CHAPTER II

THE TRIUMVIRATE

As though realizing that, with the end of the hockey schedule, his services were no longer needed, King Frost retired three days after the Wolcott game. Wyndham awoke to find a warm sun in full command and the earth exceedingly moist and squishy. Little rills flowed along the edges of the paths, water dripped from the roofs, and from all sides, if one listened, came the chuckling murmur of awakening spring. That evening, after supper, the Triumvirate assembled in a first floor room of East Hall. There was nothing unusual in this, however, since the Triumvirate did the same thing almost every evening. There was a full attendance, not a member being absent. Had the secretary――supposing there was one――called the roll it would have gone like this:

“Clifton Cobb Bingham.”

“Here!”

“Loring Deane.”

“Here!”

“Thomas Ackerman Kemble.”

“Uh-huh!”

But there wasn’t any secretary. Nor any other officers. Nor, for that matter, any organization. One evening shortly after the holidays, Tom, commenting on the unfailing regularity with which he and Clif adjourned from Dining Hall to Loring’s room, added: “Anybody would think this was a sewing circle or a club or something.”

“Let’s have it a club,” suggested Clif. “The East Hall Literary and Recreation Club.”

“I’d like to know what’s literary about it,” Tom objected.

“I am. You and Loring play chess and I read his books. Well, if you don’t like that, how about making it a secret organization? Call it the D. K. B.”

“What’s that stand for?” asked Tom suspiciously. “Don’t Kome Back or――”

“Those are our initials, dumb-bell.”

“Oh! Well, that sounds all right, but――”

“We might call it the Club of Three,” offered Loring. “Or――wait a minute! What’s the word for three? Trio? No, tri――triumvirate! The Triumvirate! What’s wrong with that?”

“Great! It sounds important,” said Tom. “Only, before I accept membership I want to ask one simple question. Are there any dues?”

“No dues, no initiation fee! A strictly fraternal, non-partisan, offensive and defensive alliance! ‘One for all and all for one!’”

“That’s in _The Three Muskeneers_,” said Tom.

“The Three――_what_?” asked Clif.

Tom repeated the information. “You know, the story about the three guys――only there were four of ’em――who――”

“_The Three Guardsmen_,” interrupted Loring gravely.

“Well, I’ve always heard it called _The Three Muskeneers_. A fellow named Dumas wrote it. That the same one?”

“Quite,” said Loring, and Clif said: “I like your title better, though, Tom.”

“What’s the matter with it? If you’re so smart I can show you the book in the library. I’ve got it at home, too. I guess I know!”

“Sure it isn’t ‘_Musketeers_’ instead of ‘_Muskeneers_’?”

“Huh? Is it? Heck, I always did wonder what a muskeneer was! Well――” Tom leaned back, grinning――“I never was much on literature! If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Wyatt!”

So that is how the Triumvirate started. It was a sonorous, mouth-filling word, and they liked it. Of course, it was only a joke, yet after a week or two they began to sort of believe in it and lost the habit of smiling when they spoke of it. In some manner it came to be accepted that the borrowed slogan of “One for all, all for one!” meant what it said, and while no opportunity had yet presented that called on them metaphorically to draw swords from scabbards and stand shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy, still the spirit was there.

This evening, which, to be quite exact, was the evening of the twenty-sixth day of February, Tom, noting that the chessboard had not been set out, looked an inquiry and Loring smiled apologetically. “Let’s not play to-night, Tom,” he said, “if you don’t mind. Wattles beat me just before supper, and now I’d rather do something I’ve got a show at; such as talk. You know they say that conversation is fast becoming a lost art.”

“Heck,” said Tom, “I haven’t noticed it. And you wouldn’t think so if you’d heard ‘Alick’ chewing the rag to me this afternoon. Gosh, I’ll bet that guy invented conversation! He knows more words than the dictionary, and he sure can string them together!”

“What,” inquired Clif, smiling, “was the subject of Mr. Wyatt’s talk?”

“Aw, shut up,” growled Tom. “Say, honest, fellows, what’s the good of learning about a lot of queers that died a hundred years ago? This Washington Irving, for one. What did he ever do for the Republican Party?”

“Don’t you like his stuff?” asked Clif maliciously. “Why, I’m getting an awful kick out of it!”

Tom said “Humph!” disgustedly and Loring chuckled. “Tom’s what you might call a Modernist,” said the latter. “He prefers his literature fresh, like his rolls. He finds no pleasure in stale bread.”

“I’ll say I don’t,” concurred Tom heartily. “Of course some of the old-timers weren’t so punk. That guy Dumas, for instance. And Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s stuff has a lot of punch generally, but you’ve got to buckle down to it. Gosh, they must have had a heap of time in those days, the way they spread the words around!”

“Probably got paid by the word,” suggested Clif.

“Some of them must have made a pile of dough, then! Alick would have been rich, too, if he’d lived in Shakespeare’s time. I’ll bet that, at five cents a word, he touched me for a hundred dollars this afternoon!”

“Why don’t you study your English Lit,” asked Clif, “and not have to listen to Mr. Wyatt’s homilies?”

“Study! Heck, I do study! I read all the stuff he tells us to, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything. I had a hunch the first time I set eyes on that chap that I wasn’t going to like him.”

“That’s a whopper,” said Clif. “You do like him, Tom. What you don’t like is his line.”

“Same thing,” grumbled Tom. “I wish I’d been born a Frenchman or a Slovak or――or something so I wouldn’t have to dig through all this rot.”

“Well, you take my advice, Tom, and get cozy with Alick before you try baseball. Remember what happened last November!”

“I’m not likely to forget,” answered the other moodily. “That doddering Ancient Mariner almost queered me for football. If it hadn’t been for you fellows――” Tom stopped and shook his head eloquently. “That experience absolutely soured me on sailors, and I’ve never been able to cheer for the president since.”

“The president?” asked Loring, puzzled.

“He’s got the name wrong,” laughed Clif. “Coleridge, Tom, and not Coolidge wrote _The Ancient Mariner_.”

“Coleridge? Well, I guess it’s the same name, only spelled differently.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Clif, “is how you manage to get good marks in your other courses and fall down flat in English.”

“Because there’s some sense to the other stuff, you poor prune! Any one can see that he’s got to know math and history and――well, yes, even Latin, although I’m not strong for it. But, man to man, Loring, what’s it going to get me to know about a loony old guy like that ‘Ancient Mariner’ or read this _Sketch Book_ twaddle by Irving? Why didn’t he stick to acting instead of――”

“Tom, you’ll be the death of me yet!” gasped Clif.

“What did I say then?” demanded Tom indignantly. “You give me a pain, both of you!” But he grinned as though to signify that the pain wasn’t acute.

When he had stopped laughing Loring said: “Speaking of baseball, doesn’t practice start this week?”

“Thursday,” agreed Clif.

“Are you going out?”

“Yes. So is Tom.”

“I don’t know yet if I am or not,” said Tom. “What’s the good of it if I get in wrong with Alick and have to quit when the season’s half through?”

“Don’t get in wrong,” advised Clif cheerfully.

“Huh, that’s easy enough to say!”

“You’d better,” said Loring. “Clif can’t be the whole team, you know.”

“I’ll be lucky if I get a place,” said Clif; “any sort of a place. I’ve played some, but I’m not really much good, and I guess I’m likely to find myself in fast company here.”

“Heck,” said Tom, “I guess the bunch isn’t so wonderful. I notice that they got a lot of wallopings last spring. I may not try for their old team, but if I do try you can bet I’ll make it.”

“Modest, shrinking little violet, isn’t he?” asked Clif of Loring. “Hates himself to death, eh?”

“That’s all right,” said Tom, “but I’ve seen some of the guys who made the nine last year, and if I can’t play as good ball as they can I’ll――I’ll――”

“Quit?” suggested Clif. “Well, I haven’t your confidence, old son, and if Mr. Connover lets me stick around on the second I’ll say ‘Thank you.’”

“I’ve heard,” remarked Loring, “that ‘Steve’ is a pretty good coach.”

“I guess he is,” said Tom. “Anyway, he made a mighty good football coach last fall when ‘Cocky’ went to the first. If he can coach the nine as well as he coached the old Fighting Scrub he will be a humdinger. Steve didn’t know an awful lot of football, but you wouldn’t have suspected it, eh, Clif?”

“He knew enough,” answered Clif. “If I had my way I’d wait a couple of weeks before reporting for practice; cut out the gym stuff; swinging clubs and all that; but they say he doesn’t like you to report late.”

“I guess the gym stuff’s good for you,” said Tom. “Loosens up the old muscles, you know. Me, I’ll be there for the whole awful program.”

“Thought you said you didn’t know,” Clif chuckled.

“Well,” answered Tom with entire composure, “I make up my mind quick. I’ve decided to play since I said that. I’m going to try for second base.”

“I shall like that,” remarked Clif. “You’ll be where I can look out for you while I’m pitching. I’d hate to have you in the outfield, Tom. No telling what awful things you’d do.”

“But you’re not going to try――” began Loring incredulously.

“Him?” jeered Tom. “He couldn’t pitch down Oak Street without breaking a window!”

“Exaggerated, Tom, but containing a modicum of truth,” acknowledged Clif. “But let me tell you, old son, that I’ve got as good a show to pitch for Wyndham as you have to play second base!”

“Is that so? Well, you just wait and see. Listen――”

And while they listen let’s look them over, since for the next four months we are going to see a good deal of them. Clifton Bingham――introductions demand formality――was sixteen years of age――an age which, by the way, was that of the other two occupants of the room, although Tom was close to seventeen and Loring was Clif’s senior by three months. Clif was tall for sixteen――sixteen and a half, to be more exact――and rather slender. You wouldn’t have called him thin, though. He had the appearance of being well-conditioned and looked as though he might be fast; which he was. Good-looking without calling for the word handsome――a word which fellows of his age detest when applied to one of their sex――he owed his attractiveness more to expression than features. The latter were clean-cut but a critical eye could have found fault with them. He looked alert and he had a smile that you would have liked immensely. He had made right end on the school team late in the season. Like the other members of the Triumvirate, he had entered Wyndham last September and was in the third class.

Mr. Thomas Ackerman Kemble was also a football player and had captained last fall’s scrub before he had been elevated, like Clif at the last moment, to a half-back’s position on the big team. He was very good looking; I had almost said handsome before I had thought; with the sort of skin from which the tan never quite goes, very dark gray eyes and brown hair that verged closely on the copper. In height he was half an inch, perhaps, shorter than Clif, and he was perceptibly heavier without being large. That half inch was not apparent since he was extraordinarily straight of body and carried himself so that he could have spared another half inch and still seemed as tall as the other. Tom’s chin was rather assertive, but in spite of that he was as good-natured and big-hearted as a mastiff; and, like a good many good-natured fellows, he could be extremely stubborn.

I have left Loring Deane to the last, which, since he happens to be the host, is scarcely polite. But Loring requires rather more description than his friends, and one is likely to postpone the larger task. It seems almost necessary at last to make use of that proscribed word, but I shan’t do it. I shall avoid it by saying that Loring was awfully good looking, with the sort of features one associates with the Greek heroes. He had hair that barely escaped being black and he brushed it straight back from a high, broad forehead. His eyes were just as dark as his hair, and they always had a sparkle in them. His skin was fairer than that of his companions but it showed plenty of healthy color. In fact, perfect health was perhaps the first thing you thought of in connection with Loring, and perfect health is the one thing he possessed to a lesser extent than any of the three.

Health means bodily soundness, and Loring’s body was not sound. Under the light rug which covered him from the waist down was a pair of legs that just couldn’t be depended on to perform the ordinary functions of legs. They looked all right, too, except that the muscles were not as well developed as they should have been in a boy of his age. The trouble was in the bones which, instead of building themselves up as bones normally do, had gone in too heavily for lime. In short, Loring’s legs suffered from calcification, which is the scientific way of saying that the bones held too much chalk. Different doctors――and Loring’s father, who was a very wealthy man, had employed many――had different names for the boy’s trouble, names varying in spelling and length but all meaning about the same thing. Loring spent his days in a wheel chair, and, while the physician who at present had him in charge and who once every two or three months journeyed to Freeburg in an eight thousand dollar car spoke hopefully of ultimate betterment or even complete recovery, the probabilities were that Loring would never get beyond crutches. The fact that he had always been as he was now undoubtedly helped him to accept his fate with cheerfulness. Perhaps at night, after the faithful Wattles had finished his careful massaging of the refractory members and the lights were out, Loring may have been visited by dark and rebellious thoughts, but if so, none would have surmised it. To Clif and Tom, as well as to all others who were intimate with him, his good spirits and patience were things to marvel at. Wyndham was proud of Loring Deane. Proud because, as the son of Sanford Deane, one of the country’s wealthiest and most prominent citizens, he lent a certain cachet to the school, but prouder because he had so many qualities that boys whole-heartedly admire wherever found; pluck in adversity, cheerfulness, determination to accept no favors based on his disability and, finally, a keen mind.

To obviate the difficulty of stairs Loring had been given a room on the first corridor of East Hall, next to the office of Mr. Clendennin, Head of the Junior School. Because it would have been awkward for him to sit at the table in Dining Hall his meals were served to him in his room by his attendant, the aforementioned Wattles. Save in these two particulars, however, Loring received no favors, nor sought any. In studies he was brilliant, although he spent no more time in preparation than did Tom. He was an ardent football lover and, in fact, an enthusiast on every sort of sport. And as for chess――well, Wattles had finally progressed to a point where he could occasionally win, but when Loring really put his mind on the game he could beat any one in school. He had even bested “The Turk” recently, and “The Turk,” by which impolite name Mr. Way, the mathematics instructor, was known, was an old, old hand at the game!

Having proved at some length, and conclusively in his own opinion, why it was imperative for the nine to give him the position of second baseman, Tom brought his remarks to a triumphant end. Whereupon two things happened almost simultaneously. The gong out in the corridor clanged, giving notice that study hour in assembly hall was imminent, and the door of Loring’s room opened and Wattles appeared.