Fourth Down!

"We ought to be there in about twenty minutes," observed Arnold Deering, glancing at his watch. One of his companions in the day-coach tossed the magazine he had been idly glancing through, to the top of the pile of suitcases beside him, yawned widely, and nodded without enthusiasm. "If nothing happens," he agreed. "What's going to happen, you chump?" "Nothing, I suppose. Only, something might. There might be an earthquake, or the train might jump the track, or" "Or you might talk sense, Frank! As for jumping the track, this old train couldn't jump a crack in the floor! I guess you're wishing something would happen so you wouldn't have to go back." "Oh, I don't know," Frank Lamson answered doubtfully. "I guess I don't mindmuch. School's all right after a day or two. It's getting into the swing, just at first, that's hard." "In the interest of education," proclaimed Arnold pompously, "I move that summer vacations be abolished." "Put it the other way around," said Frank, "and I'll second the motion. Joking aside, though, summer vacations are fine, but they certainly spoil a chap for hard work." He shook his head dolefully. He was a heavily-built youth of seventeen, but the heaviness was that of bone and sinew rather than of fat. With regular features, dark hair and eyes and a healthy skin, he was undeniably good-looking, although the mouth somehow suggested a sort of lazy arrogance and led an observer to the conclusion that he was not invariably as amiable as at present. He was almost painfully correct as to attire. "Work!" sighed Arnold. "Why introduce unpleasant subjects? Ever since I struck Yardley fellows have dinned it into me that this year is the toughest of all. 'If you think Third Class is hard,' they said, 'just wait till you're in Second!' It doesn't sound good to me, Frank!" "Piffle! Fellows always talk that way. Even First Class fellows shake their heads and tell you they're the hardest worked bunch in school, and any one with a grain of sense knows that the last year's a perfect cinch. Anyway, you don't need to worry. You're starting clean. I've got a condition to work off, worse luck. I'm the one who ought to be sore." "Too bad," said Arnold sympathetically. "Still, 'Old Tige's' bark is worse than his bite, Frank. You'll get clear all right." "Hope so." Frank leaned across the piled-up luggage to look through the window. A fleeting glimpse of the sun-flecked surface of Long Island Sound met his vision, and he frowned, mentally contrasting the lazy, frolic-filled days of the passing summer with the duties drawing nearer every minute. "Light House Point," he said, nodding. "Greenburg in ten minutes." "If nothing happens," quoted Arnold, with a smile. Like the boy opposite him, he was seventeen years of age, and, like him, too, he was extremely well-dressed. But in Arnold Deering's case the attire appeared to stop short of effort, or it may have been that he was less conscious of it. While it is fair to call Frank good-looking it is no exaggeration to say that Arnold was handsome. A straight nose under a broad forehead, deep brown eyes, a mouth showing good-temper, and a round chin, all went to make up a countenance extremely attractive. He wore his dark brown hair brushed straight back, a style that went well both with his face and with his height and slenderness. There was nothing effeminate about him, though. He was not what fellows contemptuously call a "pretty boy" and his slim frame was well-muscled and suggested the best of physical condition.

Dettagli