Nelson scuttled back to bed. Faint whispers reached him. Then:
“Where are you going, Speede?” asked the Doctor’s voice suddenly.
Dan, creeping cautiously up the aisle, paused in his tracks.
“I left something up here, sir.”
“Get it after siesta, then.”
Dan went back to bed. The whispers grew, interspersed with chuckles.
“Cut that out, fellows,” said the Doctor, and silence reigned again. For the next quarter of an hour the score of last autumn’s football game between Hillton and St. Eustace flaunted itself to the world. The fellows, all save one or two who had really fallen asleep, wondered what would happen after siesta. So did Nelson. He hoped that Dan would make trouble, for it seemed to him then that that insult could only be wiped out with blows; and although Dan was somewhat taller and much heavier than Nelson, the latter fancied he could give a fairly good account of himself. And then the bugle blew, fellows bounded onto the floor, and the ensuing racket more than made up for the half hour of quiet. Dan made at once for the placard. Nelson jumped up and stood under it. Dan stopped a few steps away.
“That’s my piece of paper, you know,” he said quietly.
“Get it,” answered Nelson.
“Cut it out, you two,” said Bob.
Nelson flashed a look of annoyance at the peacemaker.
Dan viewed him mildly. “Look here,” he said, “if you’ll take that down and tear it up, we’ll call quits.”
“I don’t know,” said Nelson. “How about Hillton being a bum school?” Dan grinned.
“You take that down,” he said.
“I will when you take back what you wrote on the other side.”
“Don’t you do it, Dan,” advised a snub-nosed chap named Wells.
“You shut up, Wells,” said Bob; and Wells, who wasn’t popular, was hustled out of the way by the others who had gathered.
“Well, ain’t she pretty bum?” asked Dan innocently.
“Not too bum to lick you at football,” answered Nelson hotly.
“Pooh!” said Dan. “Do you know why? Because they wouldn’t let me play.”
That aroused laughter, and Nelson stared at his antagonist in deep disgust. “What an idiot he was,” he said to himself; “he couldn’t be serious even over a quarrel.”
“Well, she did it, anyhow,” he said rather lamely.
“Well, it’s over now, isn’t it?” asked Dan calmly. “So let’s take the score down,” and he moved toward the placard.
“No you don’t!” Nelson exclaimed, moving in front of him; “not until you’ve apologized.”
Dan smiled at him in his irritating manner.
“Don’t you believe I could lick you?” he asked.
“Maybe you can,” said Nelson, “but talking won’t do it.”
“Well, I can; but I’m not going to. There isn’t going to be any row, so you fellows might as well chase yourselves. It was just a joke, Tilford. Hillton’s all right. It’s the best school in the country, barring one. How’ll that do for an apology, my fierce friend?”
“It isn’t quite truthful,” answered Nelson, smiling in spite of himself, “but I guess it’ll answer. Here’s your old paper.”
Dan accepted it and tore it up. Then he stuffed the pieces in the first bunk he came to.
“War is averted,” he announced.
Then he went out, followed by most of the inmates of the dormitory, who were laughingly accusing him of “taking water.”
“He’s a queer chump,” said Nelson, with something of unwilling admiration in his tones. But Bob didn’t hear him. He was back on his bed, absorbed in a magazine.
“And you’re another,” added Nelson under his breath.
CHAPTER V
TELLS HOW DAN PLAYED A TRUMP CARD, HOW BOB GAINED HONOR, AND HOW THE “BIG FOUR” CAME INTO EXISTENCE
6.55. First reveille: morning bath.
7.00. Last reveille: colors.
7.25. First mess-call.
7.30. Last mess-call: breakfast.
8 to 9. Duties.
11.00. Assembly: “soak.”
12.30. Mess-call: dinner.
1.30 to 2. Siesta.
2 to 5.25. Recreation.
5.25. First mess-call: colors.
5.30. Last mess-call: supper.
7.30. Assembly: camp-fire.
8.30. Taps: Juniors’ lights out.
9. Seniors’ lights out.
That was the daily schedule. On Sunday it differed in the rising-time and time for dinner, the first being half an hour and the latter an hour later. But there was nothing very hard-and-fast about the schedule, for frequently an afternoon’s outing on the lake prolonged itself past the hour for supper, and quite as frequently the tales about the camp-fire became so absorbing that taps didn’t sound until long after the accustomed time. Largely for this reason the schedule never proved irksome. Life moved very pleasantly and smoothly at Chicora. Ordinary misdemeanors were passed over by the councilors, to be dealt with by the fellows, and so to a great extent the boys governed themselves. To be ducked by his companions was the most degrading punishment a boy could receive, and only twice during the summer was it meted out. The Chief and the councilors mingled with the fellows on all occasions, and were tireless in the search for new methods of enjoyment. Mr. Clinton played the headiest kind of a game at second base in the scrub games, and knocked out three-baggers and home runs in a manner beautiful to see. Mr. Verder, too, was a good player, while Dr. Smith, laying aside his eye-glasses, would occasionally consent to go into the field and excitedly muff everything that came in his direction. Mr. Thorpe was the camp champion at ring toss, and Mr. Ellery was never defeated at shovelboard.
The afternoons were given over to baseball, or tennis, or boating, if the weather permitted, or, if it rained, to fishing for bass, pickerel, perch, and chub in the lake, or to the playing of games or reading in the recreation-hall or dormitories. But always, rain or fine, there was a bath at five o’clock, which few missed.
By the end of his first week at Chicora Nelson was thoroughly at home, and any doubts he may have entertained as to his liking the place and the fellows had vanished. It was a healthy life. He was out-of-doors all day long, and even at night he could scarcely consider himself housed. He went bareheaded, barelegged, and barearmed, and rapidly acquired a coat of tan of which he was very proud. He went to every meal famished, and jumped into bed at night in a condition of physical weariness that brought instant slumber. And he made friends on all sides. The closest of these were Bob Hethington and Tom Ferris. But there was one other who, if as yet scarcely a bosom friend, had captured Nelson’s respect and liking; and that one was Dan Speede.
After the incident of the placard in Maple Hall Dan had not offered to molest Nelson in any way during the two days following; neither had he appeared to take any notice of him. But on the evening of the second day Nelson was coming back from the dormitory after supper when he met Dan.
“You’re the fellow I was looking for,” Dan announced in quite the most cordial manner in the world. “Want to go down to the Inn with me in the dory? I’m going to take a note for Clint.”
Nelson hesitated.
“I don’t believe I can, Speede. I promised Bob Hethington to help him mend his camera.”
“Oh, let that go. I’ll ask him to come along.”
“Well,”