Yardley Hall School ended its Fall Term that year on the twenty-first of December, after breakfast, and by nine o’clock the hill was deserted and the little station at Wissining presented a crowded and busy appearance as at least three-quarters of the school’s three hundred and odd students strove to purchase tickets, to check baggage and to obtain a vantage point near the edge of the platform from which to pile breathlessly into the express and so make certain of a seat for the ensuing two-hour journey to New York. A few of the fellows, who were to travel in the other direction, were absent, for the east-bound train left nearly an hour later, but they weren’t missed from that seething, noisy crowd. Of course much the same thing happened three times each year, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from the hopeless, helpless manner in which the station officials strove to meet the requirements of the situation. Long after the express, making a special stop at Wissining, whistled warningly down the track, boys were still clamoring at the ticket window and clutching at the frantic baggage master. How every one got onto the train, and how all the luggage, piled on four big trucks, was tossed into the baggage car in something under eighty seconds was a marvel. From the windows of the parlor cars and day coaches wondering countenances peered out at the unusual scene, and as the first inrush of boys invaded the good car Hyacinth a nervous old lady seized her reticule and sat on it, closed her eyes, folded her hands and awaited the worst!

Toby Tucker, a rather more presentable citizen than the one who had received Orson Crowell in Number 22 Whitson last evening, was one of the first to claim sanctuary in the Hyacinth. This was not due to his own enterprise so much as to the fact that a slightly bigger youth had taken him by the shoulders and, using him as a battering-ram, had cleaved a path from platform to vestibule. Toby did not ordinarily travel in parlor cars, but this morning his objections had been overruled, and presently he found himself, somewhat dishevelled and out of breath, seated in a revolving chair upholstered in uncomfortably scratchy velvet with an ancient yellow valise on his knees.

“Put that thing down,” laughed the occupant of the next chair, pushing his own more modern suit-case out of the aisle. “Gee, that was a riot, wasn’t it? Here we go!” The train started and Toby, not a little excited, saw the station move past the broad window, caught a final fleeting glimpse of the village and then found the river beneath them. A minute later the express roared disdainfully through Greenburg and set off in earnest for New Haven and New York. “Two whole weeks of freedom!” exulted his companion. “No more Latin, no more math, no more English comp—”

“And no more French!” added Toby feelingly. “And no more clothes to clean, either. I guess it will take me more than a week to get rid of the smell of benzine. I stayed up until after ten last night, Arnold. I wanted to press my own things, but I was too tired. Does this suit look very bad?”

“Bad? No, it looks corking,” replied Arnold Deering. “It gets me how you can buy a suit of clothes for about fifteen dollars and have it look bully, when I have to pay twenty-five and then look like the dickens. Look at these togs, will you? You’d think I’d had them two or three years!”

“When a fellow hangs his clothes on the floor the way you do,” laughed Toby, “he shouldn’t expect them to look very nice. Why didn’t you bring that up yesterday and let me go over it?”

“Because I knew you had more than you could do, T. Tucker. Besides, you never let me pay you, you chump.”

“Well, if you’re going to wear your things all mussed up you can pay me all you want to. Say, how much does this cost?”

“What?”

“Why, this parlor car business?”

“Oh, about a half. It’s my treat, like I’ve told you once.”

“Oh, no—” began Toby. But Arnold drowned out his protest.

“Listen, Toby: you’re coming back to New York the day after Christmas, aren’t you?”

“No, that’s Sunday; I’ll come Monday.”

“But, hang it, that’s too late! There are piles of things we’ve got to do. Why, that only gives us a week!”

“I know, but I’ve got to be at home some of the time, Arn. I thought I’d come up and stay with you from Monday to Saturday and then go back to Greenhaven until Tuesday.”

“Oh, feathers! Well, all right, but if you’re going to do that you’ve got to stay with me until day after to-morrow.”

Toby smiled and shook his head. “I can’t, Arn, honestly. I wrote mother I’d be back to-morrow afternoon. Besides, I haven’t anything to wear except what I’ve got on. Everything else is in my trunk.”

“You don’t need anything else. If you did I could lend it to you. Have a heart, Toby. Why, I haven’t seen you for more than a minute at a time for a whole week!”

“That wasn’t my fault, Arn. You knew where to find me.”

“Of course, but it’s no fun sitting up in your attic and watching you press trousers or mess around with smelly stuff on the roof. Say, I wrote dad to get some tickets to the theater for to-night. Wonder what he will get them for. I’m going to buy a paper and see what the shows are.”

When Arnold had disappeared down the aisle Toby produced a pocket-book and gravely and a trifle anxiously examined the contents. To-morrow he meant to go shopping for presents for the folks in Greenhaven, and the subject of funds was an important one. The pocket-book held four folded bills and quite a pile of silver and small coins, but when Toby had carefully counted it all up the result was not reassuring. He had his fare to Greenhaven to pay to-morrow, his fare to New York on Monday, his fare back to Greenhaven the last of the week, and, finally, his fare all the way to Wissining the following Tuesday. He would not, he thought grimly, be riding in a parlor car on that return trip! The funds in hand consisted of exactly twelve dollars and forty-eight cents. Toby replaced the pocket-book, drew out a little black memorandum and a pencil and proceeded to figure. He frowned frequently during the procedure, and once he sighed disappointedly. After traveling expenses had been allowed for only seven dollars and a half remained, and seven dollars and a half wasn’t nearly as much as he had hoped to be able to expend for Christmas presents. Why, the shaving set he had meant to give his father would cost all of five dollars, and that would leave but two dollars and a half with which to purchase presents for his mother and his sister Phebe and Long Tim and Shorty Joe and—Oh dear, he had quite forgotten Arnold!

He turned some pages in the memorandum book and read thoughtfully down the list of items there. “Beech, .85; Framer, .30; Williams, .45; Hove, .15; Lamson, 1.05; Hurd, .45.” He stopped, although there were more entries, and went back to that Lamson item. Frank was on the train somewhere and perhaps he might be persuaded to pay up. He had owed most of that dollar-five since October and ought to be willing to settle. If he had that it would help considerably. And perhaps he could find Beech too. He considered a minute and then left his seat and surveyed the car. There was quite a sprinkling of fellows he knew by sight or well enough to speak to there, but Frank Lamson was not of them. He started off toward the rear of the train. Near the door he spoke to a boy in a shiny derby and a wonderful brown overcoat.

“Hello, Tucker! What say? Frank Lamson? Yes, I saw him on the platform. He’s here somewhere, I guess. Unless he got left!” Jim Rose chuckled. “But I don’t suppose he did. I never knew him to!”

Toby passed on to the next car and wormed his way between boys and bags, nodding occasionally, speaking once or twice, but without success until he sighted a tall, thin youth of eighteen who sat with his long legs almost doubled to his chin, reading a paper. Toby leaned over the back of his chair. “I say, Beech, would it be convenient for you to let me have that eighty-five cents? I’m sort of short just now, or I wouldn’t ask you for it.”

Grover Beech looked up a bit startledly from the morning paper. “Eh? Oh, that you, Tucker? Eighty-five cents?” Beech’s countenance grew troubled. “I’m awfully afraid I can’t, old man. I’m just about stone broke. Tell you what, though; I’ll send it to you to-morrow.” Perhaps the expression of disappointment on Toby’s face touched him then, for he hesitated, thrust a hand into his pocket and brought it out filled with change. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got it here, I guess. If I run short I’ll make a touch somewhere. Here you are. Fifty, sixty, seventy—mind some coppers?—eighty—and five is eighty-five. That right?”

“Yes, thanks. I wouldn’t have asked for it, only—”

“That’s all right, old man.” Beech waved a slim hand. “Glad to pay when I can. When I get back I’ll start another bill! Merry Christmas, Tucker. Say, where do you live, eh?”

“Greenhaven, Long Island,” replied Toby, carefully scoring out the item of indebtedness in his little book and then as carefully dropping the coins into his purse.

“That’s near by, eh? Lucky guy! I’ve got to go all the way to Baltimore. Beastly trip. Be good, Tucker. So long!”

Encouraged, Toby continued his explorations. Half-way along the next car he discovered his quarry. Frank Lamson, a big-framed youth of sixteen, with very black hair and dark eyes in a good-looking if somewhat saturnine face, was seated on the arm of a chair, one of a group of four or five who were laughing and chatting together. Toby hesitated about broaching the subject of his errand under the circumstances, but Frank happened to look up at the moment and greeted him.

“Hello, Toby,” he called in his usual patronizing and slightly ironical way. “How’s business? Pressing?”

The joke won laughter from the others of the group, one boy, seated on an upturned suit-case, almost losing his balance. Toby smiled. The joke was an old one and he had become used to smiling at it.

“No,” he replied, “business isn’t pressing, Frank, but bills are. I wish you’d let me have a dollar and five cents, will you? I need some money pretty badly.”

Frank Lamson frowned and then laughed. “So do I, Toby, old scout. Need it like anything. Bet you a dollar I need it more than you do.”

“I don’t believe you do,” answered Toby soberly. “I wouldn’t ask you for it, Frank, but I’m pretty short—”

“You’ll grow, Tucker,” said the boy on the suit-case, with a giggle.

“Toby,” said Frank blandly, “I’d pay you in a minute if I had the money. But I’ve only just got enough to get home on. As it is, I’ll probably have to borrow from the butler to pay the taxi man! I’ll settle up right after vacation, though, honest Injun. How’ll that do?”

“I’d rather have it now,” replied Toby, “or some of it. Suppose you pay fifty cents on account?”

“Fifty cents! My word, the fellow talks like a millionaire! Say, Toby, if you’re short go and borrow some from Arnold. He’s simply rolling in wealth. He always is. And, say, if he comes across, touch him for a couple of dollars for me, will you?”

“Me, too,” laughed another boy.

“I wish you would, Frank,” said Toby earnestly. “Honest, I do need the money. And—and you’ve been owing it for some time now, you know.”

“Oh, cut it, Tucker!” exclaimed Frank crossly. “This is no time to dun a chap for a few pennies. Why didn’t you come around last week if you needed it so much? Besides, that last job of cleaning you did was beastly. Every spot came right back again. I’ll leave it to Watkins. You saw the suit, didn’t you, Chet?”

Watkins, a stout youth who wore a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles and looked like a rather stupid owl, nodded obediently. “Rotten job, I’d call it,” he murmured.

Toby flushed. “I’m sorry,” he answered stiffly. “If you’d brought the things back again—”

“I had to wear them. But you oughtn’t to charge me fifty cents for a bum job like that. Still, I’ll pay—later. Cut along now, old scout. Don’t obtrude vulgar money matters on such a gladsome occasion, what?”

Toby hesitated. Then: “All right, Frank,” he said quietly. “Sorry I troubled you. Hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you, Toby! Just remind me of that little matter when we get back, will you?” He winked at the audience and elicited grins. “I mean well, but I’m awfully forgetful. Bye, bye, honey!”

When Toby got back to his seat he found Arnold very busy with his New York paper, and for the next ten minutes they discussed theaters. Toby, however, was thinking more of the financial problem that confronted him than of the evening’s amusement, and Arnold found him disappointingly unresponsive when he dwelt on the possibility of seeing this play or that. In the end he tossed the paper aside and acknowledged the truth of Toby’s remark to the effect that it didn’t do any good deciding what play he wanted to see most if his father had already purchased the tickets. For his part, Toby added, he would enjoy anything, for he had never been to a real theater but twice in his life. That afforded Arnold an opportunity to reminisce, which he did for a good ten minutes while Toby pretended to listen but was in reality wondering how to make eight dollars and thirty-five cents do the work of fifteen!

Arnold Deering was sixteen years old, Toby’s senior by one year. He was a good-looking chap, with the good looks produced by regularly formed features such as a straight nose, a rounded chin, brown eyes well apart and a high forehead made seemingly higher by brushing the dark brown hair straight back from it. Arnold’s hair always looked as if he had arisen from a barber’s chair the moment before. Some of the summer’s tan still remained, and altogether Arnold looked healthy, normal and likable. He was fairly tall and rather slender, but there was well developed muscle under the smooth skin and his slimness was that of the athlete in training.

Later, by which time the train was running smoothly through the winter fields and woods of Larchmont and Pelham, Toby told of Orson Crowell’s visit and their talk, and Arnold’s eyes opened very wide. “Why, that’s bully!” he exclaimed. “If Orson talked that way, Toby, he means to help you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took you on the scrub team if you showed any sort of playing. He doesn’t often go out of his way to be nice to fellows. I call that lucky! Of course you’ll have a try, after what he told you!”

“I’d like to, but it would take a lot of time, Arn. You know I didn’t go to Yardley just to play hockey and things. I—I’ve got to make enough money to come back next year.”

“Oh, piffle, Toby! What does an hour’s practice in the afternoon amount to? Besides, you played football, and that took more time than hockey. Don’t be an idiot. Why, say, I’ll bet you anything you like that you’ll find yourself on the scrub before the season’s over. And that would be doing mighty well for a fourth class fellow! You’d be almost sure of making the school team next year, Toby!”

“But how do I know I could play hockey? I can skate pretty well; just ordinary skating, you know, without any frills—”

“You don’t need the frills in hockey. What you need is to be able to stay on your feet and skate hard and—and be a bit tricky.”

“Tricky?”

“Yes, I mean able to dodge and make a fellow think you’re going to do one thing and then do another. But staying on your feet is the main thing.”

“And the hardest, I guess. Crowell seemed to think I could play goal, as he called it.”

“We-ell, maybe,” responded Arnold cautiously. “Goal, to my mind, is the toughest position on the team. You wouldn’t have to skate so much, but you’d have to be mighty quick on your feet. And mighty cool, too. But I guess you’d be cool, all right. I never saw you really excited yet!”

“How about the time we went after the thieves that stole the Trainors’ launch that time and they tried to pot us from the beach?” laughed Toby.

“Huh! You weren’t excited even then! And I guess a fellow that can stay cool when the bullets are knocking chips off the boat can keep his head even when nine or ten wild Indians are banging into the net and slashing his feet with their sticks! Blessed if I don’t believe Orson Crowell’s right, Toby! I guess you’re a born goal-tend!”

“You and Crowell are sort of jumping at conclusions, I guess,” replied Toby. “I’m not even certain I could stop a puck if it came at me.”

“Sure you could. It isn’t hard.”

“You just said it was!”

“Well, I mean it isn’t hard when you know how. Anyway, you’re going to report for hockey the day we get back if I have to lug you all the way to the rink!”

“Think there’ll be ice by that time?” asked Toby.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t look like it now. It’s been an awfully mild sort of winter so far. I wish it would snow for Christmas, don’t you? Christmas doesn’t seem like Christmas without snow. I’ll bet it’s dandy around your place in winter, eh?”

“There’s plenty of winter,” laughed Toby. “It gets frightfully cold over there sometimes. Arn, if your father will let you you’ll come over for a few days, won’t you?”

“Surest thing you know,” replied the other promptly. “I’ve promised six or eight times, haven’t I? But he won’t, I guess. You see, since mother died, dad likes to have me around at Christmas and times like that. Still, he might. We’ll ask him to-night, eh?”

“All right. Isn’t this the tunnel? We’d better get our coats on, hadn’t we? Don’t you let me get lost when we get in there!”