thought if I asked you, you'd accept out of plain good nature, for fear of throwing me down, and I didn't want that."

"Well, as it happened, I was determined to let the first advances come from you, for very much the same reason. Until just now, when I was so afraid you'd room with some one else that I couldn't wait another minute. I've lost all sense of maidenliness, you see."

"Maidenliness be hanged. You don't have to be maidenly when you've won your numerals at track."

That was on a Sat.u.r.day. James had been out of town with the football team and did not return till late that evening. The next day he and Harry walked out to their old home together for their regular Sunday dinner with Aunt Selina. On the way they discussed at length the fine points of the game of the day before, in which James had played right half with great distinction. Presently he inquired:

"By the way, how about the fall meet yesterday? How did you come out?"

"Oh, fairly well. I only entered in the low hurdles, but I came out all right."

"All right?"

"Yes--first."

"What? Do you mean to say that you got first place in the hurdles?"

"Substantially that, yes."

"Good Lord. I hadn't heard a thing. Went straight to bed when I got home last night and only got up this morning in time for Chapel. Why, it's the best ever, Harry! You get your numerals. You must be about the first man in your cla.s.s to do that. What was your time?"

"Pretty rotten. Twenty-five two."

"Not so bad. Gee, but that's fine for you, child!"

"I'm glad you're pleased, James."

"It isn't merely the getting of your numerals in the fall meet, either.

It means that you'll be one of the main gazabes in the track world from now on, if you work. There's no one here that can make better time than you in the hurdles, bar Popham, who makes such a fool of himself they can't use him, mostly."

"Oh, d.a.m.n," said Harry softly and slowly.

"What's the matter? Forgotten something?"

"No. I can't forget something, that's the trouble."

"Well, what _is_ biting you?"

"Only that if I hear the name of Popham much more, I believe I shall go mad on the spot."

"Oh, don't take it so hard as that. Most likely you'll be able to beat him out anyway, if you make progress, and he's likely to drink himself out of college anyway before--"

"Shut up, James, for Heaven's sake!" There was real anger in Harry's tone, and James turned and looked at him with surprise. "You're as bad as every one else--worse! Don't _you_ know me better than to suppose that all my chances of happiness in college, in this world, in the next, depend on Popham's drinking himself to death? Do you think it's pleasant for me to know that every one considers my--my success, I suppose you'd call it, dependent on whether that rounder stays off probation or not?

You make me sick, James."

James remained silent a moment. "No offense meant," he said gently. "I'm sure I'm sorry if--"

"Oh, rot!" Harry disclaimed offense by slipping his hand through his brother's arm. "Only you don't seem to _see_, James. That's what bothers me."

"Well, no; I'm afraid I don't. It will be a great thing for you if you get your Y next year. Do you think it's low of me to wish that Popham, who is no good anyway, should get out of your way?"

"No; the wish is kindly meant, of course.... But this idea that my whole worldly happiness is tied up with Popham takes the pleasure out of it all, somehow. I don't give a continental whether I get my Y or not, now."

"Oh, come on. Don't be morbid."

"No. I've a good mind not to go out for track any more."

James made no answer to this, and the two walked on in silence till they had reached the house. As they walked up the front steps James said:

"You must tell Aunt Selina all about this. She'll be awfully glad to hear about it."

"Including Popham," said Harry in a low voice. James made no reply to this, for it scarcely called for a reply, but his lips were ever so slightly compressed as he walked through the front door.

During the idle months that followed Harry used his spare time for efforts in another and wholly different direction--a literary one. He became what is known in the parlance of the college as a "_Lit._ heeler"; that is, he contributed regularly to the _Yale Literary Magazine_. For the most part his contributions were accepted, and in the course of a few months his literary reputation in his cla.s.s equaled his athletic fame. His verses, written chiefly in the Calverly vein, were equally sought for by both the _Lit._ and the _Record_, the humorous publication, and his prose, which generally took the form of short stories with a great deal of very pithy, rapid-fire dialogue in them, was looked upon favorably even by the reverend dons whose duty it was to review the undergraduates' monthly offerings to the muses.

"Has a cinder track been laid to the top of Parna.s.sus?" wrote one who rather prided himself on his quaint and whimsical fancy. "Do poets hurdle and sprint where once they painfully climbed? Do the joyous Nine now stand at the top holding a measuring tape and wet sponges, instead of laurel wreaths, as of old? a.s.suredly we shall have to answer in the affirmative after reading the story 'Quest and Question' which appeared in the last issue of the _Lit._, for not only is the writer of this, the best and brightest offering of the month, a mere freshman, but a freshman who, it seems, has distinguished himself so far for physical rather than mental agility. The 'question' about Mr. Wimbourne appears, indeed, to be whether the fleetness of his metrical feet can equal that of his material ones," etc.

All this amused Harry, who, it is to be feared, sometimes laughed at rather than with his reviewers; and it gave him something to think about outside of his studies and his cla.s.smates, both of which palled upon him heavily at times. But he was irritated from time to time by the way in which even literary recreation was looked upon, by the undergraduate body. A casual and kindly remark of a cla.s.smate, "Hullo, I see you're ahead in the _Lit._ compet.i.tion," would often throw him into a state of restless depression from which only the soothing presence of Trotwood could reclaim him.

"Isn't it awful, Trotty," he once complained; "Euterpe (she's the lyric muse, you know), has deserted me. I haven't been able to write a line for a month. Of course the loss to the world of letters is almost irreparable, but that's not the worst of it. You see, if I can't write, I shan't do well in the _Lit._ compet.i.tion, and if I don't do well I shan't make the chairmanship, and if I don't make the chairmanship in the compet.i.tion, I shan't make a senior society, and wouldn't that be terrible, Trotty?"