Today I suppose that boys complimenting another boy on his handsomeness would be interpreted differently.It was a typical boys' school, with boys of all types and from all parts of the country. There were good boys, bad boys, handsome boys, ugly boys, interesting boys and uninteresting boys, athletic boys and bookworms; but Mr. Gushing, the headmaster, found them all worth while, and was deservedly popular in his turn. The school was out of town, just where it should be, where there was plenty of skating, tobogganing, football, baseball, and rowing. It had just reopened after the summer vacation, and the boys were beginning to swarm back. There were groups of them about the grounds and in the buildings, and a general hubbub pervaded the place. The "new boys" wandered helplessly about, not knowing what to do with themselves, and eying with envy the "old boys," who rushed back and forth, calling to one another in a jolly, intimate way, and seeming so entirely at home. A few of them made friends with one another, and walked off together down to the football field, or talked in the corridors and tried to seem at home also. Few of the old boys took any notice of them, as they were too busy and had too much to say to one another. And then, besides, the football captain had ordered all candidates down to the field, so that all the athletic crowd had disappeared.
A knot of such were hurrying along in their togs, and all talking at once. They were big fellows, some of them veterans of the previous year. They had nearly reached the field when they saw, sauntering along ahead of them, in a nonchalant manner, one of the "new boys." He wore a brown golf-suit, a cap on the back of his head, and his hands were thrust into his pockets, as he walked slowly along, swinging one leg in front of the other.
"Who 's this?" asked one of the veterans, noticing him.
"New boy. Good figure, has n't he?" said another.
"Yes. Wonder if he intends to play in that suit of clothes?"
"They 're new—he got them to come up here in."
A general snicker followed this shot, and they all turned a little to look at the target as they passed him. He glanced up also, and they saw a handsome face with a pair of dark eyes looking out curiously at them from under rather a shock of light-brown hair. He scanned them with a good-humored stare.
The crowd hurried past him, and no one spoke until they were some distance ahead. Finally Ames, the full-back, said, "I wonder how old that fellow was."
"Sixteen or so, I guess," returned Gould, the substitute tackle.
"Good-looking, was n't he?" put in Dean, who was handsome himself and always wore a nose-guard.
No answer was made to this, as they had reached the field, where Goodale, the captain, was tearing round from man to man, endeavoring to put some method into the confusion that reigned. One of the masters was there also, with the old men, and punts, drop-kicks, and place-kicks were flying from all quarters of the field.
"Here you are at last," he panted, stopping before the arrivals. "You, Ames, go down to where Mr. Williams is, and see if you can kick a goal before those new men. We 're going to line up two scrubs in a few minutes."
Then he rushed off again, leaving the boys to find their own places.
Meanwhile the "new boy" had sauntered on and had reached the field also. He climbed leisurely on to the fence which surrounded the gridiron, and surveyed the proceedings with an interested air.
Dean soon caught sight of him, and questioned Goodale. "Has that fellow tried for anything yet?"
"What fellow?"
"That good-looking one on the fence."
"No. Who is he?"
"Don't know—some new boy."
Just then a football bounded over the fence and rolled along the ground beyond.
"Thank you!" called several voices, directed toward the new boy.
He jumped down from his perch and chased the ball. Then he picked it up, gave a lunge, and sent it flying down across the fence to the other end of the field. It was a good seventy-yard punt, and drew forth a dozen exclamations of surprise and approval.
"Jove! Look at that!" ejaculated Dean. But Goodale was already hurrying toward the new boy, who had restored his hands to his pockets and was standing with an amused smile on his lips. Goodale felt, as he approached, that, somehow, he could not use his patronizing air of captain with this fellow, and, also, that the upper hand seemed to be on the other side. Still, this prize was not to be lost.
"Look here," he began awkwardly, "want to try for full-back on the team?"
The new boy regarded him a moment, and then answered with a smile that showed a double row of handsome teeth:
"Of course I would n't mind trying."
"All right; come on. Got any togs here?"
"I have some back at the school."
"Can't you find some here? We 're going to play a scrub game in a minute. Wait and I 'll get you some."
He rushed into the building, and the new boy followed him, still with his amused smile.
Goodale appeared, in a moment, with several suits in his arms.
"Get into one of these, quick as you can," he said. "Hold on—er—er—what 's your name?"
"My name?—oh, er—Parkinson."
Goodale hurried off and told his tale to some of the boys, and then, with the help of Mr. Williams, lined up two elevens. By the time all was arranged, Parkinson came on to the field, looking quite distinguished, and, somehow, older than when in his golf-suit. All eyes were fixed on him, and no one noticed Mr. Williams's start of surprise, nor did they understand the glance Parkinson directed at him.
"Come on, Parkinson," called Goodale. "Get down there at full-back. Now, boys, stand on your toes. Play hard and fast, and let 's see what the first game of the season will show! Mr. Williams, you 'll umpire, please."
The game began, and Parkinson was playing on Goodale's eleven. The other team had the ball. They gained five yards apiece on the first two rushes, and Goodale exclaimed, "This won't do! Come, get together! Parkinson, play up more—you don't get into the interference."
One more rush, and the opposing full-back skirted the end and tore down toward Parkinson. Goodale yelled, "Nail him, nail him! Get down more!" as he ran after.
Parkinson waited calmly, and then reached out and caught the runner in a clean tackle. Goodale was beside himself in his patronizing approval. They got the ball by a fumble in the next play, and the quarter-back passed it to Parkinson. He started to the right, following the interference, when he suddenly broke to the left, and in a minute more was tearing along with a clear field ahead of him, never stopping until the touch-down was made. And when he completed the feat by stepping back and kicking the ball squarely between the goal-posts, the boys' enthusiasm knew no bounds.
The play lasted only two ten-minute halves, and during the next half Goodale did not order Parkinson about quite so much.
Immediately after the game, however, Parkinson rushed into his dressing-room, and that was the last the boys saw of him. When those who had dressed at the building had reappeared and assembled in front to escort the hero back to school, Mr. Williams approached them, laughing.
"Whom are you waiting for, boys?" he asked.
"Parkinson," Goodale answered.
"Well, I would n't waste time doing that. He 's gone."
"Gone where? Back to school?"
"No. He has gone back to Cambridge. Who do you think that fellow was? Bob Forbes, the Harvard captain!"
"Forbes!" exclaimed Goodale. "Why, Mr. Williams, you 're joking. He 's Parkinson, a new boy."
"I beg your pardon. That was Bob Forbes, whom I know very well. Of course he was n't going to let you suspect by his name; but I knew what he was up to. He has just brought his little brother up here, and finding none of you knew him by sight, he played a joke on you. It 's just like him, too!" And Mr. Williams laughed till the boys joined with him.
"Do you think I ought to write and apologize?" Goodale said shamefacedly. "I was awfully flip with him."
"My dear boy, no!" Mr. Williams said. "It is the best joke of the year, and that would spoil it. At any rate, you all know Forbes now, and I 've no doubt but that he will send you all tickets during the season."
And he did.
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