Part 25 (2/2)

Tanqueray.” Neale had to trust to copious bluffing: to confide heavily in his taciturnity, letting her run on, till she expressed opinions tangible enough for him to agree with her.

The climax of the season was the fancy dress dance at the Prospect House. Everybody went; Billy in a blanket, woodchuck skins and turkey feathers considered himself a pa.s.sable Uncas. Neale who had caught the early morning train up to West Adams and the milk train back, wore his football suit, with his white sweater like a cloak, the arms tied under his chin--hot but very becoming.

With Billy he started conscientiously to dance in rotation with all the girls from their hotel. His second dance was with Miss Austin. She was in black with a black lace mantilla, and pinned in her hair was one of the roses Neale had ransacked Pittsfield to buy--he forgot the others--forgot everything but the rhythm of their steps together--they danced, sat out on the verandah--danced again.

It was pointed, shameless--the chaperon, whose daughter was sitting a disconsolate wall-flower, glared at them--and they danced on. Had this red-blooded young blade, giving himself up wholly to the glamor of the moment, had he ever taken the cold, dry, heartless doctrine of Horace as a guide to life? He danced on--had he said he only danced when he was caught and had to?--he danced on, thrilling to the rhythm, like the swinging beat of hearts in young bodies. At last, the piano, violin and cornet (the ”orchestra” imported from the city of North Adams), broke into ”Home, Sweet Home,” and the last waltz began; slow, languorous, the climax of the wonderful evening for Neale.

Then Miss Austin staged her dramatic effect. As the party broke up, she said, putting out one hand to Neale and resting the other on her mother's arm, ”Good-night, Mr. Crittenden, and ...” she looked down at the roses he had given her, ”and good-by. Mother and I are leaving on the morning train. I only waited to have that last dance.” She waited an instant to let this have its effect, and added in a lower tone, ”Thank you--thank you for--for making my stay here so pleasant.”

Now there was, under Neale's skin, neither a calm Horatian philosopher nor a das.h.i.+ng red-blooded young blade. There was only a shy, awkward boy of nineteen, taken entirely unawares, struck dumb by the surge of emotion within him. Helpless and inarticulate, except for a muttered ”good-by” he shook Miss Austin's hand and walked away with apparent steadiness.

But afterwards...! When Billy was snoring inside the tent, Neale sat on the platform outside, and wrestled with Destiny. What a stiff, frozen lump he had been, not to have been able to speak out what was in his heart. She was _going_! And he had no photograph of her...! What an idiot never to have thought to ask for one! Not a keepsake! Not even a kiss! It was too hideous. No man with any virility would let Destiny ride rough-shod over him like that. He would be masterful. He would take the same train with her in the morning, he would be reckless, follow her up.... Great Caesar's ghost! But it was cold out there! The night dampness pierced through even his thick sweater. He staggered to his cot, rolled up in the blankets and fell instantly asleep.

He half-wakened once at dawn with the first rays of sunlight, rolled over, looked out into the breathless, pure beauty of the new day dropping slowly in a rain of golden light through the great trees, thought hazily that he was timber-cruising in the Green Mountains again, and fell asleep more profoundly than ever. He was really very tired and his old faculty for prodigious sleeping rea.s.serted itself.

When he finally awoke, the day was ripe, and the light had a late look.

Sure enough, his watch said a quarter past eleven. He sat up and stretched, and rubbed his hands back and forth through his frowsy hair.

Billy had eaten his breakfast and gone. But he must have brought up the mail and left it for Neale to find; for a letter now fell off Neale's cot to the floor.

The letter was typed, brief and direct like the writer.

”Dear Crittenden:

”We have a hard schedule ahead of us this season. I want all last year's squad to report at the football house for practice on September 1st. I can count on you not to be late.

”R. McAlpine, Capt.”

Neale read it over and over, stupidly at first and then with growing excitement. Alone in the tent, he allowed a broad, childish, unrestrained smile of pure pleasure and pride to s.h.i.+ne all over his face.

Then the date struck his eye. He was to report on September first and this was August twenty-fourth. Gos.h.!.+ Less than a week to get into condition! Not a single minute to lose. His chance might depend on his being in condition.

_His chance...!_ He tossed the blankets off and sprang up, making plans rapidly. The coffee-pot left by Billy was still warm in the banked ashes, but Neale put it aside. No coffee! After his breakfast of oatmeal and toast, he looked longingly at his pipe, but did not light it. No tobacco! He remembered that this was about the time for Miss Austin's train, but he did not change his clothes to go down to see her off. No girls!

Still in his football togs, just as he had danced the last waltz, he set off for the first of his training, a two-mile jog-trot over the hills.

CHAPTER XXVI

September, 1902.

After the first day's practice Neale and Biffy McFadden were jogging back to the dressing-room together.

”Great, isn't it?” grunted Biffy, rubbing his jersey sleeve over his sweaty forehead. ”Looks like a job for either you or me.”

”I'll have to step lively, if I get the job. Just you wait till I get some of the fat off me. I'm soft yet.” He thought bitterly of time wasted on the hotel piazza.

”Soft? h.e.l.l!” cried Biffy. ”All I'll say is I hope you never tackle me when you're hard--thought you'd slapped me with a piece of lead pipe just after I caught that punt.”

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