CHAPTER I

John North unlocked the door and threw it open. The study was in
semi-darkness and filled with the accumulated heat and fust of the
summer. Ghostlike objects took shape before him and resolved themselves
into chairs and couches and tables draped with sheets or, as in the
case of the low book-shelves, hidden beneath yellowing folds of
newspapers. The windows were closed and the shades drawn. At the side
casements the afternoon sunlight made hot, buff oblongs on the curtains.

He crossed the room impatiently, overturning on the way a waste-basket
and sending its contents—old books, battered golf-balls, brass
curtain-rings, a broken meerschaum pipe, crumpled letters and
invitations dating back to class day—rolling over the rug and beneath
the big table. With mutterings of disgust he sent the front windows
crashing upward, letting in a rush of fresher air, moist from the
newly sprinkled pavement below. At the side casements, however, he drew
down the shades again, for Dunster Street was as full of heat and glare
as an Arizona cañon.

Laying aside coat and vest, he stretched his arms luxuriously, and,
thrusting big, brown hands into trousers pockets, looked disconsolately
from a window. Cambridge was sweltering. Although it was late September
summer had returned in the night, unexpected and unwelcome, and had
wrapped the city in a smothering blanket of heat and humidity. The
square was a broad desert of arid, shimmering, sun-smitten pavement
that radiated heat like the bed-plate of a furnace. The trees across
the way looked wilted, dusty and discouraged. The Yard, which he could
glimpse here and there around the corners of the buildings, appeared
cool and inviting, but instead of bringing comfort, only increased
his longing for the breezy Adirondack lake which he had left the
day before. The cumbersome crimson cars buzzed to and fro with much
clanging of bell and gong, interspersed with impatient shrillings from
the whistle of the starter in front of the waiting station. From the
outbound cars men with suit cases slid dejectedly to the pavement and
wandered away toward all points of the compass, seeking their rooms.
College would begin again on the morrow.

John’s thoughts went back to the day three years before when from this
very window he had watched, as he was watching now, the scene beneath.
Then he had been filled with the keenest interest, even excitement; had
been impatient for the morrow and the real commencement of his college
life. His mind had been charged with thoughts of the great things he
was going to do. Well, that had been three years ago, he reflected;
to-day his thoughts were somewhat soberer. In the three years he
had seen many illusions fade and had stored by a certain amount of
practical common sense. As for the great things, some few of them had
come to pass; unfortunately, seen in retrospect they were shrunken out
of all similitude to the glorious subjects of his early dreams.

It must not be thought, however, that disillusionment had soured him.
At twenty-four, given a sane mind and a healthy body, one can bear
with equanimity more disenchantment than had fallen to the lot of John
North. And John, being the possessor of twenty-four years, sanity and
health, dismissed memories of the olden visions with a sigh, shrugged
his very broad shoulders and looked about for a pipe.

It was necessary to uncover most of the furniture before the pipe
was found. And then he remembered that his tobacco pouch was in his
kit-bag, that his kit-bag was outside the door, and that the door was
twenty feet away. So after a moment of hesitation he stuck the empty
pipe between his teeth and returned to his contemplation of the world
outside.

“I wish Davy would come,” he muttered.

A tall youth in a torn straw hat encircled by a faded orange-and-black
ribbon came out of the hardware store beneath and started hurriedly
across the square. John leaned out over the sill.

“Ay-y-y-y, Larry!” he called.

The other turned and retraced his steps.

“Hello, Johnnie! When’d you get back?”

“Half-hour ago. Come up.”

“Can’t.” Laurence Baker removed the straw hat and, holding it by its
broken rim, fanned his perspiring face. “I’m frightfully busy. My kid
brother’s come up from Exeter and I’m helping him fix his room; he’s
got a joint in Thayer. I’ve been running errands for the little brute
all day. It’s carpet tacks this time, and a roll of picture wire.” He
held up his purchases wearily for the other’s inspection. John grinned.

“Poor old Larry!” he said, sympathetically. “You’ll have to settle down
now and behave yourself; younger brothers, especially Freshies, are the
very deuce for looking after you.”

“You talk as though you had slathers of ’em,” retorted Larry.

“No, thank heaven, I’m no one’s guardian. But I know what’s in store
for you, poor devil! By the way, I’ve got a couple of seats for the
Hollis Street to-night; will you?”

Larry shook his head disconsolately.

“Wish I could, but—er—I promised Chester I’d take him to call on some
folks in town.” John grinned again.

“Well, don’t let me interfere with your duties, Larry,” he said,
shaking his head gravely.

“Shut up! Has Davy got back?”

“No; the beggar wrote me that he was coming to-day, but he hasn’t shown
up. I daresay he’s fallen asleep and gone on to Watertown or Waverly,
or some other of those places you read about.”

“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” laughed the other. “When’s the table
going to start?”

“Oh, Monday, I guess. I’m going around there for dinner to-night.
Coming?”

“Don’t think so. We’ll probably eat in town. Can’t you come along?”

“Maybe; if Davy doesn’t show up meanwhile.”

“All right; meet us at the Touraine at seven. If you’re not there by a
quarter after——”

“Don’t wait. It’ll mean that Davy has woke up in time to get back here.
So long, Larry.”

The other waved the package in his hand, replaced his hat and hurried
across the street, finally disappearing around the corner of Gray’s.
John looked after him with a broad smile.

“Fancy Larry in the rôle of mentor to the young! Well——”

He stretched his arms over his head again, turned and surveyed the
room. Recollecting his bag, he went to the door for it and returning
caught sight of several letters on the floor. He gathered them up and
went back to the window. Two of them proved to be circulars, one was a
bill, a third was a note from the head football coach asking John to
call on him, and the fourth bore the inscription,

“Return after five days to Corliss & Groom, Washington, D. C.”

John’s face betrayed curiosity as he opened this. Leaning against the
casement he read it through. Curiosity gave place to surprise, surprise
to alarm, alarm to consternation. He sucked hard at the empty pipe,
stared blankly into the street and reread the letter. The writer was an
old friend of his father and, to a lesser degree, of himself; a Harvard
graduate of some twenty years ago, and now a successful lawyer in
Washington. The portions of the letter responsible for John’s changes
of expression were these:

“… And so I felt certain that in promising your services
to the extent indicated I was not overstepping the bounds of
friendship. The family were deeply grateful; in fact, I am
not sure that at the last Mrs. Ryerson would have consented
to allow Phillip to go to Cambridge had it not been for the
promise I made in your behalf. Do not imagine that the boy is
deficient in sense; but, naturally enough, his mother hated to
have him leave her for so long just at present. The father died
in January last. Phillip has always manifested ability to get
his share of things; he does not, I think, err on the side of
timidity; in fact, such slight troubles as have molested him
thus far have been due to a certain inherited love of daring.
His father, my lifelong friend, was the embodiment of honour
and fearlessness; but his courage, unfortunately, was of the
reckless sort, and was, indirectly at least, accountable for
his death. The quarrel, as I have said, was of a most trifling
nature and should never have become subject for a duel. But
Phillip—the present Phil’s father, you understand—was but
thirty at the time and as finicky of his honour as a Crusader.
The wound which he received never entirely healed and last
winter brought on the illness which caused his death.

“… But I will write no more of the boy’s character. Were
you a Virginian I should simply say ‘He is a Loudoun County
Ryerson,’ and you would understand. However, you will see
for yourself, for I am accepting it as settled that you will
look him up and be of such service as you can if only for our
friendship’s sake. I fear the boy will have rather a hard row
to hoe at first. He has always had everything in reason that
he has desired, though I believe his demands have never been
exorbitant. It was a surprise to the family when the condition
of affairs was revealed after Phillip’s death. I, however, who
was in his confidence, knew all along how things were going.
He was never overfond of the humdrum, stay-at-home life of the
planter, and the mystery is how he managed to keep possession
of his property as long as he did. Elaine is a fine place of
some sixteen hundred acres, and there is no doubt but that
after the bulk of it is disposed of the family will be in very
comfortable circumstances.

“Mrs. Ryerson has been in poor health for many years, and she
is naturally averse to selling any of the estate while she
lives. Margaret, however, who possesses far more practicality
than a Ryerson has any right to, has taken the conduct of
affairs into her own hands, and I have instructions to sell
Elaine at the first opportunity. The residence and home
farm—about one hundred acres in all—are exempted. The fact
that the place is to be disposed of is being kept from Phil,
so you had best not mention it. He has been told only enough
of the true state of affairs to prevent him from running into
extravagances. It is the desire of his mother and sister
that he shall not be hampered by monetary troubles more than
absolutely necessary….

“… I have written at greater length than was perhaps
necessary. But I want you to take an interest in the boy. I
have a feeling that you will be of great service to him. I
imagine that college life is much what it was twenty years ago,
and my own experience tells me that the friendship of an older
and more thoughtful man is of immense value to a freshman….

“… Phillip is careless, perhaps high-spirited, and after the
free and unconstrained life he has led at home, college life
will, I fear, seem narrow and irksome. Every youngster must
have his fling, but there are different ways of flinging. And
it’s there that you can be of use to Phil and make me your
debtor. He’s a good deal like a two-year-old turned out to
pasture where the fences aren’t strong; it’s dollars to dimes
he’ll try to break through into the next field. But a mild hand
on the halter now and then may save him a broken shank or a bad
wire-cut. And, by the way, John, if he should get damaged over
the fences I’m the one to inform, not the family.

“I am sorry to learn that your father’s health remains poor. I
had a letter from him in July, I think, written at Guernsey. I
had hoped that his travels would benefit him. It must be very
hard on your mother. My kindest regards to both when next you
write. Pray remember that the latchstring is always outside
when you get within striking distance of Washington. My wife
asks to be remembered to you, and says that the south room,
with the view that you liked so much, is still vacant and
always at your service. Let me hear from you in answer to this
tiresome letter, and meanwhile accept my thanks for what I have
pledged you to do.

“Gratefully yours,

“GEORGE HERMAN CORLISS.”

After the second reading John let fall the letter and stared
perplexedly out across the square. Gradually a smile crept over his
face, and finally he chuckled ruefully.

“Great Scott!” he muttered. “And I was horseing Larry about his kid
brother! Why, hang it, his job is a sinecure compared with mine. If
a brother doesn’t behave himself all you have to do is to break his
silly little head. But here am I saddled with the responsibility of an
absolute stranger, a chap whose name I never even heard until to-day!
I can’t punch his nose if he misbehaves; he would probably resent it,
coming from an entire stranger; all I can do is to politely request
him to be good. And meanwhile his family and Corliss will be quite
satisfied that the precious youth is being gently but firmly conducted
along the path of virtue and sobriety and won’t give a thought to the
difficulties of the situation.

“And if—what’s the young idiot’s name?—if Phillip should blow up
Massachusetts with a cannon-cracker some dark night, or assault a
proctor, my reputation’s blasted. I shall lose my position and be
held up to disgrace forevermore. I’m not certain that the Virginia
legislature wouldn’t pass a law making the mention of my name
a misdemeanor. And Corliss would tell Mrs. Corliss that he was
disappointed in me—confound his cheek! And Margaret—I wonder,
now, what Margaret’s like? Corliss says she’s practical. That’s not
promising. Nothing is more irritating than a practical woman. But maybe
she isn’t. Anyhow, I’d be sorry to displease Margaret. And so I suppose
I’ll have to take over the commission.”

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!”