JONESIE USES HIS INFLUENCE

I

Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., sauntered along the aisle, his trim young body accommodating itself gracefully to the erratic swaying of the day coach. I speak of Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., as being trim, but you are not to picture him as slender. On the contrary, without being fat, he had in his fourteen years and some months of existence managed to cushion his frame with enough flesh to give him a comfortably well-rounded appearance. It seemed probable that later on the cushion would increase in depth and that the term trim would no longer be applicable. In fact, Daniel Webster Jones’s father—you saw his likeness on the cartoons holding his justly celebrated Creamette Biscuits—was quite abundantly upholstered. But at present, what with an easy and graceful carriage and a careful attention to the niceties of attire, Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., presented a most pleasing appearance. Under a straw hat which was absolutely the latest cry in masculine fashions, the boy’s copper-brown hair was brushed sleekly back from a well-shaped forehead. Grayish blue eyes, a nose rather too button-like to be called classical, a cherubic mouth, a nice, firm chin with a dimple in it, all these features set in a round, healthy, rosy-cheeked face combined to make Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., thoroughly attractive. Yet it was, I think, the qualities of mind and character illumining the ingenuous countenance that won folks to him. The gray-blue eyes seemed veritable pools of truthfulness, the button-like nose proclaimed uncompromising integrity, the cherub lips appeared formed for the utterance of pure and beautiful thoughts, and when Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., smiled, one felt oh, so glad that such innocence and candor existed in a deceitful world!

The boy’s progress through the car was neither unnoticed nor unheralded. Small and admiring juniors looked appealingly upward and sought recognition with a wistful “How d’ye do, Jones,” while upper-class fellows, rousing from the lethargy induced by a two-hour journey on a hot September afternoon, observed his advent with something of the same relief with which a traveler on the desert might catch sight of an oasis and hailed him hopefully with a “Hi, Jonesie!” But Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., merely nodded with just the correct amount of superciliousness to the juniors—one had to keep the kids in their place—and returned the greetings of the others with preoccupied gravity. Oddly enough this had the effect of causing smirks and winks and nudges amongst the older fellows and one felt glad that Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., was unconscious of the levity. One felt certain that it would have wounded him.

The car was filled almost to its capacity, yet here and there a seat held but one occupant. At such a seat, near the front of the coach, Jonesie—for after all why should we accord him the dignity of his full title when no one else did?—Jonesie, then, paused indecisively and caught the shy upward glance of the seat’s only occupant, a boy of perhaps thirteen years of age.

“Mind if I sit here?” asked Jonesie most politely. “Sorry to bother you, but everything’s pretty well filled up.”

“Not—not at all!” stammered the other boy. He tugged frantically at a fat suitcase bearing the inscription “J. A. W.” on the end and squeezed toward the window. Jonesie murmured his thanks and seated himself with a sigh, folding his arms and staring ahead of him with a thoughtful frown. The train swayed onward in a cloud of gray dust. After a moment the original occupant of the seat took courage and studied his neighbor out of the corners of his eyes. He liked what he saw and wondered sympathetically what weighty care was clouding the brow under the stunning straw. At that moment Jonesie unclasped his arms and began to study a purple blister at the base of the second finger on his right palm. The other boy, interested, looked, too. It was a most promising blister. He speculated as to the cause of it and considered its future treatment rather enviously. And at that moment the proud possessor of the blister looked up and caught his glance embarrassingly.

“Played thirty-six holes yesterday,” said Jonesie. “Hadn’t golfed before all summer.” He frowned at the blister, wiggling his finger experimentally. “Beastly bother,” he added disgustedly.

“Yes,” agreed the other, almost with enthusiasm. The sympathy seemed to draw Jonesie’s attention to his companion for the first time and he turned and shot a brief and speculative glance at him. Then,

“Randall’s?” he inquired.

“Yes, I—I’m just entering.”

“Ah!” Jonesie beamed with a sudden friendly interest. “That’s fine. Lower Middle, I suppose?”

“N-no, just Junior,” returned the other apologetically.

Jonesie nodded. “Should have thought you’d enter Lower Middle. You look it.” The new boy flushed with pleasure at the implied tribute to his age, wisdom and experience. “I’m in the Lower Middle myself,” continued Jonesie, crossing one smartly clad leg over the other and assuming an attitude promising confidential discourse. “Hope you will like the school.”

“I—I think so, thank you,” murmured the other. “I don’t know much about boarding schools, though. I suppose it will be—be sort of strange at first.”

“Probably,” replied Jonesie sympathetically. “Of course a new boy has quite a lot to learn, but you’ll get on to things after a bit. It isn’t a bad school, Randall’s. I dare say you know some of the fellows?”

“No.” The other shook his head a trifle dejectedly. “I guess I don’t know a soul there.”

Jonesie frowned. “That makes it harder,” he acknowledged. “But you’ll find friends after a bit,” he added hopefully. “Sooner the better, too, for there’s nothing like having an older fellow to—er—sort of give you a hand over the rough places.” Jonesie regulated carefully the expanse of violet and gray cuff showing beyond his coat sleeve. “At least, that was my experience. Take the matter of athletics, for instance—— But perhaps you don’t go in for that sort of thing?”

“Oh, yes!” replied the other eagerly, “that is, I hope to. I—I’m very fond of football.”

“Fine game, football,” commended Jonesie. “And that’s a—er—a case in point. Of course you’ll want to make the School Team; every fellow does.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect to do that! Not the—the first year!”

“Why not? Fellows have done it. Don’t know why you shouldn’t if you buckle down to it. I dare say I had a close shave from getting on the School myself the first year. Unfortunately illness—er”—Jonesie’s gaze wandered along the bell rope—“illness prevented. Quite a blow to the Coach.”

“You—you are on the Team now?” asked the other eagerly.

Jonesie shook his head regretfully. “No, I never got into football after that. Doctor’s orders. Perhaps next year—I’m so much better——” He sighed and then smiled brightly, bravely. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I guess.”

“Oh, but if you’re really fond of the game,” exclaimed the other boy feelingly, “it must be—be an awful disappointment! I—I’m sorry!”

“Thanks. Yes, of course it is a disappointment, but”—Jonesie shrugged his shoulders—“life is full of disappointments and one soon learns to—er—accept them philosophically. Now take your case—er—— You didn’t tell me your name, did you?”

“No. It’s Wigman.”

“Mine’s Jones, D. W. Jones. Well, as I was saying, Wigman, take your case. You may have to—to accept disappointment, too. You see, there’ll be piles of fellows trying for the Team, and some of them may show up as well as you will, although I will say”—and here Jonesie turned to scrutinize Wigman carefully and approvingly—“that from your looks you ought to have the making of a dandy player.” Wigman flushed under the compliment. “But there you are! Merit isn’t everything. You might play as well as another chap and yet he’d get the call just because he had—er—friends to speak for him. Do you see?”

“But—but that’s hardly fair, is it?” asked Wigman. “I thought Randall’s was a school where you—where every fellow had the same chance as every other fellow. I—I’ve heard so.”

“Sure! That’s so, to a certain extent. Still, you know yourself, Wigman, that if you were captain of the Team—as you will be some day, or I miss my guess!—you couldn’t help favoring the fellow you knew, supposing he played as well as the other fellow, whom you didn’t know. It’s human nature, isn’t it?”

Wigman allowed that it was.

“Of course! There you are, then! So what you want to do is to make friends, Wigman; get acquainted right away and, if you can do it, find a fellow who’s close to Bing.”

“Bing?” faltered Wigman.

“Yes, Carey Bingham. He’s captain this year. His chums call him Bing for short. Nice chap, Bing. I’ve just been having a chat with him in the smoker. Bing has a queer idea that I’m a judge of football material. Maybe he isn’t so far wrong, either; I’ve picked more than one green player and seen him develop into a wonder. And I don’t believe I’ve picked a bad ’un yet. We were talking over this year’s prospects. Bing’s inclined to be a bit discouraged and—er—pessimistic, but I told him that to my mind we had as good an outlook as ever we’d had. Quite cheered up, he was, when I left him. Wanted me to stay and go over the schedule with him, but I couldn’t stand the smoke any longer. Well, here’s the bridge. We’ll be at Chester Hill in five minutes. I must get my things together. Awfully glad to have met you, Wigman, and if there’s anything I can do for you just let me know, will you?”

“Th—thank you,” said the other boy gratefully. “But I wouldn’t think of bothering you.”

“No bother at all. Tell you what I’ll do, Wigman.” Jonesie drew forth a silver card case, abstracted an oblong slip of thin cardboard bearing his name and home address in ornate Old English letters and scrawled a line on it with a silver pencil. “There’s where I hang out—18 Hawthorne. Look me up as soon as you get settled or let me know where to find you and I’ll drop in. Maybe I can put you on to the ropes a bit, eh? Very glad to do anything I can for a new fellow. Know what it means to be dumped down here with a couple of hundred strangers. Makes you feel sort of lost and all that for a bit. I know! Glad to have met you, Wigman. See you again soon, I hope.”

Jonesie smiled his best and sweetest smile, shook hands and sauntered off, leaving James Andrew Wigman filled with gratitude and admiration. Halfway along the aisle an imperious hand shot out and seized on Jonesie. Jonesie, after a vain attempt to elude his captor, faced him innocently.

“Hello, Carpenter,” he said sweetly. “How’s the boy?”

“What have you been up to, Jonesie?” inquired Carpenter, a big Senior, sternly.

“Me?” Jonesie’s candid countenance expressed surprise. “Why, nothing!”

“What kind of a yarn have you been stringing to that poor Fresh down there?” persisted Carpenter.

“You make me tired! Can’t a fellow be decent to a new boy, I’d like to know? I’ve been cheering him up a bit, that’s all. Found him terribly down in the dumps, poor chap. You Upper Class fellows never think of trying to make things a bit easier for new boys.” Jonesie mingled regret with indignation. Carpenter blinked. “Seems to me you fellows ought to remember how you felt yourselves when you struck school and didn’t know anyone! It—it’s mighty lonesome business, Carpenter!”

“Is that so, Jonesie? Well, you’d better write to the Weekly about it. A fat lot of comforting you were doing, I’ll bet!” But after Jonesie had gone on, Carpenter glanced inquiringly at Gus Peasley, who occupied the seat with him. “Maybe Jonesie is right about it, too,” said Carpenter. “I dare say it would be a decent thing if some of us Upper Classmen sort of looked after the new boys a little. I remember myself——”

“Piffle!” This was Peasley, grinning. “Jonesie doesn’t care a hang whether a new boy is homesick! Bet you a dollar, Billy, he’s been up to some more of his deviltry!”

“Think so?” asked Carpenter doubtfully. “Maybe. I wouldn’t trust him. Just the same, Gus, there’s something in what he said.”

Peasley yawned as he got up to rescue his suitcase from the rack above.

“Jonesie could talk tears out of a brick, Billy,” he replied. “He’s the biggest little faker in school. Some day, if he doesn’t get hung first, he’ll be President!”

II

The Fall Term was three days old when James Andrew Wigman availed himself of Jonesie’s invitation. Jonesie returned to his room that afternoon in a condition of utter boredom. It had rained all day, there was no promise of clearing, and Jonesie, unfortunately susceptible to weather conditions, was as near having a case of the blues as is possible for a healthy boy of fourteen. After slamming the door and skimming his wet cap across the study in the general direction of the window seat he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and stared disgustedly at his roommate. “Sparrow” Bowles, deep in the pages of a paper-covered romance, never even turned his head. Sparrow was fifteen, long, lank, dark-complexioned and lazy. Fate had thrown them together at the commencement of their Junior Year and Jonesie had never yet quite forgiven Fate. Finally, discovering that his scowling regard was having no impression, he observed challengingly:

“Crazy old bookworm!”

Sparrow looked up and blinked.

“What’s eating you?” he inquired.

Jonesie grunted and sank into a chair. “Find out,” he said affably. Sparrow shrugged his narrow shoulders and turned back to his book. Jonesie continued to glower upon him. At length:

“You’ll turn into a book some day,” he sneered.

“You’ll turn into a jug of vinegar some day,” replied the other, without looking up. But the cleverness of the retort brought a smirk to his face. Seeing it, Jonesie reached a foot forward and dexterously sent the paper-covered volume hurtling across the room.

“Fresh!” he muttered.

Sparrow viewed him angrily through the round lenses of his rubber-rimmed spectacles.

“You pick that up!” he demanded.

Jonesie smiled cheerfully. “Yes, I will!” he responded. But the tone of voice rather contradicted the statement. Sparrow glared indecisively from his companion to the book. Sparrow was not afraid of Jonesie, but he was far too lazy to engage in combat unless absolutely driven to it. Finally, with a shrug:

“It’ll stay there, then,” he said.

“For all of me,” agreed Jonesie.

Followed a silence. Sparrow blinked at the falling rain and the dripping trees on the campus. Jonesie gazed speculatively at Sparrow. But the scrap, as brief as it had been, had in a measure relieved his feelings, and at the end of five minutes he asked:

“What do you know?”

Sparrow scowled and shrugged his shoulders again.

“I know you make me sick,” he answered ungraciously.

“You make me a heap sicker,” responded Jonesie. “Anyone been in?”

“No—yes, there was a fellow in here half an hour ago asking for you.”

“Who was he?”

“Search me.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much. Left a note on the table, I think.”

“You think! Don’t you ever know anything?” Jonesie got up and found the note. “It wouldn’t have hurt you a whole lot to have said something about this when I came in, you lazy chump!” He glanced at it and thrust it into a pocket. “It’s important, too,” he added severely. “You’re a wonder, Sparrow!”

“I forgot it,” said Sparrow untroubledly. “What’s it about?”

“None of your business.” Jonesie rescued his cap from the floor, borrowed Sparrow’s umbrella from the closet and hurried out.

“Come back with that brulla!” shouted Sparrow.

As this produced no result, he shrugged his shoulders, picked up his book and started reading again.

The note was signed “James A. Wigman,” and informed Jonesie that he was rooming at Mrs. Sproule’s on Center Street, adding that if Jonesie had time to drop around he’d take it as a great favor. Now Jonesie was not the least bit in the world interested in young Mr. Wigman. He had scraped acquaintance with him on the train for no other reason than he had exhausted all other means of entertainment. It had amused him to impose upon the new boy with an assumption of influence which he by no means possessed, and, once started, it was Jonesie’s artistic temperament which had led him to round off the incident with the presentation of a visiting card and an avowal of friendly interest. To-day, had there been anything else to occupy Jonesie’s talents, young Mr. Wigman’s appeal would probably have gone forever unanswered. But Jonesie was bored and a call on the new boy offered at least some slight variation of the monotony of life.

Wigman had a room to himself at Sproule’s, a dormer-windowed cell on the third floor. Pictures, rugs, pillows and knick-knacks had, however, lent an air of comfort to the white-walled apartment, and Jonesie, having been gratefully welcomed by Wigman and escorted to the only comfortable chair, affably commended the quarters.

“It isn’t bad, is it?” asked Wigman. “I brought quite a lot of truck from home.”

“One has to,” replied Jonesie. “Well, how’s it going, Wigman?”

“Very well so far, thank you. I haven’t got my courses quite straightened out yet. I find I’ve got to take French or German, and I didn’t expect that.”

“Yes, one of ’em’s required. You won’t mind ’em, though. Better take French. I did. It’s more use to you. I discovered that abroad. If you know French you can get around anywhere, even in Germany. How are you getting on with football?”

“Why—why, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Wigman. “I went out Wednesday, of course. I suppose I got along all right. They put me in D Squad. But I heard to-day that Mr. Cutler is going to let some of the fellows go Monday.”

Jonesie nodded. “He would, you know.”

“Yes, and—I wondered——” Wigman hesitated and sought for the right words. “I thought that perhaps, after what you said on the train the other day, Jones, that perhaps you wouldn’t mind—that is—wouldn’t mind—saying a word for me!”

“Hm,” mused Jonesie.

“Of course,” Wigman hastened to add, “I don’t want any favors, you understand! And—and I don’t want you to do it if you’d rather not, Jones. Only I thought—that if you just said a word to the Captain he might give me a chance, you see; let me stay on a little longer. I’m pretty sure I can make good, but I’m stale and I’m afraid they’ll let me go Monday.”

“I see.” Jonesie considered thoughtfully. “Of course,” he went on presently, “there’s always the Class Team to fall back on. You’d make that, I guess, without much trouble.”

Wigman’s face fell. “Y-yes, but—but after what you said the other day, Jones, I—I sort of want to make the School Team—or the Second, anyway! You know you said first-year fellows had done it.”

“Did I? Yes, of course I did! Quite right, too. By the way, what position are you trying for?”

“Quarter.”

“Gee!” murmured Jonesie. “That—er—complicates it, doesn’t it?” In response to Wigman’s unspoken question he went on. “I mean that there’s only one quarterback position to fill and so, of course, it’s harder. You see that, eh? Now, if you were trying for end or tackle or guard or half you’d stand just twice the chance. Still——”

“I’ve always played quarter,” said Wigman. “I suppose I might try for half, though.”

“Well, there’s no hurry about that,” replied Jonesie. “I’ll speak to Bing about you. Of course I can’t promise anything. Bing’s a most conscientious chap and, while, of course, he’d do anything in reason for me, he might—er—there might be some reason why he couldn’t do this. There’s Cutler, for instance. Awfully opinionated cuss, that Coach. Hard to work with. Bing says so himself. Still, you sit tight, Wigman, and I’ll see what can be done.”

“Oh, thank you a thousand times, Jones!”

“Better not thank me until we see how it turns out,” warned Jonesie. “I may fall down, you see.”

“Even if you do I—I’ll feel mighty grateful to you, just the same. And—and I hope you don’t mind my asking you?”

“Not a bit! Glad to do anything I can, Wigman. What’s the good of having influence if you don’t make use of it for your friends? I say, that’s a peach of a racket you have!”

“Yes, it isn’t bad. I have another one over there.” Wigman took down the Smith Special and handed it across for Jonesie’s examination. “I haven’t used it but once or twice. It’s a little too heavy for me, I find. I do better with the other one. Do you play?”

“Not very much. I’m fond of the game, though. Used to do fairly well before the doctors butted in.”

“I forgot about that,” murmured Wigman sympathetically.

Jonesie weighed the racket in his hand, felt the grip of it, swung it experimentally to and fro and tapped the mesh approvingly.

“Some racket that, Wigman. Don’t know when I’ve run across one I liked as well. Thanks.” He handed it back. Wigman accepted it, but did not return it to its place over the narrow mantel. Instead, he swung it nervously back and forth behind him, opened his mouth, closed it and exhibited all the signs of embarrassment. If Jonesie saw he pretended not to. He picked his cap up and lounged across to the bureau, bending over the row of photographs displayed.

“This your father, Wigman? Fine-looking chap, by Jove! You take after him a lot, don’t you?”

“Do you think so?” asked Wigman in permissible surprise. “Folks usually think I look a good deal more like my mother. That’s her picture at the end there.”

Jonesie observed it critically, shot a look at Wigman and shook his head.

“N-no, I don’t think so. Of course there’s a strong likeness there, too, but it’s your dad you resemble most, I’d say. Well, I must be getting along. Sorry I wasn’t in when you called, Wigman. Try again, will you? I’d like you to meet my chum, Bowles. Fine fellow, Bowles. A bit studious for a lazy duffer like me”—Jonesie’s smile made a joke of that!—“but we get on first chop. Come over soon, Wigman. I wish you would.”

“Thanks, I—I’d like to. And I’m ever so much obliged about this—this other business. It’s frightfully decent of you, Jones!”

“Piffle,” answered Jonesie deprecatingly.

“It is, though,” Wigman went on earnestly. “And—and about this thing.” He brought the racket back into view. “I never use it, Jones, and I have another one, anyway; and it’s a lot too heavy for me, besides. And so—so”—Wigman was making hard work of it, stammering and blushing—“so I wish you’d take it, Jones!”

“Take it?” echoed Jonesie uncomprehendingly.

“As a gift, you know. I suppose it’s cheeky on my part, but——”

“My dear fellow!” Jonesie smiled sweetly, protestingly. “It’s certainly fine and dandy of you, but I couldn’t think of it! Positively I couldn’t, Wigman!”

“Well—of course——” The hand holding the racket fell limply. “I wish you might, though.”

“It’s fine of you, but—er—hang it, Wigman, it looks almost like a bribe!”

Wigman colored furiously. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. Honest I didn’t, Jones! You—you believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! I know better, but others might think—well, you know what fellows are!”

“Yes, but they needn’t know, need they? I wouldn’t tell. You—you’ve been so awfully kind to me, Jones, and I don’t know any fellows yet, and—and I’d just like you to have it! It would be awfully good of you if you would!”

Jonesie was affected by this appeal. He hesitated on the very verge of another refusal. Wigman, seeing it, renewed his appeal.

“It isn’t as though I didn’t have another perfectly good one, Jones, because I have. I do wish you would!”

“Why—why, if you put it that way,” murmured Jonesie, vacillating. “But, I say, Wigman, it’s worth five or six dollars, you know!”

“Seven,” answered Wigman, “but that’s got nothing to do with it. I—I’d just like you to have it. Won’t you, please?”

“Well, if you really want me to——” Jonesie hesitated still, but Wigman thrust the racket into his hand. Jonesie, discovering it there, viewed it with surprise. Then, “Thanks, Wigman, it’s awfully decent of you, old man. I really haven’t done anything to deserve this, you know, but I’ll accept it in—er—the spirit it is offered in. And, I say, let’s have a set some day, will you?”

“I’d love to!” exclaimed Wigman.

“Good!” Jonesie changed the racket to the other hand and offered the first to Wigman. “We’ll do it. Good luck, Wigman. Sit tight and leave everything to me! So long!”

Swinging the racket appreciatively as he entered the campus, Jonesie almost collided with a tall, broad-shouldered Upper Classman.

“Hi, kid, look where you’re going,” ejaculated the latter good-naturedly. Jonesie stepped out of the way into a puddle.

“Beg pardon, Bingham,” he said humbly.

III

All that happened on Friday. Saturday was a wonderful sunny day, and Jonesie, who had no recitation after half past ten in the morning, was very, very busy. There was nine holes of golf with “Pinky” Trainor before dinner, a visit to the village with Pinky in the afternoon and a lovely rough-house evening of it in Steve Cook’s room. Steve lived at Mrs. Sharp’s in Walnut Place, and as Walnut Place was a good half mile from the nearest dormitory and Mrs. Sharp good-naturedly lenient it was, in Pinky’s words, some party! Jonesie, Pinky and two other campus dwellers left at a quarter past ten by way of a window and a shed roof, skulking back to school by dark and devious ways. Consequently it was not until Sunday morning, always a sober period to Jonesie, that recollection of Wigman returned to him. The Smith Special reposed on the mantel and ever and anon as Jonesie wandered about the study donning one garment after another, his glance fell upon it troubledly. Naturally Sparrow had been curious about the tennis racket and Jonesie’s easy statement that he had “bought it off a fellow” only aroused Sparrow’s incredulity.

“Bought it! Yes, you did! Bet you stole it!” jeered Sparrow. Which unjust charge so outraged Jonesie that he refused further enlightenment.

All during church, or more especially during the sermon—for Jonesie solved some of his most momentous problems while the preacher’s drone filled the quiet church—he considered Wigman. Something would have to be done, but he couldn’t see what. He sincerely wished he had never encountered Wigman. The whole thing was a nuisance! Of course he had hedged enough so that if Wigman was dropped from the football squad to-morrow Wigman couldn’t hold him to blame. Still, there was that racket. Jonesie loved that racket and didn’t want to give it up, which, he supposed, he’d have—well, ought—to do in case Wigman suffered in the morrow’s cut. Jonesie frowned and scowled and cudgeled his brain, but discovered no solution. During the rest of the day—especially what time Jonesie sat and suffered in the composition of his weekly home letter—the Smith Special looked down upon him accusingly, reproachfully, until finally the boy arose and wrathfully cast it into the closet.

By Monday morning he had forgotten the Wigman problem. Nor did it occur to him again until, returning at dusk from an afternoon on the river in a canoe with Pinky, Sparrow growlingly indicated a note on the table. Jonesie’s first glance was at the signature, and when he read Wigman his heart sank uncomfortably. Then, taking a long breath, he moved his gaze to the top of the sheet and read:

Friend Jones:

I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. As you probably saw by the notice they’ve kept me on and to-day Captain Bingham put me into B Squad. He was awfully nice, too. Told me I was doing well, and that if I stuck to it and worked hard I’d make a good quarter. Of course I knew it was all your doing, and so I didn’t feel too stuck up about it. I’m terribly much obliged and I hope some time I’ll have a chance to do something for you. If the time ever comes I’ll do it like a streak. I haven’t forgotten your invitation to call, and I’m going to come over some evening if you don’t mind.

Yours, etc.,

James A. Wigman.

Jonesie folded the note up with a broad smile. Then, whistling softly, he went to the closet and rescued the tennis racket. When it was once more on the mantel he had a sudden thought and his gaze darted across to where Sparrow sat under the drop light, reading. There was something far too good to be true in Sparrow’s preoccupation and Jonesie scowled. At length:

“Anything about this note you’d like to have explained?” he asked sarcastically.

Sparrow looked up, blinking. Then he shook his head slowly.

“N-no, I guess not. It’s none of my business, Jonesie.”

“Then what did you open it for?” Jonesie exploded.

“Why, it was sort of dark in here and I thought it was for me,” explained Sparrow calmly. “Of course, when I saw it wasn’t——”

“You read it through! After this you leave my notes alone. Do you hear?”

“Sure! I don’t want to read your old notes.”

“Then don’t do it,” growled Jonesie.

“All right. That fellow Wigman must be an awful fool, though.”

“Why?” challenged the other.

“Why, to give you that racket! I don’t know what he thinks you did for him, Jonesie, but I’m mighty sure you didn’t do it!”

IV

A fortnight later all Randall’s was talking about the new football find. His name was Wigman, he was a Junior, he was only thirteen years old and he was turning out to be the finest little quarterback in years! Why, only the other day he had taken Rice’s place in the last two periods against Mercer High and driven the team like a veteran! To say nothing of having himself scored on one of the most daring and brilliant end runs ever seen on Randall’s Field!

When Jonesie heard this he smiled superiorly. “I knew that a month ago,” he said. “Wigman and I are old friends. In fact, it was largely due to my—my encouragement that he held on and made good. Had an idea when he got here that things went by favoritism and was all for giving up right at the start. ‘Don’t you do it,’ I said to him. ‘You peg along, old man, and show ’em what you can do. If you’ve got the stuff in you Bingham and Cutler will pull you right along. Why,’ said I, ‘a fellow who can play the way you can ought to be Captain some day!’ My very words. You ask Wigman if you don’t believe me.”

“But how did you know he could play?” inquired an incredulous hearer. “Did you know him before he came up?”

“Never set eyes on him,” declared Jonesie truthfully, “but you can’t fool me on football players. I can size ’em up just by looking at ’em. And one little glance at Wigman was enough for yours truly. He hasn’t surprised me any. I knew!”

Wigman had fulfilled his promise to call on Jonesie, but the latter had been out. And as Jonesie had never returned the visit the acquaintanceship had not flourished. Jonesie considered himself well out of his difficulty and was fearful that Wigman might again request him to use his influence with Captain Bingham. But, as it happened, the new quarterback needed no one’s assistance. He was making good on his own account, and by the time the Big Game was a fortnight away it had become a question whether Rice, the last year’s general, could retain his position. And that question was solved a week later. In the game with Lakeshore School Wigman started at quarter, and it was not until the game was safely “on ice” in the fourth period that the disgruntled Rice succeeded to the position. That, of course, was on the Saturday succeeding the final contest of the year, and the next afternoon, while Jonesie was chewing the end of his penholder and scowling at the Smith Special for inspiration in the composition of his weekly missive, there was an apologetic knock and in walked James Andrew Wigman.

Even Jonesie could not help but notice the change in the boy. He seemed to have grown taller and broader and a lot more certain of himself. Shaking hands, Jonesie was thankful that Sparrow was out of the way, for Wigman’s countenance proclaimed that he had come on weighty matters. “If,” said Jonesie to himself, “he wants me to ask any more favors of Bingham I’ll just have to refuse. This thing’s gone far enough!”

Wigman took a chair.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Jones,” he began soberly.

“Not at all,” murmured his host uneasily.

“I suppose you’ve heard that they’ve given me Rice’s place on the School Team?”

Jonesie nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said.

“Well, of course it’s mighty hard on Rice. He’s an awfully fine fellow and he had the place cinched until I—I butted in.”

“Fortunes of war,” said Jonesie.

“Maybe, and I wouldn’t care if—if I wasn’t afraid that I—well, had sort of come by my good luck unfairly.”

“Eh?” ejaculated Jonesie.

“You know what I mean.”

“Can’t say I do, Wigman.”

“Well, you can’t deny, I suppose, that if it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have got the chance to show what I could do. Because it’s dollars to doughnuts, Jones, that Cutler meant to drop me the second week of practice. You remember?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” answered the other hurriedly. “Still——”

“Well, that’s what’s bothering me. Sometimes I think I ought to drop out and give Rice a fair show. I don’t mean that I got my place by favoritism, exactly, but I guess there’s no use pretending that if it wasn’t for your interceding for me with Bingham, Rice would still be first-string quarter.”

“Hm,” said Jonesie judicially.

“And—and that brings me to another thing. Yesterday after the game I got to thinking about all this and I thought I’d go to Bingham and have a frank talk with him. So——”

“Good Lord!” groaned Jonesie.

“Pardon? I thought you spoke. So I did. I told him that I was afraid it was scarcely fair to Rice and—and suggested that maybe I ought to—to sort of drop out for this season.”

“What—what did he say?” asked Jonesie faintly.

“Why, that’s the funny part of it. He said he didn’t know anything about it! At first he even pretended he didn’t know who you were!”

“Good Old Bing!” exclaimed Jonesie, slapping his leg and grinning. “If that isn’t just like the boy!”

Wigman looked puzzled. “But he said——”

“Wait!” Jonesie held up a hand. “I’ll tell you just what he said, Wigman. First off he pretended he didn’t know what you were talking about. Didn’t he?” Wigman nodded. “Then he made believe he didn’t know who I was. When you explained he said, ‘Oh, Jonesie, you mean. Ha, ha!’ Just like that. Then he probably told you straight out that I’d had nothing to do with the thing, that I’d never mentioned your name to him and that, even if I had, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. Didn’t he? Isn’t that about what happened, Wigman?”

“Yes, pretty nearly exactly. And he said that the reason they’d put me in place of Rice was because I was playing a better all-around game and that nothing else had anything to do with it.”

“And there you are!” exclaimed Jonesie triumphantly.

“But—but why should he say he didn’t know you, Jones? He does, of course, and you have spoken to him for me, haven’t you?”

Jonesie smiled wisely. “He says not, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but——”

“And he ought to know.” Jonesie winked meaningly. Vague comprehension illumined Wigman’s countenance.

“Oh!” he said doubtfully. “You mean he doesn’t want to acknowledge even to me——”

“Wigman, there’s a whole lot more politics in a school like this than you dream of,” responded Jonesie gravely. “Bing has his reason. Let it go at that. Don’t inquire too—er—closely.”

“Oh! Then you think——”

“Sure!”

“What?”

“Why, that you ought to take what you’ve got and ask no questions,” said Jonesie promptly. “Get me?”

“But if they have—have been easier with me than with other fellows——”

“It’s because you deserved it. Wigman, Cutler and Bing and I have—er—done what was wisest and best for you and the School. Remember, Wigman, there’s the School to think of, too. The greatest good to the greatest number, you know. Got to think of that, Wigman. It may seem a bit tough on Rice, but don’t let that worry you. Just tell yourself that we have our reasons, Wigman, reasons which neither Bing nor I are ashamed of. If it was necessary we’d tell ’em to the School right out. But it isn’t. You go ahead and keep your mouth shut, Wigman, that’s all you need do.”

“And—and,” asked Wigman, visibly impressed, “you don’t think I’m taking any unfair advantage of Rice?”

“Not a bit. Take my word for it. Besides, Bing told you the same thing, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“There you are then! Don’t you trouble. If there’s any worrying to be done”—Jonesie arose and patted Wigman reassuringly on the shoulder—“if there’s any of that to be done you just leave it to me and Bing!”