THE LAST TERM

It was a warm bright May day, with just enough breeze to fleck the waves of the bay and passage with white caps and make it lively for the school crews in their heavy whaleboats, the substitute at Deal for the conventional shell.

From their post on the Rocking-stone or just by it, high up on the highest ridge of Lovel’s Woods, two boys looked out upon the spreading panorama of marsh and beach and river and bay. They both were drinking it in with a deep sense of its beauty and with a sense too that it was the more beautiful in that it all was a part of the old school. Up on the hill there, across the wide valley of the marshes and Beaver Pond and Creek, rose the school itself, gleaming now in the bright western sunlight as a fairy castle of rose and gold.

One of the boys by the Rocking-stone was Tony Deering, coatless, hatless, his hair glowing in the sunlight, half-hidden by the tall sweet grass in which he lay at full length. The other was Reginald Carroll, now nearly at the end of his Freshman year at Kingsbridge College, back at the School for a week-end as he had so often been since his graduation the previous June. Much of his time on these occasions, though we have not chanced to note it, was spent with Deering, much too with Mr. Morris between whom and himself the old feeling of distrust had altogether dropped away. For during his last term at school Reggie had won his house-master’s confidence as well as his regard.

i306

The boys were sprawled flat on their stomachs in the warm sweet grass, heads on hands, at the very edge of the ridge, peering off across the tops of the pine trees and cedars that rose from the ravine between the ridges almost to a level with their heads. They looked eastward and their position commanded a view of the Strathsey river, the harbor in the bend of the Neck, the broad beach and bay, and the open ocean beyond. They could see the House crews out beyond Deigr Light; they were turning the noses of their boats toward the harbor again in the hope of getting back for supper. A dozen or more sailboats were in the river. Tony and Reggie had been sailing, and had stopped at the Rocking-stone on their way back to the School.

“Peachy day, Reg, isn’t it?” said Tony, for the thousandth time sniffing of the good sea breeze.

“Well, rather,” drawled Reggie for reply. He was still languid, individual, different, but distinctly more purposeful, less afflicted with the air of being perpetually bored than when we first observed him some four or five years ago.

“Doesn’t it make you sort of sicky to feel you can’t have it all the time?”

“It does, boy; as you yourself before long will be finding out.”

“Ah—I know.”

“But, I tell you what, Tony; it makes it almost worth while being away, it is so wonderful to come back. College is different, likable too; but it never takes the place of school. Though I must say, toward the end of the year I begin to feel myself caring for it as I didn’t in the least think I should. It’s rough at first, as I told you before, as you could see from my pretending it wasn’t last fall. But here—well, the heart’s at home here.”

Tony smiled his appreciation of the phrase. “Old chap, you do get your sentiments expressed now and then in perfectly good nice poetry, don’t you? I feel like that ever so often, but to save my life I can never find words that seem in the least to do justice to my thoughts.”

“Oh, well, that comes a good deal not only from feeling a thing, boy; but quite as much from the habit of hunting for the right phrase now and then, as old Jack used to tell us in Sixth English.”

Tony drew in the fragrance of the May flowers that a fresh breeze stirred. “Bully, isn’t it? This always was a favorite spot of yours, wasn’t it, Reg?”

“Rather—oh, the time I’ve wasted here, little one—scribbling verse and stuff, dreaming dreams that never came true!”

“You mooning here, poetizing—you must let me see your latest, by the way,—always remind me of those jolly verses in the Harrow Song Book—remember—‘Byron lay, lazily lay’?”

“More or less—mostly less; let’s have it.”

Tony essayed it in his clear voice.

“’Byron’ lay, lazily lay,
Hid from lesson and game away,
Dreaming poetry all alone,
Up-a-top of the Peachy stone.

All in a fury enters Drury.

Sets him grammar and Virgil due;

Poets shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have,

Poets shouldn’t have work to do.”

“That’s all; I don’t know the rest. But when we sing it at General Singing or on the steps of the Old School these spring nights, I always think of you, and wonder if you scribble verses at Kingsbridge as much as you used to at school.”

“Oh, yes, still,” laughed Reggie, “as much as ever—and to as little purpose as ever, I fancy. But look here, boy; I don’t like to suggest unpleasant things to you such as the fact that school won’t last forever, but I want to be sure of one thing—”

“Yes?”

“You will certainly be coming up to col. next year?”

“Oh, yes, if I pass my exams. But of course there’s not much doubt about that. I’m not in much danger of being flunked.”

“Money matters all right?”

“So, so. Yes, much better, thank goodness. But it’s going to be mighty hard to pull out of the old school.”

“There is one thing that helps the pulling out a lot, and particularly in your case,—” said Carroll, “—more than it did in mine—such a lot of the fellows go up to Kingsbridge from the School—quite the best of the form usually, it seems to me; so that you feel quite at home there from the beginning. Then there’s always a lot of Dealonians among the upper classmen who look out for you more or less. Most of your chums are going up, aren’t they?”

“Yes—all, I think, except Ned Clavering. Too bad—but Ned’s going to wear the blue—and I hope we’ll line up against each other some time.”

“That’s hard luck; but I didn’t know Ned Clavering was in your crowd.”

“Oh, our crowd!” exclaimed Tony, with something like a sigh.

“What! do you mean to say that you and Kit Wilson are still on the outs?”

“I’m ashamed to say, we are.”

“You still sore at Kit?”

“Not in the least!”

“Well, then, what’s the trouble?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Sheer asininity on both our parts, I reckon. I’ve started over to Kit’s rooms a hundred times this term, I should say, and turned back.”

“All serene with the rest of the crowd?”

“Oh, absolutely. After the Finch affair last term everybody except Kit went out of their way to be decent. Even Tack, whom I had been rather nasty to.”

“Weren’t you a bit sore because Kit didn’t go out of his way to be decent?”

“Why, yes—naturally; I suppose I was.”

“Well, listen to words of wisdom—it is all nonsense, blooming idiotic nonsense. You quarreled about Finch. He’s gone. What’s become of that little shaver, by the way?”

“Finch—oh, he is well now, I reckon; they have taken him away—to the mountains or some place. He is ever so much better in every way than before he was ill—it seemed to need that tremendous break and sickness to get him straight. I have an idea that the Doctor,—good old chap, the Head!—will keep him on here another year, and then put him to work, without trying for college.”

“You carried the guardian angelship business through, didn’t you? did it from the bottom up—as I hoped you would.”

“Oh, I tried.... By Jove, Reg,” Tony exclaimed, looking at his watch, “it’s nearly six; we’ll have to wander if we want to get back in time for supper. You are staying over, of course, for the game and dance to-morrow?”

“Of course.”

That evening as the Sixth were singing on the steps of the Old School, which was their custom on warm spring nights, Carroll drew Kit Wilson out of the crowd and walked him off under the shadows of the trees.

“Look here, Wilson,” he said, “I’m butting into something that isn’t in the least my affair, but I want to know why on earth you and Tony Deering don’t drop your differences and be friends?”

Kit swung himself loose from Reggie’s friendly encircling arm. “Ask Deering,” he said laconically.

“I have asked Deering, and so far as he knows there is no reason under heaven why you shouldn’t be as thick as you ever were. The original cause of your misunderstanding has long since passed away. Deering is simply holding off because you are. He doesn’t know how you will take it if he makes advances.”

Still Kit kept silence.

“Come on, Wilson, don’t take it like that. I haven’t any axe to grind; as a matter of fact in school days, Deering’s intimacy with you meant that I see a lot less of him, and I can tell you I didn’t relish that. You like Tony, don’t you, really?”

“Like him!” cried Kit. “Doesn’t everybody like him—even the odious Gumshoe? Like him! Why, Carroll, I like him better than any fellow I ever knew.”

“Well, my dear child—what then hinders you?”

“Does Tony care a hang about me?—has he ever minded our not being friends?” asked Kit huskily.

“Has he minded? why, of course, he has minded.”

“Well, I never supposed he did; hasn’t he had Jimmie and you and Bill Morris and a dozen others? Why, honest, Reggie, even the Gumshoe just eats out of his hand. It’s marvelous—don’t understand it—or I guess I do understand it. You can’t help it, can you?”

“No, you can’t; but note this;—the more Tony cares for, the more it seems he can. And I tell you what, Kit, with Tony or with anyone else, the loss of one friend can never be made up by gaining others. If you and Tony don’t make up, you will never forgive yourselves later. As it is, you have lost nearly a year of school life.”

“I know, I know,” said Kit miserably.

“Well, lose no more!”

As they drew back again within the range of the singing, the Sixth were giving in fine form—“There’s a wind that blows o’er the sea-girt isle,” a song that Reggie had always particularly liked. He stepped forward a bit to encore them. But Doc. Thorn, the leader of the singing, catching sight of him, cried to the fellows on the steps, “Let’s have ‘Old Boys’ now, in honor of Reggie Carter Westover Carroll.”

And they rang it out with a hearty good will, with long, lingering, caressing notes to the last lines, notes that thrilled every Old Boy’s heart as he heard the well-loved song.

“... and the heart is glad
For all the friendliness of vanish’d years.”

The tears were in Reggie’s eyes. He was glad it was dark, and that he could let them gather there without fear of it being noticed. And just then Mr. Morris stepped somewhere from out of the gloom and slipped his arm around Reggie’s shoulders.

The singing was over then; the fellows were beginning to separate for the evening and were calling to each other as they started away from the steps. Carroll pushed Wilson forward. “Now’s your chance,” he whispered. “Don’t you be a fool and don’t let Tony be a fool!”

Poor Kit’s heart was in his mouth; it seemed to him to be thumping like a sledge-hammer. He had a momentary wild hope that he would not be able to find Tony. But yes,—there he was, just taking leave of Ned Clavering and starting across the campus alone. Kit hurried after him, feeling as though his legs would scarcely carry him another inch.

“I say—Tony!” he called at last, his voice husky and strange.

Deering stopped, turned, but did not recognize him. “What is it? Who’s calling?”

“It’s me—Kit. Wait a second, will you?”

Tony’s heart was beating wildly too, for he divined what was coming; by the time Kit reached him his hand was out.

“What’s your hurry?” cried Kit, grabbing the extended hand and wringing it.

“I’m not in a hurry. Are you?”

“No, not a bit.” Then awkwardly, “Well, what are you going to do?”

“Not a thing—loaf—come and do it with me.”

“I’m your man. Where shall we go?”

“Good, old boy. To the beach then.”

They turned about, and arms went about each other’s waist and neck. They swung off across the fragrant fields, soft with the new mown grass, to the beach. For a while they were silent.

“I have been a stubborn fool,” said Kit at last.

“Not a bit of it; I’ve been a hot-headed one,” protested Tony.

“Well, I guess we’ve both been both,” said Kit lucidly. “Any way, thank God it’s over.”

“Amen,” said Tony.

Another long silence as they strolled along, strangely happy, in the fresh caressing night.

“I say, Kit.”

“Yes, old chap!”

“Let’s you and Jim and me room together at college next year.”

“Right o! I’ve hated to think of college next year just on account of that—we used to plan to, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, it’s all right now. Hard though it’s going to be to leave the old school.”

“Mighty hard, Kit.”

Another silence; close step; shoulder to shoulder.

“I say, Tony.”

“Yes, old boy.”

“Let’s swear never to let this sort of thing happen again. Let’s swear always to talk it out. No matter what, never to break again.”

“All right—I swear—never to break again—absolutely—so help me, God.”

“And I, I swear!—so help me, God.” They wrung each other’s hands.

“Say—Tonio old sport,” said Kit after another pause.

“What is it, Kitty?”

“Reg Carroll’s a brick, don’t you think?”

“He certainly is. By the by, Kit, is Betty coming down for the dance to-morrow night?”

“Yes, gets here to-morrow afternoon; Bab too.”

“Good work. Tell her, will you, before to-morrow night that you and I have made it up.”

“I won’t need,” answered Kit; “I never let her know we had fallen out.”

Tony gasped with astonishment. “Well, by Jove, kiddo, you are a perfect corker.”

And so they strolled on, talking by fits and starts, in the sweet fragrant May night, glad of heart, the gladder that for long they had not known each other’s friendship.

The next few weeks were wonderful ones to Tony and his friends. On that bright Saturday a worthy rival had come from western CÆsarea to meet their baseball team and had bit the dust. Jimmie Lawrence, captain of the team now, had played first without an error and had knocked a home-run, bringing in three men—a pleasant augury for the Boxford game in mid-June. In the evening there had been the dance in the Gymnasium, and Betty Wilson had been there, lovelier than ever it seemed to Tony, as his eyes fluttered in the light of her eyes and he thrilled with a strange, nice, happy little thrill at the touch of her hand in his. And Barbara Worthington was there, and Kit too was beaming. As yet the shadow of the final good-byes had not fallen upon them. There were still three golden weeks for the reunited crowd.

*********

One night, not long after the dance, Tony sat late in Mr. Morris’s study, as he was apt to do these last weeks, talking things over with his older friend.

“This has certainly been a bully term,” said Tony, with a contented sigh, “I don’t think I have ever been so happy. I can’t bear to think of leaving.”

Morris had been happy too, but for him the shadow was already falling. “Ah—that’s the hard part of school life—the going and the being left behind.... But you will be coming back often—that’s a comfort. I never cease to be thankful that Kingsbridge is so near.”

“Yes, I shall be coming back mighty often. Doesn’t seem really as if the school could run without us. I suppose I shall like college, but I can’t imagine that it will ever be quite the same as school.”

“Well,” said Morris, as his mind turned back to good Kingsbridge days, “one grows fond of it. But school——”

“It’s as Reggie says,” Tony interrupted, “the heart’s at home here. It will be bully to have Reggie and Kit and Jim and so many of the old form at Kingsbridge, but, magister, I shan’t have you.”

Morris’s heart glowed at this. “Stupid they,” thought he, “who say a boy does not show feeling or gratitude!” Aloud he murmured, “No; you will not have me. But I will tell you what reconciles me to the situation, Tony,—you will be coming back during college days pretty often; and then—I have a strong prophetic feeling—you will be coming back for good.”

Tony smiled. “I wouldn’t wonder, you know. I’ve often thought I’d like to. The heart’s at home here, magister. Good-night.”

THE END.