cried Tom again. “Say, that’s all right. I’m satisfied! That beats Australia. When are you going? When can I start for Elmwood? Have you got a catalog from there? Say, I’ve got something to tell you!” and Tom, overcoming a desire to stand on his head, pulled out the note Bruce had left in his boat.
“Elmwood Hall!” exclaimed Tom again. “This is the best ever!”
CHAPTER II
THE DRIFTING BOAT
“What makes you so enthusiastic about Elmwood Hall, Tom?” asked Mr. Fairfield, when his son had somewhat calmed down. “I didn’t know you knew much about it.”
“I don’t except what I’ve heard and read, but it just happens that I met a fellow from there to-day.” And Tom told of his talk with Bruce Bennington, showing his parents the letter.
“Hum, that is rather odd,” spoke Mr. Fairfield. “I wonder what his trouble could have been? Bennington – Bennington. I’ve heard that name before. Oh, I know; Mr. Bennington is a millionaire manufacturer. That must be his son, though if he’s in trouble I should think Mr. Bennington would help him out.”
“Maybe it isn’t money,” spoke Tom. “But, anyhow, I’m glad I’m going to Elmwood, and maybe I’ll get chummy with Bruce Bennington, though there’s not much chance, for he’s a Senior, and I’ll be a Freshman.”
“I hope, if you can, that you’ll help him,” said Mrs. Fairfield. “And oh, Tom, do you think they’ll haze you?”
“If they do, I guess I can stand it,” replied her son. “Everyone has to be hazed. I won’t mind. But now tell me something about going to Australia.”
“It’s going to be quite a trip,” said Mr. Fairfield, “and one I wish I could get out of, but I can’t. We’ll start as soon as we can, Tom. We’re to go to San Francisco by train, and take a steamer there. I’ll write at once, and make arrangements for you to go to Elmwood Hall. Your mother will see to getting what clothes you need. Here is a catalog of the school.”
Tom eagerly looked the pamphlet over, while his father went to his library to write some letters and Mrs. Fairfield, not without some misgivings as to what might happen to Tom at boarding school, or to herself and her husband on their long trip, went to look over her son’s wardrobe.
As I have explained, Mr. Fairfield was quite well off, and had the prospect of more wealth. He did not care to lose his Australian inheritance, and, though the journey meant some trouble for him, in that it would complicate his business affairs at home, he decided to make it. He had long promised his wife a trip abroad and now was the chance for it, as they intended to come home by way of Europe.
Tom Fairfield was a tall, well built youth, fond of all out-doors sports, and about as lively a lad as you would care to meet.
He had lived in Briartown all his life, though he had traveled extensively with his father and mother, and knew considerable of the world. He was an only son, a sister having died when a little girl.
Tom had many friends in the village, where his father’s silk factory was located, and our hero took part in the scenes and activities of the place. He had attended the Academy there, and was one of the best football and baseball players. He always had a liking for the water, and since getting his motorboat, had been on Pine river more often than ever. He had tried to get up a crew at the Academy, but could not seem to interest enough boys, or get them to subscribe the necessary funds.
Tom had one or two enemies, too, chiefly because he would not let them bully him, but they did not worry him, for any lad of spirit is as likely to have enemies as friends, and Tom had plenty of the latter.
“Jove! To think that I’m really going to Elmwood Hall!” Tom whispered to himself, as he leafed over the catalog, and looked at the pictures of the various buildings. “That’ll be great! I wish I knew some of the fellows who were going there, but I guess I can soon get acquainted. I wonder if I can pass the entrance examinations?”
He looked at the requirements for the Freshman class, and noted that there was no study but what he had had at the Academy.
“I guess I can do it,” he said.
There were soon busy days in the Fairfield household.
Besides making arrangements for the voyage, and getting their business affairs in shape to leave, Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield had to arrange for Tom’s stay at Elmwood. This was done by correspondence and, about a week after Tom had heard the news, he went to the school to take the entrance examinations. He met a few lads in like case, all rather miserable, and Tom felt a feeling of pride as he walked about the campus, and thought that soon he would be a student there.
“That is, if I pass,” he mused. “That Latin exam. was a bit stiff, and so were the maths. Maybe the others will be easier. I hope so, anyhow.”
Tom’s hopes were realized, for on the second day – the test extending over that time – he had no difficulty in answering the entrance questions. Then he went back home, to receive, a few days later, word that he had passed, and would be admitted to the Freshman class.
“Wow!” he cried, as he read the formal announcement. “That’s great! I’m going to tell the boys!”
He rushed off to find Dick and Will, his most particular chums. But, on visiting their houses, he was informed that they had gone fishing on the river.
“I’ll find ’em,” he said. “I know the fishing hole. I’ll go down in my motorboat.”
He hurried back to the dock, and, as he reached a point where he could look down to it, he uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“My motorboat!” he cried. “It’s gone! Some one has it! If it’s stolen – ”
He broke into a run, and as he had a good view of the river he saw his boat out in the middle of the stream.
“Well, of all the nerve!” he cried. “Dent Wilcox has taken my boat without asking me. I’ll fix him!”
Then he noticed that the boat was not running under her own power, but was drifting down stream.
“Hi there, Dent! What’s the matter with you?” Tom cried. “What did you take my boat for? Why don’t you start up and run her back here?”
The lazy lad addressed looked up from what was evidently a contemplation of the stalled engine.
“Start her going!” cried Tom. “Start the engine, or you’ll be on the rocks!”
“I can’t,” yelled back Dent. “She’s stopped.”
“Crank her,” ordered Tom. “Turn the flywheel over!”
Dent did so, but in such a lazy and slow fashion that even from shore Tom could see that the lad was not exerting himself enough. The wheel needed a vigorous turn.
“Oh, put some muscle into it!” cried Tom. “You’ll never get her going that way!”
“I’ve tried three or four times, and she won’t go,” retorted Dent, leaning back against the gunwale, and looking at the engine, as though a mere glance would set it going.
“Keep on trying!” cried Tom. “Don’t you see where you’re going? You’ll be on the
