CHAPTER VIII

VACATION VISITS

Across the diamond, Clif and Jack Cooper stood together in a group of five fellows waiting to bat, and Clif, turning his gaze away from a moment’s contemplation of Loring and Mr. Cooper conversing together, remarked: “Your father seems to like to watch practice, Jack.”

The catcher turned an unapprehending face. “What did you say?” he asked. Clif repeated the observation and indicated the reason for it by a nod toward the first base stand. Jack’s gaze followed the direction of the nod, but still he seemed unable to grasp the significance of the remark. “My father?” he asked rather blankly.

“Yes.” Clif was patient with him. “He’s over there talking to Loring Deane. Can’t you see him?”

“Oh!” Jack looked again. Then he turned a puzzled regard on Clif. “That’s my father over there, is it?”

“Well, isn’t it?” asked Clif in surprise.

“Don’t recognize him, Clif.” Jack was grinning broadly. “But then he’s gone and lost about sixty pounds, if it is he, and it’s made a terrible difference in him!”

“You mean Mr. Cooper isn’t――isn’t your father?”

“Sure, Mr. Cooper’s my father, but I never saw that wampus before in my life! Go on and bat.”

A few minutes later Jack sought Clif to ask: “Say, how’d you get it into your bean that that guy was my father?”

Clif had to think a moment before he replied. Then: “I thought some one told me he was, but maybe I just faked it myself. You see, his name’s Cooper, and he’s staying at the Inn, and I thought of course――”

“I’d like you to see my old man,” laughed Jack. “Just for the fun of it. He weighs close to two hundred, Clif.”

“That’s mighty funny,” muttered the other. He was thinking of his mistake, but Jack misunderstood.

“I don’t see anything very funny in it,” he answered. “He takes after me.”

Meanwhile Mr. Cooper and Loring were getting quite well acquainted over there. Mr. Cooper’s introductory remark had been a question revealing his colossal ignorance of the intricacies of the national pastime, and Loring had secretly thought it strange that Cooper had allowed his father to remain so unenlightened. But he was glad to supply the desired information, and explained not only the point then puzzling Mr. Cooper but several others which arose later. Mr. Cooper moved nearer and leaned his arms on the railing. In doing so he brought Wattles into direct range and included him in the friendly smile which accompanied his next remark. Watching, Loring was then and there convinced of one thing. If Wattles recognized Mr. Cooper as some one he had seen before, Mr. Cooper certainly had no recollection of Wattles. He had a rather deep voice which, however, encompassed several tones. The end of a remark might and frequently did end half a dozen notes higher than where it had begun, a feature that Loring found both odd and interesting. He spoke somewhat deliberately but without any drawl; in fact, although uttered slowly, his words were distinct and crisp. He was, Loring presently decided, undoubtedly an American, but an American who had traveled much and whose speech and manner of speaking had been borrowed from many lands.

The conversation ranged from baseball to the school, and about the latter Mr. Cooper was frankly curious. He had not, it appeared, seen any of the buildings save from the outside. “Why,” exclaimed Loring, “haven’t you even been up to Cooper’s――I mean your son’s room, sir?”

“My son’s room?” repeated the other, almost startedly.

“Yes, sir,” said Loring uncertainly. “I thought――some one said―― Aren’t you Jack Cooper’s father, sir?”

The gentleman shook his head. “Really, no,” he answered. “Who, if you don’t mind, is Jack Cooper?”

Loring, in some confusion, pointed him out――Jack’s face at the moment was pretty well hidden behind the catcher’s mask――and the man who wasn’t his father looked at him for several moments. Then: “Fine looking chap,” he said, “but we’re not related. Sorry.”

“But you are Mr. Cooper, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but apparently not the right one.” He smiled deprecatingly while Loring said hastily: “I guess it was Clif Bingham who told me you were Cooper’s father. That was Saturday. I――we passed you on the street, sir.”

“I remember. Bingham is the boy who was at the helm that day?”

“The helm? Oh, no, sir, that was Tom Kemble. Clif was the other.”

“I thought I recognized them both here a bit ago. Isn’t that Kemble standing by the cage thing?”

“Yes, sir, and Clif Bingham’s playing out in the field; the middle one of the three.”

“Playing center field, I believe.” The statement was made questioningly, and Mr. Cooper looked quite pleased when Loring’s nod indicated that he had named the position correctly. “I’m rather a duffer about this game,” he went on. “Haven’t seen much of it, you know.” His tone was apologetic, and Loring, smiling, answered: “I’ll just bet, though, you know plenty of other games, Mr. Cooper.”

“Not so many. Golf, of course, and polo. I’ve played that a goodish bit.”

“Really?” exclaimed Loring. “I say, that must be corking! I’m going to get dad to take me to the games next summer. You know, when the English team comes across. Are you――do you play on one of our teams, sir?”

“Oh, no. Most of my playing has been over in India and around there. I’m really not much good at it.”

“I’ll bet you are, just the same,” declared Loring, sweeping the lean figure with his gaze. “And I guess you play a corking game of golf, sir!”

Mr. Cooper appeared pleased and somewhat embarrassed. “Why, thanks,” he replied. “But corking’s hardly the word for the sort of game I play nowadays. I dare say you, now, could give me――” Then he stopped abruptly, with a sudden contraction of his brows, and: “By Jove, that was stupid of me!” he added remorsefully. “Look here, I’m beastly sorry, my boy!”

But Loring was chuckling. “Please don’t apologize, sir! Why, I like being――I like folks to forget. It’s almost as if I really could do things like――other fellows, sir. You see, Mr. Cooper, if I was able to I’d do everything of that sort. I mean play golf and baseball and football and――I think, though, I’d rather play football than anything else. Do you like football, sir? Did you use to play it?”

“No, I never played football, Deane. Your name is Deane, I think?”

“Yes, sir, but――I’m generally called Loring by my friends,” said the boy a little shyly.

“Thank you,” said the other gravely. “I see that you really have forgiven me. I was going to say that I do like to watch a good football game, but I’ve been knocking about a goodish bit and I don’t recall when I saw the last one. I think it was in France, though; and that was nine――no, say eight years ago.”

“During the War?” asked Loring.

“Yes, the Tommies played quite a bit, and so did the Yanks. Not the same game, though.”

“You were in the War, weren’t you, sir?”

Mr. Cooper nodded. “Yes,” he said. Loring waited for more, but no more came; and something in the man’s expression told him that another subject would be preferred. A silence followed in which Mr. Cooper watched the players, and Loring, appearing to do the same, really saw very little of what was going on. He was thinking about the stranger, reviewing the conversation and wondering if it would be permissible to invite the other to his room. Although Loring had yielded thoroughly to Mr. Cooper’s attractions he was aware that one member of the trio had accepted that gentleman with reservations. Loring couldn’t see Wattles without turning his head, and he hadn’t turned his head once since Mr. Cooper had broken the ice, but he knew without seeing that Wattles was not wholly approving. Perhaps that knowledge would eventually have strengthened his determination to issue the invitation, but just at the moment it caused hesitation, and before the hesitation had ended the second team took its bats and traipsed away to the other diamond and Mr. Cooper arose, said: “Good afternoon,” smiled and went away, too.

Loring rather unjustly blamed Wattles. “Look here,” he charged, “you were beastly uncivil, Wattles, and I don’t like it.”

“But I never said a word, Mr. Loring,” Wattles protested.

“And I never said you did. But I’ll bet you looked as sour as a lime. Don’t think I don’t know that――that frozen face of yours by this time! Look here, what have you got against Mr. Cooper, anyway? You know perfectly well that stuff about having seen him before is absolute piffle!”

“No, sir,” replied Wattles firmly. “Asking your pardon, Mr. Loring, I am perfectly certain that I have encountered the gentleman previously.”

“Where, then? And what of it? It wasn’t in prison, was it?”

“I have never been in prison, Mr. Loring,” stated Wattles with hurt dignity.

“Oh, well, hang it, I didn’t say you had. Don’t be an ass, Wattles. If you don’t remember where you met him, you can’t have anything against him. And I could tell that he had never seen you in his life; at least, doesn’t remember it if he has! I’m going to ask him to call the next time I meet him, and I won’t have you looking the way you looked to-day.”

“Very good, sir.”

Presently, trundling across the grass, Loring said: “Sorry I spoke crossly, Wattles.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Wattles. “I regret having given offense, Mr. Loring.”

“You didn’t, really,” laughed the boy. “It was just my rotten temper.”

Wednesday, however, Mr. Cooper was not at the field, and on Thursday it rained, and as a consequence Loring didn’t meet Mr. Cooper again for almost a fortnight. There was no practice for the second nine on Friday, for Spring Recess commenced that day after the last recitation. Only those living a considerable distance from school were permitted to leave before Saturday morning, however, and the Triumvirate spent Friday evening discussing their plans for vacation. Tom was to be Clif’s guest until the following Saturday. Then he and Clif were to go to Tom’s home in New Jersey, stopping in New York on the way to take luncheon and go to a theater with Loring. Tom declared that he was mighty glad he hadn’t made the first team, after all, since if he had done so he would have had to remain at school. The first played four games during recess, the first one at home and the others away. Clif said he thought taking the spring trip with the nine would be more fun than going home. Loring agreed with him, and so, perhaps, did Tom, although he refused to acknowledge it. Loring introduced Mr. Cooper again as a subject of discourse, but the others were rather fed up on that gentleman and side-stepped.

Loring went off soon after breakfast in a big, shining limousine, a car of the make that Tom called a “Rolled Rice,” with a liveried chauffeur in front and Wattles, immaculate in a silk-faced black overcoat and his famous black derby, sitting beside the boy, an impressive picture of Respectability. Wattles unbent for an instant as the automobile rolled away and lifted his hat to the group on the steps of East Hall while Loring waved his farewell. Wattles’ lapse from his standard of decorum was induced by Tom’s parting hail of “Toodle-oo, Wattles, old top!”

Mr. Bingham arrived an hour later, and Clif and Tom piled their bags into the back of the old blue car and then crowded into the front with the driver. The blue car wasn’t a “Rolled Rice,” but it refused to take any one’s dust――not that there was any dust to-day, however――and slipped across country to Hartford, the luncheon stop, and then on to Providence quite as expeditiously and probably just as comfortably as the other could have done. Clif took the wheel after lunch and Mr. Bingham retired to the rear seat to smoke several long cigars.

The week simply whisked itself away, and on Saturday the two boys said good-by to Mr. Bingham and boarded the train for New York. There Loring and Wattles awaited them at the station, and they were borne away to a big house uptown and a cordial welcome from Loring’s father and mother. Mr. Deane was a pink-cheeked, military-looking gentleman who, in spite of his great wealth, seemed to have very little to do and enjoyed doing it hugely. He and the visitors were already good friends and shared a number of small jokes between them. Mrs. Deane was, according to Tom’s frequently expressed judgment, a “pippin’.” Clif, for his part, had more than half fallen in love with her at first meeting, and still adored her shyly. That was a wonderful luncheon partly because it consisted of just the beautiful indigestible things that boys crave after a strict régime of school and partly because they were tremendously hungry. After luncheon there was a quick drive down the asphalt surface of the avenue, a breath-taking lurch into a side street and a hurried alighting before the theater. And they just made it! Loring, borne by Wattles, had scarcely been seated in his chair in the front of the box when the curtain rolled up and the darkened house became a glow of golden radiance. After that, save for brief interludes, Clif forgot that he was in New York and that the time was the humdrum twentieth century. He was in Old France where a gallant gentleman with a stupendous nose made Romance real at last and defeated his enemies――all save one!――with flashing blade or nimble wit. Clif was half-way to Morristown in the train before he finally emerged from the glamour cast upon him by the play.

Tom’s guardian, Mr. Winslow, lived in a modest frame house fronted by a few square yards of greening turf and two leafless, contorted mulberry trees. After the Deane mansion, Tom’s home was a come-down, a thought occurring to both boys but uttered only by Tom. “Rather a hovel,” he said as they alighted from a taxi, “but I warned you of that, Clif.” Tom had a big room, sparingly furnished, at the top of the house, and Clif was to share it with him. It was chill and damp up there, for spring had not yet ousted winter from the walls of the old structure.

Clif declared that the room was very jolly and that everything was perfectly corking, but secretly he was pleased that there were but two nights to spend there. Mr. Winslow, who appeared at supper time, proved to be a square-set gentleman of some fifty years, with an outward affability that didn’t survive Tom’s first night at home. The evening proved rather a dull one, and, since Clif was thoroughly tired, he suggested bed quite early. Tom seconded the motion, but his guardian expressed a desire to talk with him and Clif ascended the stairs alone. Afterward, although he tightly closed the chamber door, the voices of Mr. Winslow and Tom floated up to him for the better part of an hour, and it was evident to the listener that all was not peace and amity below stairs. Tom finally appeared, sullenly angry, bitter of speech. Clif learned that Mr. Winslow was not pleased with the reports received from Wyndham, especially those having to do with Tom’s work in his English course, and had been particularly nasty about it. “Says if I don’t do better,” growled Tom, casting a shoe noisily to the floor, “he’s going to take me out of school! All right, let him! If he does I’ll beat it away from here mighty quick. _He_ won’t see me, that’s a cinch! I’ll go right from Freeburg to New York and get into the Navy!”

“The Navy won’t take you without his assent, Tom. You’re only sixteen.”

“I’ll be seventeen next month, won’t I? Well, then! And whose money is it, anyhow? You’d think, the way he goes on, he was paying for my schooling and everything! I’ll bet he gets his share, the old grafter!”

“Don’t call names,” said Clif quietly. “As Cocky used to tell us last fall, ‘Fight, but keep your mouth closed!’”

Tom eventually calmed down and retired for the night in fair temper, but the incident didn’t increase Clif’s pleasure in the visit.

Mr. Winslow retained an elderly woman of good family and former affluence, who had lost husband and affluence――with Mr. Winslow’s assistance, Tom stoutly declared――at the same time, to keep house for him. She was no addition to domestic cheerfulness, although she did make an excellent dried-apple pie, her meager conversation being confined to what Tom called “post mortems.” Recollection of the years before poverty had come to her invariably induced sniffles. Clif was rather sorry for her, but he did wish she would use a handkerchief more often!

On Sunday morning Mr. Winslow, Mrs. Pelton――the housekeeper――Clif and Tom seated themselves in a small automobile of a rare vintage and rolled decorously to an ivy-covered church. Clif had Mrs. Pelton on his left and suffered a good deal when, he having found the hymn for her, she lifted her voice in song. He was heartily relieved when the sermon began. Sunday dinner was a somewhat solemn meal and certainly none too appetizing. Clif never had liked roast lamb much, anyway, and this particular roast had a “wooly” flavor which did nothing to increase his liking. The dinner accomplished one beneficent end, though; it sent Mr. Winslow to sleep in the parlor. With sighs of relief the boys let themselves out of the house and sallied forth in quest of adventure. They didn’t find adventure, but they had a good walk and returned to supper in better spirits. Tom rebelled against church in the evening, and his guardian, although disapproving, forebore to press the point and went off alone. Eventually bedtime came.

Very early in the morning they started back to Freeburg. Clif wondered if he would ever again be so glad to return to school as he was to-day!