He crossed the room to his bag and filled his pipe from a leather pouch. When it was drawing well he drew a chair up to the window and settled himself in it, his heels on the sill. The tobacco brought comfort.
“I wish Davy was here. He’s the finest person to consult when you’re in difficulties that I know. He simply smiles in his fatuous way or else scowls weirdly under the impression that he’s looking wise, and goes to sleep. And you’ve unburdened your mind and haven’t reburdened it with a lot of advice that you wouldn’t think of following. And the present quandary will tickle Davy into a month’s slumber! Well, let’s face it. Am I or am I not to become the guardian angel of Mr. Phillip Scott Ryerson, of Elaine, Melville Court House, County of Loudoun, State of Virginia?” He tossed the letter from him. “Why, confound it, I haven’t any choice! Corliss pledges me first and asks my consent afterward! ‘We have apple pie; what kind of pie’ll you have?’ Heaven protect us from the claims of friendship!”
“But old George must be pretty well worked up over the matter to write all that rot. You’d think it was his own son he is begging me to care for! And of course I’ve got to do it. He knew I would. He’s a good old idiot, is Grovel, and I suppose if he’d asked me to wheel little Phillip up and down the avenue every day in a perambulator I’d have wired him back ‘Whatever you say,’ and done it.”
“Seriously, though, my boy, it’s no light job they’ve got you into. From what Corliss says—or, rather, from what he doesn’t say—it is pretty evident that little Phillip is a holy terror. He is undoubtedly thoroughly spoiled, and comes here with the sole intention of, as Corliss so delicately puts it, breaking through into the next field. Old George is getting frightfully horsey, by the way! And I am to follow him about, smiling fatuously like an indulgent parent, murmuring ‘Now don’t do that, Phillip!’ or ‘No, no, dear; mind Uncle John!’ ”
He looked at his watch and found it was nearly four o’clock. With a sudden determination to hunt up his charge and learn the worst at once, he drew himself regretfully from the chair and rescued the letter from the floor. Donning his jacket, he slipped letter and tobacco pouch into his pocket.
“I’ll get this dive fixed up and dusted before dinner if I can find any one about,” he murmured. “It looks like a morgue.”
The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor brought a grin to his face. Rushing to the door, he threw himself violently into the arms of a large and perspiring man. A suit case crashed to the floor.
“Oh, Davy!” he sobbed, “I’m so glad you’ve come! I’ve wanted you so, Davy, I’ve wanted you so! Hold me tighter, Davy; they’ve gone and made me a foster-mother!”
CHAPTER II
David Meadowcamp removed John’s clinging embrace, placed his suit case on the couch and sat down beside it, smiling jovially the while.
“Eh?” he said.
He was a massive, large-boned, broad-faced man, two years John’s senior. Outwardly he was good-natured, sleepy, awkward, with a shock of jet black hair that was forever falling over his forehead and giving him the unkempt look of one just out of bed, an appearance aided by his manner of attire. Good-natured he was, and sleepy; his capacity for slumber seemed almost abnormal; his awkwardness was more apparent than real, for he had been a star left tackle on the ’Varsity football team during his last two years in college. Persons who judged him by his looks were usually mistaken in their estimate of the quantity and quality of his brains. Despite his likeness to a good-humoured dullard, he possessed an assimilative ability that was phenomenal, and had secured his degree in three years. He was now taking a post-graduate course. John declared it was because he was too lazy to pack his trunk and go home. It was generally understood that he was preparing himself to follow in the footsteps of his father, who was the president of a New York bank, and who, so rumour had it, was unable to count his millions without the aid of all his fingers and toes. David and John had been roommates from their freshman year, and in all that time had never had but one real quarrel; and even that, as John had pointed out aggrievedly after it was over, had been too one-sided to be interesting. For David had drowsed through most of it and had only consented to display real concern when John, goaded to madness by the other’s indifference, had thrown a pair of military brushes at him. Thereupon David had arisen in his might and, depositing the struggling opponent on the bedroom floor, had drawn the mattress over him and gone to sleep on top.
David removed his clothing by easy stages while John told his troubles. His grin grew and broadened as the tale progressed. At the end he dropped the last of his attire, stretched his six feet of nakedness and disappeared into the bathroom. John howled and beat upon the door.
“Come out, you hard-hearted brute! Come out and I’ll—I’ll lick you!”
There was no sound from beyond the locked portal but the rushing of water from the taps.
“Coward!” taunted John.
“Worm!”
“White-livered coyote!”
The taps were turned off and there followed an awesome splash. Then it rained water for a moment beyond the door; afterward there was a steady churning sound as from the wheel of a Sound steamer. John tried cajolery.
“Davy! Dear Davy! Booful Davy!”
“Go ’way,” yelled the bather.
“Please don’t be angry, Davy! Tell me, Davy, what shall I do?”
“Go see him.”
“Oh … would you?”
“Yep.”
“Will you come along?”
There was a snort of derision from the bathroom.
“You might, you know, Davy.”
“Never!”
“But your presence would be so—so soothing and soporific, Davy! Won’t you?”
“No.”
“All right then, don’t, you big selfish brute!” He moved away from the door and his eyes fell on David’s clothing scattered generously over the study. Picking up the coat he abstracted a bill-roll from a pocket and helped himself to a five-dollar note. Then he hid the coat under the couch and went back to the bathroom door.
“Little Phillip may act naughty, Davy, and so I’ve borrowed a fiver from you to buy him candy.”
“Better get him a bottle,” gurgled David.
“Farewell, Davy. I’ll see you later. I’ve got tickets for the Hollis. So don’t run away.”
On the street John found that the unseasonable heat had moderated somewhat. As he turned into Boylston Street a faint breeze, redolent of the marshes, blew into his face and caused him to tilt his hat away from his sunburned forehead. In front of the post-office he was hailed by an acquaintance, one Broom, a member of the Eleven.
“I hear you’re going to help coach this fall, North?”
“First I’ve heard of it,” answered John. “Though I found a note in my mail that rather bears out your statement, Pete. But I don’t know whether I’ll have time for it.”
“Rot,