Henry
The Crimson Sweater
CHAPTER I
THE CRIMSON SWEATER'S FIRST APPEARANCE
"Hello, Lobster!"
The boy in the crimson sweater raised a pair of blue eyes to the speaker's face and a little frown crept into the sun-burned forehead; but there was no answer.
"Where'd you get that sweater?"
The older boy, a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested youth of nineteen, with a dark, not altogether pleasant face, paused on his way down the gymnasium steps and put the question sneeringly. Below, on the gravelled path leading to the athletic field, a little group of fellows had turned and were watching expectantly; Horace Burlen had a way of taking conceit out of new boys that was always interesting. To be sure, in the present case the new boy didn't look especially conceited – unless it is conceit to appear for football practice in a dandy crimson sweater which must have cost well up in two figures – but you never could tell, and, anyway, Horace Burlen was the school leader and had a right to do what he pleased. Just at present it pleased him to scowl fiercely, for the new boy was displaying a most annoying deliberation. Horace examined the other with awakening interest. He was a fairly tall youth, sixteen years of age, well set up with good chest and shoulders and rather wide hips. Like Horace, the younger boy was in football togs, only his sweater instead of being brown was crimson and in place of the letters "F H" sported by Horace the front of his garment showed where the inscription "H 2nd" had been ripped away. But the difference between the two boys didn't end there; Horace Burlen was tall and big and dark; Roy Porter was several inches shorter, not so wide of shoulder nor so deep of chest; and whereas Horace's hair was straight and black, Roy's was light, almost sandy, and was inclined to be curly. Under the hair was a good-looking sun-browned face, with a short, well-built nose, a good mouth and a pair of nice grey-blue eyes which at this moment were regarding Horace calmly. The older boy scowled threateningly.
"Say, kid, at this school we teach 'em to answer when they're spoken to; see? Where'd you get that silly red sweater?"
"It was given to me," answered Roy coolly.
"Think you'll ever grow enough to fill it?"
"I guess so."
"Who gave it to you?"
"Seems to me they're a bit inquisitive at this school. But if you must know, my brother gave it to me."
"Too big for him, wasn't it?"
Roy smiled.
"Not to speak of. He got a better one."
"Hope he changed the color," said Horace with a sneer.
"Why, yes, he did, as it happened. His new one is black with a crimson H."
Horace started and shot a quick glance up and down the form confronting him.
"Is your brother Porter of the Harvard eleven?" he asked with a trace of unwilling respect in his voice. Roy nodded.
"I suppose you think you can play the game because he can, eh? What's your name?"
"Porter," answered Roy sweetly.
"Don't get fresh," admonished the other angrily. "What's your first name?"
"I guess it will do if you just call me Porter," was the reply. There was a sudden darkening of the blue eyes and in spite of the fact that the lips still smiled serenely Horace saw the danger signal and respected it.
"You're a pretty fresh young kid at present, but you'll get some of it taken out of you before you're here long," said the school leader turning away. "And I'd advise you to take off that red rag; it's too much like the Hammond color to be popular here."
"Fresh, am I?" mused Roy, watching the other join the group below and cross the lawn toward the field. "I wonder what he thinks he is? If he ever asks me I'll mighty soon tell him! Red rag! I'll make him take that back some day, see if I don't."
Roy's angry musings were interrupted by the sudden outward swing of the big oak door behind him. A dozen or so of Ferry Hill boys in football attire trooped out in company with Mr. Cobb, an instructor who had charge of the football and baseball coaching. Roy fell in behind the group, crossed the lawn, passed through the gate in the well-trimmed hedge and found himself on the edge of the cinder track. The gridiron had just been freshly marked out for this first practice of the year and the white lines gleamed brightly in the afternoon sunlight. Half a dozen footballs were produced from a canvas bag and were speedily bobbing crazily across the turf or arching up against the blue sky. Roy, however, remained on the side-line and looked about him.
Beyond the field was a border of trees and an occasional telegraph pole marking the road over which he had journeyed the evening before from the Silver Cove station, where he had left the train from New York – and home. That word home sounded unusually pleasant to-day. Not that he was exactly homesick, in spite of the fact that this was his first experience of boarding school life; he would have been rather indignant, I fancy, at the suggestion; but he had made the mistake of reaching Ferry Hill School a day too early, had spent the night in a deserted dormitory and had killed time since then in arranging his possessions in the scanty cupboard assigned to him and in watching the arrival of his future companions. It had been a dull time and he may, I think, be pardoned if his thoughts turned for an instant a bit wistfully toward home. Brother Laurence had given him a good deal of advice – probably very excellent advice – before taking himself away to Cambridge, fall practice and glory, and part of it was this:
"Keep a stiff upper lip, Roy, mind your own affairs and when you're down on your luck or up against a bigger man grin just as hard as you can grin."
That was the Harvard way, although Roy didn't know it then. But now he recalled the advice – and grinned. Then he began again the examination of his surroundings. Very beautiful surroundings they were, too. To his left, beyond the turn of the track, were the tennis courts all freshly limed. Beyond those the trees began and sloped gently upward and away in a forest of swaying branches. Turning, he saw, below the courts, and divided from them by a stone wall, a good-sized orchard across which the apple and pear trees marched as straightly and evenly as a regiment of soldiers. Below the orchard lay the vegetable garden, filled with the blue-green of late cabbages and the yellower hues of waving corn. Then, facing still further about, until the field was at his back, he could look over the level top of the wide hedge and so down the slope of the campus. To his right were the two white barns and clustering outhouses with the tower of School Hall rising beyond them. Further to the left was the red brick, vine-draped "Cottage," residence of the Principal, Doctor Emery, and his family. Then, further away down the sloping turf, stood Burgess Hall, the dormitory and dining room, while here, close by, was the handsome new gymnasium. Beyond the campus the "Grove," a small plantation of beech and oaks, shaded the path which led to the river and the boat house at its margin. A long expanse of the Hudson was in sight from where he stood, its broad, rippled surface aglint in the September sunshine. At the far side of the stream, a group of red buildings huddled under giant elms, stood Hammond Academy, Ferry Hill's life-long rival. In the far distance loomed the blue summits of the nearer mountains. Yes, it was all very beautiful and picturesque, and Roy admitted the fact ungrudgingly; he was very anxious to discover merits and lovable qualities in the place which was to be his home for the better part of the next two years.
"This way, everybody!" called Mr. Cobb, and Roy turned and joined the group of candidates. There were forty-three students at Ferry Hill that year, and at first glance it seemed that every last one of them had decided to try for the football team. But a second look would have found a handful of
