Kennebec Academy by Roger F. Duncan

KENNEBEC ACADEMY

ROGER F. DUNCAN

KENNEBEC ACADEMY

Scientia Vires Inducit

By ROGER F. DUNCAN

For MARY CHANDLER DUNCAN

Copyright 2013 Estate of Roger F. Duncan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1 ­— Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7 — Chapter 8 — Chapter 9 — Chapter 10 — Chapter 11 — Chapter 12 — Chapter 13 — Chapter 14 — Chapter 15 — Chapter 16 — Chapter 17 — Chapter 18 — Chapter 19 — Chapter 20 — Chapter 21 — Chapter 22 — Chapter 23 — Chapter 24 — Chapter 25 — Chapter 26 — Chapter 27 —

From the Headmaster’s Office...................................................... 5 New Boy........................................................................................ 7 Massive Learning Experience..................................................... 14 Fall Cruise................................................................................... 18 Indian Summer............................................................................ 24 Tigers........................................................................................... 29 Why Did You Do It?.................................................................... 32 It’s How You Play The Game...................................................... 35 Thanksgiving............................................................................... 43 It’s Not Fair................................................................................. 48 Pressure....................................................................................... 55 Christmas at Kennebec Academy................................................ 58 College Visitor............................................................................. 60 Math Anxiety............................................................................... 64 A Most Improbable Tale.............................................................. 68 French -1..................................................................................... 72 Bouchard..................................................................................... 77 Edge of Spring............................................................................. 81 The Headmaster’s Bad Dream.................................................... 84 Undivided Share.......................................................................... 89 Crew............................................................................................ 92 Frozen Out................................................................................. 100 Parents Day............................................................................... 107 The Last Class........................................................................... 112 Graduation................................................................................. 115 The River................................................................................... 120 From the Headmaster’s Office.................................................. 124

INTRODUCTION

B

elmont Hill School has the honor and pleasure of making available this collection of stories by Roger F. Duncan entitled Kennebec Academy. This is the name of an imagined Maine boarding school, described vividly and reflectively in the book’s chapters by Mr. Duncan as he presents an account of a year in its life. The chapters were mostly not written in a consecutive narrative, however, but as spontaneous essays addressing the values and development of human character and spirit that can be so powerful in the crucible of a secondary school community, sometimes just at the moment they were most needed and helpful.

Hill graduates of the 1970s and early 1980s will remember encountering certain of these chapters as morning talks delivered by Mr. Duncan in the Hamilton Chapel. How well he knew boys’ susceptibility to being drawn in to an intriguing story, peopled by characters of sure relevance to their own lives and facing challenges similar or identical to theirs. (After all, he taught and coached boys for 44 years and was the progenitor of three sons and seven grandsons.) “Honesty”, “generosity”, “community”, “sensitivity”, “selfconfidence”, “teamwork”, among other human capacities, were to him worth discussing, understanding and acquiring. In his carefully crafted and often poignant 15-minute talks, Mr. Duncan led boys closer to these values and with greater enthusiasm on their part than might have been aroused by even the most sympathetic preceptor. And the whole remains a memorable and enduring sum of its parts.

We commend Kennebec Academy to all readers who knew or admired Mr. Duncan and who put their stock in school communities. And we thank wholeheartedly the author’s brother Donald for his labor of love in transcribing the manuscripts of the work and making them available to Belmont Hill and a wider readership.

Harold Prenatt Belmont, 2013

PREFACE

F

ew men were more closely connected to independent schools than Roger Duncan. As a student, he attended Phillips Exeter Academy. He taught boys at the Fenn School of Concord, Massachusetts from 1938 to 1945 and at nearby Belmont Hill School from 1945 to 1981, where he served in many different roles, including English teacher, soccer and crew coach, dormitory master, director of the Upper School, technical director of dramatics, college counselor, and finally headmaster. In 1959 he took the Belmont Hill crew to the Henley regatta in England. For several years, he even drove the school bus!

Roger worked summers during World War II at the Bath Iron Works—not far from his imagined academy, and there is a good deal of Roger in Kennebec’s Cap Milliken. Roger could splice wire and mend a shell. After his teaching career, he retired to East Boothbay, Maine, where he completed this book and many others on nautical subjects and also sailed parties on his Friendship sloop Eastward. He died in 2010 at 93.

The main character of Kennebec Academy is the academy itself, and Roger shows how all of the different members of it contribute to the flavor and personality of the school during one academic year. See the passage at the end of Chapter 26, where headmaster Sawyer speaks to a recent graduate—this is really Roger speaking. This particular chapter began its life as his Commencement address to Belmont Hill’s Class of 1989, which included his oldest grandson.

Roger actually was most of the characters in this book at one time or another, so his personality shines forth throughout. He even shared with Johnny Cluett the frightening experience of falling through the ice!

It has been a great pleasure to transcribe my brother’s text into its present form.

Donald Duncan Southport, Maine, 2012

Chapter 1 — From the Headmaster’s Office

KENNEBEC ACADEMY Bath, Maine Founded 1885

Scientia Vires Inducit

April 21, 1990 Dear Friends, The author of this book and I share a deep conviction that its theme, never adequately expressed in literature, be brought into the light. If you also find some entertainment here, we will both be delighted.

The author will share with you a year at Kennebec Academy. You will meet boys and teachers, maintenance men and administrators, alumni and parents. You will share their experiences, sometimes dramatic, sometimes exciting, sometimes humorous, always revealing. I know the author well. He is articulate, ingenious, serious but never solemn. I commend him to you.

Should this book lead you to seek us out for a visit, you may encounter some perplexity. We are located south of the city of Bath, Maine, where a small stream falls over an old mill dam into a cove on the west shore of the Kennebec River, but you will look for us a long time by land and by sea. We are here just as surely as Sherlock Holmes has lodgings at 221B Baker Street in London, just as surely as Tom Sawyer’s whitewashed fence stands in a Missouri town. Our teachers are real people, although their names do not appear on the voting list, just as surely as Long John Silver and Lord Jim sailed on salt water.

Kennebec Academy, as Merlin said of enchanted Camelot,

“………is built

To music, therefore never built at all,

And therefore built forever,” And it is just as real as any school built of bricks and boards. You are welcome to visit us any time.

Sincerely,

Benjamin A. Sawyer, Headmaster

5

KENNEBEC ACADEMY

6

Chapter 2 — New Boy

G

us Cunningham, on the day after Labor Day, was driving his heavily-loaded Ford east on the Maine Turnpike with almost no traffic while all of Maine seemed to be emptying out through the westbound lanes. But like the drivers of cars from Massachusetts, station wagons from Connecticut, and campers, Winnebagos, vans and trailers from New Hampshire to California, he was going to work.

He was excited about it, for he was about to start his professional life, to take up a position on the other side of the desk, to teach actively for the good of others rather than to learn more or less passively for his own good. He felt that he was prepared as well as he could be. A new A.B. degree in history, three years as a camp counselor, including one in charge of waterfront activities, a successful athletic career culminating in the captaincy of the cross country team and a seat in the varsity shell gave him the confidence that he could deal with whatever he had to face. Yet as he travelled farther and farther east, he felt more and more as he had when his crew lined up for the first race.

He left the Turnpike at Portland, drove eastward past Freeport, where he had stopped every spring at L. L. Bean’s to buy camping equipment; through Brunswick, where he had once run cross country against a Bowdoin team; toward Bath. When he saw over the trees the great crane at the Iron Works, he left the divided highway and followed a two-lane tar road, felt the spruce trees closing in, passed farmhouses with high-pitched roofs, decorated eaves, and big woodpiles. The houses, while each was different, maintained a common look, each built in the same classic proportions and holding their ground against the coming winter.

After a few long miles, he turned into a driveway on the left at the Kennebec Academy sign with heightened excitement, followed it between two rows of tall white pines, through which he could see wellkept athletic fields and white goal posts. On one field a football team was practicing, punctuated by the familiar shrill of the coaches’ whistles.

He emerged from the lane of trees on to a broad elliptical expanse of lawn circumscribed by the drive and a series of white clapboard buildings. In the center of the ellipse stood a tall white flagpole rigged with cross trees, a topmast, and a gaff. From the top of the topmast on the soft September breeze, floated a red swallowtail flag with a yellow K and from the peak of the gaff, a big, new United States ensign.

Before the New School he stopped. The New School had been built in 1901 and had been added to as the Academy had grown, but it was still known as the New School. Five wide plank steps led up to a porch and a formal doorway, over whose lintel was carved in wood the seal of the Academy, a compass card with the legend SCIENTIA VIRES INDUCIT, a sentiment to which Gus felt he was committing himself as he entered. To his left, through an open door he saw a strong and capable lady sitting at a desk beside a switchboard, opening letters vigorously with a paper knife. She smiled even more cordially than politeness dictated.

“Good morning,” she said. “You’re a little late. Football practice started at nine, but if you will give me your name, I will show you where your room is and you can go right over to the gym.”

Gus, taken aback, said, “Cunningham – Augustus Cunningham,” feeling like the new boy she took him for.

“Cunningham. Oh, you’re the new teacher. I’m so sorry not to have recognized you. We met last March. My name is Goodrich, Pat Goodrich. You won’t remember it against me, will you, de-ah?” She sounded as though she understood his embarrassment and sincerely regretted being the cause of it. The “deah” was a mixture of friendliness, humor, and a habit of liking people. “Mr. Sawyer is expecting you today.

Go right in. I don’t think he’s doing anything awfully important.” She motioned toward a door behind her.

7

As Gus entered, the Headmaster stood up and stepped out from behind his desk, a neat, rangy man in khaki pants and shirt sleeves who moved like an athlete. They shook hands and Mr. Sawyer motioned him toward a chair, sat down himself, quick, friendly, and confident.

“Well, Mr. Cunningham, I take it you had an easy trip down with everyone going the other way. The unlovely local expression is ‘Maine’s took a puke.’”

Gus snickered, felt a little foolish at having reacted like a schoolboy, and made the polite reply.

“To begin with, then, our faculty is on a first-name basis. What do you like to be called?”

“Gus,” Should he have said “Sir?” “Then you are Gus to me and our colleagues but ‘Mr. Cunningham’ to the boys. I want you to insist on it. You will get used to that very soon I’m sure. My colleagues call me Ben when my back isn’t turned.”

He repressed the snicker and smiled.

“You will live in Chelsea House,” continued Mr. Sawyer, “with Peter and Ruth Floyd and an assortment of students, some of them new boys. You will find Joe Rotch and Sam Reed are towers of strength, fine reliable young men. Some of the others will need a little more attention, particularly young Cluett and a new boy, Edwards, coming from a public school in New York.

“As we discussed last March, you will teach two sections of ninth grade History and one of American History in the eleventh. I better warn you now that we may have to divide a large Algebra 1 class and give you half of it. You can handle beginning algebra, can’t you?”

“I guess so,” answered Gus. “I haven’t studied any math for several years.”

“George Henderson, head of the Math Department, will stand by you. I wouldn’t do this to you, but there doesn’t seem to be any alternative; and the way we do things here, everyone does the best he can at what has to be done.

“This fall you will coach XY soccer. That is the squad below A and B squads and consists of those young men too old for 8th grade soccer and not skillful enough or big enough for varsity competition. I know you wanted to coach cross country, but it seems everyone wants to coach cross country this fall and you are low man on the pole.”

“What about the spring?” asked Gus, afraid that he might lose crew, too.

“I’m counting on you for third crew. Good oarsmen are rare birds. By the way, have you had lunch?

Mr. Healey has set out some buns and cold cuts in the dining room for anyone who comes early. Afterwards you can move into your room and look around the school a little before our faculty meeting at three.”

Gus was neatly dismissed and out the door before he knew how it had been done.

He decided to unpack first. As he drove up in front of Chelsea House, a three-story white clapboard building that looked a little like a summer hotel, a short, partly bald little man with glasses emerged from the left-hand door and came toward Gus with his hand out.

“You’re Gus Cunningham? I’m Peter Floyd, in charge of this hostelry. If you haven’t had lunch, perhaps you will come in and eat with us, Ruth and me. Just leave the chariot where it stands.”

“I can perfectly well eat at the dining room. Mr. Sawyer said that they were expecting people.”

“You will make the acquaintance of school food in due course. It is cold cuts and buns today, with a great deal of emphasis, and very little butter, on the buns. Come in and enjoy a last taste of civilization.”

It was a pleasant meal; introduced by a small glass of sherry, served in a bright room in front of a wide window, open to the warm September noon. The gentle air, which lifted the curtains, smelled of spruce, sweet fern, cut grass and clam-flats – idyllic. It seemed strange to Gus to be starting school in Vacationland, away from the sounds and smells of the city.

Mrs. Floyd, Ruth, was a short, squarely built, active lady much interested in Gus’s past experience and his family. She had little of the rather dry, humorous reserve with which Peter masked his shyness.

After lunch, they went out through a door in Peter’s study into the dormitory. In one step Gus 8

moved from a gracious home into a long, bare corridor floored with brown linoleum, plaster walls painted brown waist high, putty-colored above that, and punctuated with gray steel doors at frequent regular intervals. The place smelled of wax, varnish, soap, and disinfectant.

Peter showed Gus his room, a fifteen by eighteen box with a jog out for the closet, a window with a view of the circle and flagpole, a desk and chair, a narrow cot, an easy chair a little the worse for wear, an empty bookcase and a small bureau.

“The john is next door,” observed Peter. “You are strategically located here. Most trouble starts in the showers – not that we have very much. There is a school handbook on the desk with the rules, regulations, and daily schedule – all the institutional machinery. It’s best if you keep to it as much as you can. And here is the room chart. I worked it out without consulting you, if you will forgive me, because I know the returning troops and something about the new boys. I’ll go over it with you later, but the boys will not come until next Monday, except for the football players. Just stop by when you get settled and find it convenient.” The Floyds left, but Ruth popped her head back around the closing door.

“The rules in the book about television sets and electrical appliances don’t apply to you. And you’re welcome to come down and see us any time. We usually have tea at 4:30, but not today. Faculty meeting.”

And she was gone.

The rest of the day passed in ordered confusion. Gus lugged his suitcase, footlocker, and several cardboard boxes of impedimenta up the stairs, assisted by two very pleasant older students named Rotch and Reed, who lived in a double room down stairs. Joe Rotch was football captain and Sam was a halfback, both returning early for practice.

At the faculty meeting he had been introduced to eighteen teachers, almost none of whom he could remember. All had been pleasant and had offered advice and assistance. The meeting had been devoted to a careful review of the year’s schedule, announcement of coaching assignments, review of last year’s admission and Advanced Placement programs, review of summer school and the achievements of various individual students which qualified them for section changes, and finally a brief exhortation by the Assistant Headmaster, Mr. Hanshaw, urging all members of the faculty to start the year by strict insistence on the rules of dress, behavior, and dining hall deportment. The Headmaster, like Admiral Nelson, expected every man to do his duty, and the meeting adjourned.

Gus had been invited to dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer at the Headmaster’s house and found there Mr. Fred Bauer, generally known as Fritzy, head of the history department, a big, heavy ex-athletic-looking bachelor with a most cheerful demeanor and a mock-pontifical manner. But his knowledge of history and his interest in it attracted Gus and he looked forward to tomorrow’s meeting of the department.

The party broke up early, after which he and Peter Floyd went over the names of the boys who would live in the dormitory. Peter delivered sharp thumbnail sketches: “Johnny Cluett: ninth grade: small, bright, full of fun, totally irresponsible as yet. Appears to enjoy living in the most frightful scultch you will permit; a very fast man around a corner; a poor liar. Just look at him quizzically and he falls apart. Known last year as the leader of the eighth grade Mafia – most unfairly.

There really is no harm in him at all.

Edwards: new boy. I don’t know a great deal about him but I put him with Cluett because Johnny will probably adopt him like a brother and get him into school life – and a not abnormal amount of trouble – very quickly. He, Billy Edwards, comes from suburban New York – Port Chester or Rye or Mamaroneck or somewhere down that way. Father is an alumnus, Class of ’65. Tough guy, says Eddie Hillman, Director of Admissions. Man-of-very-few-words type. Wants results. March to my drum! Kid is probably beaten down. Only fair grades in public school. Needs K.I.P. after he gets acclimated a little.”

“What’s K.I.P.?”

“Oh, that’s an “in” expression translated as Kick In the Pants. We use it frequently in a highly metaphorical sense.” Gus had asked about Rotch and Reed, the two who had helped him move in.

9

“Fine fellows. Salt-of-the-earth. Been roommates for four years. Joe is football captain. They had a disappointing year last fall – I forget the won-lost record – and he wants to make up for it this year. Fairly good student when he gives the matter his attention, which is much of the time. Good oarsman too. Sam is a very sound lad, perhaps more sensitive than Joe and a better student. Always willing to help. You couldn’t build two better kids.”

They had gone through the whole dormitory, finished with a beer, and Gus had gone to bed, scarcely able to believe that he had come so far in one day.

On a dark day in the preceding March, Billy Edwards, candidate for admission to Kennebec Academy, squirmed in a straight wooden armchair in the Headmaster’s office. If he sat back in the chair, his legs stuck out straight in front of him; if he slid forward so his knees reached the edge of the chair, his shoulders slumped back and his feet swung clear of the floor. He was just fourteen, the smallest boy in the eighth grade at Junior High and right now was most ill at ease, partly because of the chair and partly because his father was talking about him as if he were not right there in the room.

His father, William T. Edwards ’65, sat forward on the uneasy edge of the easy chair, a heavy, horsefaced man, who for 20 minutes had been talking loudly and emphatically about Billy and the inadequacies of the public school system, while Mr. Sawyer, the Headmaster, had been studying Billy across his desk.

“Billy, here, doesn’t know how to study,” continued Mr. Edwards. “He is wasting his time in school learning nothing, absolutely nothing. He doesn’t know the multiplication tables. He can’t write a literate English sentence. He can’t read and tell you what he read. I want him educated, taught to study, and made to do it.”

Billy felt like a diseased bacterium under a microscope: small, insignificant in the total scheme of things, without personality or feelings, and very much the center of disapproval.

“We have had Billy tested at Columbia. I wouldn’t mind his not learning anything if he was stupid, but those tests show he has the ability. You have the results: IQ 125, reading 68, adequate; mathematical and verbal aptitudes somewhere in the nineties. He ought to be getting honor grades except that lousy school he is in doesn’t give proper grades and he is doing no work at all.

“Now, when I was a boy here at Kennebec in the sixties, I had to learn to work and right away quick.

Old Whitty Whitmore made us learn amo, amas, amat, hic haec hoc and no kidding. Pete Floyd made us write every day, and if we came into class without the homework done, he pitched us right out until it was done. Old Doc Oswald ran a tight ship in those days. If that is the kind of school you have today, I want Billy to get the full treatment.”

Billy wriggled. This was all new to him. His father had paid little attention to him before his fourteenth birthday except for the occasional frustrated bawling-out over the inconclusive remarks on his report cards. Billy had learned to let them roll off. But this was different. His father had taken him out of school in the middle of the week and had driven all day yesterday to a motel near Bath. They had come down a dreary road this morning, fringed with receding banks of dirty snow to this strange place by the river. His father had said little on the trip as if he hadn’t known what to say, but in the presence of Mr. Sawyer, it had all come out.

“Billy has to go to college. His grandfathers were both professors, and our family has always valued education. Without it I would not have had the money to send Billy to college or here either. But the way he is going now, he won’t be able to get into Freshwater Junior Seminary. The point is – someone has to teach him to study, to take notes, to memorize stuff – why, we had to memorize yards of Shakespeare. I can still remember ‘To be or not to be’. No one ever taught the boy to study. His mother is too soft on him and his teachers are lazy, incompetent or both. He hasn’t learned a damned thing in eight years at school!”

The Headmaster, recognizing that Mr. Edwards was about to start around the circle of his argument for the third time, broke in, attempting to get a little closer to Billy himself.

“Billy, tell me a little about your school. What subject do you like best?” Billy had never thought of 10

liking any subject at all. He reached into the bag and brought out World History.

“And what do you learn in World History?”

Out of the bag again came, “Oh, about dinosaurs and cave men and the Romans and all that stuff.”

“Does your school have any teams?”

“Yeah, but I’m not on any. I don’t go for that stuff much.”

Unable to keep still, Mr. Edwards broke in again.

“That’s another thing. He should learn some sports. Football and basketball and baseball. I know being a left-handed pitcher got me into college.”

Mr. Sawyer had wanted to get Billy talking, but it couldn’t be done with his father present. To Mr. Sawyer it was evident that Billy was a very young fourteen, that he was an intelligent young animal but entirely a creature of impulse who never had seen much farther ahead than the next day. He certainly could be educated as he grew up, but the process would have to start almost from scratch. Mr. Edwards drove ahead. He was the man of action!

“The questions I want answered are, will you accept Billy for September, and can he get into a decent college?”

“If Billy wants to come and is willing to try to do our work, I think he can be successful. We make no guarantees of course, but he should be able to qualify for a satisfactory college.”

“What college? I won’t hold you to it; I just want some idea of what ballpark we are playing in.”

“Well, we can’t promise anything in Ivy, but I would not rule it out.”

“There you have it! Billy, do you want to come here and learn to study and go to Yale or frig around high school with the girls and the hopheads and be a garage mechanic? Speak up now. This is an important decision.”

Billy was entirely ignorant of the implications of his decision either way. He had really no idea of what “learn to study” meant. Kennebec Academy was as vague a concept as high school or Yale, all shadows. But under the gun, what could he say?

“I guess I’d like to come here.”

“Good! Then that’s settled,” said his father. “Now you should know, Mr. Sawyer, that in the past I have made modest contributions to the Alumni Fund. However, should you succeed in getting Billy into Yale, I might be of substantial help in meeting some of your major needs. Come along, Billy, and we’ll look around your new school and I’ll show you the window where I sneaked out and slid down the drain pipe one night.”

After the ceremonial handshaking and farewell, Mr. Hillman, Director of Admissions, came in.

“What do you make of him, Ed?” “Nice bright little kid, babied by his mother and alternately neglected and bullied by an ambitious father. Aptitude good, achievement low. We can handle him.”

“I thought so. I rather liked the boy in spite of his father’s heavy-handed ways. I told him yes, so write him down. That makes 24 doesn’t it? Have we a bed for him?”

“We’ll find one.”

Now, on the Monday after Labor Day, Mr. Edwards and Billy again drove up before the New School.

Mr. Hanshaw, senior master and Assistant Headmaster, sat behind a card table in the shade of the porch with a clipboard before him. He rose and came down the steps, hand outstretched.

“Why Bill Edwards. Good to see you again. You were, what – about the Class of ’66?”

“No, ’65. But that’s close. I’ve brought the next generation. This is Billy. Shake hands with Mr. Hanshaw, Billy. He taught me all I know about English history.”

“Glad to have you with us, Billy. I hope you behave better than your father did. You will live in Chelsea House with Mr. Floyd and you will room with Johnny Cluett in Room 15 on the second floor. You 11

have just time to unpack before Orientation at three o’clock in the assembly hall.”

Mr. Hanshaw smoothly pushed off the Edwardses to greet the Browns, who had just driven up.

Later, Billy sat on his somewhat saggy bed contemplating his footlocker, suitcase, and duffel bag of blankets, his father’s parting admonitions still echoing around the room. All the way up from home his father had been giving him good advice, most of which he was totally incapable of comprehending. As he heard the car accelerate down the drive, he felt confused, alone, abandoned, thrown to the wolves. What was this school like anyway? Some big kids had been playing football as he drove in. They seemed to hit each other awfully hard. He had seen a few of the other new kids saying goodbye to their parents, but he didn’t know any of their names. A little bald guy, Mr. Floyd, had welcomed them, remembered his father, and shown him his room. Who was Johnny Cluett? A big kid? Johnny’s suitcase lay on the other bed and a picture of a girl on the bureau didn’t tell Billy very much. Voices, the slam of car doors, the whirr of tires came in through the open window on the warm September afternoon breeze that smelled more of camp than school.

A big kid suddenly appeared in the door.

“Hello. You’re Billy Edwards, aren’t you? I’m Mr. Cunningham. I live two doors down the hall.

You’re new aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Billy, accepting the stigma.

“So am I. We’ll get over it. Let’s go over to orientation. It’s almost time.”

“What’s orientation?” asked Billy, not quite sure whether it was a proper question but encouraged by Mr. Cunningham’s friendly manner. “What do they do to you?”

“Oh, they don’t do anything to you. It’s just a chance to meet some of the other new boys and the teachers and then the Student Council shows you around the school. Come on.”

At orientation, surrounded by other new boys in new sport jackets, pressed pants, and shined shoes, he began to recognize the institutional patterns he had known at camp and public school. Rules, good advice, and schedules. He met Johnny Cluett, who turned out to be a boy about his own age and size but who had been at Kennebec last year. He had all the assurance of an old soldier and gave Billy what he called “the straight poop” on the significant rules and their loopholes, the characters of the faculty, and the quality of the food.

Back in their room, while Johnny was visiting down the corridor, two very big kids in white sweaters with big red KA’s across their fronts shouldered in and insisted that Billy needed a Can Card.

“What’s a Can Card?”

“You got to have one. Can’t use the can without it. You want to pee, you got to show your Can Card.

Only a buck.”

Billy was doubtful, a little overwhelmed. Johnny came back.

“You got to have one too, Cluett. In this dorm you got to have a Can Card.”

“Oh, buzz off, Petersen. You can’t hand us that. And no, we don’t need to buy our radiator either.

Screw outa here.”

To Billy’s surprise, they did.

After supper there was a dormitory party in the Common Room with cider and doughnuts and Mr. Floyd explained some more rules. Under the guidance of Johnny, who seemed to have adopted him as a protégé, Billy gained assurance, heard some tall tales of summer experiences and essayed one himself. He liked Joe Rotch and Sam Reed, two big kids who lived downstairs; and Mr. Cunningham, already known unofficially as Gus, seemed like a good guy.

Lying in bed after “lights out.” he thought back to his farewell to his mother that morning and was almost homesick for a minute. He felt a long, long way from Mamaroneck, but he was asleep before another thought came.

After the party and the excitement of getting a group of strange boys to bed in a strange place, Gus 12

sat at his desk. Then he got up and looked down the hall, came back, sat down on the edge of the bed, and stood up again. He thought of going down to see Peter, but then thought better of it. He sat at his desk again, took up his notebook, but the outline of tomorrow’s lesson held nothing new. None of the few books on the shelf appealed. He picked up a pencil, critically examined the point, sharpened it with his jack-knife; carefully, slowly, turning it under the blade until it was needle sharp.

The clock on the New School struck ten. He went to bed, taking as long as he could about it, and lay stiff and nervous, unable to sleep.

“Why should I be so antsy?” he asked himself. “After all, they’re just a bunch of kids and I have handled kids before.”

“What will you do if they raise hell in class?”

Gus found he was arguing with a pessimistic, apprehensive alter ego who prophesied disaster.

“They won’t. I’ll just ask them to behave. I did that at camp and it usually worked.”

“Suppose it doesn’t.”

“I’ll be tough. That’s what I’ll do. The next guy who opens his yap gets a detention or stays after class or misses sports. And I’ll do it too. No idle threats.”

“Is that the kind of teacher you want to be? Is that the kind of man you want to be?”

“No, but –” “But what?”

“I’ll make the lesson so interesting that they won’t want to raise hell. That’s what I’ll do. We are starting with the fifth century B.C. in Greece with the Persian Wars and all the really exciting beginnings of a real civilization. It ought to go fine.”

“Good luck, Gus,” his pessimistic self told him. “Good luck. But a plumber, when he goes on a plumbing job has been told how to sweat a joint and he has practiced it. No doctor goes into an operation without having seen the insides of numerous cadavers. But a teacher! They throw him off the wharf and it’s sink-or-swim. No one ever told you how to teach. Except Peter. He said ‘If you want to be heard, drop your voice.’”

“Well,” Gus replied,” I know more than they do. I’ll tell them about the battle of Salamis. Let Leonidas and Pheidipides keep order. Χαιρετη νικιμεν, Rejoice, we conquer’” And the Greeks brought peace – and sleep before the clock struck eleven over a campus quiet and dark.

13

Chapter 3 — Massive Learning Experience

T

he first hours of school were confusing both to Billy and to Gus, but by 11 o’clock in the morning, the old timers had settled into the patterns of former years, and even to the new boys, it seemed as if school had been under way for a month. Gus’s classes went smoothly enough although that ninth grade did seem a little restless and talkative. Billy actually enjoyed an English class with Mr. Floyd; just managed to cope with a beginning algebra class; was completely overwhelmed by a French class in which no word of English was spoken, and in Gus’s history class was utterly bored by a summary of Indo-European migrations and their effects on the language, culture, and religion of the Greeks of Homer’s time. He sat next to Johnny, and while looking studiously at his notebook, contrived a game of tic-tac-toe with him and then one of Battleship. Johnny had a rubber band, and he used it with practiced accuracy on the neck of Henry Phillips in the row ahead. Billy tried, missed, and nearly got caught; but the air of injured innocence, which had worked so well at home, scored another success.

“Who, me? Oh, no, sir.”

The afternoon was a little frightening. He was required to strip to be weighed and measured. Then he was given a red school T-shirt, a pair of short pants, and a sweatshirt. Jimmy, the man who passed out the equipment, dangled a strange-looking piece of clothing in front of him and asked, “You want a jock?” Billy didn’t know what it was and shook his head. “Never mind. You ain’t got nothin’ to put in it yet. You’ll come to it.”

Billy left, mystified, was assigned a locker; required to put on the new clothes and hustled on to the field to join the ill-assorted XY soccer team. Gus showed them how to kick the ball with the top and side of the foot, not the toe, but Billy just kicked it like most of the rest of them. It didn’t last too long.

Supper was good – great; but it seemed to be the custom to growl about it. Johnny declared that last year he had bitten down on a horseshoe nail in the stew, and it was a well-known fact that the milk was liberally dosed with saltpeter.

Study hall started off like Fun Night until the bell rang. Then Mr. Johnson, known to Billy only as “Coach,” his universal nickname, glared fiercely at two who were slow to stop talking. On a tour of the room he snatched a comic book from behind an atlas and established such an attitude of silent terror that Billy really tried to do his algebra for a while. But he soon gave it up to read Of Mice And Men, which had been assigned in English. He read way ahead, letting the consequent feeling of excessive virtue eclipse his failure even to think about algebra, history, science, or French.

When they got back to Chelsea House though, Billy found that Johnny had been thinking about history.

“You watch. Tomorrow old Gus is goin’ to get it.” But he refused to elaborate.

That evening, after the dormitory had quieted down, Gus dropped in to Peter’s study to discuss his first experiences as a teacher. Peter seemed to take it calmly, relaxed now at the end of the day in his shirtsleeves, but Gus was still excited and became stimulated all over again in telling the story.

“I was really full of butterflies when those ninth graders came in for the first class. They were OK though and sat down more or less attentively as if I were a real teacher. I asked their names, checked them off on the list, and passed out the books just as you said. There was a good deal of chatter while that was going on, but I couldn’t see that that was doing any harm. Then the rest of the period I set up the background for fifth century Greek civilization. You know those Greeks came from central Asia and pushed out the original inhabitants so lots of their language is like that of the modern Germans. Take the word for 14

winter, for instance. Also their beliefs and customs are different, more like European than Mediterranean people. And Greece is a land of valleys and steep mountains. The valleys all run to the south and the winds blow from the north so communication is much easier by sea than it is by climbing over those jagged mountains. That’s why the Greeks became a maritime nation while the Egyptians, with almost no harbors and, plastered up against an inhospitable coast by the northerly winds, became agricultural – I guess I get all worked up about it. I don’t have to tell you this.”

“How did the kids respond?” asked Peter.

“Pretty well. But I don’t think they paid as much attention as they should. One kid, Phillips I think his name is, seemed quite interested and asked if Greek ships could sail to windward. Edwards was taking notes all the time, but once out of the corner of my eye I saw something sail through the air. It seemed to come from Edwards, but I guess he wasn’t the one and I didn’t know who it was so I let it go. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.”

“You could have asked Edwards a question to involve him in the subject and to see whether he knew what was going on instead of his just sitting there transferring your notes to his notebook – if he was taking notes. We sometimes get overly suspicious. It is an occupational affliction. How did the afternoon go?”

“All right. Those XY soccer kids have two left feet and don’t seem to be real excited about the game. I tried to show them how to kick a soccer ball properly, but they just booted it around. And I had to get behind and push them to get them to run their laps. They don’t know how important conditioning is.”

“No, they don’t,” agreed Peter, “and it may be hard to convince them.”

“The first game is in three weeks. That’ll show ’em.”

“I trust so.” Was there just a hint of dry amusement in Peter’s attitude? “Well, you seem to have made it all right for a start. Remember,” said Peter as he held the door open, “that learning is said to take place in inverse proportion to the volume of words spoken by the teacher. Good night, Gus, and press forward.”

The next day’s history class started inauspiciously. Gus began with the idea of leading his students into the concept of the Athenian city-state by a more Socratic method than he had used in the first day’s runaway lecture. The class was slow to settle down. Gus had to raise his voice over the undertone of noise to ask his first question.

“Who knows what democracy means?”

“It means the dirty Democrats are in Washington,” answered Johnny to the accompaniment of a general laugh.

“Not at all. Regardless of your politics, Mr. Cluett, we have a representative government, not a true democracy. Democracy with a small “d” means rule by the people. You see it comes from the Greek words “demos” meaning people and “kratein” meaning to rule.” He turned to write the words on the black­board in Greek characters. “And the concept like the word comes from ancient Greece.”

“Who dat man?” The words seemed to come from the left of the class. Gus turned from the board to try to identify the speaker and looked into seven pairs of expressionless eyes. Hadn’t they even heard it?

Had they? He went on.

“Our Town meetings in New England are in the truly democratic tradition, much like the….”

“Who dat say who dat?” This time from the right. Again a half dozen expressionless faces.

“C’mon, gentlemen, cut that out. Now back to Greece.”

“Does Greece have anything to do with the sausage balls we had for breakfast?” asked Melton.

General laughter, perhaps louder and more prolonged than necessary.

“Who dat man?” From the left again. Gus whipped left in time to hear, “Who dat say who dat?” from the right. This time the merriment was poorly concealed.

“Thayer, did you say that?”

“Say what, sir?”

15

“Say – you know.” More laughter.

“Look, you guys,” Gus was shouting now to be heard over the laughter. “The next guy who talks without raising his hand gets thrown right out of here into Mr. Hanshaw’s office. Now behave!” The noise declined rapidly and Gus went on.

“In the sixth century Athens had been ruled by a few powerful men with exceptional public spirit and vision. They weakened the power of the nobles and encouraged the less wealthy independent farmers and middle class merchants. The leader of these, Cleisthenes, led a rebellion against the tyrants, and as the fifth century began–” “Was the fifth century–” began Phillips, all seriousness.

“Out!” shouted Gus. “Out! I said that the next guy who spoke without raising his hand would leave.”

“But I was just going to ask–.” Gus knew he had caught the wrong man, but he had committed himself and felt that to back down would be a confession of weakness.

“Sorry, Phillips. You heard what I said, and what I say, I mean. I kid you not.” He was distracted by what he heard himself say, couldn’t believe he had said it. The expression he associated with the despicable tyrant, Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny. But he pressed on loudly, “and if I say you go, you go.”

Henry left with tears of outrage in his eyes, for he had been genuinely confused and could not comprehend such injustice.

“Now, then–” Gus continued in a high, strained voice.

“Who dat?”

Gus stopped short. He seemed to be looking down through the ceiling at himself, a young man in a blue blazer yelling back at fourteen small boys who had him absolutely on the run. “They can’t do this to me!” he said to himself. “I know more than they do; it is my business to teach them and I won’t be fooled out of it by a bunch of fresh kids.” This was not really a consciously expressed thought in Gus’s mind – more of a feeling of rage and frustration. Acting entirely from this feeling and from a conditioned reflex that expressed frustration in physical activity, he dropped his voice to a fierce intensity.

“Stand up! All of you!” Surprised by this sudden change of tone and the genuine anger in it, they obeyed hesitantly.

“All of you! Out the door and take one fast lap around the drive. Run! And anyone I catch up with I’ll – I’ll beat his roof in! Cluett first. Go!” Johnny broke and ran for it, the rest pelting behind. Gus came last of all, after the first twenty yards, calmed and in control.

Breathless and astonished, they came back into the room.

“Now, gentlemen, no more nonsense. For tomorrow read pages 17-25 in your text and answer the questions at the end. Anyone who wants to know “Who dat” can ask me at the far end of the drive. That’s all for today.” Mercifully, the bell rang.

Henry Phillips stood in front of Mr. Hanshaw, telling him of Mr. Cunningham’s unreasonable behavior in throwing him out of class when all he had done was try to ask whether the fifth century came after the sixth century and what years were in the fifth century.

“Now that is a confusing business, Henry. I get twisted up in it myself. But perhaps you chose an inopportune time to ask that question.” Mr. Hanshaw had formed a pretty good idea of what had been going on in the class from Henry’s account. Suddenly, both looked out the window to see the class strung out around the drive like an army in retreat with Gus jogging behind.

“Perhaps you are better off where you are, Henry, “suggested Mr. Hanshaw. “After lunch, and not before then, I want you to apologize to Mr. Cunningham for speaking out of turn and then ask your question.

The period is almost over so I would not suggest that you return to class now.”

“What was going on out on the drive in the first period?” asked Mr. Edgehill at coffee time in the 16

faculty room. “There was the whole Mafia strung out in a line with the new teacher herding them, a tergo.”

“It was a massive learning experience,” replied Mr. Hanshaw. The boys were learning that they cannot take advantage of this particular new teacher, and something about discipline and good manners, while Cunningham was learning when to stop being nice and get mad. I don’t think the Mafia will raise its ugly head with him this year.”

17

Chapter 4 — Fall Cruise

M

r. Jerome Benson, czar of Kennebec Academy’s art studio, was a mountain climber, a bicyclist, and a seaman of almost unlimited energy. On this brilliant Saturday morning in late September, he had invited Jock Peterson and Allen Poole for a weekend on his thirty-foot sloop Esperance, now lying alongside the float in Kenniston’s Cove. The float had been built for the boathouse in which were kept the school’s rowing shells and several dinghies, but it was locked up at this early hour on Saturday morning.

Later in the day Cap Milliken would probably open up for a few scullers or sailors. Now the ebb tide had started to run. There had been a light frost the night before and the gentle northwest breeze set adrift red and yellow maple leaves on the quiet sunny water of the cove.

Jerry, clad in khaki pants, a green and black checkered wool shirt and a visored cap, stood in the hatch contemplating with distaste an empty carton containing various paper and plastic bags, the wreckage of his early trip to the supermarket. The sun was warm on his back and he had no great zeal for waste disposal.

Down the steep path in a hurry came Jock Peterson, crew captain, a tall, strong, mature eighteenyear-old with a cheerful open face. He swung a zipper duffel bag in one hand and a suit of yellow oil clothes in the other as he took the boathouse steps two at a time – he had been up and down them almost daily for years and sometimes in the dark.

“Come aboard, Jock, come aboard. Have you seen Allen Poole? He’s coming with us if he hasn’t bought himself a detention for not checking in some place.”

“I saw him just getting out of his mother’s car. He’s right behind me, Mr. Benson.”

Don’t you ‘Mr. Benson’ me aboard of here! Afloat, I’m “Skipper” and don’t you forget it again.”

“Right, Skipper, you told me that last trip. Here comes Allen.”

“Just get that damned box of trash out of my sight, will you, Jock, and we’ll get out of here right away. Chuck your gear below. You can stow it later. Let’s get the mainsail on her.”

Jock cranked up the sail on the winch while Jerry slacked the sheet so the big mainsail flapped idly in the gentle breeze, the reef points pattering.

“Stand by your jib halyard, Jock. Is your bowline clear? Where’s Allen?”

Allen Poole, a weedy, angular youth of sixteen, had stopped halfway down the steps, looking past the sail, across the calm cove where two small sailboats and an outboard were moored, up the blue Kennebec to the far shore all spangled with fall color against the nearly-white clear sky beyond. He had seen fall before; but each day was unique to him, a stunning surprise when it came, not because he had forgotten falls gone by but because he remembered them.

“Shake a leg, Allen.”

Allen stepped aboard and handed Jerry a paper bag.

“Right side up with care.”

“It’s hot. What is it? Where’d you get it?”

“I happened to be coming through the kitchen this morning on the way out and Ma said she had a pie that she and Dad couldn’t handle without me and she figured it would do us more good than it would her.”

“Good news! I’ll set it where it won’t get wounded if we get into a battle with this northwest wind.

There’s more of it outside.”

When Jerry came on deck again, they cast off, the tide swung them away from the float, Jock set the jib, and the fair northwester carried them around the point, into the main current of the river and very far 18

from Kennebec Academy in a very short time.

The fair wind and tide shot Esperance down the river at an inspiring rate and past abandoned Fort Popham at the mouth.

“What did they want to build a fort for down here?” asked Jock. “Who do they think they’re goin’ to shoot?”

“That fort,” said Jerry, “is Maine’s most sincere compliment to the navy of the Confederate States of America. It was built to protect Bath from Confederate raiders.”

“Did any of them ever show up?”

“Sure did!” broke in Allen. “In 1863 the Florida captured vessels up and down the Maine coast. In one of them, the Archer from Southport, Lieutenant Read sailed right into Portland Harbor at night, captured the big, fast revenue cutter Caleb Cushing. In the morning, when they saw that she was gone, the mayor of Portland and the collector of customs commandeered two steamers, armed them with brass cannons, and chased after the Cushing, which hadn’t got far in the light morning breeze. The U.S. lieutenant, who had been captured with the Cushing, threw overboard the key to the powder magazine so the Confederates could not defend the ship. Read set fire to the Cushing and fled with the men in small boats. He and his crew were captured by one of the steamers and the Cushing blew up. So Fort Popham was built and Boothbay, Wiscasset, Rockland, and a lot of other ports were fortified.”

“Where’d you get all that?” asked Jerry.

Allen, who had been carried away by the excitement of the scene off Portland, came back to the present.

“Oh…we had a history teacher in Bath who told us about it and I found the whole story in a book by the Maine Historical Society. A guy named Hale wrote it up.”

“You went to school in Bath?” asked Jock.” Have you always lived there?”

“Yeah. My Dad is a draftsman at the Iron Works.”

“How come you go to Kennebec instead of to public school?”

“Cap Milliken knows my Dad. Cap used to be a boss rigger at the Iron Works you know, and he brought me down to see Mr. Sawyer once, and I came.”

“Are you glad you came?” asked Jerry.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Shot out of the river mouth by the tide, they stood off to sea, by the red and black buoys, the dark green weedy ledges, and the rugged cliffs of Seguin Island, now brown with withered grass and dark with spruce. Outside, lifting to the gentle heave of the offshore swell, they saw far to the northwest the peak of Mt. Washington, lifting sharp, blue, and incredibly high.

They turned east, passed the nun on Tom Rock, had a leisurely lunch in the dying breeze, and lay becalmed on a silky sea outside the mouth of the Sheepscot River.

“We might start the engine and poke along to the eastward,” said Jerry, “but the last time I tried her, she wouldn’t start.”

“What’ll you do if you need her in a hurry?” asked Jock.

“If I need her in a hurry, I’ll fix her in a hurry. How about that pie? We ought to sample it to be sure it’s safe to eat.”

“It’s your boat,” said Jock. “Where’d you stow that pie?”

Jock wasn’t used to doing nothing when there was something to be done, but the mid-day sun was warm without being hot, the gentle motion was soporific, and the pie was very attractive. There didn’t seem to be any great hurry.

Five miles astern lay Seguin and the islands at the mouth of the river. The broad Sheepscot stretched away to the north, the shores patched with the roofs of summer cottages and punctuated by the lighthouses at Hendrick’s Head and The Cuckolds. A lobsterman hauling traps off Newagen alternately gunned and idled 19

his distant engine. Two late summer yachts lay becalmed off Boothbay; another, sails furled and engine running full bore, steamed by inside on a course for the Sisters, Cape Small, and eventually, no doubt, for Florida and the islands. Offshore to the southeast lay more islands: grassy, brown Damariscove, sprucegreen Outer Heron, and White Island, its bright granite cliff gleaming in the sun. There didn’t seem to be any necessity for doing anything in a hurry, and it had been a hard week. Jerry, with a cookie tin of pastel fragments, was making color notes on a sketchpad while the boys demolished the last of the pie.

“If you had to draw a picture of right now, Allen, what would you draw?” asked Jerry.

“I dunno. How do you draw a picture of nothin’? We’re standing dead still.”

“I used to think so,” said Jerry, “but we’re not, you know. We’re tearing to the eastward as our planet spins at about 500 miles an hour. So are the Sheepscot and The Cuckolds and Seguin and the sea and the shore and the whole state of Maine and everything but the sun; and we’re all leaving that behind us.”

“We’re going around the sun too,” said Jock, “but we’re not leaving that behind us. Just going around and around and around. If we are 95 million miles from the sun and if we went in a circle, we’d be going 3 1/7 times 2 times 95 million miles in 365 1/4 days. I can’t do that in my head.”

“My calculator’s on the shelf over the chart table.” Jock was back in a minute.

“She choked on it but probably it is about 70 thousand miles an hour, allowing for the earth’s orbit being elliptical and not circular.”

“And the whole solar system is going somewhere in a hell of a hurry too, isn’t it?” asked Jerry.

“I guess so. Anyway, we’re spinning and revolving and rushing off God knows where and the only sure thing is we’re not standing still. And the tide is beginning to flood up the river so count that in too.”

During this mathematical excursion, the distant islands had lost their brilliance and turned a smoky blue. A sharp hard line of dark blue had appeared on the silky sea to the south, and the mainsail swung gently to the port side, not yet tightening the sheet. Within a minute, the sheet tightened, Esperance heeled gently, a ripple spread from under the bow, bubbles swept astern, and the tiller came alive under Jock’s hand.

“Head for the lighthouse on The Cuckolds, Jock, while I trim the main sheet. Allen, pass me that jacket on the starboard bunk and take those pastels below when you go. Just set them on the chart table.”

When next Jerry went below to write up the logbook, he found Allen’s pastel of “nothin’.” Green and blue nearby blended, faded, off to a very light blue. The blue met a band of almost-white deepening toward a darker blue. This simple progression of blending colors was a calm day. Jerry with delight tucked it carefully into the back of the logbook.

As Esperance rounded the bell buoy off The Cuckolds and headed for Ram Island Light, its crew began to feel that the day was ending although the clock did not yet say 4:30. Allen felt it first, like a shiver.

He wondered why the light was so yellow, the colors so much brighter, the shadows suddenly so much sharper than they had been in the summer.

Jerry went below for the pastel tin again and Jock speculated that with the sun south of the equator now, twilights were longer because the sun approached the horizon at a gentler angle. Thus the air filtered out more of the sun’s strength, left the light weaker.

As they passed close to Ram Island, each noticed with a different quality of delight the shadow of the mainsail’s peak sliding across the barnacled rocks and leaping up against the lighthouse, standing with its feet in the water, ablaze with sunset.

But before they had ghosted through the ledges at the mouth of Little River and anchored among the lobster boats, the approaching night was climbing the eastern sky, the sea had turned a cold and slaty bluegray, and the spruce trees on the hill to the west were black against a yellow sky. As they rounded up to anchor, Jerry spoke in a subdued voice that fitted the evening.

“Drop your jib, Jock. The downhaul is on the cleat under the port rail.” Esperance swung into the 20

gentle breeze. “Let go your main halyard, Allen, and watch out for that winch handle or it’ll crack you one under the chin.” The mainsail collapsed in a clash of slides.

Jock eased the anchor to the muddy bottom. Esperance settled back, snubbed on the anchor rode, and rested. The boys quickly tied up the sails, feeling the chill and the gathering dark. They dove below to the welcome light and warmth of lamps and a stove on which a pressure cooker already jiggled and hissed.

After supper had been cleared up and Jerry had rigged a lantern in the starboard rigging, he took out a jackknife and a piece of soft pine sawed out in a shape that would become a cormorant standing with wings spread and began to bring the bird out of the block.

“How come you’re an art teacher?” asked Jock. “I mean, you’re so good at being an artist making birds and paintings and plaster figures and all wouldn’t you make more money just being an artist?”

“I’m not an art teacher!” The answer carried more feeling than the question seemed to warrant.

“An art teacher is a contradiction in terms. A teacher is a miserable wretch, shackled to schedules, always writing reports, taking attendance, reporting grades, correcting the fools, punishing the rogues, and herding naturally indolent and amoral youth on to the educational escalator from which he will step a genteel and conforming member of a society devoted to the admiration and perpetuation of its own virtues.

An artist can’t be a teacher.”

Jock was caught flat aback by this passionate answer to his well-intended question. “Well, what are you, then, when a bunch of us come into the studio?”

“I’m sorry, Jock. I didn’t mean to blow you out of the water. I’m an artist in residence. The school gives me a room big enough so I can share it with others and provides us with almost unlimited materials.

Most of the people who come in were born blind and have been blind most of their lives. I try to help those who want to see. When they have learned to see, they will want to talk. I can’t tell them what to say, but I can help them to say it in color, in line, in clay or plaster or wood if they can’t say it in words.”

“What do you mean, ‘born blind’?”

“Not literally, of course. Mathematicians and lawyers are so depressingly literal! Take Fort Popham.

You had a visual impression of it when we passed it this morning. Now that Allen has told you why it was built, you ‘see’ it more clearly. You still don’t see it very clearly, but look at it again tomorrow when we go home. See what makes it look the way it does. How do the shadows lie in the empty gun ports? Are the corners really square? What makes them look square?”

“Why not just take a picture of it?”

“Because a photograph would not show the foundation of fear on which it stands or the ironic pride of a flag of a united nation flying over an abandoned fort dedicated to the killing of its own citizens or the long shadow of history stretching across Popham Beach where gaudy umbrellas shelter bikini-clad sunbathers. Do you begin to catch a glimmer of Fort Popham?”

“Perhaps a glimmer. But I did see the shadow of the mainsail jump over Ram Island Light.”

“What would you give it? A-? Would you like me to write an official comment on it?”

The cormorant was taking on character under the blade of Jerry’s knife. Allen watched the tiny shavings spiral into the bucket set to catch them.

“Another thing -- a teacher has to pretty near teach everyone the same thing like, say, logarithms.

But we each see things differently. I notice that you saw the sunset light on the islands in terms of astronomy and physics while I saw a color that is so rare and changes so fast and whose change is so necessary to its character that it is impossible to put it on paper. What did you see, Allen?”

Jerry guessed that Allen had not thought much about what he had seen, but that he had seen it.

He was intellectually and emotionally and sensuously soaking up every thought, every feeling, every impression that came to his mind. Jerry knew that he was taking a chance of embarrassing him, of breaking him away from his mood, with a direct question, but he took the chance, hoping to start Allen on the creative process of bringing some order out of the chaos of his impressions.

21

Allen paused a moment. “What I have seen all day is winter. I began to see it before school started. I saw it this morning, and I see it gaining on us all the time.”

“Pretty good!” exclaimed Jock. “I feel that way too. It’s closing in on us every day.”

Jerry tossed Allen the little cormorant. “Keep it for a souvenir of today, Allen.” Allen looked at it carefully, felt its shape, and buttoned it into his shirt pocket.

In the night, the wind came in from the south, swung Esperance back against the ebbing tide so the dinghy bumped gently alongside. On deck to clear it, Jerry knew Allen was right; for Orion, ruler of the winter skies, blazed at him from the southern sky.

The next day, homeward bound, it was a different world. After a breakfast under a warm and hazy sun and a half hour in the entrails of the engine with file and screwdriver, Jerry pushed the starter and felt a rush of satisfaction as the engine caught and ran smoothly.

“That’s been on my mind. I thought those points needed a touch of the file. Couldn’t have been much wrong with her, but now she runs better than new. Let’s go sailing.”

The wind was picking up steadily, damp and chilly from the southwest. Esperance at anchor moved rhythmically to the gentle roll that penetrated from outside where the sheltering ledges were breaking in the growing chop.

“I imagine we’ll see some water flying around today. The time to put on your oil clothes is before you get wet.” Jerry tossed Jock’s oil clothes out on deck and found a suit for Allen. Then they set sail, hauled the anchor and beat out of the narrow passage. Outside, with the tide running hard against the increasing wind, a steep chop was building. Esperance tucked her rail down close to it and drove ahead, throwing fans of spray over her weather shoulder, spray which rattled on oil clothes and streamed down the deck.

“Sock it to her, Skipper. Drive her!” shouted Jock, exhilarated by the rush of wind and water. Their course for the mouth of the Kennebec lay almost dead to windward, a long beat. They worked up in the lee of the islands off Boothbay where the water was smooth and the wind puffy, then reached across the rough open entrance of Boothbay to the smoother water under the Southport shore, but there the shelter ended.

They tacked and stood off to the southward as wind and sea increased.

“Smoky sou’wester,” said Jerry, looking at the veiled sun, the graying day. The islands astern were dim silhouettes, and it was entirely too thick to see Seguin to windward. The shores nearby were forms, not colors and shaded off into dimness. The sea was gray, too, and the breaking crests only a dull white.

A mile outside The Cuckolds, Allen, at the tiller, began to feel Esperance was laboring. Instead of thrashing cheerfully through the seas, she was charging them. Not just spray, but dollops of solid water drove over the bow and aft along both decks; no small part of it came airborne into the cockpit. Allen ducked for a big one.

“Only a Maine man ducks a spray,” quoted Jock. “And I know why,” he added. “That stuff is cold!”

“Warm as milk south of Cape Cod,” said Jerry. “I been there.”

Esperance drove hard into a big hollow-faced sea and stopped short while it drained off her. She floated over the next and charged again. Her lee deck was under water most of the time now, and Allen felt that she was suffering. “’Bout time to reef that mainsail,” said Jerry.

“What for?” asked Jock. “This is fun and we don’t want to slow up do we? Can’t she take it?”

“She isn’t really going very fast,” observed Jerry. “She is making a hell of a splash but just watch those bubbles go by. Pretty slow. And we’re sagging off to leeward too. See the angle the wake makes with our course and that slick on the weather quarter? We’ll go faster and make less leeway and stay drier if we tuck in a reef. Sheet that jib down hard and take her while Allen and I get the main off her. Luff her when I call for it, and for God sake, hang on, Allen.”

Allen and Jerry went forward, feeling rugged as they stood up to the weather. Jerry took up on the 22

topping lift, Jock luffed, and Jerry eased away on the main halyard while Allen clawed the sail down. Hove to under jib, the whole scene changed. No more charging, no flying spray. The motion was much easier; the wind seemed more moderate and the seas less menacing. They passed the earrings and tied in the reef points with cold, stiff fingers and re-set the sail. Now the sloop stood up to the wind, her rail just out of water, and rose to the seas instead of hurling herself at them. She seemed to pick her way skillfully between the crests.

A lunch of bread and cheese and a mug of soup – which Jerry contrived to heat on a single-burner gimballed stove – brightened the scene. Seguin came out of the haze ahead, and as they approached the ledges off the Kennebec, the tide began to flood and the sea to subside. It was still very choppy off Pond Island, but once inside Fort Popham, the water smoothed out, the wind came only in heavy puffs, and with the flood tide under them, they swished up the river into Kenniston’s Cove and picked up their mooring.

Jerry set the boys ashore in the dinghy and came back aboard to clean up, a chore he liked to do alone.

With the lunch dishes washed, the reef shaken out and sails furled, lines coiled down, bilge pumped and the clock wound, he opened a bottle of beer to assist in the contemplation of a highly successful weekend.

He had known Jock for two years, knew he was a good hand on a boat, strong, coordinated, and delightfully pleasant and open. His mind, inclined toward contemplation of material things and the reasons why they acted as they did, had been just what was needed to stimulate Allen. He was not surprised that Allen had had little to say, but he was sure that Allen had taken in a great deal, and that some day he would use it to say something deeply moving – like that line of blending color across the sheet in the back of the logbook.

23

Chapter 5 — Indian Summer

T

he old gentleman drove slowly up the drive past the New School past the Headmaster’s house, past Chelsea House, McFarland House, Brackett House, Kenniston House, past the big assembly halllibrary-art studio, and started around the circle again, but stopped this time in front of the New School. He got out of his car just a little stiffly and climbed the wooden steps, stopped to look up at the school seal carved in wood over the door, a compass card with “SCIENTIA VIRES INDUCIT below it.

He had never been a really tall man and now was a little stooped, but he moved quite briskly for a man of eighty. He was dressed appropriately for a visit to the Headmaster in the style of an age now a bit behind us, in white shirt, tweed jacket and necktie. He wore no hat this mild October morning over his abundant gray hair. He looked the image of a retired schoolmaster, and indeed that is what he was.

He turned and looked out over the circle with the tall, white flagpole made from the mizzen mast of one of Captain Kenniston’s schooners, complete with cross trees, gaff and topmast. He watched a puff of October breeze stir the red swallowtail pennant with a yellow K at the topmast head, the house flag of Captain Kenniston’s fleet. At the peak of the gaff flew the United States ensign. His glance circled the drive again, roved to the pond, to the hill beyond, still bright with red and yellow maple. He turned and stepped into the hall through the door held open by a smooth, round beach rock.

“Can I help you, sir?” inquired Pat Goodrich, the Headmaster’s secretary, through the open office door on his left. She sounded as if she really did want to help him.

“Is the Headmaster by chance at liberty for a moment? My name is Hunt, Elwood Alison Hunt. I used to teach here before the war, the Big War, and would like his permission to look about a bit.”

“Oh, when were you here?”

“From 1932 to 1942. I left to join the Navy.”

“That was when Ted Ashley was Headmaster, wasn’t it?”

“A great man, madam. He gave me a running start in teaching, and I suppose you could say I am still running if not still teaching.”

“Well, you don’t really need the Headmaster’s permission to walk around the school, but I am sure he will want to talk with you. He is busy right now, but if you can come back in an hour, I will see that he is free then.”

Mr. Hunt thanked her and stepped out on to the porch again. Were these the same boards he had trod in 1942 when he left Ted Ashley’s office to join the Navy?

He turned to the right, following the drive in front of the Headmaster’s house, a four square, two story building built about the time of the Civil War by Captain Kenniston. After a successful career as a shipmaster, he had come ashore, established a shipyard in what had become known as Coniston’s Cove, built wooden schooners and sent them to sea with cargoes of fish, potatoes, lumber, granite and ice. He had dammed the brook to power his sawmill, and when the ice business developed, had raised the dam, expanded the pond, and cut ice that cooled the drinks of the wealthy from Boston to Rio de Janeiro.

Between the Headmaster’s house and the New School stood the little one-room school, the ancestor of Kennebec Academy, built by Captain Kenniston in 1886 as a convenience for the children of his shipyard workers who lived across the cove.

He stopped at the top of the steep bank to look out over the cove and the broad Kennebec, brown near the shore, blue in the distance, rushing from the mountains to the sea with the ebb tide, the far bank hazy yellow in the gentle fall sunlight. Below him he saw the roof of the boathouse, once a spar shed where 24

skillful adze-men fashioned spars for schooners. Elwood remembered that when he had come as a young man, the shed had been almost in ruins, its roof sagging, its sills rotten. He remembered how his colleagues, Ed Somes and Frank Bacheller, had persuaded Ted Ashley to excuse from football volunteers to fix up the old shed. God! How those kids had loathed football. But they loved square and rule, hammer and saw, and especially the big building jacks that straightened the new sills and brought the ridgepole into line. He could still hear the echo of their hammers driving shingle nails in the still October afternoons.

Now the building, no doubt with another new roof, was stout and strong. In front of it a long, low float stretched out into the cove with a punt tied alongside. On the still water of the cove floated a 30-foot sloop, several small sailboats and a lobster boat. The stairs down the bank were long and steep for creaky knees, so Elwood took the easier road, which came out on a lawn next to the boathouse. The rhythmic swish of fine sandpaper came from the open double doors. A tall man in overalls sanding the bottom of a rowing shell looked up as Elwood’s shadow fell across the floor.

“I’m Elwood Hunt. I used to teach here some years ago. Just looking around. Don’t let me interfere.”

“Glad to meet you. I’m Cap Milliken. I do whatever needs doing. Can’t use a sander on these thinskinned boats – just elbow grease. When were you here, sir?”

“About 100 years ago, seems though. I left to join the Navy in the Big War.” “Before my time. I came in ’57.”

“In my time we never had anyone to take care of the boats. Coaches and managers did it all.”

“Well, I kind of stepped into a bear trap here. I was a rigger at the Iron Works and got a call to come up here and rig new halyards on the flagpole. You know there’s a lot of rigging on that mast for a vessel carrying no sail. Well, sir, I did it. Then waiting for my wife to come and pick me up, I drifted down here to the shore and here’s a shell laid out on horses just like this one with a great split in the planking. We didn’t have plywood shells then or fiberglass ones either. And there was the coach, Whitty Whitmore, that is, standing there looking sadly at it with a whole crowd of boys. He didn’t have time to fix it then and told that crew they couldn’t row that day. We got talking about it and I allowed I could cobble it together somehow. He gave me the glue and tools and a piece of plank, only 3/l6-ths it was, and he went off in the launch to coach the first and second boats. I got it together somehow, and he was real pleased with the job.

The Headmaster, Dr. Oswald it was then, called me and asked me to take the job part time. Now I have a full time job here and fix shells and do a lot of other stuff too. Clean a furnace this afternoon likely.”

“That’s the way I have found it in schools too. The people who are willing to do it, do it; the others …” He shrugged. “Does that sailboat belong to the school?”

“No. That’s Jerry Benson’s boat. He’s the art teacher. Those two small ones – the summer school kids built them this last summer. Neat jobs, too.”

“Thanks, Cap. I won’t trouble you further.” Elwood walked out on the float just because it was there and he liked to feel the river under him, stood on the end in the warm sun smelling the clam flats, swamp grass and salt water, listening to the waterfall spilling over the old milldam from the pond.

Without bothering Cap, he went back up the road, stopped a moment to catch his breath and look over at where the ruins of the ice house had been by the pond, continued around the drive by the houses built in the time of the shipyard’s prosperity by boss carpenters, riggers, and caulkers, who worked in the yard. Now a master and a few boys lived in each.

Chelsea House, McFarland House, Brackett House, raw and new looking when he had left, now had a settled-in look. The flowerbeds beside the walk in front of Chelsea House had been dug up. Someone must be going to plant bulbs for spring. Kenniston House and the assembly hall still stood as he had remembered them although the studio on the back of the latter was new. He remembered how Tod Taylor had exulted over the new stage, had produced plays that people came from two counties to see, got the kids so wound up about it that he started a summer theater. Wonder what happened to Tod? 25

He looked across the well-mowed fields with their white goal posts to the great grey square block of the gym. Not an attractive structure – much bigger than it used to be – no doubt efficient. We called it the Temple of Sweat.

Mr. Sawyer welcomed him into the office. “I’m sorry I could not greet you when you arrived, Mr. Hunt, but I had a sticky case of bullying to deal with and had to carry through with it.” The Headmaster set a chair for him before the picture window, back to the desk, and another for himself.

“Well, Mr. Hunt, after your inspection do you find things much changed from the days before the war?”

“My first name is Elwood, a convenient handle, sir. No, not changed a great deal. The old ice house and the mill have gone. There was a shaky old wharf, but I understand Ted Ashley – he was Headmaster then – had it demolished before someone got hurt on it. The boat house is much more elegant now and you have a few new buildings.”

“I wonder about the spirit of the school, the feel of it. Is it still the kind of school it was?”

“I really don’t know. It is the people that make the difference, and I have only met three people this morning: you, your secretary, and a fellow named Cap at the boathouse. A very pleasant fellow.”

“Indeed he is, and a vital part of the school. He is in charge of maintenance for the whole place. But tell me how it was in the 1930’s. Was there any of the feel of the old days left then?”

“There were still people around who remembered Captain Kenniston. He established the school in 1903, I think it was, on the site of his shipyard, originally for the families who lived here and worked in the yard. He left the school 500 acres, the buildings, wharves and sheds, most of his fortune and his house flag.

More important than these, he left it an ideal, a conviction, that a good man can do anything well … But I am afraid I bore you. Old men talking of ‘the way it used to be’ tend to be unduly garrulous, not to say windy.”

“Not at all, Elwood. The history of this school has never been written and we know too little about it. Carry on. Would you mind if I started my tape recorder?”

“Oh no. It probably won’t even slow me up. Well, to continue.

“Captain Kenniston himself could team a yoke of oxen, fell a tree on a peg, swim the river, or build a vessel, load her with Kennebec ice, sail her to India and get home for Christmas, loaded to the scuppers with coffee and pepper, teak, calico and cloves. He founded a school where a young man would be judged not on one standard but on many standards, where he would be admired and rewarded for what he could do and would do and did do and not damned for what he could not do.

“Fortunately the Captain found for his first Headmaster Mr. Emmons, a man who had sailed with him before the mast as a youth, then gone to Bowdoin and on into teaching. By the time I got to Kennebec, Captain Kenniston and Mr. Emmons were but legends in the minds of our older colleagues, but their stories of the old days carried the tradition. They told of how one spring two boys against orders were skating on the shore ice along the river when a pan they were on broke off and went spinning down the river on the tide, crowded in among a lot of smaller cakes. They yelled, of course. Mr. Emmons, then close to seventy, heard them, hailed the nearest man for help, and sprinted for the shore. They shoved off in a leaky skiff, the man bailing and the Headmaster at the oars. He found he could not row among the small cakes of ice all around, so he leaped aft, put one oar over the stern, and sculled that skiff through the jostling cakes. He got the boys aboard and set them ashore two miles down stream, soaking wet. They all four walked home together over the frozen mud of the dirt road, the ice crackling on their wet clothes and arrived chilled to the bone and dead tired. The Old Man gave them a solid lecture on the perils of spring ice and of disobeying orders, a mug of hot tea sweetened with molasses and laced with rum, and then conducted prayers and study hall as usual.

When I was here, the feeling was still in the air that the man who could and would find a way to meet the challenge was the man to admire. We had all kinds in Kenniston Hall where I lived. There was Sam Sewall, a big boy, a junior – very sharp. I think he had a visual memory, a photographic memory. He could 26

look at a steamer going up the river by the school in the morning and that night tell you how many lifeboats she had on her port side. He could look at a map of the battle of Gettysburg and later tell you how the 20th Maine seized Little Round Top and where Pickett’s charge started. He was an all-A man. He was rather fat, but strong and tough inside. He played halfback and was an adversary to be feared. We liked Sammy all right, but he was just a little arrogant, just a little too sure he was right. He went his own way without much concern for others.

Then there was Peanut Kelley. He was little, of course, and pretty quiet. I taught him math, and it was no easy task. I couldn’t hold his mind on the job. He would follow a problem on the board with serious eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, watching the x’s drift to one side of the equation, the fractions disappear, perhaps even seeing the solution coming up, and then I would lose him into another world. His eyes would drop, his pencil doodle in his notebook, and he would all but disappear himself. He wrote some remarkably good poetry for the magazine. I intended to bring you one this morning, but I couldn’t find it last night. It was about ebb tide on the river. You could see the rush of all the rain in the state of Maine running down that river before you, with the flats baring out and a vessel going down to sea with the fair tide under her. But there was more to it than that. It made me feel sad and sort of quivery. He was a weird kid, that Peanut,” Hunt paused. “Why do I run on like this?”

“Go on, Elwood.”

“Your mention of bullying brought it to mind. Well, I was going to tell you about Sammy and another kid named Ike. Ike had a single room on the ground floor. He was a loner, sort of shy and scaredlike. He was a nice lad, but no one paid much attention to him.

One spring evening, one of the first days it was warm enough to be outside in your shirtsleeves between supper and study hall, I heard Sammy snapping a great bullwhip he had brought back from Wyoming. It was about ten feet long with a lash on the end and snapped like a rifle. Sammy said it would take the hide off a buffalo. He got to snapping it around and telling kids, “Dance or I’ll skin you!” and snapping the whip at their heels. He never hit anyone, but they danced all right, pretending not to be scared.

That loner, Ike, came along the path toward the dorm minding his own business.

“Dance,” said Sammy, “Dance, Ike, or I’ll snap the hide off you.” He was just kidding, of course; but Ike didn’t know how to dance and just kept going. Sammy gave the whip an almighty crack just ahead of Ike, and Ike stopped short.

“Dance, Ike, or I’ll snap the buttons off your fly.” The other kids, relieved perhaps at not being snapped at themselves, shouted, “Dance, Ike! Dance!” Ike stood still, dead white.

“Dance, Ike.” Sammy snapped the whip behind him and Ike bolted for his room in panic, everyone pelting after him.

“Come on out, Ike, and dance.” SNAP went the whip, or we’ll come in and shave you all over.”

Ike must have pushed the bureau against the door and the bed against the bureau.

“Drown him out! Drown him out!” Someone got a wastebasket of water and poured it on the floor so it ran under the door. They started a bucket brigade.

“Get him through the window.”

“Bust the door.!” CRACK went the whip.

“Shave Ike! Shave Ike! Shave Ike!” Then Peanut Kelley exploded. Dreamy little Peanut who had never hit anyone in his life, had looked in the window, seen Ike braced against the wall holding the bed against the bureau against the door, nearly ankle deep in water and looking with terror at the faces crowding the window.

“Peanut went at Sammy like a hornet, grabbed the whip out of his astonished hand, and swung it at him with all he had. He didn’t know how to snap it, but he left a red welt across Sammy’s astonished face, and big Sammy fled, Peanut laying it across him as he ran. Then Peanut turned on the rest of the crowd and drove them like chickens.

27

“When I arrived on the scene, Peanut was alone in front of Ike’s silent door, sobbing with nervous exhaustion. Later that evening, after we got Ike calmed down and Peanut had gone to bed, I asked Sammy why he had done such a cruel thing as pick on Ike.” “Oh, I didn’t want to hurt him. We were just having a little fun with him. Can’t he take a joke? No one meant anything by it. Of course we wouldn’t really shave him. No big deal.”

“I don’t think that big, bright, insensitive barbarian ever did comprehend what he had done, for all his A’s and his letter sweaters, but the rest of the dorm knew and were silently ashamed.”

Elwood slumped back in his chair, staring up the river into a day half a century gone.

“We don’t seem to have changed a great deal, Elwood. At least I don’t think we have.”

“Can you tell me more about Ted Ashley? I have heard that he practically re-established the school.”

“He did. But talking about those days seemed to take it out of me somehow. I better go along.”

“I hope you’ll come again and tell us more. You may be just the man to write a proper history of the school.”

“Another day. May I come back and in a manner haunt the school like a pleasant old ghost? I would like that.”

“You certainly may, and you’ll be more than welcome. Any time you like.”

Mr. Hunt stepped out with a pleasant nod to Pat and drove off leaving an aura of history behind him.

28

Chapter 6 — Tigers

T

he faculty was sitting at coffee in the Common Room after dinner; drawing breath at the end of a long day. Mr. Johnson, who had the study hall duty, put out his cigarette, drained his coffee cup, picked up his clipboard and, holding it over his head as if sheltering himself from a storm, shut the hall door behind him.

Mr. Henderson, varsity soccer coach, tall, grey athletic, a living example of the young man who never grows up, asked, “Gus, how did you ever draw XY soccer for a fall sport? I thought you were a crosscountry man.”

“He is.” said Mr. Allbright, “I saw him the first day of school running the Ancient History class around the driveway to shake the devil out of them. He did it, too.”

“I guess,” said Gus Cunningham, “that I was odd man out. It seems everyone wants to coach crosscountry and tennis these days and no one wants XY soccer.”

“Sure don’t,” said Henderson, “It’s the pit of perdition and a sink hole of athletic iniquity. It is the last refuge of the incompetent and apathetic. Every mother’s son of them has two left feet and couldn’t hit the butt end of a cow with a shovel.”

“They aren’t all that bad,” said Gus, “It’s true that there are some pretty clumsy boys there. Little Joe Manson runs like a duck. I put him in the Allagash game when we were seven goals behind. When I called him off the bench, he looked alarmed and confused.

“Little Joe, take out Sandy at left inside on the next whistle. Do you know what to do?”

“Run.” said Little Joe. “Which way?” I asked, and he had it wrong. But he tried. The ball came to him once. He took a swing at it. It spun off his foot and he fell down, but he had a foot on the leather.”

“Has Sandy been out to practice in the last two weeks? He keeps hanging around the infirmary asking for excuse notes, or he has an extra help session, or he falls asleep in the dorm.”

“No,” admitted Gus, “he hasn’t done much and neither have several others.”

“It must have been a long season,” said Mr. Henderson. “What is your record, coach of the year?”

“We are three and four right now. We wouldn’t be that good except that Fairfield and Naples have the same problem we do with a bottom team and we got lucky for 30 seconds with Hastings.”

“Big game Saturday, Gus?” “Yep, Penobscot.”

“You’ll get slaughtered.”

“Probably, but we’re going to have fun doing it.”

“How do you figure that? Those guys, if you can round up eleven of them, won’t do anything. They are intellectuals who would rather do something else, or dead beats who would rather do nothing.”

“Just let me use your Varsity locker room for ten minutes before the game, OK?” During the study hall break Little Joe Manson and Sandy were arguing about a geometry problem.

Well how would you find the height of the flagpole and measure the rope?” said Little Joe. “Stupid duck foot,” said Sandy “Yeah, well if you’re so smart, how are you going to get out of playing in that moldy soccer game tomorrow? It’s a fool’s game.”

“I’ll find a way.”

But neither boy found a way. Indeed, all fifteen of the team answered the roll call when Coach 29

mustered his forces in the locker room. They were curious. He had announced at lunch that the Tigers would meet in the Varsity locker room before the game. The school had roared with laughter; but the team was there.

“What is this guy doing?” asked Sandy.

“He’s bananas. He’s out of his tree,” said Little Joe. Mr. Cunningham reached into a box in front of him and pulled out a sweatshirt. He took off his coat and pulled it over his head. It said COACH in huge letters on the front. He hung a whistle around his neck on a shoelace.

“All right, men,” said Gus addressing his motley group of gangly fifteen-year-olds. “This is it. This is the big one. If we want a .500 record, we have to beat Penobscot. He reached into the box and pulled out a bright red shirt in Kennebec colors with a snarling tiger in yellow on the front. You’re Tigers now. Every one of you is a Tiger. Put these on.” He tossed, them out one by one, calling each man’s name: “Little Joe, George, Andy, Eddie, Sandy, Alec.” Last of all came a red and yellow striped shirt, with a tiger, “Billy Harvey, our impenetrable goalie.”

Sandy didn’t quite know what to make of this. Funny things were happening inside him. He knew that XY soccer was no tiger team. He knew as well as he knew a2 + b2 = c2 that they were going to get slaughtered. He knew Mr. Cunningham knew it too and that he was just kidding all the way, but he looked so serious, even in that silly sweat shirt, that Sandy put on the tiger shirt to go along with the gag.

“Listen, men,” went on Gus; the red-shirted Tigers clustered around. “No team like ours ever had a .500 record and we’re going to be the first. Number 1, get it? We’re going out there to win that game. We’ve won three and we’ll win this one. We are going to use just one play. It is called Dynamic Defense.”

“He must be kidding,” thought Sandy. “He must be.”

Gus looked fiercely serious, just like the coach in the Frank Merriwell books. “Fullbacks feed the center half. That’s Sandy. Halfbacks feed the wings. That’s Alec and George. Wings shoot at the goal, insides shoot at the goal. Center shoot at the goal and score. Now when you trot out on that field, go all together and remember; we’re the Tigers. No one gets by us. Let’s go!”

Those gangly boys, too clever, too sophisticated to fall for this phony pep talk, caught a glint in Gus Cunningham’s eye that said “Play along with it and let’s pretend we’re big time athletes.” And they did it, laughing at the big time athletes and laughing at themselves. Taking it half seriously and half in jest, they trotted out on the field.

Still half kidding each other, beginning to mean it, they clustered round the coach all joined hands and cheered, and ran out on the field, almost proud of being Tigers. The whistle shrilled, and the game began. Back and forth flew the ball mostly in the Kennebec end. The fullbacks were terrific – fearless.

Whenever the ball came near, they charged it. Sometimes they charged the man too. Tommy at left fullback got a yellow card for unnecessary roughness and a little later he charged again and knocked his man endways. The ref came over to Gus. “Coach, that left fullback is too rough. I am going to have to throw him out.”

“Do what you have to do.” said Gus. “You’re the ref.”

The ref warned Tommy again and the game went on. Again the opposing wing came in. Tommy, who had never knocked anyone down in his life before, was intoxicated with his newly discovered physical power. Again he charged the ball. Again fouled his man.

Whistle.

“Leave the game, Number 23.”

Incredible. Tommy Brown, poet, musician, debater – kicked out of a game for roughness! Tommy came to the sidelines, almost tearful.

“What does he think I am, coordinated or something?” sniffled Tommy.

Penobscot scored.

30

Kennebec’s XY soccer had seen this before. “Here,” said coach Gus, to himself, “we die.”

But this was a new team: Tigers.

Again the ball came into their end. The right fullback, Tim Feineman, a violinist, swung his big left foot at the ball, almost missed it, put a terrific spin on the ball. It hit his own post and bounced in. 2-0 Penobscot.

Seconds remained in the half. On the kickoff the ball came back to Sandy at center half. For once he hit it square and hard, high over the heads of rushing Penobscots. Duckfooted Little Joe saw it fly and paddled down under it as fast as he could. It landed ahead of him and bounced toward the Penobscot goalie.

Little Joe ran faster than ever he had before. Just as he came up to the ball, he crashed to the ground, cut down from behind by the Penobscot fullback.

Whistle. “From the rear,” shouted the ref. Penalty kick for Kennebec.

And the half ended 2-1.

Coach Cunningham gave the Tigers a mental massage in the halftime. No one knew whether he was kidding any more. He didn’t quite know himself.

In the second half the battle swayed to and fro, Kennebec supported by red shirts, an entirely new feeling of desperate loyalty, and very little skill. Gus kept the four substitutes on the sidelines. Alec had been out for the whole third period, and the game was getting tighter. Again and again the tailbacks fed Sandy who tried to get it to the wings. They missed it, they weren’t there, or the ball went out. Sometimes they got it and tried to cross it. Never could they get it close in. Alec, still on the sidelines was frustrated out of his skull.

“Put me in, coach, put me in.” pleaded Alec, the chemist who never played if he could get out of it.

“Put me in, coach. I want to taste blood.” Coach Cunningham nearly choked to death on that and put him in at wing.

“Dynamic Defense.” shouted Sandy.

“Dynamic Defense.” echoed Little Joe and Bill and Alec. “Dynamic Defense!” To halfback, to wing, flew the ball. Across the field it came, high and fast. Alec, carried away, saw it coming down, knew he should head it, didn’t dare, stood under it and shut his flatfooted eyes. It bounced off his head and he crumpled to the ground.

Groggily he got up. Tigers were pounding him, cheering, messing up his hair. He had actually scored and tied the game.

As the fourth quarter drew toward a close, and it began to get dark, Varsity and JV players on the next field felt that something was happening next to them. They clustered along the sidelines, first laughing, then cheering derisively, then really cheering. “Go, Tigers – Aaargh!”

Little Joe was playing inside in a daze of exhaustion, of heightened emotion and of determination hitherto untested. Again and again the ball came down the field and again and again he missed or lost out to a Penobscot or kicked it over the sideline. Once more it came down. Alec on the wing crossed it over once again. Little Joe would not be beaten again. He rushed the ball, took a mighty swipe at it, hit it sideways and sent it spinning toward the far post, which it hit and spun in.

Deafening cheers from the sidelines. His team piled all over Little Joe. Even Coach Cunningham rushed out on the darkening field to mess up his hair. And the game ended 3-2.

Out on the field, the Kennebec teams, cheering and yelling. The Tigers didn’t know what to do. They were overwhelmed, dazed. Varsity Coach Henderson ran up to Little Joe, not clear as to just how the play had developed or what position Little Joe had played, wing, inside or center.

“Hey, Web-foot,” said Henderson excitedly, “what are you?”

“Me?” said Little Joe, the mathematician, “Me? I’m a Tiger.”

31

Chapter 7 — Why Did You Do It?

A

lumni Day at Kennebec Academy. Here come the old-timers, white-headed, gray-headed, some too fat, some dried up and skinny, looking odd in the baseball caps passed out at registration. Some younger ones towing sons and daughters. Some still in college looking self-conscious. Friendly people shaking hands, dimly remembering each other, straining to read the name on the sticky label.

Lunch with the school in the dining hall. Extra tables set up in the adjacent common room.

Clashing of knives and forks, rattle of plates, talking, talking, talking.

“What was it like when you were here?”

“Do they still celebrate old Captain Kenniston’s birthday?”

“In my time we used to …”

The Headmaster taps on his water glass. Conversation dribbles into silence.

“Coffee will be served in the faculty room. When you have finished your coffee, we will gather briefly in the Assembly Hall before the soccer and football games.”

In the Assembly Hall, much shuffling of feet, people climbing over people’s knees, squashing over to make room on the worn benches.

The Headmaster stands.

“Students, former students, friends, It is a pleasure indeed … This afternoon I am not going to tell any jokes. I am not going to ask you for money – although money is always needed and always welcome.

An almost-alumnus has asked me for an opportunity to speak to you today. He has a debt to pay the schoo1 and he has come back today to pay it. It is a privilege to introduce Mr. George B. Midlander, Director of the Meteorological Research Laboratory at the Great University and well-known to our basketball team as the coach from the Youth Detention Center whose team spoiled our undefeated season last March. Mr. Midlander.”

“Gentlemen – and I include Headmaster, faculty, students, and former students. Anyone else is welcome to eavesdrop. I stand before you today to answer a question that I could not answer twenty years ago. I was a senior then. We were taking the final geometry examination in the gym. You know the scene.

Rows of tablet armchairs, rows of shirt-sleeved boys, heads bent, pens and pencils slanted, busy. Proctors pacing up and down the rows, patiently, watchfully patrolling.

Hand up. “Sir, may I sharpen my pencil?”

Whispered permission. Restless feet. Smell of new-cut June grass through the open windows. The slow march of the clock. At last, one boy stands, gathers coat, bluebook, pencils, walks to the front table, drops the bluebook, smiles, “Not too bad.”

Another and then another.

I finished, got up to go out, laid my bluebook on the pile. The proctor noticed that I had forgotten to write my teacher’s name on the cover of the book. I whipped my pen out of my shirt pocket and with it came a card with a number of significant geometry formulae on it. It fell, face up on the desk.

That did it. I was fired.

In the course of that painful process, the then Headmaster, Dr. Jennings, asked me a question I could not answer. I sat on a hard chair in his office unable to say a word.

“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you do it?” He really wanted to know; and I could only mumble miserably.

“I don’t know.”

32

I didn’t need to cheat. I could have done well enough on the examination without the card. I was under no great pressure to get an A. Even with the card, I doubt if I would have had an A. I knew it was a dishonest act. I knew I was taking an unfair advantage of the rest of the class. Dr. Jennings asked again, “Why did you do it?” And I had no answer.

Of course I got no diploma, and Dartherst College, which had accepted me in January, withdrew the acceptance. Ever since then, I have been searching for an answer to Dr. Jennings’ question.

My uncle got me a place on a meteorological research team on an expedition to Alaska, and during a long, long night I had a chance to come at an answer, and I have been working on it ever since. It has been a painful process, and telling you the answer will be painful too, but I owe it to Dr. Jennings and to the school.

“Why did you do it?”

When I was in the ninth grade, three of us sat together in Latin class. We were good friends, in and out of scrapes together. One warm spring day we were having a vocabulary test. The windows were open and a lawnmower was roaring up and down outside. Mr.––I won’t tell you his name––gave the word mensa. I didn’t know it. Just then the lawnmower crescendoed under the window. I looked a question. Joe whispered, “mind.”

I wrote it down. Jack kicked my ankle. I showed him my paper.

Now mensa does not mean mind. It means table. There is no way in the world, however bad your handwriting, that you can make mind look like table. The next day the teacher called the three of us to his desk after class.

“How did you all three, sitting next to each other, make the same mistake?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I really thought mensa meant mind.”

“So did I.” “So did I.” “I can’t believe that. Which of you was cheating? Or were all three cheating?”

“Oh no, sir. We wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, sir,” I tried, “mensa does sound like mens. Maybe I didn’t hear you clearly.”

“Mens wasn’t in the lesson. It is a third declension word, and you know very well I didn’t say it.

Who cheated?” He looked at us hard, each in turn.

And he dropped it. He did no more about it. He just let it go, and we got away with it.

After that we developed a cooperative method of studying vocabulary. Each of us learned a third of the words and we shared the wealth. We never got caught again although we must have made the same sort of triple mistake several times. But no one did anything about it.

Another time, the next year it was, we cooked up a plan for a night out in town. There was a new teacher at our table in the dining room who had not yet learned our names. We got three day boys to sit in our seats at dinner and in our desks at study hall. We had a good dinner at Leo’s Lunch and a beer and were having a smoke afterwards when Mr.––I won’t tell you his name––came in with some lady. He saw us, looked embarrassed, sat down in another booth. After a minute he came over.

“What are you guys doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in study hall?”

“Well, we had to go for our physical exams, and Mrs. Everhart is going to take us back to school and she said it would be all right if we had dinner first.”

“She didn’t ask you to dinner?”

“She had company.”

“Well, … OK.” Of course he reported us. We told the same story to the Assistant Headmaster. He called Mrs. Everhart to check up and she covered for us.

“Oh yes, I gave the boys permission. After the doctor, you know.” The Assistant Headmaster was 33

busy and the matter was dropped.

We were grateful to Mrs. Everhart.

“The administration is everyone’s enemy,” she said. “Glad to help. Boys will be boys.”

Another time, I chipped a tooth playing hockey. The dentist fixed it up and said, “That will be twenty dollars cash, thirty if I bill your folks.”

“Why the difference?”

“If they pay by check and deduct it as a medical expense the IRS computer will check to see if I included it as income and take a third of it. Cash they can’t follow. Everyone deals in cash if they can.”

Well, I had a twenty so we settled that.

So it went. Nobody cares. Everyone does it. Boys will be boys.

Down at the boathouse I needed a wrench to tighten the nut on a rigger bolt. I took a six-inch adjustable, a neat little tool out of the tool box, used it, put it in my pocket and “forgot” to put it back – never did put it back “Let them take it out of my overtime.” I said to myself.

“Isn’t that my wrench?” asked the coach.

“No sir. I got it at the hardware store.”

His tools each had a swatch of blue paint on the handle, but he never looked to see. Would rather buy a new wrench and charge it to the school than confront me with stealing his.

So it went. Nobody cares. Everybody does it. Boys will be boys. Take it out of my overtime. Don’t get involved. That’s his problem, not mine.

By the time I had got to be a senior, dishonesty – for that is what it was – lying, cheating, and stealing – had got to be a habit. Conscience, the moral sense, of which I had had little at the age of fourteen, had been stunted in its development and numbed.

“Everybody does it,” I said. I studied for exams, but to be on the safe side, I carried a crutch and got to depend on it.

So, Dr. Jennings, that’s why I did it. Too many people – and I have not told you anything like all of them – were willing to let it slide, to avoid getting involved, to excuse or ignore what they knew very well was dead wrong by saying to themselves, “What George does is none of my business.”

Then there comes a big scandal like my card on the table after the geometry exam or someone on the Naval Academy football team violating the Honor System, or Watergate, or Ed Meese, or the Iran-Contra affair or a big stock swindle; and all the little people who have been pulling shady little deals themselves look for someone big to punish publicly and they always find someone. And quite justly too, for the scapegoat in these cases is indeed guilty himself, but the essence of finding a scapegoat is to pile all the sins of everyone else on his back and enjoy one’s own purity in contrast to the blackness of the scapegoat’s crime.

I do not excuse what I did. It was wrong. And I have tried very hard not to repeat the offense in any form. But the world we live in has a great many morally slippery places.

Dr. Jennings, wherever you are, I hope you can hear my answer to your question.”

34

Chapter 8 — It’s How You Play the Game

J

oe Rotch, captain of Kennebec’s football team, lay in bed watching a cold, raw easterly wind lift the curtains of his open window. Today was his last day as football captain, the day of the climactic “big game” with Penobscot. Some climax! Neither team had won a game all season. Whoever lost would be the league’s doormat.

“At least,” thought Joe, “it doesn’t have to be us. We ought to be able to pull this one out somehow.

Those guys can’t be that good, anyway,” his thoughts rambled on. “Thanksgiving weekend is coming up, and no matter what happens today, it will be all over by then and I’ll get home. I suppose Father will be away in Chicago as usual, but Ma and Sally will be there and I’ll get something fit to eat for a change.” As the turkey was borne in before his mind’s eye, a flung pillow blew it away.

“C’mon, Champ – up and at ’em!” said Sam, his roommate. “Today’s the big day. Today we win one. Stover at Yale? Left Tackle Todd! Roger Stahbach to the rescue? GO GO GO!” “Don’t put me in, coach; I’m not ready,” moaned Joe, reaching for one last comfortable moment before the day began.

But Sam was already out of bed, pulling up his pants.

“Let’s see a little leadership here. Anyway, it isn’t whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.”

“Screw you! If I hear that crack about three times more, I’ll turn into a monkey up a palm tree. I’ll slug someone. I swear to God I will. Anyway, we don’t have to lose today. We almost won the Machias game; and if Timmy can play today, we can pass them silly.”

“How to go, Cap.” said Sam as he slammed the window down and the door shut on his way to the john.

It was a “hard old day.” The theme that Mr. Floyd returned in English class was covered with neat corrections and suggestions in Mr. Floyd’s careful handwriting, done as always with a fine-point fountain pen in red ink.

‘Occasionally’ was spelled wrong.

A comma is used after an introductory adverb clause.

A period is considered an ornament at the end of a sentence.

Be specific.

Don’t tell me; show me.

The sentence “It was not too wet.” drew the query, “How wet is too wet?”

This is a barbaric expression.

The back of the paper was completely filled with a neat essay in red ink on a system for the clear organization of academic essays, on the wise selection of specific detail, and the value of correct–or at least conventional–spelling and punctuation. It was not sarcastic – indeed, it was constructive and rather neatly put; but Joe was too depressed to read it all. The D+ at the top was all he saw.

The class went on around him, a small class in senior English, engaged at the moment in discussing that tense moment in Hamlet when the prince discovers that the fencing match has been rigged against him.

Mr. Floyd was really rather deeply moved by the crisis in the life of the prince, and for the moment Joe was carried with him.

“Before the match, Hamlet knew that the king had murdered his father, seduced his mother, robbed him of the throne, and plotted against his life. Horatio had told him that the fencing match would be 35

something other than a fair contest. Thus far, he had been quite incapable of doing anything about it, despite sure proof and two excellent opportunities, – except write his uncle’s name down in his notebook! Why, then, did the discovery that Laertes had been using a sharp and poisoned foil and that his mother had been poisoned with wine intended for him cause this heretofore painfully confused lad to spring upon his uncle, force the poisoned wine between his teeth, and stab him repeatedly with the poisoned sword? It all happens in one line: The point envenom’d too?...Here, thou incestuous, mud’rous damned Dane, Drink off this potion.”

Ed Harris began an answer to the question, which did not interest Joe at all. His mind drifted away from the problems of a fictitious emotionally disturbed youth in another century and another country. Right here and now, everything was so lousy! The gloomy sky, the somber hill across the river, dark green with spruce now the last bright leaves were gone, the lead-gray river, the strip of brown grass under the window, the dull room, painted a putty color above and below the slate blackboard and enlivened only with a faded picture of a whaling ship which would be relevant to Moby Dick in the winter term, a tired literary map of England, and a portrait of Longfellow, on which some adolescent humorist had sketched an extravagant moustache. And the paper before him was a failure. He had really tried hard to do a good job, he told himself, but himself was not really convinced, for he knew he had ripped it off on the typewriter at six o’clock one morning, hurrying to finish it before breakfast.

“And Joe, how do you think a longtime loser could suddenly become a winner?” The question crashed through the paper wall of his reverie. “Loser.” Joe winced.

Mr. Floyd knew before he was half through the question that he had put it the wrong way. It would hurt. Both as quarterback and captain, Joe took his team’s defeats personally; and Mr. Floyd, although no great athlete himself, had lost a few and sympathized. But once the word “loser” was out, there was nothing he could do but finish the sentence. Apology would only rub in salt.

Joe was caught flat-footed. Hamlet had drifted a long way into the back of his mind. The question, only half heard, seemed to have a more immediate relevance anyway.

“I dunno. Maybe it was just his time had come to win the big one.” It was a stupid answer, just grabbed off the shelf, and Joe braced for embarrassment. But Mr. Floyd seized on the answer. It was close enough to what he had been looking for. The period was almost over, and he could perhaps pour a little balm on Joe’s wound at the same time.

“You’re right, Joe. That is perhaps the best answer anyone could give, and Shakespeare in his characteristic way has already given it. You remember that in conversation with Horatio before the match, Hamlet had said with considerable emphasis, ‘The readiness is all.’ When the time comes, I will do what I have to do, whatever it may be. He was thinking of death when he said it, and indeed the poison was already in his veins when he acted; but when the time came to move, he moved!

“If anyone is unhappy about his grade on the paper I handed back at the beginning of the period, come and see me. I will be on duty in the dormitory this weekend. And good luck in…

The bell rang suddenly, stridently, unconcerned in its pre-programmed course what it might be so rudely interrupting.

The class left, chattering.

“Maybe today, Joe, your team is ready. This is the big one, isn’t it? But win or lose, we’re all behind you.”

Thank God he didn’t say anything about the way you play the game. That would have done it. “Yes sir, thank you, sir. The boys will appreciate it I’m sure. We’ll do it today.”

“The readiness is all,” mused Mr. Floyd. “How durable the poets are!”

After third period Joe went to the school post office for his mail – Box 138 in a wall of little glassed pigeonholes. There was the welcome white diagonal of a letter across the glass, a letter from home. It was short, hastily written, and had a check in it.

36

Dear Joe, Something has come up in the business and your father has to be in Chicago again on Thanksgiving.

I think it is important for several reasons that Sally and I are with him so there will be no one at home.

You won’t mind staying at school this time, will you? Use the enclosed to be good to yourself and we look forward to Christmas.

P.S. Hope you win Saturday.

Love, Ma

That did it – washed it out! “Jee–sus!” exploded Joe. “Stay in this Christ-forgotten hole for Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday!” He did not often swear. The trick of drawing out the name of his savior into two distinct and equally accented syllables gave him some satisfaction. The adjective he had picked up from Cap Milliken, director of maintenance, lobsterman, and JV crew coach. It was some help but not much, for misery spread gray wings of doubt over him again. What are the “several reasons” why his mother had to be in Chicago? Did it have anything to do with that bright, sexy woman his father had taken him to lunch with in New York?

Fullback Ed Harris passed by, collected his mail, and stopped to pick up a slip off the floor. “This yours, Joe? Looks like it fell out of your box. I got one too.” It was just a folded piece of paper with his name on the outside and a single typed sentence within: “The football team will eat in the small dining room at 12.”

“What’s up?” asked Ed “Don’t know. Coach prob’ly wants us to eat early so we won’t have the heartburn at game time.”

“Hey - good move. We’ll get ’em today. You’ll see. Kick ’em the hell out of the way, and I’ll go through that line for ten every time.” Ed tucked his books under his arm, charged down to the post office, swung hard left at the door, shouting “Reverse” and was gone.

“What a kook,” said Joe out loud. “He might even do it this time.”

At lunch in the small dining room delight overflowed when the managers, serving as waiters, brought in a platter of steaks for each table. “Fresh cooked and red in the middle! How about that! We’ll tear ’em apart this afternoon.” The coach began to tell his old story about how two Yale men tried to psych out the great Harvard captain, Barry Wood, when Mr. Sawyer, the Headmaster, stepped in.

“Gentlemen, the peons are eating beans and hot dogs today for lunch, but it did not seem appropriate to me on this important occasion to afflict with beans and hot dogs men who have ahead of them a very strenuous afternoon. You need red meat, and I am glad to see that Mr. Healey has given these steaks his personal attention. Go ahead and eat them while they’re hot.”

Mr. Sawyer dropped his mock-heroic pose, leaned against the door frame as if he had nothing else in the world to do, and reminisced about his school and college athletic experiences, great moments in earlier Kennebec games, particularly games against Penobscot. He remembered the year Penobscot had had two ends, each well over six feet tall, and a quarterback who could throw a football like an anti-tank rocket. The score had been astronomical, and at the post-game tea the Penobscot coach was heard to remark, rather too loudly to be tactful, that the day when Kennebec beat Penobscot would be the day he gave up football.

Penobscot came to the banks of the Kennebec the next year – tough, skillful, and determined as ever, but purged by graduation. The battle raged for three quarters, scoreless, up and down the field. Early in the fourth quarter, a Kennebec guard broke through the line, blocked a Penobscot punt, and chased it over the goal line for six points. The conversion failed, and Kennebec played over its head for seven minutes to win the game.

37

“That game ball, rather sadly deflated to be sure, is on the top shelf of the trophy case right now,” concluded Mr. Sawyer.

He left the room in an aura of battles hard fought and victory hard won. Joe led his team to the gym for pre-game taping, feeling strong, quick, and ready to go. Sam was gamboling about among the others.

“Psyched up, are you? Old Sticky-Fingers Tim is back with us today. Watch us go-go-go…”

In front of the gym stood a yellow school bus from which young men descended and filed into the visiting team room. The kidding stopped while Kennebec took its first look at the opposition. In street clothes, nothing special.

The familiar smell, compounded of wintergreen, tape, sweaty pads, soap, and the disinfectant used to wash the floor swept over Joe as he and the coach entered last and stopped just inside the door.

“Joe, we’ve got to do it today and we’ve got to do it in the first half. Timmy is all right to play, but he may not be able to go the distance, and he hasn’t worked out for ten days. The guys are tired and some of them aren’t in too hot shape. If we get behind, I’m afraid we’ve had it. Start fast. Play the first period like it was the last. If Sam and Ed can gain on the ground, grind it out and use Tim on third down if you have to. You and Sam will have to play both ways, but I’ll put in the defensive line and Murphy to help you back them up. Watch Campbell, their fullback, number 32. He is fast. If the ends can turn him in, we should be able to stop him with what we have in the middle. Let him know early in the game that he is going to get hit very, very hard every time he takes the ball. Understand? If you can keep our guys psyched up, we can win; but if they get down, they can’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag.”

Twenty-five players slammed their locker doors, hauled out pads, undressed. Someone began to pound a locker, shouting rhythmically “Kill, kill, kill, kill…” Others joined. The racket was deafening.

From behind the grill whence were dispensed towels, ankle wraps, and shoe laces, Jimmie, the storekeeper bellowed over the racket, “Pipe down. Save it for Penobscot.”

Two managers came through with water jugs and wooden trays of paper cups. Mr. Edgehill clanged and clashed the chains and down markers on the concrete floor, urging on everyone he saw. He had coached most of them during one of the last two years as they had come up through the freshman team. Laces tightened around hip and shoulder pads. Red-and-yellow shirts blossomed against gray lockers. Cleats rasped and clacked on the floor and quieted. The coach spoke: “I haven’t much to say today. I’ve said it all before. Get out there and warm up well. It’s going to be a rough afternoon. Follow Joe.” “C’mon, you guys, let’s go!” shouted Joe, running for the door, down the bank, across the end of the soccer field where that game was already under way, to the east end of the gridiron.

As the team lined up and started calisthenics – stretching exercises, jumping jacks – squats, Joe stole a look at Penobscot, warming up at the other end of the field. Why do white shirts make people look so much bigger? His own team was just his own team. Ed Harris didn’t look any bigger than he had in the post office.

Referees in striped shirts appeared, conferred with the coaches. Mr. Edgehill had drafted two little kids, Cluett and Edwards, to hold the stakes and was putting yellow practice shirts, much too big for them, over their jackets. The team was standing in a circle, tossing a ball from one to the other. Spectators were gathering. Mr. Whitmore approached, swinging his walking stick and wearing his Scottish hat, which he claimed he wore to keep him as warm outside as his Scotch whisky kept him inside. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, the baseball coach, and Mr. Floyd with someone’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer, she wearing a crew jacket with a hood. A few others: parents, boys, faculty, Ada, who worked in the kitchen, Mr. Hanshaw, a tall, broad lady, probably his wife.

Someone blew a whistle.

“Captains here.”

The team went to the bench, Joe to the fifty-yard-line. The referees introduced themselves: Mr. 38

Cargill who had refereed Kennebec games for years, and another whose name Joe missed. The Penobscot captain put out his hand, shook with Joe; they looked each other over, neither smiling. The coin spun.

Kennebec to receive. Back to the bench, where the team was gathered in a tight knot around the coach.

“Receive,” said Joe. “Good news. Offense to start. Timmy will play today. The rest as usual. Now we want this one.

It’s our last chance, the last day that some of you will ever wear a Kennebec football jersey. It’s been a disappointing season, but we’re going to pull it out today and have this one to remember. You know how to play good football. You’re tough guys. You come from a first class school. Now get out there and prove it.”

Hands grabbed and clasped in the middle of the circle, broke apart with a wordless roar, and Kennebec took the field.

The fortunes of war carried the ball one way and the other, for the Penobscot coach had said about the same things to the same kinds of boys with much the same results. Kennebec had a first down on Penobscot’s 21-yard line and fumbled. Murphy intercepted a Penobscot pass on the Kennebec 10. As the second period drew toward a scoreless close, the cross country team was lining up to start their race which would finish at half time; the soccer team, victorious, gathered on the Penobscot goal line, shouting deepvoiced encouragement, and Joe took a time out to talk to the coach at the sideline.

“The game plan isn’t working, coach. We aren’t making it. Ed and Sam gain some on the ground, but whenever we get down we blow it one way or another. What now? The long bomb? They cover Timmy and Bill like a rug.”

“It’s first down. You have about enough time for four tries at it. First, send Sam on a sweep around right, number 48. Forget taking out their left tackle. He hasn’t done anything all afternoon. You help Curt knock that end out. If Sam can turn the corner, it’s a first down. Then the long bomb. Then another. If neither connects, then use number 31.”

Joe went back to his team, explained the plan. The sweep went well, netted 12 yards and a first down on Penobscot’s 31-yard line. The first long pass bounced out of Timmy’s hands in the end zone and the second went out of bounds on the 2-yard line. Now for number 31. Joe wiped his hands on the center’s towel, blew in his fingers, called the numbers, felt the snap of the leather, the surge of the charging line, dropped back three steps, apparently to pass. Receivers shouting in the end zone, all covered, line backers dropping back, and a hole at old 31, just where it should be. Joe followed Sam through it, saw him wipe out a linebacker, and then scuttled for the goal line, remembering very little in later years about the details of the trip.

Kennebec left the field at half time with a 6-0 lead.

In the locker room the coach was enthusiastic. Mr. Sawyer put his head in, grinning. The team rested, glad to have some laurel to rest on.

“We go out in about a minute,” said the coach. “We’re on the way. Our game plan is working.

We’re going to win this one. Here’s how. Cover against long passes first. Ends remember to go straight in on defense and keep that #32, Campbell, inside. The heavy artillery in the line can shoot him down. Be tough. Hit hard, very hard. Offense, we need another TD. We get it by opening up holes and grinding it out on the ground. This means Ed and Sam and Curt. Their left tackle is soft, so hit that hole hard. If the secondary tightens and moves up, loosen them up with a pass or a reverse. OK, wade into ’em!”

The Penobscot team, also emotionally charged up in the halftime, came back hard; but good football, good luck, and good morale saved the 6-point lead until deep into the fourth period. Joe was tired; it had been the roughest game he had ever played. Sam, Ed, and Curt, who had carried the ball most of the afternoon, were about through, although Dickie had relieved each in turn for a spell. The line had done well, but now lacked that surge of power on the snap of the ball, which had made all the difference.

The sidelines were quiet now, and looking a little thin. Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Floyd were still patrolling up and down the field, following the ball, but the soccer team had dressed and left, many of the 39

other kids had drifted off, and only a faithful little band of parents remained, two of whom, Joe saw, were listening avidly to a little portable radio, probably tuned to the Dartherst game.

Coach, to Mr. Edgehill: “If we can hold them for three downs, we might pull it out, but the guys are tired. That Campbell is going like a tank. We need him to fumble the worst way.” Mr. Edgehill, to coach: “Put in Jerry and Steve at tackles. They’re rested.

Coach: That’s setting boys to do men’s work.

Whistle.

Snap.

Campbell through Kennebec’s left guard for four yards, brought down with smash of pads and shrill of whistle. Cheers from the Penobscot bench.

Thin shouts from the Kennebec sidelines.

Snap.

Trampling feet, smashing leather, and again, Campbell for five yards.

“Third down and short,” said Joe. “Get in there this time and sack that guy before he gets going.”

“Oh, we been here before,” said Murphy. “We always lose in the end. Why break your butt for another lousy game.” Joe slapped Murph’s tail.

“If you don’t wipe him out, I wipe you out.” He knew it was the wrong approach. He needed a positive statement and some way to jolly Murph into keeping going just a little longer. “Let’s blitz. They always snap on the third or fourth number.”

Joe hit the line running, broke through, nailed the quarterback, but Campbell had it on a wide sweep, turned the corner, and was gone for a fifteen yard gain. Joe called time out.

The team flopped on the field, their spirit draining. “We’ll never hold these guys. Same old story.

Break your ass to lose again? The hell with that. I’m saving myself for basketball.”

Joe fought to stem the tide setting against him. If there was only something he could say! But he felt empty. There was nothing in him and nothing, no one, behind him. He was a failure every way, and in the darkening afternoon, he was about to fail again.

“C’mon, girls,” – Sam speaking – “let’s bust up their little daisy chain. They won’t pass as long as they can run through us, so let’s really clout that guy and goose the ball right out of his hands. All we need is four downs and Kitty-bar-the-door.”

Joe felt himself coming back, knew Sam had done it just right. Felt a little lift in the others. A minute is all we need he thought, and old Sam has given it to us. “Right. This one we win!”

Whistle.

Snap.

Trample and smash. This time not Campbell but #48 into Kennebec’s right tackle, just where Sam guessed he would come. No gain. No fumble.

“How to go, Sam the Spoiler. Hit him again, Bunkie!” Sam grinned back. Murph scuffed the sod, dug in.

“Get the ball. Get the ball!” Chanted the bench. The chant thinned, died out.

Silence.

Signals.

Murphy moving in fast for a blitz.

The white-shirted quarterback encircled in red arms, the ball loose for an instant and submerged.

A striped arm signaling decisively. “First down, Kennebec.” Time almost gone.

The offense rushed on to the field. “The coach says we got it now. Just stay on the ground and run out the clock,” said Dickie in the huddle. Joe called for Sam on a right end sweep, “and keep running. Stay on your feet as long as you can. You don’t have to gain; just run.”

Silence.

40

Snap. Trample and crash and grunt and Sam was doing it for little gain, but doing it.

On the second down Joe was blitzed and sacked, steamrolled before he could get rid of the ball.

Under three men, with his face full of feet, he felt an arm yank at the ball, but he froze to it savagely and at length came to the surface, dazed and dizzy.

“Third and eight,” said the ref.

Huddle. Hard breathing. A line of muddy feet. “Dickie around the left end and keep running. Only seconds left and we’re ahead. Second number.”

Silence.

Snap. Trample and crush. Fourth and six.

35 seconds to go.

Penobscot called its last time out. Joe to the sideline.

Coach to Joe: “If you punt, they will have time for one play and you might be in trouble. Now do this. Line up as if you were going to try to make it on a play from scrimmage. Take a lot of time -- almost too much. Then use the quick-kick play, short and high and get everyone under it. Maybe the guy will drop it and you ought to be able to smother him.” Joe was not quite sure he understood. A screw was loose somewhere in his head and the coach’s words blurred a little.

“Yeah,” he said, “Line up and try for it.”

“Go to it, Joe. We got this one.”

Huddle. The last one.

“Line up to make it, Sam through right tackle.” Something blurred.

“Open me a hole, OK? A big one.” He heard Sam’s voice from far away and knew there was something he had forgotten to say, but he couldn’t remember quite what it was.

Silence.

Signals.

Snap. Rush and trample and smash No gain.

Edgehill to coach: “Oh God, he blew it!” First down, Penobscot. 15 seconds left.

Silence.

Signals.

Snap. Rush. Campbell coming right at him through the center - - but he didn’t have the ball!

“Pass. Pass!” from the sidelines.

Flat in the mud, Joe heard the spontaneous yell of joy from the Penobscot sidelines, saw the striped arms aloft.

The kick was good. The team dragged itself off the field, licked again.

“What happened, Joe?” asked the coach. “Where was the quick kick?”

“Quick kick? I dunno.” Joe shook his head to clear it, realized with a shock what it was he had forgotten in the huddle. “I guess I blew it. I blew it all by myself. God, how could I? How could I, when we had it bagged?” He sagged to the bench, gave up, no longer captain of anything.

The coach, being by nature a humane man, did his best to put the pieces together. “Good season just the same … played good football … held the team together … anyone can lead a winning team … morale … school spirit … real guts. And anyway,” he concluded, “it isn’t the score that counts, whether you win or lose; it’s how you played the game, right?”

Oh NO, thought Joe, not that one! Whether you win or lose does matter. It matters tremendously. It is what you go out there for. To say it doesn’t matter is to deny the whole season. “Yeah.”

The shower room was quiet. The tea was subdued. Everyone was so nice and sympathetic. Joe got out as soon as he decently could with a welt rising on his cheek where he had been blitzed. As he and Sam walked back toward the dorm, Mr. Sawyer overtook them. Sam dropped back a step.

“That was a great game, Joe. You certainly did all you could with what you had and you know you 41

can’t do more than that. I am very proud of your leadership of a great team. It isn’t whether you win or lose, you know; it’s the way you play the game.

“Yes sir,” said Joe, choking down something rising in his throat and eyes. “Thank you sir. We certainly appreciated the lunch and your visit at half time. Sorry we couldn’t come through for you.”

“That’s all right, Joe. Call on me any time.” Mr. Sawyer turned off on the path to his house, feeling that he had done his best and that it was hopelessly inadequate.

Sam caught up. “I feel like I been run over by a ten-wheeler. Those kids play rough. Sorry I couldn’t get that last first down at the end, though.”

“That was supposed to be a quick kick and I blew it, all by myself I blew that game and the season right to hell out the goddam window. And we had it in the sack too. I don’t know why. I just messed up.”

“No kidding? That what the coach said? A quick kick might have done it if we could have stalled ’em off.”

“Yeah. It would have made all the difference.”

They were close to the dormitory now, where Mrs. Floyd in red slacks, an old Army jacket, and work gloves, was planting tulip bulbs beside the bricked path. She had dug bone meal into the ground, painfully extracting from the stubborn ground a pailful of small stones, which now stood behind her on the walk.

She knew she should not have left them there where the first passer-by might stumble over them. She had made a row of holes in the loose earth, into each of which she put a bulb and carefully pressed the soil down around it, her mind busy with pictures of green shoots and brilliant blooms in April rain. Hearing steps, she turned and recognized Joe and Sam, two of her boys who had grown up in her dormitory. She remembered what her husband had told her at lunch about his tactless question in English class, Joe’s answer, and the hope that Hamlet had helped. She didn’t want to see Joe hurt.

“How did the game go, Joe? I wanted to see you play, but these bulbs have to go in before the ground freezes, and we could get a cold spell any time now. And tulips do look so lovely in April. I heard cheering. Did you win?” She had turned back to her planting, still on her knees, her mind divided between the boys and the decision to plant red or yellow in the next hole. But she kept on talking in her gentle way.

“No, we lost – that is, I lost” “Oh, that’s too bad.” She had caught the bitterness in Joe’s voice and looked up from the tulips. “I know you tried so hard, too. But that is really what’s important, isn’t it. Doing your best, that is. It isn’t the score that counts; it’s the way you play the game.”

A wave of disappointment, guilt, loneliness and resentment toward all those who just didn’t understand swelled in him, crested in his throat and eyes. The bucket of dirty rocks on the brick path was for the instant the curse that was on him. He drew a foot back to kick it out of his world, annihilate it, not thinking of the hail of flying stones, of Mrs. Floyd on her knees beside it, of the mess on the path, or even of what kicking a bucket of rocks would do to his foot.

The wave crested, broke, his foot swung with all the fierce power frustration could give it. Before it hit the bucket, he was tackled, downed, sacked, by Sam’s best defensive play of the afternoon.

42

Chapter 9 — Thanksgiving

Kennebec Academy

Sunday night Dear Dad, This started out to be a pretty lousy weekend, but as it worked out, parts of it were pretty good. A week ago Saturday I got a letter from Ma saying that our Thanksgiving at home had caved in. She and Sally had to be with you in Chicago, so I had to stay at school. That’s the first Thanksgiving we have ever missed. I suppose there will be others.

That same day we played our last football game and we lost it – I lost it. It takes eleven men to win a game and only one to lose it. I fouled up the coach’s instructions and Penobscot got the ball for just one play and scored and we lost, giving us a 0-6 record for my year as captain. You can’t do worse than that.

Then on Wednesday we had a special Thanksgiving chapel with Pilgrims, Indians, fish in the corn hills and turkeys, ending up with everyone thanking God for taking care of them – the survivors, that is.

The Pilgrims who died of pneumonia in the winter probably didn’t feel so good about God. And if we are supposed to thank God for our good fortune, can we ask him what he is doing for the poor guys thirsting to death in Africa or getting tortured in South America? I can’t buy that ‘thank God’ stuff even though I must admit we are doing pretty well ourselves. It sounds just too smug.

Well, anyway, the school flushed out after lunch Wednesday except for a few of us orphans. There were only two guys left in our dorm and none on my floor. An empty dorm is pretty empty. You don’t realize how much noise there usually is, but when you don’t hear it, it is like all the people in Buffalo waking up when Niagara Falls freezes up. No radios, no yelling, no footsteps, no one flushing the can or bouncing a basketball or even slamming a door. Dead quiet. I couldn’t stand it so I wandered around outside for a while, but it got dark pretty soon and I came in again and watched TV and that was lousy too. Supper was nothing. They just laid out cold cuts and bread and milk and peanut butter and said help yourself.

After, I tried to do my English. Mr. Floyd gave us a comp to write over the vacation – “What I Am Thankful For” – and he said not to put in the usual junk, but to think about it. I tried to think about it, but I couldn’t think of much to be thankful for so I caved in and went to bed in that empty dorm and that was lousy too.

Things looked up a little on Thursday. It was a nice day when the sun finally came up. I had just got out of the shower when I heard the front door slam and someone coming up the stairs. It was Mr. Benson, the art teacher. He saw my door open.

“Thank God there’s someone left around here. I need a strong back and a weak mind to help get my boat into the shed for the winter. Want to help? I’ll give you a proper dinner for it.”

I didn’t have anything to do and old Jerry is a pretty good guy for an art teacher. Some artists are pretty flaky, but he’s all right.

I threw on a pair of jeans and we went down to the cove.

Jock Peterson, the crew captain, was there and Jerry’s daughter, Alice. She is one tough girl – built like a brick church, but OK. The boat was in a cradle on the stony beach in front of the shed. He had loaded the cradle with rocks, floated the boat into it on the high water at 4 am in the dark, and now we had to haul the cradle into the shed. First we chucked off the rocks. That was easy with four of us doing it. Then Jerry got a pry with a rock for a bait – that’s what you call the thing the pry rests on, the fulcrum – and while Jock and I pulled down on the pry, Alice shoved a plank and a roller under the cradle. We did it again on the 43

other side and were just getting ready to do it on the back when Jerry came tearing down the shore hollering to stop. We had to put a pinch line on her to keep her from rolling back. I never thought of that.

Well, Jerry fired up the old Chevy engine in the back of the shed. No muffler of course. We hooked on a “tayckle” of two double blocks – a block is a pulley – to the cradle. Jerry took a couple of turns around the winch head and revved up the engine. The rope came taut and squeaked and began to drip. Jerry said you can tell when a rope is tight if it squeezes out water. He said if you want to draw a rope under strain, drip some water out of it. He certainly does notice things. I guess that is what an artist does.

Well, bit by bit, by hitches and starts she edged up the beach, the engine roaring and then straining, the rope squeaking, everyone hollering and splashing in the puddles and lugging planks and rollers up the beach when she spit them out behind her and laying them down in front. Once in a while a roller would get canted so she started to go off to one side and you had to belt it with a maul to get it straight. A maul is a sledgehammer. You learn a lot of new words doing this kind of work. It was a warm day for November and no one minded getting our feet wet. We finally teased her into the shed and left her on the rollers – just nailed them to the planks – all ready for spring, Jerry said. It was really some fun getting that big, heavy boat up the shore. You can do most anything with a pry and a tackle. And we had a good crowd.

It was one o’clock by this time and Jerry asked me and Jock in to dinner. We didn’t have to get dressed up. We just washed up and went. Jerry is a funny guy. He says at Thanksgiving he has to eat so much leftover turkey at other people’s houses he doesn’t want any in his, so we had a big hunk of string meat. He cooked it himself. I don’t know what happened to his wife. He lives alone and Alice goes to college in Portland and got home late the night before. Anyway, it was real good.

We watched the football game on TV in the afternoon. It’s so easy when the pros do it. They seem to have plenty of time to pass, and when they run, the holes just open up ahead of time – or else they don’t and they get belted.

At the half we went out and tossed a ball around. That Alice has a good arm.

After the game we got into a big argument. Jock said the Warren Paper Company ought to be prohibited from stinking up the whole coast with their paper mill in Westbrook. You can smell it here when the wind is right, and it does stink.

“Don’t knock it,” said Alice. “That is the smell of men working, of money being made, of kids getting enough to eat.” Well we chewed it over for an hour about the expense of it and the higher cost of paper and if you could make it cheaper in the South and what would happen if the mill shut down. That got us to the Bath Iron Works, which was pretty close to home because Jock’s father works there and competition with the South is bad for them. Alice asked, “Who needs frigates, anyway?” and that started something so big we broke it up and I went back to the dorm.

It was still pretty silent. I found some peanut butter and crackers and a Hershey bar and a coke that Sam had stashed in the closet and I ate them and tried to think of what to be thankful for and who really to be thankful to except you and Ma, but I had to give up and read a lousy magazine and went to bed.

Well, Friday I didn’t do much. I wandered down to the shore and found Jerry and Alice cleaning up, coiling up the ropes and hanging stuff from the boat on nails on the wall. We squirted the hose on the sails and some on each other to wash off the salt and when they were dry, put them in bags and hung them up.

We put the mast on a rack so it would lie straight. When we got all done, we barred the big doors and went out through the little door and Jerry snapped the padlock and said, “summer’s done.” Then we went up to their house and had a glass of milk and a sandwich.

In the afternoon I saw Cap going into the shop with a bureau drawer in his hand. He is Cap Milliken who is the head of maintenance, and he is quite a guy. He can fix anything. He used to be a head rigger at the Iron Works. I followed him into the shop. The drawer was all in pieces on the bench and he was making a new side, which had to fit the front, the back, and the bottom. It looked like quite a tricky job, so I watched. I didn’t have anything to do anyway except to write that paper on being thankful.

44

It had got cloudy and dark outside and cold, and it was warm in the shop and smelled good. While Cap worked he told me how he had come to Maine and how he had worked in a garage. He went to Maine Maritime and went to sea as a third mate for a while and quit and went to work on an oil rig in Oklahoma and did a lot of other things until he landed up at the Iron Works as a rigger. One day the kids here at school hoisted some ladies’ underwear up the flagpole and it got all twisted up so nobody could get it down. One of the Trustees, who works at the Iron Works got Cap to come and climb the pole and fix the ropes. While he was here, he wandered down to the boathouse and saw Coach Whitmore looking at a crack in a shell. He helped fix it and took on the job of rigger for the crew in his spare time and learned to coach the younger kids. The next year he was hired as a maintenance man. He also runs a string of lobster traps out of Small Point in the summer. He lives on the school grounds in the old house that used to belong to the foreman at the shipyard when they built ships in the cove. Whatever Cap does, he does on the run.

Well, he was making a new side to the drawer. I leaned against the bench and watched him and he told me some of the things he had done, like when he and another guy in Oklahoma stole a wooden cigar store Indian looking fierce and holding a hatchet over his head and set it up just inside the door of the boarding house on Saturday night. When one of the guys came home quite drunk and opened the door and saw that Indian ready to crown him, he nearly dropped dead.

Anyway, Cap is a real good carpenter. He cut dovetails in the edge of the side to fit the old ones in the front and when he got done trimming them up and niggling off a little here and there with a chisel and sanding off the rough places, they all slid together so you could hardly see where the joints came. “Now,” he said, “we’ll put the glue to her.” He has interesting ways of talking like “Why, this old chisel ain’t felt the stone since Moses first shaved.”

He asked what I was doing Saturday, and I said nothing except I had a paper to write about being thankful and I couldn’t think of anything to be thankful for so he said why don’t you wait a day and see if you don’t find something to be thankful for, and while you’re waiting come up on the hill over the ice pond and help me cut some firewood? So I said I would.

Friday night I didn’t have anything to do so I went and played cribbage with Alice.

Saturday was a cold day, cloudy, and the wind was roaring and rattling the bare trees. The leaves are all gone now and the river was gray and streaky with lighter gray white caps. Cap came by the dorm in his pick-up truck. In the back he had a chain saw, a buck saw, a couple of axes, cans of gas and oil and other stuff. We drove up a wood road, just two tracks. He said there used to be three: two for the wheels and one in the middle for the horse. He cranked up the chain saw. It made an awful horrible loud noise. He wears plugs that look like earphones. That saw sure cut the wood, though. He cut about six trees, one right after the other. He took out a pie-shaped piece close to the ground and then a back cut behind it and she came down with a swish and a crash. TIMBER!! I haggled off the small limbs with an axe and he cut them up with the bucksaw. I didn’t do very well and he picked up the axe and felt the edge. “That’s dull as a hoe. You could ride a-straddle that to Boston and she’d never gall you.” He edged her up with a round stone he had in his pocket. We stacked the brush and I took the chain saw and he showed me how not to cut my leg off. It’s a fierce tool. You have to keep sharpening it with a file. It’s surprising how much time he takes sharpening tools. I put on the ears and cut the trees into about 4-foot lengths and hove them into the truck. We made a pretty big hole in the woods by lunchtime.

We didn’t go home to lunch. Cap had brought a thermos bottle of coffee and some sandwiches and we ate that. He says peanut butter is the staff of life. Also he says it keeps you from getting seasick. It sets up down there like cement and you can’t get sick.

After lunch we did some more. I cut a pretty big tree and it didn’t come all the way down but the top got caught in the next tree. I started to cut a piece off the bottom because it was all I could get at, but before I cut all the way through, the saw jammed and I couldn’t get it in or out. Cap said I had an old widowmaker. He took the big axe and backed off and chopped hard at the tree right near the saw. If you hit 45

too close to the saw and hit it, you wreck both the axe and the saw. A big chip flew out. He hit it again in exactly the same place; another chip flew out and the saw came clear. Then two chops from underneath and the piece broke off and the tree dropped and fell over toward us but we dodged it. That’s why they call it a widowmaker.

About then I heard something moving in the leaves under a big, thick spruce tree. Cap said it couldn’t be a deer because the chain saw would scare a deer as far as Fundy, wherever that is. Squirrel, maybe, he said.

Anyway, we finished up, stacked the last of the brush, picked up our tools and left. It gets dark here about 4 o’clock. On the way home in the truck in the almost-dark we saw old Benson walking along the wood road with a knapsack. He didn’t want a ride. He was just out for the walk.

We got back to Cap’s house in the black dark, “Blacker than the Egyptian darkness,” whatever that is, and hove out the wood. It made a real good pile in the yard. “There’s some burning there,” he said. “Lots of stored up summer sunshine in that pile.”

He asked me in to supper. His wife made lobster stew, with lots of lobster. “One lobster, one stew” she said. She meant one lobster for each person. She is like him but a little person and just as fast on her feet. They have quite a lot of books in their house. They even have a bookcase in the kitchen where we ate.

There is a fireplace there too, left over from the old days.

After supper we talked a while and I started to walk back to the dorm. It was awful dark and cold and quiet.

It was like King Tut’s tomb without King Tut. All of the dorms that are usually all lighted up were black and quiet except there was a light in the art studio. I thought I might as well go over and see what was going on. Well, Alice wasn’t there. Mr. Sanborn, the librarian, was in there all alone making signs for a church fair that was going to be the next day, like WHITE ELEPHANTS, whatever they are, KITCHEN TOOLS, SKATES AND SLEDS, CASHIER, PIES, CAKES AND COOKIES. I didn’t have anything to do so I took a brush and tried to help but I couldn’t do it I made a mess of it. So he showed me how you block it out and allow so much space for each letter and 1½ for M and W and ½ for I and brace your hand on your other arm. I still didn’t do very well, but he said let it stand for a monument to a good try. I was going to do RAGS FOR RUGS but he said it had too many crooked letters so I did EXIT. All of a sudden the lights blinked out and then blinked on again and old Jerry was there, growling like a bear, “Someone is on my turf. Get out of here. Time to quit. Union rules.” He was just kidding of course but it was time to quit so we went over to his house and had cider and cookies and he and Sandy – that’s Sanborn – had a beer. Taped to the mantel were four drawings he had made that day of what he had seen out walking. The best one was of Cap swinging the axe just when he was taking out the second chip.

You could see he was hitting it hard and just right. I don’t see how he does it – either of them.

Alice was there too. She will probably be an old maid because she isn’t very good looking, and she wears baggy pants and an old shirt, but she is pretty good fun. She is on the ski team.

Before we left, Sandy asked if we would come down to the church with him in the morning and help put up the signs. I didn’t want to go to church because I didn’t know what they did or anything, so I said no but Alice said she would and talked me into it, so I went.

You never saw such a pile of junk, as there was downstairs in that church. Clothes, dishes, lamps, old tools, everything that no one wanted to be bought by people who thought, “That’s a pretty good platter at that price, and I do like blue china and it might come in handy and anyway I can’t go home without buying something.” So they swapped each other’s junk.

We put up the signs and other people were sorting the stuff and having a good time and kidding around. “Look – here’s Amanda’s old lamp again. Who’s going to buy it this time?” There weren’t many men there, but a few and a few boys. Allen Poole was there from K.A. and Jock.

When it was church time, I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t see how I could get out either and I wasn’t 46

very much dressed up, but I borrowed a coat and tie from the sale and we went up. It wasn’t so bad as I thought. Those people really sang loud and the hymns were good. The preacher said faith without good works was dead, and with so many people working on the fair, that made sense.

Part of the fair was lunch. It only cost $2 and it was pretty good with beans and ham and lots of those casseroles and coffee and pie. I sat across from a guy who is a doctor in Bath. He went to K.A. long, long ago, 20 years at least, and he remembered old Dr. Oswald and knew a lot about the old days when Captain Kenniston used to build ships in the cove and take ice to New York. The women in Maine laugh a lot and they are mostly all big, not fat, just big and they kid around a lot. Maine people talk funny too. My coffee cup was half empty and a lady came up behind me with a pitcher of hot coffee and said, “You want it het up or hove out?” I didn’t know what she was saying at first.

Well, it was a good fair. They were raising money for missionaries in Africa that were supposed to be bringing the light to the heathen, but they were also digging wells and it seemed to me an even better idea to be bringing water to the thirsty. Besides, everyone seemed to be having a good time. I didn’t think church could be that much fun.

We had to leave early because Alice had to get back to Portland and Sanborn had to cover his dorm.

When I got back, it was dark but the lights in the dorm windows were on and the cars kept coming up the drive bringing more guys back. I stopped in the Common Room to watch TV with the guys and then went up to my room and just listened to the radios and the yelling and the running up and down and the shower going. Sam came in and gave me a hard time for eating up his crackers and Coke but he didn’t mean anything by it. We had a decent dinner in the dining hall at last.

Then I remembered the English paper. Well, the hell with it. I can’t do it. So I decided to write to you first and now it is too late. I guess I owe you more than I owe the English department.

Love,

Joe

47

Chapter 10 — It’s Not Fair

J

ohnny Cluett sat at his study hall desk, oblivious of the rows of other desks bolted to the floor and occupied by rows of shirts and sweaters and uncombed heads – oblivious too of the Supervisory Presence of Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson, math teacher, unregenerate college athlete, down-the-line disciplinarian, was not at all oblivious of Cluett. He was suspicious of him, for Cluett was small, slight, and quick on his feet but had no interest whatever in formal athletics. He saw Cluett as a clever boy in a foxy sort of way, one who had a reputation as the leader of last year’s “eighth-grade Mafia,” a group constantly in and out of trouble and much discussed in faculty meetings. Mr. Johnson had never had Cluett in class but believed that he needed stepping on and suspected that he had escaped the consequences of many crimes. The Eye of Suspicion rested on Cluett.

Johnny was deeply involved in his English paper. The assignment was to describe a rope ski tow.

Johnny had seen one, had been plucked to the top of the hill at the Camden Snow Bowl last winter. He knew just how it worked. But to get it into words on paper was not easy. He began: “A rope ski tow is a long, long rope which goes up a hill and it goes over a big wheel and it goes over other wheels coming down and you hang on to it and go up.”

He read it over. It was lousy. He hadn’t even said it was on a ski hill. He crumpled up the paper in frustration and threw it on the floor.

“On a hill covered with snow…”

“Cluett, pick up that paper and put it in the basket,” roared Mr. Johnson. “What do you think this is, a public dump?”

Johnny returned with a jolt from the Snow Bowl to the study hall, picked up the paper and started down the aisle with it. Allen Merton stuck his foot out. Johnny saw it, stumbled over it noisily, and pitched the paper into the basket with a basketball motion.

“Cluett, sit down! This is a study hall, not a basketball court.”

“Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”

Johnny returned to his seat, not daring to kick Merton’s foot again, and tried to get back to the Snow Bowl.

“There is this steep hill all covered with snow. People want to ski down it but they don’t want to clime up it so there is a long rope that goes up it called a ski tow. You hang on to the rope and it hawls you up.” Dead stop! The springs of creativity were dry, but Johnny knew he had not done the job.

“Kin I sharpen my pencil, sir?”

“No, Cluett, you cannot disturb the whole study hall merely to sharpen your pencil! If you could perform the same operation on your wits, it might be worth it. Here, use my pencil but be sure I get it back.

“Thank you sir. Yes, sir.” Back to the Snow Bowl.

“The rope hasn’t got any end to it and just goes round and round over wheels and there is a motor at the bottom that makes it go and you have to have a ticket to get in line to grab it.”

The spring was dry again, but this time Johnny was satisfied that he had it. He looked at the clock, slapped his notebook shut, and got a hard, level glance from Mr. Johnson.

“One more outt of you, Cluett, and you get a handful of demerits.”

It isn’t fair, thought Johnny. I haven’t done anything.

There are plenty of other guys pulling stuff in here and old Johnson always has his eagle eye on me.

Merton tripped me and he never said anything to Merton. Billy Edwards has been passing notes to Pete 48

all evening, and Jonesy is sitting in the middle of a ring of crumpled-up paper and he never said anything.

Seems like I always get picked on.

When the bell rang at last, Johnny picked up his books with a sense of innocence outraged and started for the door.

“Cluett, you young brigand, bring back my pencil!”

Johnny turned back, dropped the pencil on Mr. Johnson’s table without a word and went out, muttering something about a damned old half a wooden pencil.

When the English class came into the room next morning, beside his desk stood Mr. Floyd, a small, precise m, neatly dressed as always in gray flannels, white shirt, dark tie and tweed coat. His gold-rimmed spectacles sparkled with literary enthusiasm. Johnny took his seat with a sense of conscious virtue. He had done his homework and done it well. Surely Mr. Floyd, who was a nice guy if somewhat picky about spelling, would like his ski tow piece.

“All right, gentlemen, whip out your homework papers. I trust that these efforts are comparatively brief. Therefore I will look them over quickly while you continue your reading in Huckleberry Finn and we will discuss the more interesting offerings at the end of the period.” The papers rustled in.

“Jones, I don’t seem to have one from you.”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?

“I couldn’t seem to get it right. I tried and tried. Really I did, sir.”

“Well, try again later. I grant you, it was a difficult assignment.”

After a brief period of shuffling, the room settled down. Mr. Floyd sat at his desk, his red pen methodically slashing into the student prose, the pile of papers on his left resolving itself into two piles on his right. Most of the class was dutifully reading. Eddie and Pete appeared to be reading, but they each squared off a sheet of paper and were unobtrusively playing battleship. Jonesy was staring vacantly at a steel engraving of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who was staring back from behind a thicket of white whiskers.

Mr. Floyd had the portrait in his classroom, as he had said many times, to remind his students that a Maine man can make it in the literary world. But Jonesy was not thinking about Longfellow; he was not thinking at all. Billy Edwards started to read, but the broad Mississippi soon flowed into the tide-ridden Kennebec.

The low November sun warmed the room, and outside, a congregation of crows cawed and chattered on the shore.

At length Floyd stood up, picked up the smaller pile of papers, and stepped to the front of the desk.

“I have selected two papers which are of some interest. I read them, not to embarrass the authors, but to illustrate strengths and weaknesses common to many of you. First the effort of Mr. Cluett.” He read Johnny’s paper.

“This reflects a serious effort to describe a ski tow, but unfortunately it is an inept one. The author has written not to his reader but to himself. He knows what he means by “a rope that hasn’t got any end to it,” but I am not sure that I do. His enthusiasm – or his desire to be done with the assignment – overcame him toward the end in a long run-on sentence into which he pitched indiscriminately all the remaining information that occurred to him, including the necessity of a ticket – not really relevant in the description of a ski tow. And I cannot emphasize too much the importance of spelling. ‘Climb’ ends in a ‘b’, not an ‘e’. ‘Haul’ has a ‘u’, not a ‘w’ in its midst. Finally, a period should mark gracefully the end of an English sentence.”

Jonesy in the front row, unobtrusively handed a paper up to Mr. Floyd, who took it absently and put it on the back of the pile.

“Now, the work of Mr. Phillips. This is apparently better. Not only is it mechanically correct, but it also embodies a precise use of the language.

‘A rope ski tow consists of a rope twice as long as the hill it ascends. The ends are spliced together, 49

forming a long loop, which is held in a vertical plane by wheels supported on poles about fifteen feet high.

At the bottom of the hill is a motor with a winch head mounted on the shaft. Around this the rope is led in several turns so that when the motor is running, the lower part of the rope moves up the hill, over a wheel at the top, down over the wheels on the poles to the winch and so around again continuously. The skier seizes the rope as it moves up the hill and is thus lifted to the top.”

“Neatly done, Henry. I could build a ski tow from your description if I knew how to make that splice. Now, what have we here?” He turned his attention to Jones’s paper.

Johnny was devastated. He had really tried hard, he thought. Sorry about the spelling, but how can you look up a word in the dictionary if you don’t know how to spell it? And why should you look it up if you think it is right? And you do need a ticket to go on a ski tow. And anyway, that Henry Phillips is so darned bright he gives me a pain. I wouldn’t write like that even if I could. And he gets A’s and all I’ll get is a lousy C-.

Mr. Floyd, obviously moved, put down the rest of the papers, holding only Jonesy’s. “Gentlemen, occasionally the Muse favors one of us with a flash of inspiration, of poetic insight. Here is the best description of a ski tow I have read in many years of giving this assignment.

“A ski tow is a snake with his tail in his mouth, hissing up the snowy hill.” You can hear the ski tow, feel the ski tow, in that one sentence. And notice that the rhythm is exactly what is needed to perfect it. ‘A ski tow is a snake with his tail in his mouth, hissing up the snowy hill.’ I am delighted, Mr. Jones, that you were blessed with that revelation and that you were wise enough to recognize it.”

Johnny knew it was good. He remembered how he had stood by the brown rope hissing through the rut it had worn in the snow beside the two ski tracks. He remembered how you had to handle it cautiously, letting it run through your mittens until your skis were in the tracks, one hand behind your back and the other ahead of you, and then clamp down on the rope and up you go, the view widening, until you glide out on the level summit over snowy Maine. It all came to him in that one sentence, but he couldn’t admit it.

Just one sentence done in class and he’ll get an A, on it and I beat my butt off doing it in study hall last night. It isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair!

A week later Johnny caught the Annual Cold. Almost everyone in school had it in some degree in the fall. Some were really sick, but Johnny was just miserable and went to the infirmary as much for sympathy as for aspirin. Mrs. Edgehill, R.N., administered both. She listened to Johnny’s story of his hard week.

Not only had he been picked on by Mr. Johnson and treated most unfairly by Mr. Floyd, who hated him and loved that little brown-nose Jonesy, but he had been “dragged in” to Mr. Hanshaw’s office and dressed down handsomely for skipping athletics.

“I told him I didn’t skip; I was just a little late.”

“How late?

“Only about 20 minutes and the attendance had already been taken, but I was there.”

And then Cunningham had given him several demerits for talking after lights and other guys did it and he never said anything to them. To top it off, he had been banished from the art room by Mr. Benson and he hadn’t done a thing.

“Billy Edwards threw a piece of clay at me and all I did was catch it so it wouldn’t go on the floor and he fired both out for a week.” And he had flunked a math test and now he had a cold from working off demerits lugging firewood in the rain, “And my old man will kill me when he gets my report card. It’s just not fair,” snuffled Johnny.

Mrs. Edgehill had had about enough of self-pity for one day, although she knew it was a common symptom of juvenile colds.

“Not fair?” she snapped back. “Of course it’s not fair! Who ever said it was supposed to be fair?

Some fat cats on top of the world and make millions while lots and lots of other people work hard, live hard, 50

die hard and eat dirt. Where have you been that you haven’t found that out yet? Some kids learn without working and other kids work without learning. Why should the good die young and the rogues live to a fat and happy old age? You tell me! Not fair!”

She yanked open the refrigerator door, brought out a big can of grapefruit juice, scooped a paper cup out of a drawer.

“You take this and go in the sun room, and don’t you leave until every drop is gone. There’s two others in there that don’t deserve to be sick any more than you do.”

Johnny mopped his nose with a Kleenex and joined the invalids. The juice, pleasant company, an idle afternoon and the television set helped to restore both health and spirits.

In early December, winter came in “butt end first,” as Cap said. After a three-day northeaster which roared and rattled through bare branches and soaked down the remaining piles of dead leaves, the weather turned cold and clear. The northwest wind, blowing out of the arctic night, froze the puddles, sent long streaks of foam across the river, and polished the night sky where Orion, brave in sword and belt, strode after the Pleiades, followed by his brilliant dog star, Sirius. Baseball caps and hats gave way to woolen caps; warm-up jackets to down ski vests and mackinaws. The ground froze iron hard.

After several days it moderated a little, but the low sun gave only a watery light and little heat even at noon, and the nights were long and cold. Fringes of ice formed on the salt water around the edge of Kenniston’s Cove and finally reached all the way across, although the main channel of the Kennebec was open. The fresh water pond above the old mill dam, where old Captain Kenniston and his crew used to cut ice to ship south in schooners years ago, finally froze hard and looked strong enough to skate on. Arthur Sikes, a fat ninth-grader, was persuaded to test it, urged on by an eager crowd. Arthur, booted, mittened, ear-lapped, not really understanding, cautiously slid his feet out on the ice. It held him. Sam handed him a hockey stick and told him to tap the ice with it ahead of him as he walked out. Arthur tapped tentatively.

“Harder,” said Sam. Arthur hit harder and a little star appeared in the ice.

“Go ahead,” said Sam, “but keep whacking with the stick.”

Arthur shuffled out, whacking, making stars, pleased to be recognized by a big kid like Sam. When he was about five feet from shore, the stick went through. But Arthur, thinking perhaps that the stick held some sort of magic, and delighted at being the center of attention, kept right on.

At the next step, one foot and then the other went through, and Arthur stood in ice water to his waist. Sam stepped out on the ice, which broke under him, grabbed the terrified Arthur by the collar of his mackinaw, and lofted him on to the bank.

“You ding-a-ling!” he shouted, sloshing ashore. “When the stick went through, you were supposed to stop. That’s what you were pounding for. Now get back to the dorm and under a hot shower before you freeze to death. I didn’t know they came so dumb.”

Arthur, understanding, shivering, overwhelmed and somehow a little pleased by the laughter of the crowd and Sam’s attention, departed.

By the weekend, the pond had frozen hard and on Saturday afternoon a shinny game started itself, using shoes for goals. No one was quite sure who was on whose side or what position any one was supposed to play. A disorganized tag game infiltrated the shinny game, and the Cluett, Edwards, Merton, Jones axis was snatching hats. Could one take a distant and sentimental view, the confused scene might look like something Currier &Ives might have done a century ago.

On the low ridge to the north of the pond where the old ice houses had once stood, Cap and a work squad were thinning out the young maples and birches which had grown up since the ice houses had collapsed. His chain saw snarled as it bit the logs into firewood lengths. Half a dozen boys were lugging brush to a growing pile, which would be burned after snow fell, and others were whacking away with axes, limbing trees for Cap’s saw or splitting the small logs. Occasionally Cap paused to look over at the pond, 51

knowing that wherever boys congregate, someone can get hurt.

The short winter afternoon was fading toward dusk, the sun just clear of the trees and the cold steel of a winter night creeping up the eastern sky. The game had died out as groups drifted ashore, put on shoes and headed for bright rooms in the falling dark. The work squad had been dismissed, and Cap was picking up his maul and wedges. One last hockey player wound up for a slap shot and sent the puck sailing, saucering, up the pond toward where the brook came in and turned to look for his boots. Johnny Cluett, who would chase anything that moved, took after it. One of his skates caught. He looked down, saw water on the ice, tripped, fell flat. The ice bent like wet cardboard and let him in. He was shocked, amazed. He hadn’t even thought of falling in. He grabbed at the edge of the ice, kicking vigorously with his feet to stay afloat. The ice broke off in his hands as he tried to climb out. He noticed clearly that it was only about half an inch thick and brownish. He gasped, breathless, and kept kicking. Billy, his roommate, had been after the puck too and saw John go in. He turned for the bank, ran into the woods on his skates, grabbed a branch off the brush pile. Cap looked up, astonished.

“Johnny fell in,” gasped Billy, and ran for the shore, dragging a branch, with Cap right behind him and gaining. Billy skated out toward Johnny’s head and arms, still showing through the incongruously shattered ice.

“Lie down!” yelled Cap, bursting out of the bushes, skidding out on the ice in his boots. “Lie down!”

Billy slid on to his stomach, reaching out with the branch. “Butt end first!” shouted Cap. “He can’t hold on to twigs.”

Billy turned the branch, shoved it nearer to Johnny, still kicking to stay afloat, not yet conscious of the cold. Billy slid ahead, Cap at full length behind him, holding his skate. Several others, who now realized what was happening, shuffled up.

“Beat it,” shouted Cap. “Get away or we all go in.”

Johnny grabbed the butt of the branch with both hands, security in a world terribly insecure. Billy and Cap wrlggled backwards. At first the ice broke under Johnny’s chest, but he soon reached harder ice, slid up on it, stood up, and skated toward shore.

“Th–thanks, fellas,” he said. “Where’s the puck?”

“To hell with the puck!” said Cap. “Where’s your shoes?”

Johnny seemed all right. He skated briskly over to his shoes and sat on the log where he had taken them off. But he was breathless and his hands were too cold to untie the skate laces, which were already beginning to freeze. He shivered hard as the cold struck through his wet clothes. Cap pulled out his jackknife, cut the frozen laces, pulled off the skates and wet socks, and stuffed Johnny’s feet into shoes.

“Now, Johnny, run! We’ll go up to my house. You too, Billy.” Before they had covered the hundred yards to Cap’s porch, Johnny’s pants were stiff with ice and pieces like glass fell off when he ran.

Once inside house, stripped, dressed in a pair of Cap’s pants and a checked woolen shirt much too big for him, and holding a mug of hot tea in his hands, he felt OK. “Here,” said Cap, “put a little of the Old Lion in it. Good for the circulation.” He poured a tablespoon of red rum into the tea, and Johnny seemed none the worse for his dip.

“Sure glad you guys came along. I just couldn’t get out.”

“I know,” said Billy.

“What some people will do for a drink of rum,” marveled Cap. When a rock falls in a pond, ripples spread. When a boy falls in, he makes waves. At first, no one but Billy noticed. The boy who had slapped the puck had done it as a final gesture to the game and turned away. The others had already quit, were looking for their shoes, or had already left. Allen Poole, looking up the pond at the trees sharp against the fading sky, had been shocked by the ragged black hole in the pond, something entirely out of keeping with the scene.

“Someone’s fallen in!” he shouted.

52

Several boys shuffled over the ice in their shoes but were warned off by Cap. The next wave came when the news hit the school. “Someone fell in.”

“Who?” “I dunno.”

“If he did, he’ll freeze to death or drown.”

“Hey, did you hear Arthur got drownded?”

“No he didn’t, you nut! There he is at the next table.”

“Well, who did get drownded?”

“I dunno.”

“Hey, did someone get drownded? Who?” The wave spread to the faculty. Mr. Johnson, man of action, headed for the pond on the run, alone, in the black dark. He found the silent hole in the ice, saw no one, turned and ran back to Cap’s house for help, where he discovered the corpse, now completely recovered.

Mr. Hanshaw picked up the rumor, sought to thresh out the grain of truth in the bushel of talk without success and decided that the Headmaster either did know or should know at once. He pounded over the boardwalk to the Headmaster’s house and hammered the knocker. Surprised, Mr. Sawyer opened the door, heard the news and went into action.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he get out?”

“I’m not sure. I just picked up the rumor. The boys are all talking about it but no one seems to know for sure.”

“Was there anyone in charge around the pond?”

“No one was assigned.”

“Wasn’t Cap cutting wood down there? I thought I heard his chain saw this afternoon.”

“I don’t know.”

“Sit down while I call him.” He dialed, talked with Cap, concluded, “No, Cap, you did just the right thing … Seems all right now does he? Well, send him back to the dorm when he’s ready and tell him to see me before he goes to supper. And Cap, wouldn’t it be a good idea to put a couple of horses and a plank across where the brook comes in until it’s frozen hard?”

The Headmaster alerted Mr. Floyd, agreed that no great fuss should be made, and that wave subsided.

In the next faculty meeting it was proposed that someone, not named, should check the pond to see that it was safe before anyone was allowed to skate; that someone, not named, should be assigned to be present whenever anyone was skating there; and finally that skating on the ice pond should be forever prohibited.

Some of those present knew very well that extra assignments are disliked and often dealt with halfheartedly, that rules never prevented the adventurous or rebellious from getting into trouble, and that being a boy can be a dangerous experience. It was at long and repetitious length moved, seconded and voted that a life ring and a length of line be placed on a post at a prominent place on the bank – amended to two life rings, one at each end of the pond.

A more distant wave struck the Chairman of the Board of Trustees when his nephew wrote him that “some kid fell through the ice and got drowned.” After some hasty telephone calls, that wave subsided.

But the biggest wave broke against Johnny himself. Several nights after the rescue, he was leaning against Mr. Cunningham’s doorway. While he had been waiting for a shower stall to be free, he had idled, seen Mr. Cunningham sitting at his desk doing not much while the dorm settled down for the night.

“Well, Johnny, you had a close shave on Saturday.”

53

“Oh, no. It wasn’t much. Billy shoved me a branch and hauled me out.”

“Were you cold?”

“Not really. Not until I got out.”

“Didn’t you try to get out by yourself?”

“Sure, but ice kept breaking off. Every time I took hold of it, it broke off.”

“What did you feel like, not being able to reach bottom and with everything you touched breaking under your hands?”

“I don’t know. I really didn’t think about it.”

“What do you suppose would have happened if you had got so tired you couldn’t have kept kicking?”

“I’d have had to just hang on to the edge of the ice.”

“And if it kept on breaking off?”

Johnny gulped. “I guess I would’ve been in trouble.”

“And if it hadn’t broken at last, your feet would have gone in under the ice and you after them. Isn’t that an awful thought?” Gus shuddered. “For heaven’s sake, have one of these and forget it!” He tossed Johnny a green lime sour ball.

Johnny, always the cool one, tucked it in his cheek.

“Thanks, teach,” he said as he ducked around the corner into the shower.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, thought Gus. It just came into my mind and ran out of my mouth.

He shivered again.

That night, the lights out, Johnny thought about what it was like under the ice – dark, clutching cold, shut in by that black roof, airless. They could never get him out in time. And right now, instead of being here in bed, he might be dead and cold and buried. He shuddered in horror.

Gradually over the weeks that passed, the horror faded. He never said anything to anybody about it because he didn’t have the words to say it; but he stopped complaining about being robbed and he did admit to Mrs. Floyd one Sunday afternoon when she had invited several of them in for cocoa and cookies that he had had his share of good luck.

54

Chapter 11 — Pressure

T

he clatter of 250 spoons scraping the last traces of chocolate pudding from 250 saucers died away as Mr. Hanshaw arose to make the usual post prandial announcements. So familiar was the procedure that he needed no bell nor tap on a glass.

Most of the announcements were formal and routine. Certain malefactors were to report to the woodpile. The first act of the play would rehearse at 4:30. The inhabitants of Brackett House would meet with Coach Johnson at his table. “Finally, it is a pleasure to announce that Mr. Robert A. Estabrook, whom some of you will remember as having graduated five years ago, is with us at lunch today. He is on the admissions staff at Darthherst College and will talk at 2 o’clock in the Common Room with any juniors and seniors interested in that distinguished institution of higher learning … That’s all for today, gentlemen.”

Chairs scraped and confusion became general.

In the Common Room rather complicated mental and emotional processes began which bore only a distant relationship to words being said. Each of the seniors and most of the juniors present were asking anxiously inside themselves, “Can I get in?”

Bob Estabrook, a neat young man wearing above his red and yellow Kennebec Academy tie, a smile not quite artificial, was asking himself, “Will I get any kids out of this lot which I can get by the Admissions Committee? Or will they all go to BBC?” But neither of these questions was asked aloud. Bob passed out cards asking for name, address, and class, “just so my boss will know I saw somebody,” and started the meeting with a reminiscence of his days at Kennebec and an unfortunate question about the recent football season. He then slipped into a well-rehearsed description of the excellent facilities at Dartherst, the eminence of the faculty and the flexibility of the program. It is well that he had rehearsed the talk because while his mouth was saying —“We have one of the best college libraries in the state. Furthermore, we have open stacks so you can go in any time and look over the actual books available on a certain subject. You can’t do that in a University library,”— his mind was thinking, ‘What is the use of talking to these children about college? They really have no idea what college really is and what a library is for. It’s like talking to third graders about marriage’—“and we have 20 squash courts, two hockey rinks, and an Olympic-size pool.

If you don’t make a varsity team, there are JV and club teams so you can play almost any sport at your own level. Any questions?”

A profound and embarrassed silence.

Finally Jock Peterson, unable to bear the silence and willing to ask almost any question but the persistent one on everyone’s mind, asked, “Can you have a car at Dartherst?”

“Yes,” answered Bob, “if you can find a place to park it. A bicycle is more practical, and walking is easier.” He thought, ‘the question is antediluvian and irrelevant. All colleges now recognize that some students need cars, and to choose a college on the basis of cars must be the height of stupidity.’

“Any other questions?” Again, a long and uneasy pause.

“What is your average college board score?” That came closer to The Question.

“About mid-600’s,” answered Bob. “But that doesn’t say much except that many bright kids come to Dartherst. We don’t accept candidates entirely on the basis of scores. We have some in the high 400’s and quite a few in the 700’s. We are interested much more in how well you do your academic work and in your abilities and interests in other fields. A good musician or hockey player or mountain climber with a 480 score and an honor list record may be admitted, while a greasy grind with a 700+ score who does 55

nothing but study and smoke cigarettes hasn’t a chance. But I can promise you that no one gets in who doesn’t apply.”

The boys with scores under 660 felt better about their chances, glowed with intentions to apply; those with scores above 600 knew they were not greasy grinds and felt lifted by a wave of confidence.

“Another question?”

Another silence.

“Do you have to get an interview at the college?”

“No. You are welcome to visit and I hope you will. We will have someone to show you around, and if you will call ahead and let me know you are coming, one of us will be glad to talk with you; but an interview is more for your good than ours.” He thought, ‘I hope I will be forgiven for that lie; anyway, I have told it so many times that one more won’t make any difference. A good admissions man can spot a winner in a minute and a jerk in 30 seconds.’

“How big are the classes?”

“They vary. A freshman history class may have over 50; an advanced Latin class no more than 5. In the Inter-semester Period in January you may be doing an independent study project alone with a professor. I had one of the best months of my whole four years doing a project on 18th Century poetry with Professor Oakland. You may think 18th Century poetry is dull, but it was really an exciting time. If you bore into Alexander Pope, you find he is not all pure intellect and argument, particularly in his translation of The Odyssey. And Burns is as different from Pope as you can get. He is one of the best poets the English language has produced, whatever you think of his dialect.” He cut himself off and thought, ‘I can’t give these guys a lecture on poetry. That’s not what I’m here for. It’s no use anyway, because they have no idea what fun real study is and they won’t know until someone strikes the spark that ignites them and some of them may never catch on.’

Most of his hearers had no idea what he was talking about and shut him off. Sam Reed thought, “18th century? Is that the 1700’s or the 1900’s?” and he began to figure it out from the first century on.

McPherson, who was proud of his Scottish ancestry, and who knew Burns was a Scot, nodded in agreement and about decided to go to Dartherst. Allen Poole, who had been daydreaming since the earlier mention of mountain climbing, was aroused by the enthusiasm in Bob’s voice, drew breath to express his own enthusiasm for The Odyssey, but choked it off for fear of sounding ridiculous.

“Can you pick an easy subject and do it fast and go skiing for the rest of the Inter-whaddayacallit term?

“Well, I suppose you could, but you’d miss a lot.” He thought, ‘God! What a dumb question!’

“Could you go to California and study movies?” General laughter.

“You might find that one to be more of a project than you bargained for.” ‘Now I’ve heard it all!’

“I have some pictures here of the college that some of you might like to see. Anyone interested in early admission should see me afterwards. Pass me your cards as you leave.”

A few stayed to turn over the pictures in the view books, pictures of old brick buildings surrounded by bright autumn foliage and attractive boys and girls and of the new cement block gym and then drifted away into library, gym, or dormitory. Sam Reed and Mike Brinker, who were really serious about Dartherst, stayed to talk about their individual situations and left with early decision applications.

In December, early decision reports came in. A fat envelope meant YES! YES! YES! YOU’RE IN. You made it. The goal of life has been achieved. You are now a college man! A thin envelope, however kindly phrased might be the letter enclosed, meant NO. Dummy, you’re OUT. You’re a reject, a failure. We don’t want you because you’re no good, and any college that would take you is no good.”

December 10. A cold, raw day on the banks of the Kennebec with a spit of snow in the air, conditions to which Eddie Sullivan paid not the slightest attention. And not the slightest attention had he paid to his first period English class and his second period Calculus class, for today had to be the DAY. 56

The Ivy colleges had agreed to announce their early admission decisions two days before and for two days Eddie’s mailbox had been achingly empty. He had checked several times each day to be sure.

In applying for early decision, Eddie had agreed that should he be accepted by The Great University, he would accept and would withdraw all other applications. That was all right with Eddie. His father had graduated from The Great University 26 years ago. The day after Eddie was born, the admissions office had been informed that eighteen years later he would be a candidate. He had a Great University banner on his wall at home, had cheered a dozen Great University football teams, sitting beside his father under the same stadium blanket, ignoring together their cold feet, thrilling to the music of the marching band, rising together to cheer the caught pass. He had been to class reunions, the best, last June the 25th – a grand party. He had visited the admissions office with his father, had been welcomed cordially, but in spite of encouraging words and a broadly-expressed enthusiasm for alumni sons and daughters, had come away with no promises.

What if he didn’t make it? Well, try again in the spring, I suppose; but what would his father say if he failed? He would be terribly disappointed, devastated. His boy had let him down!

But what if he made it? Eddie scarcely dared think of that – didn’t know how to think of that.

As he reached for the door handle of the school post office without looking at it, his hand closed on Sam Reed’s. Both looked startled, so preoccupied were they that neither had seen the other. They exchanged no word, crowded through the door together.

Box 352. Yes! There was a diagonal line across the glass. Fat or thin? Can’t tell. Spin the combination, turn the handle. Reach in. It feels fat. IT IS FAT. As he tore the envelope open, Eddie was suddenly conscious that this moment, as he stood in the dingy school post office on a gray December day was a bright spot on the calendar of his life, the day he was accepted at The Great University.

Dear Mr. Sullivan: It is with great pleasure that I can inform you of your admission to the class of 1990 at The Great University, conditional of course on your successful completion of your year’s work and graduation from Kennebec Academy.

I enclose various announcements and forms to be completed, including one for your mid-year and final grades.

Sincerely,

George D. Feldman Dean of Admissions

That’s it. I’m in, Eddie crossed the court outside the post office, numb to the piercing wind and flying flakes. He was a college man now, to dwell perforce until June among grubby school boys. But his job was done! No more sweat. He was in.

57

Chapter 12 — Christmas at Kennebec Academy

C

hristmas crept up when no one was looking. After Thanksgiving the grass turned brown, the last leaves left the maple trees, leaving the hills covered with slim gray pencil lines. The wind was cold, raw, easterly, smelling of spruce and salt water, and the river flowed gray and sullen. No one paid any attention to the weather. Winter sports practice had started, strategy developed, and the incessant bouncing of basketballs filled the afternoons. The wrestlers writhed and groaned, squash players relieved their aggressions on the little gray ball. The hockey team, outcasts rather, left daily in a bus to play at the Bowdoin rink. The winter routine of classes and sports fell into place.

In the second week in December came a warm, quiet day with a southwest breeze. The river showed a dusty blue and the sky was soft and hazy.

“We’ll pay for this – you’ll see,” said Bert, the school’s carpenter, who ran a string of lobster traps on the side. “This one’s a weather-breeder.” That evening came a screaming snow squall. When it cleared, the northwest wind blew for three days out of a cold, hard sky. At night the wind moderated and the mercury huddled in the bottom of the thermometer.

When Allen Poole came out of the dorm to go to breakfast, the cold bit through his thin jacket and reached down into his lungs for the first time since last winter. Every rut and footprint was frozen iron hard on the path, and from the river rose a bank of vapor where the warmer water met the cold air. The salt water in the icehouse cove was skimmed over, and Allen’s hair was frozen when he reached the warmth of the dining hall.

A few tried to tough it out without coats, but the campus blossomed that morning with down ski jackets, Hudson Bay blanket coats, and checkered mackinaws. Hats from the curly Persian Lamb of the Russian steppes to the plastic orange hunting caps of L.L. Bean punctuated walks.

Of course the fresh water stream above the old sawmill froze. The ice was new and black. Every skate mark showed a scar of white. They followed the stream up, and whenever two or three stood together, the ice bent, and cracks zipped across it. Up in the swamp the channels between the tufts of grass made a maze through which the boys chased each other, the leader never knowing which way he would have to turn next. The water had dropped a little, banking all the turns.

Skating back with the remains of the clear sunset splashed yellow behind them, they felt as if they were skating in a bowl, for the rubbery ice bent a little with their weight.

Then it warmed up and snowed all night and suddenly Christmas was upon them. To the top of the flagpole was hoisted a green spruce tree and the little trees growing in front of the dorms sparkled in colored lights. Candles glowed in the windows, and the morning mail swelled with Christmas cards.

Mrs. Floyd, wife of the master of Chelsea House, liked the winter birds. She watched the chickadees around her feeding station - neat tidy little birds, well tucked up. The juncos, modest and not quite so quick, and two nuthatches flickered in and out. She was thinking about the dormitory party for the last night of school, a real send-off for the boys. Each of the two families and the two single men would bear part of the cost. It was a sort of foolish thing to do, but it had been a good fall term and for some of the boys who had rather a dismal Christmas ahead, it would be cheering. The ones going to the Caribbean she worried about not at all.

The last classes came on Wednesday. There was a festive air, which was irrepressible despite the earnest appeals of the Headmaster to finish up the term “productively.” The halls resounded with French Christmas carols. The Spanish class broke a piñata in the gym with quite undignified shouts of joy - in 58

Spanish. “If Santa Claus can travel home at a rate half again as fast as he travels to Portland,” began the math teacher. “Imagine,” said the English teacher, “a reindeer in your living room. The door and windows are too small to let his horns out. How do you get him out?”

“How did you get him in? Imagine him out,” shouted a gifted lad with exploding enthusiasm of the discovery.

It was a very productive day.

The dormitory party was a huge success with punch, a cake and for each boy a red and yellow school scarf with a C for Chelsea House sewed into the corner.

The next morning after breakfast the halls were vibrant.

“Come here and sit on this suitcase for me.”

“Oh, get Fatty Sikes to do it. I’m busy.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Don’t jump on it, you jerk!”

Someone had left an orange on his windowsill. A frozen orange thrown down a tiled hall explodes.

The showers steamed with a new zeal for cleanliness, and of course someone flushed all toilets simultaneously and nearly boiled his roommate like a lobster.

At 9 o’clock a procession of buses turned in off the State Road, lumbered and squeaked around the circle to join like a great worm in front of the school building. As if pulled with wires, boys ran toward that common center. Little boys and big boys, some with elaborate packs, some with duffel bags. Two boys, each with huge suitcases, stood between them and each picked up one end of each bag. By keeping step they made astonishing speed.

The buses swallowed the pool of boys gathered round them, lumbered on around the circle and down the State Road toward Portland where the school would disperse to buses, planes, and private cars.

As the last bus rolled past Chelsea House, Mrs. Floyd watched it out of sight. It left her with a faint foul smell of diesel smoke, a flutter of red and yellow, and an echo of “Jingle Bells” as the peace of vacation descended on Kennebec Academy.

59

Chapter 13 — College Visitor

O

n the first day of Christmas vacation, Assistant Headmaster George Hanshaw, squinting into the low afternoon sun, made his way along the boardwalk toward the office of Seth Hallberg, Director of College Admission. The river was a hard, metallic blue under a hard sky. George stopped to watch a fleet of ice cakes floating upstream against the wind on the flood tide. At the door, he stamped the snow off his Bean boots, shucked his coat, and scaled his hat at a hook, where, to the mutual astonishment and admiration of the Assistant Headmaster and the Director of College Admissions, it hung swinging.

“You’re a winner, George.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

George tilted his chair against the wall in a quite uncharacteristic pose. The usual white shirt, plain tie, and conservative tweed jacket had given place to a light wool shirt and corduroy pants. Vacation had indeed arrived.

“How many early decision winners, Seth? How are we doing?”

“About a quarter of the class under cover, the easy ones.”

He reached for a paper on the corner of the desk. “About the same as last year but not quite such a strong class. Verbal score runs about 10 points lower and there’s a few clunkers on the bottom of the pile.

Want to do it alphabetically?”

“OK.” Here’s Arrundale; applied to Yale, Princeton, Williams, Bowdoin, Amherst. Scores 520 and 580.

Grades B’s and C’s. Doesn’t have a chance. Principal recommendation is a serene overconfidence.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“He’ll come down. We’ll let him hear some bad news and then maybe I can sell him on Lake Seneca U. or St. Jerome’s. They ought to take him. We’ll take a look at his mid-year grades.

“Brinker is next. He’s into Dartherst early decision. No problem there. Good grades, good scores, and a left-handed pitcher. He could go anywhere he wanted.

“Burroughs. Tough case. Doesn’t do himself justice. He has good scores, mid 600’s, but his grades are mediocre at best: an A, a B, and three C’s, and the C’s are in Math, French, and English.”

“What’s the A in?”

“Bio.” “That’s a tough course.”

“Sure it is, and Burroughs is not stupid. But he’s going to take a dive in Bio because he needs the math to do the second semester and he’s not learning it.”

“How about some K.I.P.?”

“I’ve given him a good shot of it without noticeable results. You better tip off his folks.”

“I’ll get it in the comment.” The conference waded on down the alphabet.

“How about Sam Reed?”

“He’ll be all right in April. Good kid. High 500 scores. B’s in Algebra II and Physics. C’s in History and English. Varsity football, second string hockey goalie, crew. On the newspaper. Applied to Dartherst, several Ivies, and Syracuse. I’ll get him to hedge it with something west.”

“Washington in St Louis?”

“Well . . . yes. But something a little easier too. He’ll be all right on April 15.”

“Joe Rotch got a prayer? I’d like to see him make something good.”

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“Oh yes. He’ll make something pretty good on character. Varsity football captain and kept a losing team going all the way. Varsity crew, school paper. Solid B’s with a C+ in English.”

“I can give him a good write-up if you want, and Floyd will stand behind him like a brick wall.

Where does he want to go?”

“He wants The Great University, but he probably won’t make that. Too many other football captains want to go there.”

“He’d be a good bet at some other university. And he could play football at a small college.”

“No way. Any college that would take him as a football player wouldn’t be worth his time academically. He isn’t that big or that good in college competition.”

“Sullivan?”

“He’s in. Made it to The Great University on early decision. Varsity football, dramatic club, one low achievement test and 550 math score but honor grades for four years and an alumni son. They couldn’t turn him down.”

On they plowed toward the end of the list of 30 seniors, dealing with each dispassionately as a “case,” a selling problem, and at the same time understandingly and sympathetically, seeking the best solution for each.

“Willis. There’s a tough one, a real loser. 2 C’s, 2 D’s. Decent scores in the 500’s. No athletics unless you count getting beaten up daily by everyone else on the JV wrestling squad. Joined the public speaking club but hasn’t done anything there. No good friends except Hank Wright – another loser.”

“Do you think there’s maybe a drug problem there?”

“Can’t prove it. Edgehill hasn’t much good to say for either one. Jo-Jo’s parents are separated and his old man’s too busy to read his mail or pay his tuition. Maybe a P.G. at some other –” The telephone on the desk rang.

“Anxious parent?”

“Likely.” Seth picked it up.

“Oh no! Didn’t anyone tell him we were on vacation? We haven’t any kids for him to see … Well, send him over and I’ll be nice to him. We’re going to need him badly before we’re through with this year’s class.” He hung up.

“That’s Dick Smith from Mt. Adams College – didn’t hear we were on vacation. It’s a real good small college in the southwestern part of the state and Dick has been very good to us in the past.”

“Don’t you think we’ve done a day’s work, Seth, for a couple of old men on vacation? Wright is the last guy in the class and there isn’t much more to say about him. Let’s take Dick over to my place and give him a drink for his trouble.”

“Suits me. The sun is over the yard arm, as old Captain Kenniston must have often observed, and I don’t need a sextant to prove it.”

The walk across the campus in the early December dark was cold enough to be welcome after Seth’s small office. The last yellow streak of day silhouetted the spiky skyline in the west as Orion climbed out of the dusky east. Christmas lights twinkled and blinked on the two spruce trees outside the New School.

The boardwalks cracked, squeaked, and rang hollow under foot. As they stepped on to the porch of the Hanshaw’s house, the light flicked on and Elizabeth Hanshaw opened the door, a big, confident, cheerful woman with a hospitable smile.

“I thought it was about that time,” she said, turning to fetch two more glasses.

The living room was comfortable, the fire bright, and the refreshment welcome. The conversation turned naturally to college admission problems of the year.

“Nothing very new,” said Dick, tinkling his ice. “Same old rat race. But like any race, exciting.

You never know who’ll come in the door next. Kids! The variety is infinite! Infinite!”

Hanshaw nodded.

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“Long-haired boys, short-haired girls, blue blazers, white shirts and school ties, white jeans, pierced ears and beards, short skirts, long skirts, beads, and fuzzy sweaters. Loving mamas, athletic dads, ‘My boy can skate backwards faster than any kid on the squad.’ I’ve seen it all.”

Dick gathered speed. He was an explosive little man.

“But that isn’t the whole of it.

“Knock Knock.” Dick jumped off the couch, pretended to open a door, and carried on both sides of a dialogue.

“Hello coach” Here’s the basketball coach in sweat pants and sneakers, whistle on a shoelace around his neck.

“Dick, you gotta get me a center. Richardson is graduating.”

“I got you Sidman last year.”

“But he’s no good and he’s only six-two. Get me a center, Dick – six feet four inches of man.”

Knock Knock. Here’s the music director.

“Dick, I’m going to need a tuba player for next year, one that can read music.”

“I didn’t know there was anything but oom-pahs on a tuba.”

“You got to know when to oom and when to pah.”

Knock knock. Here’s Soapy Al, development director.

“Gray suit, very light blue shirt, college tie, shiny shoes.”

Dick slowed his pace.

“Sit down, Al. What’s the good news?”

“Well, Dick, how are you?”

Like jesting Pilate, he would not stay for an answer.

“Long time no see. Warm for November isn’t it?”

More airy persiflage. Then …

“By the way, Dick, do you have a candidate named Shortcut, nephew of Silas Bigbux? You know, the one whose father gave the old hockey rink way back? He’s talking about giving an addition to the library, four million more or less. This Shortcut is sort of a nephew, first wife’s brother’s boy I think. If you could find a place for him, it might make a big difference. He’s a fine boy, a fine boy. First class.”

“Actually I did know the boy and he was pretty good, a borderline case anyway, and I guess we can wiggle him in, but I gave back to Soapy Al the same stuff he gave me.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do, Al. I can’t promise anything and of course I can’t speak for the Committee, but we’ll take a good look at him. Thanks for stopping by, Al. Always good to see you.”

“So where does K.A. come in?” asked Seth.

“I’m not done yet. Here comes the Dean.”

“Dick, we have a problem. Good old Dr. Holmes, you know, our Greek and Latin professor with the spiky white moustache and the pince-nez specs. He’s been here since Noah stepped out of the Ark and he has five years before he retires. He loves teaching classics and he’s good at it. But he has almost no students. Get me some classics majors, will you Dick.”

“Dick, I need a quarterback.”

The pace became furious.

“Dick, I need a cox.”

“Dick I need some people from Maine … from Alabama … from Alaska and Hawaii.”

“Dick I need more minority kids, bright ones.”

I have nightmares.

“Dick I need…Dick, I have to have…Dick get me a computer jock or two … an Egyptologist with red hair. And for God’s sake, Dick, get me a real scholar or two.”

General laughter. Dick collapsed on the couch, burned out. He sat up and added, “And I must end 62

up in September, after the summer shrink, with a freshman class of capable, interested, and interesting boys and girls numbering exactly 500. If I have less, we can’t meet our budget; if we have more, we have to rush out to Sears and buy beds.”

Hanshaw broke in, “Dick, you’re aground. Let me float those ice cubes for you. Seth, tell him how it is with us.”

“Not too bad. Our biggest problem is the good, average, middle-of-the-class kid who needs a little financial aid. The bright guys, real scholars, usually get in all right, and the bottom-of-the- barrel have no great expectations anyway. The middle of the lot all want to go Ivy or Williams, Bowdoin, Amherst, Mount Adams, BBC, you know.”

“Jones got into Duke last year. Why can’t I?” “Colleges don’t always accept people for the best reasons.”

“I got 3 A’s and a B. Doesn’t that buy me anything?”

“Not when you’re taking Pottery, Comic Literature, and Underwater Basket Weaving.”

“My father went to …”

“The coach told me …”

“And,” added Hanshaw, “everyone must be tucked in by April 15 or the word flashes around the cocktail circuit, ‘Half the class got turned down from Kennebec.’ Yet we need quality too. It works in a spiral, either ascending or descending. Our boys go to good colleges. They do well. The colleges keep looking to us for good boys. Parents with good little boys hear of this and send us a wide selection of good little boys. Good little boys well taught grow up into good big boys and are accepted at good colleges, and around we go.

“But let our teaching deteriorate, let our boys bust out of good colleges, and then the good colleges don’t take our candidates. The parents hear of it and don’t send us any more good little boys. Dull little boys taught by dull teachers grow up to be dull big boys and are a drug on the college market. Our enrollment drops. We have to cut our faculty and our program, we lose more applicants, and in a few years we drop through a crack in the wharf.”

Hanshaw broke in. “And the only way up again is like Jonas down at Small Point. He’s strong as a moose, you know, but no physics student. He bet Steve he could step into one of those wire baskets they weigh lobsters in and lift himself up. “I’d a done it too,” he said, “if the handles hadn’t of broke off.” Stay for dinner. I got a chowder would feed a regiment.”

“Finest kind.”

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Chapter 14 — Math Anxiety

E

arly in the week before Christmas vacation, Billy Edwards in Algebra class, slumped nearly horizontal and rubbed the back of his neck on the back of his chair in discouragement, confusion, and boredom.

Mr. Marvin, young, tall, energetic, and bearded, was starting all over again to explain positive and negative numbers. Billy didn’t care. His homework had been all wrong, and he had seen all he wanted to see of Mr. Marvin’s horrible number line.

“Edwards, get off the back of your neck and sit on that part of your anatomy which the Almighty cushioned for the purpose, and tell me what 4 + 1 is.”

Billy returned to consciousness and heaved himself wretchedly erect to the snickers of his colleagues, saw the figures written on the board, saw Mr. Marvin standing expectantly with his chalk on the fourth mark to the right of 0, heard the question echoing in his head, and answered “5.”

“Keerect!” shouted Mr. Marvin. “Now what is 4 + 0?” He wrote that below the first figures.

“4,” said Billy. He was really with it now.

“What about 4 + (-1)?” asked Mr. Marvin.

Billy froze. He didn’t even ask himself what the parentheses meant, how you could have + and - at the same time? He just froze. He saw the numbers on the board with his eyes, he heard the question with his ears, but a shutter came down over his brain and the question bounced off.

“I don’t know.” Someone snickered. Hands waved in the air.

“Come now, Billy. If 4 + 1 = 5 and 4 + 0 = 4, what does 4 + (-1) equal?”

Hands waved, fingers snapped, Mr. Marvin waited. Panic mounted, the impenetrable shutter was down tight. Billy reached for some answer, any answer, and said “0.”

The class laughed out loud, some because they were so glad it was Billy and not they; others because they knew the answer.

“Phillips.”

“3.”

“Right. Now if 4 + (-1) = 3 what does x + (-y) equal?” He wrote it on the board. “x - y,” responded Phillips.

“Right. Now do you see that, Billy? The rule for addition is if the signs are different…”

But Billy didn’t see. The rule hammered against the shutter 1ike hail on the windowpane.

Mr. Marvin pressed on, presenting the concept logically, questioning those who had failed on the homework, covering the board with letters and numbers, parentheses, + and - and = signs and counting off spaces on his number line. It was a brilliant piece of exposition, but Henry Phillips and Jonesy, who understood it anyway, soon got tired of it; others, whose minds were shuttered like Billy’s, were scarcely conscious of it, and a few who had been on the verge of comprehension, comprehended.

Henderson, like Paul on the road to Damascus, burst out “You mean, sir, that if the signs are the same you add and if they are different you subtract.”

“Glory be!” ejaculated Marvin. “You got it – almost. If you start with a positive number, that works.”

But Billy was down on the back of his neck again and only came to when the bell rang. The shutter came up, he sprang for the door with the rest, and Algebra was over the dam for today.

There was a math test on Thursday, through which Billy sat, grabbing at any answers that floated by on his stream of consciousness, convinced that there were no correct answers, that if there were, he would 64

not get them, and that if he did, it would be purely a matter of good fortune.

But math was forgotten in the excitement of departure for vacation. A dormitory party took the place of study hall on Friday night with Mr. Cunningham playing the part of the bearded saint in an improvised costume distributing little presents to each boy with a rhyme to go with each. Billy got a red and yellow scarf with the citation:

“Bill’s a Tiger burning bright Playing wing or inside right.

Traps and shoots with eagle eye And brings K.A. the victor-eye.”

“Neat,” exclaimed Mr. Floyd – “Don’t apologize to William Blake.”

There were doughnuts, cookies, cider, and crepe paper decorations galore. Mr. Floyd played the piano and everyone sang, picking up the familiar but almost forgotten words as they went along.

In the morning, three long yellow buses crawled around the drive, ate up the boys and their bags and suitcases one by one, and crawled off toward Bath and Boston. By ten o’clock a blessed silence had descended on Kennebec Academy and its resident faculty.

Billy’s father met him on the station platform in Stamford. He was surprised to see that the boy carrying his son’s suitcase and wearing his son’s clothes was not the little kid he had left at school in September. The meeting was awkward. “Hi, Dad.” Mr. Edwards moved to pat Billy’s shoulder in greeting as he used to do but the shoulder was higher, the voice a little different, and the features strangely altered.

He changed the motion toward a handshake, rejected that, and ended by picking up the suitcase, his tongue stumbling over “Well, glad to see you made it.”

On the way home in the car, though, both loosened up as Billy poured out the story of the fall - how Mr. Cunningham had chased them around the drive, how the Tigers had won their game, how Johnny had fallen through the ice. His father had inquired about Mr. Floyd, Mr. Hanshaw, and Mr. Sawyer and elicited the information that they were “all right,” that Mr. Floyd was an acceptable dormitory master, that Moose Hanshaw was unduly tyrannical, that Mr. Sawyer was “a good guy,” and that the food was frightful - vile that he had actually found a horseshoe nail in the hamburg.

As he opened the front door, Mr. Edwards called, “Ma, here’s your boy.” His mother had embraced him embarrassingly before the door was closed, but he was glad to be home. He settled almost into the old groove he had left in September.

His room was delightfully the same - same bed, same curtains. But the same bedspread with pictures of spacemen on it struck him as a little faded and less interesting than he had remembered it. His collection of matchbox cars which his mother had arranged on his dresser was dull, and the photograph on the dresser of him with his father and mother at the beach last summer looked like someone else’s family. However, almost everything else was so comfortable that the prickles of change affected him but little.

Three days later, as his father picked through the mail before dinner, he found near the bottom of the pile an envelope from Kennebec Academy containing Billy’s report card and comment sheet. He looked down the left hand column, two C’s and a C-, a D and an E. He was surprised. He was shocked. He was outraged. He swore, vigorously and out loud, that he would get to the bottom of this. He called Billy before him.

After a confrontation and inquisition, Mr. Edwards elicited the information that Billy’s science teacher was “dumb,” that the metric system was incomprehensible and unnecessary, that his French teacher hated him, would never answer a question, and jabbered all the time in French, and that as for Algebra, he didn’t get it and the teacher went too fast and never explained anything.

The next morning at his office, Mr. Edwards dictated a letter to Mr. Sawyer.

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Mr. Benjamin Sawyer Kennebec Academy Bath, Maine 04530 Dear Mr. Sawyer: I am in receipt of the Academy’s report on my son William’s progress, or lack of it, during the fall term. I sent him to you with the understanding that you would prepare him for Yale. Obviously he has not learned to study and his record would never get him into Slippery Elm Teachers College, let alone Yale.

I have sent him to you at considerable financial sacrifice and cannot see any evidence thus far that the school has justified this sacrifice. Therefore, I shall suggest strongly that you take several specific measures.

Action item #1: I want Billy removed from his present French class and put with a teacher who will teach him something. He tells me that his current teacher refuses to answer questions and talks nothing but French in class. This is an impossible situation and smells to me of a modern “progressive” namby pamby attitude. He should be required to memorize vocabulary and verb-forms the way we were.

Action item #2: He must be required to do extra work in Algebra. This is the teacher’s responsibility.

He has failed to meet it. If, as he says in his comment, Billy has “failed to learn the concepts with which we are dealing,” the said concepts should be explained to him and he should be made to sit down and memorize them.

Action item #3: Billy should not be permitted to participate in athletics until his work is done each day and until he has earned at least C in each course. I sent him to you to be educated, not to fool around with a little kid’s soccer team. If it were a man’s sport like football, it might be a little different, but it is my wish that he not play any game until his work is done.

I am spending a lot of money on Billy’s education and am willing to spend more if I get results. I want assurance from you that these changes will be expedited and that William’s next academic report will be satisfactory.

With best wishes for a pleasant holiday season,

Sincerely,

William T. Edwards

This letter crossed in the mail with a Christmas card from the alumni office showing the 1903 school building under a pristine blanket of snow with a Christmas wreath on the door and Happy Holidays in German type below it. Mr. Edwards growled sarcastically as he passed it across to his wife, “If they taught the kids to study as they did in my day, there would be something to be happy about.”

Faculty meeting in the Library the day before school re-opened. Assistant Headmaster Hanshaw presiding. The faculty disposed comfortably on the upholstered library furniture. A dying fire in the fireplace. It was warm in the room in contrast to the cold dusk falling outside, the pale sky reflecting on the clean snow. It had been a long meeting, dealing with the individual problems of one boy after another.

Mr. Hanshaw: “Edwards. 2 C’s, a C- in science, D in French and E in Algebra. I have a letter from his father demanding a change in French teacher, massive extra help in Math, and no athletics. Mr. Rossignol, what about the French?”

“The boy does not participate. He sits there with his mouth half open and his mind half shut and does nothing. When I push him, I find his accent - well, suburban, his grammar execrable, and his vocabulary non-existent.”

“How did he get a D if he’s that bad?

“As you wish. An E, then. I wanted to encourage him.”

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“Shall we take him out of your class? He can’t possibly go into the fast section. Can he drop the course and repeat next year?”

Mr. Sawyer: “Can’t we keep him in touch with the language at least? There are several others in the same difficult case. Perhaps we can find a way to put together a slow, slow section which can spend the rest of the year just getting used to the idea of a foreign language. Let me work on it.”

Rossignol (sub rosa) “Saints defend me from that!”

“What about the math, Jeff?”

“He is terribly disconnected. A classic case of math anxiety. I haven’t got through to him yet, but I’ll keep at it. He’s not dumb. He’ll come.”

Gus spoke up. “But don’t take him out of athletics. It’s good for him. He is all afire with energy.

He’d explode. And he can’t study more than half an hour at a time anyway. Besides, I want him for a cox in the spring.”

Mr. Hanshaw: “He ought not to do that if he doesn’t do better in Math. Crew takes too much time.

He can play softball.”

Gus drew breath to object but Mr. Floyd broke in: “The boy is coming. He has brains and guts. We have seen it in English and History and on the soccer field. And he was the one who pulled Cluett out of the pond. He’ll be all right. He needs to grow up a little more and he needs encouragement and motivation. He has plenty of time. Crew will be the best thing in the world for him. I’ll handle Bill Edwards for you.”

“Oh, never mind him,” said Mr. Sawyer. “I will answer his letter all right.”

The meeting wore to a close, ending in a vigorous denunciation of primitive table manners and barbaric dress culminating in a call for all-out reform by Messrs. Evanston and Bright. Mr. Johnson made a motion to table the matter and Mr. Edgehill quickly moved to adjourn to dinner. The fire was left to glow in the warm dark.

“January 4. School reconvenes for the winter term. Boarders will arrive before 6 p.m.”

They arrived as advertised. The dormitories, dark for two weeks, blazed with light from every window. Boys gathered in each other’s rooms, exchanging tall tales of vacation conquests, of which maybe 20 percent would stand examination.

In due course, however, the dormitories quieted, the lights blinked out, even the whispered conversations in the dark were stilled and the Academy slept.

By ten o’clock the next morning, the school was in “go ahead” gear as if there had never been a vacation. As he expected, Billy was called to Mr. Hanshaw’s office where he received a great deal of good advice on meeting his daily responsibilities in a new French class, on actively seeking extra help in mathematics, and justifying the sacrifices his parents were making in sending him to Kennebec. Mr. Hanshaw was quiet in demeanor, serious in tone, and treated Billy as a person responsible for his own future. It was a good job, but when Billy left the office he left in a hazy whirl of good resolutions and left George Hanshaw with the frustrating knowledge that he had not really got through to where Billy lived.

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Chapter 15 — A Most Improbable Tale

H

is right name really was Cecil Oscar Hummelman and his name was not the only improbable thing about him. He was improbably small, improbably active, and he came from, of all improbable places, Lemon Blossom, Florida.

Among other improbabilities, Cecil was improbably imaginative. He could see himself in almost anyone’s place; he could find himself playing almost anyone’s part. On the plane he had had a window seat.

He became the pilot. He circled the plane over Portland, over the harbor, over the tank farm, out over Cape Elizabeth, and headed in for the landing, flaps down, slowing, sinking, a delicate touch on the stick, coming in just right. The plane’s real landing gear rumbled down. Cecil had forgotten the landing gear! Cecil’s imaginary plane was going to crash! It landed on its belly, swung around, skidded sideways, caught fire.

However, the real pilot, landing gear down, brought his plane in safely enough. The stewardess noticed Cecil’s horrified expression and asked, “All right, sonny?”

He was met by Mr. Hanshaw, the Assistant Headmaster, and driven through a hostile country of rocks, snow, and dark spruce woods to Kennebec Academy. A room was found for him on the second floor of McFarland House, presided over by Mr. Edgehill, English teacher, coach of the third football team and Assistant Coach of Varsity Baseball.

Cecil was a little boy far from his country home, among a group of much older boys who were very much at home at Kennebec Academy and who regarded the second floor of McFarland House as their particular playground. But if Cecil had little else, he had more than a full share of pride and of courage. He was determined not to be overwhelmed and put down in his new school. He had read books; he knew how big kids behaved. He could be a big kid. On his first night in McFarland House he was accosted by Hank Wright and Hank’s roommate, Jo-Jo Willis.

Mr. Edgehill instinctively disliked Hank and Jo-Jo and was suspicious of them; but without any clear evidence against them, he fought down his suspicions and tried to be fair. The dormitory, which knew a great deal more than Mr. Edgehill, regarded Hank and Jo-Jo with a mixture of admiration, horror, and contempt. Ever since this precious pair had come to Kennebec, they had been on the ragged edge of serious trouble, but they had never been caught flat-footed. They had maintained barely passing records by assiduous grade grubbing with soft-hearted teachers, whom they seemed to be able to spot at great distances, and by ingenious methods of intellectual hitchhiking. They knew which forms of athletic exercise were the least strenuous and which coaches neglected to take attendance. They early acquired a taste for tobacco, smoked in the boiler room where the draft from the oil burner sucked up the smoke. They learned that vodka leaves little or nothing on the breath, and that coffee brandy is the least expensive way to “get a buzz on.” Just this fall they had got on the grass, established a clear line of supply, and lacked only sufficient money to overindulge the habit.

After supper on Cecil’s first night Jo-Jo suggested, “Let’s go visiting. New kids always travel with more money than they need.”

“Oh, let the new kid alone his first night,” interjected a visitor.

“Hit him now, before he finds out the score. That’s when he will shake down for the most,” replied Hank.

They dropped in on Cecil; indeed they nearly filled his little room. He was appalled by their size but determined not to be a doormat for anyone, especially at the first encounter. He could be a big kid.

“What’s your name, kid?”

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“Butch.”

“No kiddin’ – you don’t look like a Butch.”

“That’s what the kids at my other school called me.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Miami.”

“Yeah? That’s a tough town, huh?”

“Sure is. You got to carry a knife to school or you get cut.”

“Who’ll cut you?”

“Those kids from Haiti and Puerto Rico and the black kids. You got to protect yourself.”

“Were you ever in a knife fight?”

“Sure. Lots o’ times. Why do you think they call me Butch?”

“They say Miami is a great place for drugs – cocaine and hash and grass and all that.”

“Sure is. You can buy it anywhere. There’s almost always a guy in the boys’ room ready to sell. All you need is the bread.”

“Did you ever try it?”

“Try it? Sure. That’s why I got kicked out of there. I was stoned for a week. When my old man found out, he was sore as hell. Yanked me out and sent me to one of those funny farms where they clean you out, and then sent me up here. Do they have any of the stuff here?”

“Might be.”

“Yeah? How do I get me a joint?”

“You really want to, Butch?”

Cecil Oscar Hummelman of Lemon Blossom, Florida, who had never touched a weapon more lethal than a Scout knife, who had never smoked even corn silk, drunk anything stronger than cider with a tickle in it, or been anywhere near Miami except to be driven to the airport by his mother, had talked himself up a box canyon whence there was no escape without unthinkable loss of face. And he was well into playing the part of tough kid.

“Sure. You got a joint on you?”

“All it takes is bread. You got any?”

“I got five.”

“It takes ten.” Cecil passed over his last bill.

“Come down to the can.”

By opening one of the ground-glass windows from the top and pulling the shade over his head like a tent, Jo-Jo expertly arranged for the smoke to go outside. Hank turned on the showers full speed to fog the place up and mask any noise and then went out to stand watch by the drinking fountain in the hall, ready to tap unobtrusively on the pipe if danger threatened. Jo-Jo got the joint fired up, pulled Cecil under the shade and passed it over.

“Have a good pull on it, right down into your lungs or it won’t do you no good.”

“I know.” Cecil took a tentative puff and blew it out fast.

“Oh, take a real drag on it, like this.” Jo-Jo inhaled a lungful of smoke and held his breath, slowly letting it ooze out his nose. He passed the joint back. Cecil took another puff and tried to hold it in his mouth. It tasted awful and he coughed. It choked up his nose and throat and he coughed and coughed.

Then Hank banged on the pipe.

Jo-Jo threw the joint out the window, ducked out from under the shade, and began washing his hands. Another boy came in.

“Where’s the new kid. God, Jo-Jo, you got this place so fogged up … Old Edgehill wants to see him.”

Cecil went pale. What did they want to see him for? They couldn’t know so soon, could they? Don’t 69

show it!

“Go down and see old Edgehill right away. Door at the end of the hall downstairs.”

“Cecil covered his sinking heart with a bold face and approached the door. It had a brightly-polished brass knocker engraved “THE EDGEHILLS.” He knocked tentatively.

“Come in.” From the bare corridor Cecil stepped into a pleasant study with a rug on the floor, bookcases on three sides, a desk rather cluttered with papers, pictures of athletic teams and people in mountaineering gear above the book cases, and on the fourth side a picture window. Mr. Edgehill, a tall slightly gray, kind-looking man, shook hands with him and invited him to take a chair by the window.

“You’re Cecil Hummelman? I’m sorry I missed you this afternoon when Mr. Hanshaw brought you in. Are you well settled now and getting acquainted with the boys?”

“Yes sir. Getting acquainted … I guess.”

“Well, relax, Cecil. I just wanted to meet you and tell you how we do things in this dormitory.” The telephone in the next room rang insistently. Mr. Edgehill excused himself and left the room, leaving Cecil looking out the window at the snow on the ground and the bare maple tree on the edge of the light from the study. Beyond that the world was black. His mouth tasted terrible. He thought maybe he was a little dizzy.

Perhaps he was getting stoned.

A few flakes of snow drifted down through the light from the window and then a few more. He had come that day from 70° sunny Miami to 20° cloudy Portland. He had never seen snow on the ground before that very afternoon at the Portland airport, and he had never seen the flakes drifting down from above. He fought for control. What am I seeing? He wondered. The window looked like a bad scene on television, snowing and unreal.

Mr. Edgehill’s voice continued from the other room. It sounded like a long call. Suddenly on the picture window-television screen before his eyes appeared a horse. It didn’t walk into the scene; it just materialized out of the drifting flakes. A huge horse, all head and shoulders –­ not like any horse he had ever seen. Enormous, black, shaggy, with an extravagant nose and huge ears that stood out and up from its head like an elephant’s.

Cecil gasped. He choked. He stared, he hid his eyes. And when he looked up, the horse disappeared. He thought he saw it disappear. For a split second it was standing there – and then it was gone as if it had never been.

OOOOOH, thought Cecil, I’m stoned! I’m having a bad trip. I’ve got the D.T’s. I’ll never touch a joint again. Never. He squinched his eyes tight shut, put his head down and pressed his eyes hard into his hands. Colors flashed and blazed behind his eyelids. He was stoned. He knew it. He pressed harder, afraid to look up, afraid of what he might see out that window.

“Well, Cecil, sorry to have kept you waiting.” Mr. Edgehill sat down and looked at the small boy before him, wound up tight as a watch spring, his head in his hands. Homesick, he thought.

“There now, Cecil. Cheer up. It isn’t going to be as bad as you think. You just do what you have to do step by step, play square with us and try hard; and you’ll find everything will come out all right.”

Do what you have to do. Play square. He knows. He’s telling me that if I confess, I’ll get off easier.

He knows all about it. If I look up, he’ll see I am stoned. They can tell from your eyes.

The boy is more than homesick, thought Mr. Edgehill. He must be tired and he may be sick. It’s been a long day for him and he’s a long way from Florida.

“Cheer up, Cecil. It won’t be as bad as you think. Tell me all about it and it will come out all right I’m sure.”

“Do I have to? They’ll prob’ly kill me.”

“No one’s going to hurt you, boy. Who are they?”

Cecil collapsed. His act was shattered. He wasn’t the tough kid from Miami. He was just a little boy from Lemon Blossom who needed his mother. Mr. Edgehill, still with no idea what was going on inside 70

of Cecil but with deep sympathy for the little boy, put his hand on his shoulder and spoke quiet comforting words – and Cecil told all.

Over in Chelsea House Tommy Brown burst through the door into Cluett’s and Edwards’ room – “Guys, did you see it? There’s a moose outside right over by McFarland House. I saw it, I tell you.”

But Mr. Edgehill was not interested in the moose. He was taking the first steps toward setting Hank and Jo-Jo on their way home.

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Chapter 16 — French -1

P

at Goodrich, the Headmaster’s genial secretary, called through the open door, “Alice is here, Ben.” “Good. Protect me for half an hour, will you, Pat – unless the President of the United States calls.” Ben Sawyer stepped to the door, welcomed Alice Benson and showed her to a chair. He took another -- not behind his desk.

“Jerry tells me, Alice, that you will have some time on your hands this spring.”

“Yes, I have finished all but one course in French drama for my degree and that meets only three times a week in Portland. I will be living at home.”

“I wonder if you could find time to help us out. I have five ninth graders who are paralyzed in French 1. Pete Rossignol and Andy Chatfield don’t seem to be reaching them at all. They can’t go on for the second term sitting helplessly in class, getting more and more discouraged and building up fear and resentment for French. They will have to start French 1 again next year and, it appears to me, with little prospect of doing much better. What they need is to hear the language, to get the rhythms of it, and to build some basic vocabulary, to get enough confidence to speak a few words in French and to enjoy it enough so the prospect of French 1 next fall will not be terrifying. They need not meet every day. There need be no homework, examinations or grades unless you find that machinery useful. They will get no academic credit for the course. We could, between ourselves, call it French -1. “When they finish it, they will be up to 0. No pressure. Would you like to try it?”

“Would it be all in French?”

“That’s up to you. Whatever you say. They don’t know any French now, so you can’t hurt them.

However, our French Department is pretty well committed to the Direct Method. Total Immersion as it were.

This could be fun.”

“I agree. That’s the only way to do it. How many kids are we talking about?”

“Only five. There’s Billy Edwards, a total loss so far and afraid of the language. Butch, uh Oscar, Hummelman, universally known as Butch, a sharp little boy who just came to school from Florida with no background at all. Alec Horton, quick, enthusiastic, good at math but a slow reader. Tim Feinman is an excellent violinist for his age but spaced out in French. Finally Arthur Sikes, rather slow, inclined to be self indulgent with not a very good opinion of himself. He is eager for recognition and needs more than anything to do something right.”

“Maybe games, songs, jokes, a little role play?”

“Right, Alice. That’s just the sort of thing.”

“Let me think about it. Is there a salary connected with this?”

Half an hour later the conversation concluded with both parties laughing delightedly at the possibilities.

“Oh,” said Alice, turning back from the door, “Where do we meet? Judging by the kind of curriculum we have been discussing, the sound-proof music room under the assembly room would be the best place.”

The administrative machinery went into gear, schedules were changed, and the five found themselves headed for the music practice room the following Monday for French.

“What French?”

“Who’s the teacher?”

“Why did we get kicked out of French 1?”

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“Cause we flunked it, dummy.”

They pounded down the stairs into the basement room, stared around at the dull cinder block walls, high windows, dull blue carpet, piano, six chairs, Two drawer file cabinet with the corner of a sheet of music sticking out of a drawer, paneled lockers along one side, two music stands shoved into a corner.

Feet on the steps outside the door, and in came Alice!

The boys were startled. Here stood a woman, a young woman in neat red slacks, a white shirt and a blue scarf under a down ski jacket. She carried a tote bag. Is she the teacher? A woman teacher?

“Bonjour, mes amis,” with a smile.

Butch gobbled, “uh ... Hi.” “Mes amis! Quelle gaucherie! Je m’appelle Elise. Bonjour Elise. Alors, encore.” She turned and left the room. The boys looked at each other, at the closed door. It opened.

“Bonjour, mes amis.” “uh ... Bonjour, uh... Miss,” from Billy. “Ça va mieux, mais pas assez. Bonjour Elise, Elise! Comprenez vous? Elise. How you say en anglais? Alice? En francais, Elise. Mais, Encore” Again the closed door. Again, “Bonjour, mes amis.”

“Bonjour Elise.”

“Ah, tres bien, tres bien. Comment appelez-vous?” to Billy. “Je m’appelle, Elise.”

“Uh ... Bill Edwards.”

“Enchanté Guillaume.” She shook his hand. “Et vous?” to Butch.

“Oscar Hummelman.”

“Enchanté” “His name’s Butch,” interjected Alec.

“Butch, en francais? C’est Butch, non? Butch, je suis enchanté de vous faire la connaissance.”

Alice got all their names, chattering in French all the time. Then, without a moment’s hesitation she pulled from her bag a fish line with hook and sinker, sprang cross-legged to the top of the file, hung the line from her finger to the floor and started jigging, saying mournfully, “Pas de poisson, pas de poisson.” Then, pretending to have a fish and hauling it in, “Aha, la grande morue!”

“Pechons!” She passed out lines. The boys picked up the game quickly. After catching two or three codfish, Billy pulled mightily on his line, suddenly let it go slack.

“Beeg poisson. He got away.”

Alice helped him. “Grand poisson, trés grand.” She spread her arms. “Il s’éschappe. Au diable!”

Butch most mournfully caught “pas de poisson” for a long time, then put up a terrific fight, got his fish right up to the edge of his chair. “Hey, it’s a grand Tiburon” “Un gros requin, Butch. Garde vous. Les dents, très pointus” Coupez la ligne. Le couteau. Coupez,” She reached over and cut.

“Très bien, mes pecheurs. Maintenant retournons au port.” She rowed. “Nous ramons le bateau.

Tout le monde rame. Alec, Butch, Ramez vous.”

“Alors, arrêtez. Nous sommes au quai’: A demain, mes pecheurs. Bonjour.” And she was out the door.

“Quest que c’est shark en francais?” asked Butch.

“How the hell should I know,” answered Arthur with a Gallic shrug.

Next day.

“Bonjour, mes amis.”

“Bonjour, Elise” “Questions?” she asked, looking inquiring.

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Butch: “Shark in French?”

Alice: “Comment dit-on shark en francais? Le requin. Beaucoup de dents. Très pointus.” She showed him. Everyone laughed. “Maintenant, les dents de requin sont…? She looked the question. Billy remembered triumphantly.

“Pointus!”

Thus the “class” went on from day to day with games, songs, and jokes. There was the day Alice played the piano and sang “Sur le Pont d’Avignon.” When they got to singing it themselves, she grabbed Arthur and danced with him. He was at first embarrassed, red-faced, then delighted. She danced with each in turn and not a neat little heel-and-toe dance, either, but an athletic event.

They sang “Frère Jacques” of course, but Alec knew words in English, words often sung in triumph on the bus returning from glorious victory on a distant field: “Next Thanksgiving, next Thanksgiving Save some bread, save some bread Stuff it up a turkey, stuff it up a turkey Eat the bird, Eat the bird.”

They sang it in translation: “Jour de fete, Jour de fete Sauve du pain, Sauve du pain Farce le dans le din-don, Farce le dans le din-don Mangez vite, Mangez vite.”

They sang it loudly – in unison, while Alice beat on the piano andante, fortissimo. Tim declared he could play it on the violin and did. All hands voted it much better than Frére Jacques ringing a foolish bell.

The rather dismal little cell under the chapel became a grocery store, a restaurant, a gymnasium, a ski slope, even a soccer field. The walls were bright with posters. A map of Maine taped to the door showed the names of French explorers and early settlers. Baron de Castin, his Indian wives and distinguished children held a prominent place with merry brown Champlain, the King’s geographer, and the shifty La Tour. Diagrams, pictures in colored chalk of birds and beasts and fish, of trees and flowers illuminated the chalkboard from day to day.

Vocabulary took a hop ahead when Billy thought to look in the back of his discarded French 1 book for a word. He brought the book triumphantly to “class.”

“Le texte! C’est stupide, ennuyant. ‘La plume de ma tante.’ fils d’enfer!” She slung it out the door.

Billy retrieved it and never brought it in again. But he used it as far as it went.

Vocabulary took a giant step when Tim found the French dictionary in the library. He knew better than to bring it in, but all five boys bootlegged words out of it.

In May Alice introduced them to the medieval play Pierre Patelin. It appealed at once because the clever lawyer is outsmarted by the apparently stupid shepherd. They acted it for the school assembly to enthusiastic applause and were besieged with requests to join the group, requests which they haughtily rejected.

Alice did not limit her efforts to the music room. She dropped into the studio where one of “her boys” was painting a pot with colored glaze, talked quietly to him in French, left him laughing, and moved on to others in English. She went to Alec’s basketball games, coached Tim on the ski slope – he hadn’t known he could ski in French – and urged Arthur to “patinez plus vite” on the pond. When spring came, she rode in the coaching launch with Gus Cunningham to urge on coxes Butch and Billy.

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KENNEBEC ACADEMY Founded 1885

Scientia Vires Inducit January 22, 1992

William Edwards 45 Deerthorpe Drive Mamaroneck, New York Dear Mr. Edwards:

I have put off answering your letter of December 21 until the faculty had discussed Billy’s situation and taken action.

You are disappointed in Billy’s achievement in the first term. So are we. He could have done better.

Still, we must both recognize that he is only fourteen, growing fast as adolescence catches up with him, and he has had a considerable adjustment to make to his new environment.

Let us first consider his French. Apparently this term was a serious setback. We teach languages now by the Direct Method. That is, a student learns French as a French child does, by hearing French, talking French, and later by reading French. He is not learning French equivalents of English words but is associating the French word with the object it represents. If he hears “Voici le soldat,” instead of saying to himself, Voici means Look at; soldat means soldier, so the guy wants me to look at the soldier, he just looks around for the soldier. At the beginning, not only did Billy not listen, but he did not do the reading assignments, so had nothing to say or write either in French or English. Consequently, the first term was a failure.

We have taken him out of the French 1 class in which he had no chance of success and put him in a small group with an inspiring teacher who will, we hope, overcome the boy’s induced abhorrence of foreign languages, introduce him to the sounds and rhythms of French, give him some grasp of elementary vocabulary and prepare him for a French 1 class next fall with a different teacher. The D on his record in the ninth grade for a single term of a beginning course, which in any case he will repeat next year, will be insignificant.

The algebra presents a more difficult problem. As you told me, last spring, Billy’s math background is deplorably weak. Fractions and proportions frighten him. Apparently he ignores them and hopes he will never see one again. Positive and negative numbers confuse him. He has, in short, developed a classic case of “math anxiety,” a state of mind in which his mind goes numb, he doubts if the problem has a correct answer and is sure that if it has he will not get it.

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His math teacher has recognized this and is seeing him regularly for extra help. Mr. Marvin is a very understanding young man and extremely conscientious. Not only does he understand mathematics, he understands people who don’t understand mathematics. I believe he can get Billy started in math this winter. As you know, Billy is far from being a dull boy, and I have every reason to believe he will succeed.

The faculty, particularly Billy’s advisor, Peter Floyd, argue strongly for keeping Billy engaged in some kind of physical activity. A boy cannot study all day and needs a release for his physical and nervous energy. He is in an intramural basketball program that takes only a short part of his day and is well worth it.

Experience has shown us over and over again that taking a boy out of athletics as a punishment or for extra study time is counter-productive.

Billy will be all right academically, but it will take time. Right now he is an impulsive young animal who sees no farther ahead than the next meal. He has not learned what his strengths are and for what he wants to use them. This will come.

Furthermore, we must both remember that we are not gods. We cannot make our boys into the men we are or the men we wish we might have been. All we can do is to help them become the kinds of men they will be proud to be. Then I believe we will be both surprised and delighted. Whether Yale is part of this, I don’t know, but the little apples fall near the tree.

If you find it convenient to visit the Academy, be assured that I will be glad to discuss Billy’s situation with you in greater detail. It is possible I will be in New York some time this spring for an alumni dinner, of which you will receive notice soon. We might meet then. In the mean time, call me on the telephone any time.

ES/pg

Sincerely,

Benjamin Sawyer, Headmaster

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Chapter 17 — Bouchard

T

he hard freeze of January had moderated into slushy mid-February, a depressing time for all at Kennebec Academy and especially for Sam Reed. Not only was the weather gloomy, but everything in his life seemed to be spinning down the drain. He was utterly at sea in algebra -- the quadratic formula, the slope of a line, the parabolic curve of a quadratic equation were words without meaning. He couldn’t write a decent paper in English because he had nothing whatever decent to say about Silas Marner and little golden-haired Eppie in the coal hole. He hung on desperately to his American History course. At least he could understand it and learn it, although Andrew Jackson’s financial machinations were downtown Dullsville. And he was spending his afternoons in the Bowdoin rink behind a goalie mask that covered his face from brow to chin.

He did this only as a favor to the coach, who needed another goalie on the squad for practice. Tim “sticky fingers” Lofting, starting goalie, was all-star material. He was quick, sure, and full of fun to back up the team. In fact, he was largely responsible for Kennebec’s undefeated record. He had two shutouts, and Kennebec had won several games by single goals. Sam never played in a game unless Kennebec was so far ahead that it didn’t make any difference whether he could stop a puck or not. In practice, he stood in the cage so the boys could shoot at him, he played in scrimmages across the rink from Tim, and he had cold feet daily, literally and figuratively. He couldn’t believe that playing second-string goalie would help his college chances.

On the way to the hockey rink in the school’s yellow bus, Sam sat listlessly in a back seat alone, his forehead bumping against the cold glass of the window. It was so cold that it hurt a little, but he almost liked that. Around him eddied the talk of the coming afternoon game. Androscoggin was good – very good.

They too were thus far undefeated, and they had a formidable line led by their left wing, Attayun Bouchard, a French Canadian.

“Probably a ringer. Bet he can’t spik-a-de-Anglish,” joked one.

“Maybe not,” put in Tim with mock seriousness, “but he has a shot like a deer rifle. I’m scared of him. You guys got to protect me. If he once lines up a slap shot, I’m a dead man. If I wanted to get shot at like that, I would’ve joined the Army.”

“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll take care of you,” said Joey, left defense. “Have no fear. The defense is here.”

Sam didn’t pay much attention. He knew Tim wasn’t afraid of anything on skates and could probably catch a .45 bullet in his left-hand glove if he had to.

The bus creaked to a stop in the rink parking place behind another labeled “Androscoggin School.”

It was empty. Lugging bulky hockey bags, the team piled out, followed by managers carrying spare sticks and last of all by the two goalies loaded down with their heavy pads. As the dank smell of the rink enveloped him, Tim saw white-shirted figures nonchalantly circling the ice.

The Kennebec team warmed up in one end of the rink. Sam put on the mask and took a turn in the goal, even though he knew he wouldn’t play, more or less mechanically turning aside a puck with his stick or catching it in his glove. Then Tim took over the cage, full of fun and fight and what he called “the old pepper,” kicking out a puck to one side, catching another and dropping it over his shoulder for a defenseman circling the goal.

“Get that thing out of here, Sonny. I don’t want to see it again,” he laughed.

When he missed one – and everybody does, “How to score, Sandy! If you can get by this stick, you 77

can get by anyone’s.” He kicked the puck out. “Did that go in?” And the next puck spun off his stick. It seemed weird to hear Tim’s cheerful familiar voice coming muffled from behind the featureless plastic goalie’s mask.

The players shot in turn, each gliding to the end of the line, skating in to shoot or drawing back for a slap shot. Skates scraped on the ice, the pucks slammed on sticks and boards, and Tim kept up the banter.

Sam saw it and heard it all as through a dream.

The whistle blew and the coach called the team to the bench. They clustered together, Sam on the edge of the knot.

“OK, men. These guys are good and don’t forget it. You will have to go full bore all the time. We will use three lines in rotation and change often. Most of all, avoid penalties. It will be hard even for our shock troops to hold off their power play short handed. They are fast and rough, but don’t let it get you mad.

Score early and often. And watch number 9, Bouchard. He is said to be a winged wonder, but he can be stopped. Let’s go!” Hands clasped together in the center.

“Know what I heard about Bouchard?” put in Tim. “He puts his skates on one foot at a time, just like the rest of us.”

Sam couldn’t reach the clasped hands but joined in the laugh and the cheer as the starting team skated out for the face-off.

From the instant the referee dropped the puck, the game was just as the coach had said it would be – fast and rough. Skates whirred and clacked on the ice, bodies slammed together and crashed against the boards. Sticks whacked each other, and the puck skidded from end to end, thumping pads and cracking against the boards. Each team respected the other, and hard as they played, each was careful to avoid penalties in spite of the shouts of a few ill-mannered spectators.

“Don’t take that crap from him. Belt him one!”

“Oh, ref! Are you blind or just stupid?”

At the end of the first period, no score. Tim had been even better than usual in the goal, with an easy grace turning the puck with stick or skate, picking it out of the air with his glove, moving out to block a pass across his goal or standing fast against charging forwards. Bouchard was good, probably the best player on the rink. He was big, fast, an expert stick-handler, and had a hard, accurate shot. No Kennebec defenseman could stop him alone, so forwards had to check back fast when Bouchard came in with the puck. His helmet hid his face, but his size, his style, and the big blue number 9 on his white shirt made him unmistakable. In the second period he scored on Tim. Kennebec’s morale sank and Androscoggin’s soared. Again Androscoggin scored, this time with a low slap shot. Desperately Kennebec fought back, but the Androscoggin defense was tight and confident and the Androscoggin goalie was a wizard. Toward the end of the second period, Ed Hale, desperately chasing a breaking Androscoggin forward, tripped him from behind and drew a 2-minute penalty.

Androscoggin put on their first line, brought up a defenseman, and pressed in hard. Kennebec closed ranks, banged the puck up the ice whenever they could get a stick on it, checked hard, and did all they could to protect Tim. They knew another goal would put them out of the game.

But Androscoggin knew that another goal would cinch the game and probably the league title, and with only 20 seconds of the penalty left, they pressed in hard. There was a scuffle in front of the Kennebec goal, a desperate rattle and smash of sticks, a clash of skates, and a simultaneous screech of two referees’ whistles. Tim was flat on his face in front of the goal, his hand on the puck. No goal. The clock stopped.

But when Tim stood up, he couldn’t move his fingers and he nursed his right forearm, pain on his face. The coach shuffled out. As he carefully drew off Tim’s glove, Tim winced. The coach helped him off the rink to the spontaneous applause of both teams and the spectators.

“Get your pads on, Sam – it’s your game now,” said the coach, preoccupied with Tim’s injury. Sam said nothing but thought, “Put me in? I can’t face these gorillas. I almost never played in a game before.

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I’m not ready, coach!” His fingers felt very cold and stiff as he buckled the pads, slid on the gloves and mask, and stepped on to the ice. The coach passed him his stick.

“Do the best you can, Sam. It’s a tough break.”

That did nothing much to build Sam’s confidence as he skated awkwardly toward the cage in his pads. The shock troops, then on the ice to kill the penalty, gathered round him with encouraging words and slaps on the helmet, but he felt that they didn’t really trust him. Why should they? He just came out for practices to give them a target to shoot at.

“Take care of me, boys. I’m out here for the first time,” he quipped, imitating Tim; but there was no response. He felt like David in Saul’s armor.

He looked up the ice at the white team lining up for the face-off. There on the left wing was big number 9, Bouchard, tense, confident, strong, dangerous. Sam braced himself against the Canadian, the foreign hairy ringer, the enemy.

The whistle blew, the puck dropped, and here they came! Three white shirts charged across the blue line after the rocking puck. Red-shirted defensemen skated backwards ahead of them, crowding Bouchard with the puck toward the boards, forcing a pass. The center laid back a little while the other wing closed in fast on the post to Sam’s left. Bouchard passed back to the center. Like lightning he shot. Automatically Sam took the puck on his stick and thought, “Rebound!” He covered to his left as the Kennebec defenseman slashed the puck up the boards.

“Lucky that time,” thought Sam. “The great Bouchard didn’t even get to shoot.”

The penalty clock was showing single numbers. Ed was standing in the gate of the penalty box ready to explode on to the ice the instant his penalty ended. And down they came again, four of them this time. In a flurry of skidding skates and clashing sticks, Kennebec cleared the puck across the blue line in time for Ed, bursting from the penalty box, to pick it up, fake out the lone defenseman and score. Kennebec was back in the game 2-1 as the buzzer ended the second period.

Before the last period, the team gathered in the locker room. The coach was not there, having taken Tim to the Bowdoin infirmary. No one seemed to know what to say and almost everyone was tired. Sam thought he ought to act like a goalie, even though he didn’t feel much like one.

“All right, you guys. A good offense is the best defense. Keep the puck in their end and you’ll get a couple by and by. We’ll pull this out. And cover that Bouchard. I don’t like what I see of him.”

Little Phillips, assistant manager, carrier of sticks and Captain of the Water Bucket, had the right word. “Sam isn’t Tim, but he has been holding off our first line in practice for a month, and our first line is as good as anything we have seen today. Leave the goal to him and go in and score.”

“You’re OK, Peanut,” said the captain. You tell ’em.”

The first lines faced each other at the beginning of the last period. Kennebec pressed, but Bouchard picked up a loose puck behind his own goal.

Here he comes, thought Sam. Less and less I like this Bouchard.

Across the blue line, he faked the puck between the feet of the Kennebec defenseman and rushed savagely in on the goal – big, menacing, featureless behind his face guard, his skates flashing, the blue “9” on his shirt glaring. Sam, through the eye holes in his mask, watched the puck zigzagging ahead of his stick, instinctively slid his stick to the right, pads together, glove ready. The puck glanced off the post, his pad, and away and Bouchard with it.

Lucky again, thought Sam. Here come two more. But a Kennebec defenseman circling behind the goal picked up the puck and Kennebec attacked, the sounds of battle retreating to the far end of the rink.

Again and again a white-shirted line, usually it seemed led by the fierce Bouchard, bore down on Sam. His red-shirted team met them, checked them, blocked passes, broke up plays; but often Bouchard or someone else got through and drove hard at Sam. Behind his blank white plastic goalie mask his hate and fear of Bouchard grew. Through his little eyeholes he watched the big “9,” imagined the scowling brow, 79

the snarling lip, the jutting hairy chin, the little hateful squinting eyes. Sam began to strike back. He didn’t just stand in the goal to be shot at. Sometimes he charged the attacker before he could shoot or stepped out to block a pass. Even when he stayed in, he was counterattacking. With his glove he picked the puck out of the air; with his stick he slipped it behind him to a Kennebec man who golfed it up the ice to a forward.

No goalie ever scored a goal, but Sam was setting them up whenever he could. And at last Kennebec did it.

With only a minute left, the game was tied 2-2.

The face-off, and here came Bouchard again. Behind his mask Sam growled, “Damn you, number 9!

Get him, defense. Tip him on his butt. Waste him.” Defense crowded Bouchard hard against the boards, but he got a pass off to his right wing. Sam blocked the shot and there was that black Canuck at his right elbow ready to slam in the rebound. Sam dove for the puck, got his hand on it as Bouchard’s stick hit hard against his elbow. The whistle blew.

“Sorry,” said Bouchard.

“Sorry, I guess,” said Sam inside his mask. “Trying to give me what you gave Tim, you big gorilla!”

The referee dropped the puck, the shot went wide, and the buzzer ended the period and the regular game.

A tie game! They agreed to play a 3-minute sudden death overtime. The first score would end the game and win the league championship.

Kennebec took the face-off, fired the puck into Androscoggin’s zone and kept it there. But finally Bouchard picked it up, crossed over, dodged back, and crossed the blue line alone. Joey, the only man between Bouchard and the goal, and an Androscoggin victory, leaned forward and swept the ice with his stick, hoping to knock the puck away. Bouchard checked himself, cleared the end of Joey’s stick, bored in fiercely behind him and wound up for a slap shot. “Don’t you shoot at me, you black devil.” Sam snatched it out of the air, dropped it behind him to Joey, saying, “Get it out of here. I don’t want to see it again today” and he wasn’t joking. Defense cleared it. But that devil Bouchard had it again.

“O God, here comes that apeman again,” said Sam aloud, full of hate for his vision of that dark face and those wolfish eyes. Bouchard charged furiously, slipped the puck aside at the last minute to number 14.

Sam took the shot on his ankle as Bouchard circled the goal and slashed at the rebound. Number 14 charged in and all three went into the goal together as the puck slid back to the boards and the buzzer ended the game. No goal. The players untangled themselves. Sam, enraged by the violation of his goal and the rough treatment, shoved the white shirts violently out of his way.

“I’ll get that dirty black herring-choker, so help me, I will. I’ll bash his dirty mug.” Although the game was over, Sam still stood in the goal, trembling with rage behind his mask.

Now the teams were lining up to shake hands, each team in single file passing the other, right hands to right hands, glove and helmet in the left. It was the conventional display of good sportsmanship. Sam was the last in the Kennebec file. As the Androscoggin captain came through first, Sam took off his mask and glove and mechanically shook hands first with the captain and then with one white sleeve after another, scarcely looking up.

“When I get to that damned Canuck, I’ll never shake his hairy hand. I’ll belt him right in the face.

By God, I will. I’ll deck him.”

He looked down the line for number 9, but each man hid those behind. Suddenly there he was, the “9” seeming to fill the rink, tall and wide. Sam clenched his fist and looked up.

He saw not the fierce wolfish countenance he had imagined but a smile and a pair of cheerful blue eyes under reddish hair.

“Nice game, goalie. You sure are a hard one to get by. Hope you didn’t get shook up that last play.”

Sam’s clenched fist, only half relaxed, fumbled for the outstretched hand, touched it and at the touch, melted. Before he could find words to answer, Bouchard was gone and Sam felt Tim embracing him enthusiastically with his left arm, leading him toward the bench, while the mask rocked unheeded on the ice behind him.

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Chapter 18 — Edge of Spring

A

t the end of February, three weeks of deep freeze let go. In the first days of March the mercury uncurled itself from the bottom of the bulb in the thermometer and crept up toward the freezing mark. Under a bright sun and a blue sky, Maynard Pierce of Kennebec Academy’s maintenance crew was pumping gas into the green truck in his shirtsleeves.

“The winter’s broke, boys. The winter’s broke. It’s all over now.”

“Like hell it is,” growled dour Bert, who ran a string of lobster traps outside Seguin. “This here’s a weather-breeder. You take a soft day like this in th’ winter time with the wind to the s’uth’ard and sure as a squash has seeds, she’ll cant out to the east’ard and give you a good soakin’. You’ll have your ear flaps down t’morrow.”

“Joe Cupo didn’t say so on the radio this mornin’.”

“Joe Cupo didn’t see the big old roll off Seguin this morning.”

The school awoke the next day to a heavy easterly gale slamming bursts of snow against the dining hall windows out of a howling impenetrable grayness. The river and the point across the cove dissolved in the rush of snow and wind. The pines on the near-bank, showing only dimly through the storm, bent their tops and thrashed their upper branches before the heavier gusts.

Mr. Floyd bent forward against the blast on his way to breakfast, the hood of his mackinaw pulled over his head, his cap pulled down over his eyes. The blind brute force of the gale pushed him, pummeled him, threw snow in his face, tripped him with snow, roared in rage or laughed with heavy boorish laughter as he picked his way from tree to tree along the path. But it was his day to be at breakfast so of course he was going.

He battled his way to the shelter of the dining hall porch, stamped his feet, pushed back his hood, and stepped in over a puddle of melting snow on the floor. He hung his coat and hat neatly on a peg and, dressed precisely as usual, boots his only concession to the weather, proceeded to the head of the head table.

The clatter and chatter of 100 boys died away in the presence of this precise little man. Silence.

“For these and all thy many blessings, our Father, we thank thee. Amen.” Chairs scraped and the clatter resumed.

Mr. Floyd was a scholar, head of the English department, author of an anthology of poetry, a careful paper on the significance of Melville’s references to Shakespeare in Moby Dick, and a manual of English grammar, usage, and punctuation which was annually distributed to every boy in Kennebec Academy. In his classroom he was serious but not solemn, as much interested in his students as in his subject. In the dormitory he was always slightly formal but a friend to every one of his boys, their advocate in times of trouble, wise enough to know when not to look and when to apply the iron hand of discipline. “There are no rules until they are broken,” he said; but he insisted they be obeyed. Mrs. Floyd grew flowers, fed birds, worked for H&R Block in Bath every spring, knew every boy who had ever lived in the dormitory and most of their parents. She poured tea with a touch of Victorian formality –“one lump or two?”– and made excellent cupcakes.

The waiter came in from the kitchen to report that the radio was loaded with no school announcements and winter storm warnings were broadcast. Joe Cupo was talking about a “sneak blizzard.”

The dining hall fell silent as Mr. Sawyer, the Headmaster, came in – an unusual event at breakfast.

His jacket and hood were plastered with snow and his face was red and wind burned.

“Gentlemen, this is predicted to continue all day with a heavy accumulation. Plows will have 81

difficulty keeping any roads open and getting from building to building around the campus will be difficult.

No day boys or non-resident masters will be able to come in, and our maintenance crew will be working double time to keep a road open for fire and emergency vehicles. Therefore we will have no regular school today. The studio, library, dark room, and gym will be open, but I suggest that you move around no more than necessary. When the storm lets up, shovels will be available at the barn and everyone is urged to pitch in and dig out. Dinner will be at 12:30 as usual.” The room burst into buzz and clatter.

At 3:30 in the afternoon it was still blowing a living gale. No one knew what the depth of snow on the level might be for the wind had swept some places bare and piled deep drifts in others. Pat Sweeney, who came from California and had never seen such a storm before, jumped out his second story window feet first into a huge drift and completely disappeared. The drift heaved and the hole he had made caved in.

Two others ran down and dug him out, gasping and choking and thoroughly scared.

The library was dead quiet except for the wind, which whistled and howled around a corner of the building, slammed snow against the easterly windows and drummed in the chimney, whence it occasionally puffed an aromatic burst of smoke out of the fireplace. A dozen boys were sunk in chairs and couches, reading in the tortured attitudes in which youth relaxes. Mr. Sanborn, the librarian, surveyed his kingdom over the bowl of his pipe in great content, watching two silent chess players by the window.

The studio was jumping. A radio was going full bore with, frequent comments from the WBZ Storm Center until someone changed it to violent rock music interrupted by announcements that church suppers, grange meetings, bingo games and scheduled gatherings of Ladies Aids were canceled, postponed, or rescheduled. The dull light from outside accentuated the violence within as small boys spread brilliant colors with broad brushes on acres of paper, themselves and each other. Allan Poole, at a bench, oblivious of the riot around him, pared and cut and smoothed away at a lump of clay that was growing into a living skier under his hand. The potters’ wheels whirred, the jig saw chattered, the lathe howled or growled as the tool hit wood. Mr. Benson, the artist in residence, moved from group to group, watching the skier out of the corner of his eye, encouraging, demonstrating, turning to seize a young Philistine in the act of throwing clay.

Sam and Joe stamped into the dormitory. If it had been the winter’s first snow in December, there would have been melting snowballs all down the hall and rushes of little boys through the door pelted by bigger boys outside. But in March, who needs a snowball fight?

The boys went into their room, dumped their coats, flopped on their beds. They had pretty well wrung out the day. The wind had eased off as it swung northerly and from the gray sky sieved down the last of the snow in the early dusk. They had eaten, shoveled, and talked themselves out.

They tried an arm wrestle. Joe won. They tried it again. Sam won. They tried it again and got tired of it before anyone won.

“I’m going in to see Mr. Floyd and get permission to go home next weekend. Maybe he’ll invite us to tea.”

“What do you suppose he’s doing today? He must have corrected all his papers, done all his homework, and be sitting like a little bird peeking over his desk.”

“Maybe he’s sitting in his armchair by the window reading one of those books off the top shelf that he has already read twice.

“Yeah, a 3-volume Victorian novel like Forsythe Saga or Gone With the Wind.”

“Gone with the Wind isn’t Victorian, you ding-dong. It’s American.”

“Who cares?”

They knocked on Mr. Floyd’s study door, expecting the neat little man in grey flannels, tweed coat, blue shirt, and plain red tie to open the door on his neat study with the books in ordered rows, the papers stacked neatly on a corner of the desk, and a pen and pencil on the blotter. Not so. At their knock Mr. Floyd did not open the door. He called, “Come in.”

The boys stood gaping in shocked astonishment. Instead of the neat room with precisely ordered 82

desk and the chair behind it they saw the desk tipped on its side on spread newspapers, the drawers piled criss-cross on a chair, the row of books from the desk in another chair, and the blotter shoved kitty-corner into a book case. Mr. Floyd in dungarees and a sweat shirt with the faded letters “Bowdoin A.A.” on it, his usually neatly combed hair damp on his forehead, confronted an elevated leg of the desk, a cross-cut saw in his hand, already half way through the leg.

He looked up and then, jaw set, furiously resumed sawing, the saw spurting sawdust, catching in the cut, then breaking through. The end of the desk leg rolled on the floor and Mr. Floyd looked up.

“There,” he said, “at last I did it! It took something violent and unexpected like this storm to get me to do it. For years I have worked at that desk and it is too high for me. Always feel as if I am chinning myself to look over it. Today I finally resolved to saw an inch and a quarter off each leg and by God I did it.

Let’s try it out.”

Sam and Joe, still open-mouthed, each took a corner and set the desk on its legs. Sam moved the books off the chair and set it behind the desk. Mr. Floyd sat down, put his elbows on the desk and smiled across the scene of desolation with satisfaction, pride, and a new dignity.

“Now that is worth losing a day for,” he said. “After all, the desk was made for me. I wasn’t made for the desk. Will you join us in a cup of tea and perhaps a cake?”

As they followed him into the next room, Sam picked up a piece sawn off the desk leg and tossed it in his hand. Joe picked up another and put it in his pocket as if he had found a holy relic.

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Chapter 19 — The Headmaster’s Bad Dream

M

rs. Ellen Sawyer, the Headmaster’s wife, felt satisfied with her achievement as she sat with her six guests around the living room fire after dinner. She had had serious doubts about the party beforehand, but now everyone seemed at ease and the dinner had actually exceeded her expectations.

Her brother Stanley and his wife Deanna had come to visit for the weekend. Stanley was a lawyer with the distinguished Boston firm of Bartlett, Jones, and A.P. Butterworth. Deanna, a tall, masterful woman, thin to the point of emaciation and stylish almost to arrogance, was a gourmet cook. She had generously undertaken to cook the Saturday night dinner. Ellen Sawyer had been steam-rollered into acceptance, but nourished doubts that anyone else could or should invade her kitchen and cook for her guests. However, Deanna had promised to do her famous baked stuffed lobster, and who could decently refuse that?

Getting ready for Deanna had been a good piece harder than cooking a dinner. Many of the necessary ingredients – Deanna had sent a list – were not on her kitchen shelves and some of the spices were not available in the Bath supermarket. The wine for seasoning had to be French Chardonnay. The salad fixings had to be of the highest quality. Those little hard, pink golf balls of supermarket tomatoes were unacceptable. The cucumbers had to be unwaxed, the avocadoes of the precise degree of ripeness, the lettuce oh-so-crisp. Deanna, surveying the result of Ellen’s two-day scavenger hunt, spent a good part of Saturday morning scouring the shops of Bath to repair deficiencies in quality and to procure a few items she had wanted to select herself.

Right after lunch at school – pea soup and corn bread – Ellen, Stanley, and Deanna had driven down to Steve Cushing’s wharf at Small Point for eight lively 1 1/2-pound lobsters. Steve had led them out of the close little store on the wharf, stuffy with smells of bait, wet wool, tar, tobacco and oil stove, and had lifted the lid of the lobster car. He reached in with his dip net.

“I want that one over there in the corner,” said Deanna, “and that one that just backed into the crowd on this side.”

Steve patiently and skillfully maneuvered the designated creatures into his net and dropped them snapping into the basket on the scale. One was pronounced inferior and was returned for a better one.

When eight had been selected and passed inspection, they were weighed and dumped into a cardboard beer carton. The visitors picked their ways up the icy gangway, Deanna holding her fur coat tightly around her in the bitter wind, and hurried to the car. Ellen stepped into the house on the wharf with Steve to pay for the lobsters.

“I’m sorry to be so fussy,” apologized Ellen,” but she’s my sister-in-law and a gourmet cook who writes books about it. So far as I’m concerned, at this time of year a lobster’s a lobster and they all taste the same.”

“Well,” answered Steve, “I don’t mind. If you’re going to deal with the public, you have to be pretty damned accomodatin’, even in the winter.”

Despite the difficulties of the oven not being just right, the plates not being quite hot enough and the wine – Stanley had brought the wine from Boston – quite cold enough, the dinner had been a great success.

Now, over coffee, Coach Johnson was expatiating on the World Series, what the manager of the Cardinals should have told his batter to do in the ninth with one out and a man on first. Stanley was intensely interested and suggested the proper defensive shift for the Yankee outfield. Mrs. Johnson was dutifully attentive. Fritz Bauer, Head of the History Department, was profoundly bored as was Judy Bauer, neither of whom knew a shortstop from a doorstop. Deanna had shot her bolt. She lay wilted on the couch.

84

Ben Sawyer, Headmaster, blinked and braced to keep his eyes open and tried to participate as a good host should, but it had been a long day. After a busy morning with telephone and dictating machine, he had had to attend a special meeting of the Disciplinary Committee on the case of Butch Hummelman, who had, admittedly and beyond question, set a fire in his English classroom. His teacher, Mr. Evanston, insisted that Butch be on the next plane to Lemon Blossom, Florida. Probably he was right.

However, as the story unfolded, the Headmaster’s attitude wavered. Two weeks ago, before the examination, Mr. Evanston had exhorted his class to go beyond the mere satisfaction of requirements, to learn for the exhilaration of learning. “Anyone can earn a B in English,” he said,” but an A was to be achieved only by extra effort, by a cup of perspiration seasoned by a soup༉on of inspiration. An A student did more than enough. In Biblical terms, “walked the extra mile, carried the extra burden, gave his coat and his cloak also.”

On this morning, Mr. Evanston had returned the mid-year examination bluebooks. Butch had received an E, a failing grade, because, said Mr. Evanston loudly and publicly for the edification of the class, Butch had failed to follow directions. The directions had said, “Write on ONE of the following topics.”

Butch, eager to go the extra mile, had written on both of the topics. He had protested, but Mr. Evanston was adamant. He said, in fact, that he had not even read the paper when he saw that Butch had failed to follow directions.

During the rest of the period Butch had seethed with outrage and disappointment. He had slowly torn his examination book into narrow strips, prolonging each tearing action as long as he could. Mr. Evanston had ignored the insult. When the bell rang, Mr. Evanston had ordered Butch to put the scraps in the wastebasket. He did, all except for the last one. Butch “flicked his Bic,” set it afire, and dropped it flaming into the wastebasket and walked out. Butch had imperiled the lives and property of many people and had, with malice and premeditation, insulted a member of the faculty. Under any system of law and morality, declared Evanston, Butch must be expelled.

Yet the Committee had discussed heatedly the extenuating circumstances versus the enormity of the crime for two hours, Mr. Whitmore declaring that in the same circumstances, if he had had the nerve, he would have done the same thing. Leaving the matter unresolved, the Committee adjourned to meet again on Monday.

After the meeting, a brisk run on skis around the cross country course had helped to restore the Headmaster’s enthusiasm, but the warm room, the lobster stuffing – rather too rich for his digestion – and the necessity for eating and liking everything, had left him a bit confused behind his belt buckle and not deeply concerned with what would have happened if Shorty Gomez had caught that line drive in the third inning of the second game.

Judy Bauer, determined to change the subject at any cost, kicked Fritz’s ankle so he jerked awake.

“That nice new boy, Hummelman, went by my kitchen window this afternoon looking as if he wanted to cry. I wonder if the poor boy is homesick.”

“When was it?” broke in Coach Johnson. “About four o’clock? He was on his way back from a Disciplinary Committee meeting and is on his way back home right now – or he ought to be.”

Fritz came alive at once in defense of the humanitarian point of view and of one of “his” boys.

Stanley was interested in the legality of firing a boy. Coach Johnson, always ready to pontificate on any subject on earth or the seas thereof, stood before the fire and pronounced sentence.

“Evanston is right. Hummingbird has to go. You can’t have people setting fires and insulting masters irregardless of the provocation. Search every civilized society on the globe and you will find that arson is invariably a crime. And you, as Headmaster, Ben, must back up your faculty.”

“The provocation was immense,” replied Bauer. “If you fire Butch, the whole school will see it as gross injustice and as a whitewash of a teacher’s error. I don’t care what the rules say. This is one case where mercy must season justice.”

85

“Besides,” broke in Stanley, “when you took the boy’s tuition payment, you entered into a contract to educate him. You can’t break that contract simply because he needs more education.”

“But the school catalogue says,” said Johnson too loudly, “and I quote, ‘Any student whose conduct flagrantly violates Academy rules or fails to reflect favorably the purposes and principles of the Academy may be asked to leave.’”

“That does not affect the boy’s basic right to an education, be it academic, athletic, or moral in return for his money, returned Stanley. “In the case of–” “Let’s get back to fundamentals,” said Johnson, striding back and forth like an Admiral on his quarterdeck. “Society has rules which are enforced for the good of its members. These rules, this system of law, must be supported or society reverts to barbarism. Sure, some people get hurt. Sure, we are sorry for Hummingbird. But he was the one who insulted Evanston. He was the one who lit the fire. Of course he doesn’t want to be expelled. But he should have thought of that before he did it.

“What we need in this school is a predictable system of justice whereby in every case of crime, a punishment would invariably and automatically be applied. Then we wouldn’t have any crime. That’s the trouble with this modern milk-and-water permissive attitude. For the good of the school and the good of the boy, Hummingbird must go.”

“In the first place,” observed Fritz quietly but with no little emphasis, “the boy’s name is Hummelman, not Hummingbird. Next, you must remember that he is a young fourteen from a small town in Florida. He is in a strange place among strangers and he is a very small boy, physically. He is strongly independent, very imaginative, and an actor. He is always acting a part. That’s how he got the nickname Butch. He isn’t tough. When he came, he was acting the part of a tough kid in self-defense. Ask Walter Edgehill. Yesterday he was outraged by an obvious injustice and he took the role of a protester, a guerilla warrior if you will, and he acted the part very well. Yes, he broke the rules, but he is no moral cripple.

There is nothing dishonest, mean, or self-seeking about him. He must learn not to set fires. He must learn to respect his teachers, even if, as in this case, they don’t deserve respect. But you won’t help him and you won’t help the school by expelling him, however legalistic your reasons. If you want to expel someone, expel Evanston.”

The discussion continued with increasing heat, Johnson insisting on the necessity for severe and immediate punishment to support the rules, the rules, the rules, Bauer insisting on the necessity for considering the “human equation,” and Stanley offering to take Hummelman’s case to court and defend him to the hilt. Ben Sawyer listened intently, for these were the three points of the case which had haunted him since the facts first came out in the meeting that afternoon. He forgot temporarily about his digestive commotion.

But that night the lobster stuffing rose to distress Mr. Sawyer. He did not sleep well at all, got up once to take a pill, and finally dropped into an uneasy doze in which he dreamed vividly.

A new Headmaster was addressing the School at assembly. He was a precise, disciplined little man in a neat blue suit with a neat, white handkerchief jutting from his breast pocket. His immaculate white shirt and precisely-tied bow tie were echoed by his highly polished black shoes. He spoke in a high, sharp voice with an electronic twang to it. From now on, there would be no nonsense at the Academy. Teachers were to teach, students were to study, coaches were to coach. All discipline, all mechanical details, most administrative duties were to be handled by computer. All grades, averages, rank-in-class figures and report cards were to be computerized.

Each student, each teacher was to have a number. Names were superfluous to a computer.

Television cameras and screens were installed all over the school so no corner was unseen by the machine. The machine itself, early in its life dubbed Horrible Horace by an unregenerate student, was installed in the faculty lounge, for which of course there was no longer any need.

If Horace sensed a boy in the eighth grade smoking under the stairs, he would file it in his prodigious 86

memory under the boy’s number and type it on his college recommendation four years later. Every grade, every comment, every criticism, each and every aberration from normal was recorded. School policy was determined by the Headmaster and was punched into the machine by his secretary.

No single hair on a boy’s head was to be over two inches long. Bread must be broken into three pieces before being buttered. No pushing in the cookies and milk line and no more than two cookies to a customer. Acceptable excuses for lateness, absence, and failure to do assignments were punched in. A flat tire, flood, fire, and pestilence were acceptable excuses. ‘The dog ate it,’ ‘my alarm clock didn’t go off,’ ‘I lost my car keys’ elicited from the machine an immediate and painful electric shock.

The year started beautifully. Boys and teachers were punctual in a manner hitherto unprecedented.

No longer was a teacher to be seen running for class with a plastic coffee cup in his outstretched hand.

Laggards were hustled by a vast electronic voice bidding Smith to proceed with greater speed to the Physics lab and admonishing Jones for pausing to talk with Brown on the stairway. Minor crime vanished, for when Austin in mischievous mood made to overturn a fire extinguisher and squirt his classmates ascending the stair, he was arrested in mid career by the flash of a camera taking his picture and a computerized bellow bidding number 634 to cease and desist at once. At the same instant he was treated to an electric shock, which raised him off the floor.

Intellectual activity was improved in an unprecedented manner, for the sleepy were awakened and the bored were stimulated. Athletic teams achieved enormous success, for every play was analyzed by the computer, its weakness noted, correction recommended, and a proper defense devised. Horace knew that Androscoggin was going to pass on the next play before the Androscoggin quarterback knew it, and Horace directed the defense.

The school leaped at once to a sound financial basis because so much money was saved; and an unforeseen advantage accrued when the business manager and the Assistant Headmaster resigned because there was nothing for them to be frustrated about any more.

It was Utopian.

All through the winter Horace sat in the faculty lounge and hummed contentedly, extending his electronic tentacles into every corner of school life. Teachers taught, students studied, hockey players played hockey, malingering ceased, and the Headmaster raised money, all as slick as a fox in a henhouse.

But early in the spring came the first crack in the system.

Merton was tall and thin – rather hastily put together by a deity who made up for all his deficiencies with an overdose of good humor, good intentions and ingenuity. Merton was careless, impulsive, forgetful, a procrastinator, and not very brilliant, but he was the kind of person things happen to – unusual things. It all started innocently enough when he was asked by his geometry teacher to do a proof on the board after class because he had not done it properly for homework. Horace took note of the assignment, excused him from study hall, set up a circuit to call the teacher in ten minutes and settled down, purring, to write college recommendations.

Merton drew an isosceles triangle on the board as the book directed, but instead of making the base horizontal, he tipped it sharply to the right. It seemed to be falling over so he supported it with two legs. Because they looked skinny, he put hockey pants and skates on them. Then a pair of plumy wings seemed necessary and a spherical owl-like head. He thought of adding a nest for the bird when Horace recalled the teacher. Being human, the teacher roared with laughter. Being inhuman, Horace skipped a few beats, attempted to classify the drawing, flashed a red light, and went down. However, the trouble was soon located, circuit breakers snapped back, and Horace was restored to health. Merton was haled before the Head. The Headmaster hid the ghost of a smile and bade Merton return to his studies forthwith. On the first warm day in April, Merton was sharing a six-pack of Pepsi with Austin and Brown. Austin squeezed the first empty can flat, bent it in the middle, and lofted it into the wastebasket. Merton tried to squeeze the can he was holding, but it resisted. He squeezed harder. He squeezed with both hands. The can exploded, 87

blowing Pepsi all over the room.

Horace responded with a vigorous shock and an admonition to Merton for spilling his drink and demanded an explanation. Merton’s response: “I didn’t know it was loaded,” put Horace out of action again.

He had not been programmed to deal with a boy who didn’t know that one squeezes empty cans only. The human variable was too much for him.

Merton’s Latin class varied its pedestrian journey through vocabulary, forms, syntax, and translation with projects on Roman life. Merton elected to make a model of Mt. Vesuvius with Pompeii and Herculaneum at its foot. At the snap of a switch, the volcano was to erupt and bury the cities. Mr. Whitmore wisely insisted that the eruption take place outdoors. It did. Instead of the planned lava flow and shower of volcanic ash, Vesuvius blew itself to atoms in a shower of red and yellow stars to the surprise and delight of the assembled class. Again Horace went down, his absolute dependence on a programmed response unable to deal with the infinite imaginative capacity of the human mind.

And so it went. Over and over again the unprogrammed event, the human variable, jarred Horace and delighted the school. Playing first base, Merton deserted his post one windy day to chase a girl’s handkerchief into right field and at the crack of the bat, turned to pick a whistling line drive out of the air, almost by mistake, for the winning out. Horace didn’t know whether to roar at him for playing out of position or applaud him for a stellar play. The coach, not bound by programmed logic, did both.

Merton was late to school because he stopped to watch a fish hawk dive in the river, dropping like a feathered bomb into the still water. No program fitted that excuse. He was late to lunch because he got interested in a Latin comedy and came in chuckling while Horace was berating him – a quite unprogrammed reaction.

He missed athletics one afternoon, leaving Horace short-circuited unable to digest the excuse that he was writing a poem for his mother’s birthday.

Finally, when the weather became warm and blue, the grass green, and the apple trees a vision of pink and white, when purple lilacs lined the paths, Merton did Horace to death.

All in one day, he was late to his English exam, he wrote little, and what he wrote was verse and not expository prose; seized by an uncontrollable impulse, he tossed a sneaker into the open study hall window during a Physics exam, devoted the rest of the afternoon to various forms of impulsive and riotous living and gave at last his excuse “I’m in love.”

With a shriek of shredded transistors, a burst of flaming lasers, and a soft sigh of burned-out amplifiers, Horace, unable to cope with the human equation in infinite unknowns, expired.

Ben Sawyer awoke with a start to the familiar clang of the breakfast bell and ruminated on Butch Hummelman and the human equation in infinite unknowns. As he shrugged into his well-worn jacket, he decided regretfully that a Headmaster could not tell his dreams to his faculty.

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Chapter 20 — Undivided Share

A

s the last days of winter thawed into March, the course of good education ceased to run smoothly at Kennebec Academy. Almost everyone began to notice things going awry.

Johnny sat in the library puzzling out a stuffy article in the encyclopedia on Joseph Conrad. The ninth grade class had been assigned to write a brief biography of the novelist, and the encyclopedia appeared to be the only easily available source. Johnny had had to wait and wait for it as each of his classmates extracted the nuggets of fact from the piles of prose. At last it was his turn and now he became aware that people were collecting books, picking up papers, putting on coats. The librarian was checking window locks, closing up his desk, and straightening magazines with one eye on the clock now creeping up to ten.

In three minutes Johnny would have to turn in the book and then wait out the line again tomorrow.

Quickly he slipped the volume on to his lap under the table, opened his knife and slit out the page.

He folded it once and put it in his notebook.

“Cloooooosing,” said the librarian.

Johnny felt badly about the page when he got back in his room, but he soon talked himself into defense.

“It’s really my book. Look at all I pay in tuition. Certainly I deserve to have one lousy page out of one lousy old book, so I can learn and study like anyone else.”

He knew it was a poor argument, but he said it over and over again and believed it before he went to sleep.

The next morning, livid with rage, Mr. Sanborn, the librarian, stood before the Assistant Headmaster’s desk, holding the mutilated book in his hand.

“Look at that – deliberately, some kid took a knife and deliberately slit out that page. Just slit it out and ruined the book for everyone else. It was someone in Mr. Floyd’s class, I’m sure of it. I don’t know who, but I’ll wring that little rascal’s neck!” He choked and gasped with rage, pain, and indignation.

“But sir, I couldn’t do the homework because someone cut the page out of the book.”

“But sir – but sir – but sir.”

The washbasin on the wall in the dormitory bathroom had served generations of boys at Kennebec as they shave their first fuzzy mustaches before the cracked mirror above it. The basin was a little loose on the wall and wiggled if you jarred it hard. Stan and his roommate, Bill, were horsing around in the bathroom.

Sam soaked a washrag and slammed it at Bill. Bill picked it up to slam it back and ducked into one of the toilets. Bill threw a glass of water over the top. Stan wet a wad of toilet paper, burst out the door and slammed it back. Bill lurched back against the mirror. The basin moved, and a chunk of plaster fell off the wall next to it. Both boys saw it and each tried to shove the other against the basin again. Each time it grew looser, then hung like loose tooth by the pipes, and, at the next slam it fell completely clear, crashed to the floor, two geysers spurted from the broken pipes and the boys fled, laughing.

When water began to drip through the ceiling in Mr. Johnson’s study, he ran upstairs, found the flood pouring from under the bathroom door, rushed in, found the valves and shut off the spouting water. The broken shards of the basin lay on the floor.

Mr. Johnson seized all the towels in sight, tried to slop up the water, and wondered where the boys were. It wasn’t natural for them to miss a scene like this.

He knocked on Josh Burns’s door. Josh was sitting at his desk, chin on hand, bending over a geometry book, apparently oblivious to Noah’s flood across the hall. “Oh sir, yes sir. I was doing geometry, 89

sir. I don’t know, sir.

“I have no idea sir. No I didn’t hear anything, sir.”

After Mr. Johnson had gone downstairs again, Bill said, “We shouldn’t have done that, Sam. We knew that thing would break off.”

“Oh, the deuce with it. We’ve done enough for this school and my pa has given enough to this school to pay for one old washbasin that has been here since Grandpa was a kid. They needed a new one anyway.

“Can you beat it?” said Mr. Johnson to the faculty room. “Those little scoundrels just smashed that basin off the wall – just bashed it to pieces. Then they all disappeared. No one had heard anything.

They were all studying. Intensely. Yet Burns for one hadn’t written anything on his geometry paper. It is unthinkable that anyone would just smash up school property so. Just for devilment. I don’t understand it.”

Spring crept a little bit closer, retreated in snow, and came back repentant in a burst of warm weather.

A fire started in the lean-to at the foot of the ski hill but was fortunately extinguished. Someone unknown dumped half an ink bottle into the aquarium in the Bio lab and killed all the fish. The climbing ropes in the gym were cut off 8 feet above the floor – all but the end one. No one was caught. The faculty was enraged and frustrated, suspicious and hurt. Some boys were angry, some amused, and some outraged.

The Headmaster ascended the rostrum steps on Friday and explained in careful detail the moral issues involved in damaging community property to the advantage of none and the detriment of all. He spoke of missing books in the library, bent table silver, shades yanked off their rollers, paths made across the lawns, ruined ceilings, broken windows and a host of other things. The school listened dutifully but nothing happened.

Down in the Maintenance Shop there was tumult and rage. Cap listened to the others growling.

“Damn those little rich kids. Ain’t they got no sense at all? Don’t they know if they stave up the place it won’t be fit to live in?”

“Oh they don’t know nothin’ and they don’t care neither. Might’s well go sit on your hat as try to tell those little sticks anything.”

“Well I’d like to get my hands on whoever wrecked that wash basin and flooded us out. There was no need of that. Ruined two ceilings, shorted out the wiring, soaked the tiles off the floor and generally raised hell.”

Outside the shop where the March sun shone warmly on the mud of the dooryard stood the new dump truck. Johnnie found a rock loosened from the winter’s frost and idly tossed it into the truck. It made a most satisfactory noise so Stan threw one a lot harder. It took off a chip of paint and bounced around inside the body.

Out the door came Cap on the sprint and before Johnnie could even wind up with the next rock, Cap had a trembling boy in each hand.

He marched them into the shop.

“By God, Cap, I’d warm their sterns for them. I’ll tell you right now that’s what my old man would do.”

Johnnie and Sam shivered.

“What did you heave a rock at our new truck for?” asked Cap in a gentle voice but with iron behind it.

Johnnie put on his bold front. “For the tuition we pay we can afford to chuck a rock into the back of the truck. It’s practically my truck. We didn’t hurt it anyway.”

“You think it’s your truck do you? Well you just sit right on those two nail kegs, young fellers and I’ll tell you whether it’s your truck.

“Years back when my pa was a kid about fifteen, him and a black dog went crew with Cap’n Walter and Cap’n Tom on the old Rebecca. She was a little coasting vessel these two owned together. They went up to Boston for a load of coal. Cap ’n Walter did the navigation and give most of the orders and Cap ’n Tom took care of sails and riggin’ and steered some and handled the windlass and anchors, and my pa and the dog cooked and did all the work.

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“Well, they had a load of coal for Bath and was coming up the River right by here on a pretty September day with just a light southerly astern and the very bottom of a low dreen tide. That means all the flats were out and the shoal places were pretty shoal.

“Cap’n Walt was to the wheel, but Cap’n Tom wouldn’t let him be. It was always, “Walt hadn’t you better stand off here to the east’d a mite. You know the bar makes out by the buoy.” And “Walt, maybe you better favor her a bit to the west’d off the light and port a mite here and starboard a hair there.”

“Walt stood it about as long as he could, and the dog was just lookin’ on. And then he says, “Tom, I’m steerin’ my half of the vessel. You get along forrad and take care of your half.”

“Tom clumped down on his pipe, clumped forrad, took the maul, stood by the fo’csle hatch and knocked the pin out of the windlass. The anchor went over the side in a cloud of rust and a rumble, and old Rebecca swung around and just laid there.

“Now,” says Tom, “I anchored my end of the vessel. Go ahead and steer yours wherever you’ve a mind to.

“Pa and the dog figured they’d never get the load of coal to Bath at that rate.

“Now, don’t you see you can’t divide up a vessel? She don’t go anywhere if one fellow anchors his part.

“That isn’t your truck; it’s our truck. And don’t you ever let anyone heave rocks at our truck or spoil our ceilings or bust our windows.

“Now get the hell out of our shop before I warm your stern!”

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Chapter 21 — Crew

A

nyone who thought Billy Edwards was enduring an unhappy winter at Kennebec Academy would have been far wide of the mark. Edwards, Cluett, Henry Phillips, Alec Horton, Tim Feineman, Geordie Melton, Butch Hummelman and a shifting constellation of others took their classes as they came and dropped them at the bell. They played pick-up hockey on the pond, threw snowballs, chased each other through the halls, rough-housed in the Common Room, played video games, skied stiff-legged down the hill behind the gym, read comic books and talked and talked. With Geordie’s father’s shotgun they murdered a rabbit and tried to cook it in the wet woods. They devoured the remains partly steamed, partly smoked, partly burned and mostly raw. They complained loudly about the school food, declared it unfit for human consumption, but never missed a meal and left on the plates not enough to bait a hook.

They perpetrated on the faculty the age-old tricks involving water, chalk in the erasers, pencil sharpener shavings in the window shades, a strategically placed alarm clock. They put a live mouse in Alice’s desk drawer, but the mouse escaped before she opened the drawer. A grand plan for introducing a stuffed skunk at a dance was aborted by an alert chaperone.

They tolerated the academic life, but occasionally a spark caught tinder. Alec discovered chemistry, generated oxygen supervised from afar by Mr. Colburn, and burned a wad of steel wool to the delight of the observers. An experiment with aluminum powder, ferric oxide and magnesium was halted just short of an incendiary bomb. Henry Phillips liked algebra, really understood it, and devised horrible word problems for Mr. Marvin.

Mr. Marvin caught Billy’s attention by requiring him to come regularly for extra help in math. He led Billy slowly and logically through the first steps in algebra. Billy seemed to understand it but quickly forgot what he had learned the week before. The relationships of numerator to denominator, term to factor, and one side of an equation to another could not compete with Kipling. The compelling rhythms of the romantic poetry and the fast-moving sympathetic short stories held him in the library for hours.

For the most part the older boys paid little attention to the ninth graders, but the dark days of winter roused a few sadistic natures. It suddenly became very funny for no discernible reason for one to ask another a question and on getting the answer to intone in loud and scornful tones, “Cut the Crap” and knuckle the victim twice on the muscle of the upper arm. Many ninth graders bore painful bruises.

One night after study hall Walter Edgehill on a routine patrol of his upstairs hall found Butch leaning over a washbasin coughing, blowing his nose, wiping his eyes in obvious distress and trying not to cry.

“What in the world happened to you, Butch?”

“They gave me a whirly.”

“What’s a whirly?”

“They put your head in the pot and flush.”

Walter, outraged, burst into the hall, opened doors, conducted an inquisition. At length he tracked down the perpetrators, who declared that Butch was a little wise-ass and asked for all that he got. On being asked for the fiftieth time to “Cut the Crap,” Butch had answered,” And leave you headless, craphead?” and ran. He was caught at the dead end of the hall and whirlied. However, the knuckle on the muscle went on.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“It is not. It’s February 3! Two for lying!”

Two for laughing, two for wearing mittens, two for asking why, two for nothing. Two more for nothing.

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Billy, among others, got his share too. He snatched one hat too many. “Turkey” Morrison ran him down, enveloped him from behind, grabbing him behind both knees, and doubled him up, squeezing him so he couldn’t get his breath, then carried him thus, crowing and gasping to the big tin trash barrel at the end of the corridor and stuffed him in, butt first. Billy could only wiggle his legs and flap his arms helplessly until Johnny hauled him out, incidentally and not entirely unintentionally capsizing the barrel and kicking the contents around the floor. Let them clean it up. Not our dorm!

On one memorable Saturday, Gus Cunningham and Alice took Billy, Johnny, Alec, and Butch to Camden skiing in the Snow Bowl. Billy wasn’t very good at it and Butch had never seen skis until he came to Maine, but with Alice and Gus to get them started on the beginners’ slope they learned fast.

Alec and Johnny took the tow to the top, zigged and zagged with Christy and snowplow turns. Alice and Gus disappeared up the cross country trail and returned to find the boys had all tried too much, had got thoroughly soused in snow and entangled in their skis but had emerged unhurt. They all feasted exorbitantly on coffee and cocoa, hamburgs and French fries, and returned to school in the dusk tired, and only lightly salted with French.

Excerpts from a letter to Mr. Edwards from the guidance director in late February, including comments from teachers: “... Billy has a very weak background in English grammar but reads imaginatively and participates enthusiastically in class discussion ... Billy’s study of history is desultory at best. If he would give more attention to the text and less to his comrades, he could do much better ... His social adjustment is proceeding well ... Billy is still weak in the fundamentals of mathematics but with regular extra work is gaining slowly ... seems to have mastered the metric system at last and is taking some interest in laboratory work … should seek help when difficulties arise ... if he would work harder, his grade would improve ... has been liberated from French 1 pending the formation of a new class suited to his level of mastery ... confident that his native intelligence will assert itself if not pushed too hard.”

Peace, Andy

Andrew Sloan, PhD. Guidance Director Mr. Edwards was in Los Angeles on business when the letter arrived. Mrs. Edwards read it, sent Billy a box of homemade cookies, and put the letter on Mr. Edwards’s desk, where it was snowed under beneath a blizzard of bills.

In what he called his “over-emphasis room,” Mr. Whitmore, crew coach, and Jock Peterson, captain, were going over a school list. Around the walls just under the ceiling ran a frieze of framed 8 x 10 pictures of Kennebec crews for the last twenty years. Here hung, under glass, an ancient Yale rowing shirt taken from the back of a Yale stroke in a regatta long past. A silver medal won at the American Henley hung on a faded ribbon. Cups and bowls engraved with names and dates stood on bookcases. A twelve-foot sweep oar with Princeton colors hung over the window. A bronze medal from a recent Head race lay in its velvet-lined box in front of a photograph of its owner rowing a single shell. The coach had been – still was – a strong, skillful, active oarsman and looked the part.

“We seem to have enough strong backs and weak minds to move three shells anyway with some big new boys coming up, but what about coxes, Jock? Poole is too big now. We might turn him around and make a stroke of him for the fifth or sixth boat. He has big feet and is sure to grow. Martin graduated. That idiot Merton is going out for baseball and wasn’t much anyway, and that leaves the first four boats coxless.

“We might move some of last year’s coxes up from the lower boats,” suggested Jock tentatively.

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“We still have Phillips, a smart kid if a bit on the heavy side, and Joe Hanson might still be small enough.

What about new boys?”

“Let’s go down the list.”

They came to Edwards, William T., Jr. “He might be a possibility, sir. He isn’t too big and seems bright and quick. Lives in Chelsea House.”

“We might have trouble with him. Been failing math and doing extra work with Marvin. Hanshaw probably won’t let him row if he’s failing math.”

“Joe Rotch and Sam Reed live in Chelsea House. They might be able to boost him along a little in math. And Mr. Cunningham lives on his floor.”

“Well, he’s a possibility. Who else do we have?”

They came to Hummelman.

“Jock, who or what is Cecil Oscar Hummelman?”

Jock laughed. “Butch, they call him. He’s a great little kid. Came just after Christmas and lives in McFarland House. He’s small and quick as a flea. He’d be great if we could get him. Want me to try?”

With a flicker of his eyelid that belied his words, the coach warned, “Now, Jock, you know that all the coaches have agreed that there is to be no recruiting of athletes. We must not urge anyone to go out for crew, especially anyone who might be an asset to another sport. Exert no pressure Jock; offer no reward.

But I can see no reason why you should not inquire concerning his inclinations toward spring athletics.”

Thus it happened that one day in the latter part of March, Butch, in hot pursuit of Alec, was halted in mid flight, jerked off his feet, by the long strong arm of destiny. As he hung breathless on that arm, his feet off the ground, Jock Peterson asked, “Hey, kid, you want to be a cox?”

“What’s a cox?” asked Butch when Jock had set him gently on his feet.

“The little guy who sits in the stern of a shell and steers. Try it. You’ll love it. Come down to the boathouse tomorrow at 2:30 and wear your warm jacket. Be there!”

And thus it further fell out that the next day, one of those March days that hints of May, Butch, weighing 105 pounds, found himself sitting in a very fragile boat 45 feet long, just over a foot wide, with less than 1/8 of an inch of plywood separating him from the frigid Kennebec. Most of what he could see consisted of the broad shoulders and deep chest of Jock Peterson, 185 pounds of mature young man. By looking around Jock’s knees, Butch could see something of the Kennebec ahead and two oars to starboard and two to port, one of which was in Jock’s strong hands. Behind Jock sat three other behemoths, one of whom was Joe Rotch. Jock spoke gently to Butch.

“Just do what I tell you, now, Butch, and we’ll go for a boat ride. Say. ‘Set it up.’”

“Set it up,” quavered Butch.

“Ready All” “Ready All” “Forward” “Forward” “Row” “Row” The shell leaped under Butch as Jock and the crew caught the river, threw their weight on the oars, and drove forward. They slid aft and again all four hit the water together. Again the shell leaped under Butch, and again. The shell seemed to absorb the life and energy of its crew, life and energy that seemed to flow through Butch like an electric shock. It was the most exciting feeling Butch had ever had. The slow whisper of the slides as the crew reached for the water, the “click-slam” of the oarlocks on the catch, then that exhilarating rush, the swash of the oars leaving the water, the slowing glide of the recovery and again 94

the “click-slam” and lift of the catch. When big Jock reached toward him, hit the oar with all 185 pounds, his whole body emanated controlled physical force. Never had Butch been so close to such power.

“Pull on your starboard rudder line on the recovery, Butch, and keep us near the bank and out of the tide,” said Jock, quite unexcited. Butch realized he had a responsibility, found he could steer to keep in the lee of the bank and make it easier for his crew. This was heady stuff for a little boy from Lemon Blossom, Florida, who had lived most of his life on the run from “big kids.”

Jock coached him gently up the river, gave him the orders one at a time to turn the shell around.

Then, “Take her home, Butch.”

“Ready all. Forward. Row,” commanded Butch. He was not playing a part now. He was really doing it. He piloted the boat back down the river, avoiding a drifting pulp log, and as he approached the float, “Way enough.”

The four big kids stopped at his command. Coached again by Jock, he got the boat alongside, the crew ashore, the boat back on the rack, the oars in their places. Wiping the salt off the varnished shell with an old towel, he was warmed to overhear Jock tell the coach, “He’ll do. He’s a bright kid and he’ll learn fast.”

However, Billy Edwards sitting in the stern of the third shell with Sam Reed at stroke ahead of him had a very shaky start. Gus Cunningham, coach of the third and fourth crews, had led Billy through the ritual commands of getting the crew and himself into the fragile shell, had warned emphatically of the danger of touching the bottom of the boat with hand or foot lest the planking split, letting in the cold Kennebec. Gus had pushed them off from the security of the float and they now drifted in the tide of the cove, the boat feeling very tiddley under them, for although Sam and Ted Murphy at stroke and 3, the two after oars, had rowed last year, the bow pair were new to the sport.

Gus ranged alongside in an aluminum outboard motorboat.

“Oars flat on the water, hands over your knees; sit up straight.” The boat steadied. “Port, lower your hands a little; starboard raise them.” The boat tipped to port.

“Now the other way.” The boat tipped to starboard.

“Now set her up straight on her bottom. You see that the balance of the boat depends entirely on the oars regulated by the height of your hands. Lower your hands and the boat tips toward your side. The balance is in your fingertips.

“Now, stern pair to row. Bow pair, oars flat on the water and keep the boat set up. Ready, Forward, Row. ... Easy Sam. No power yet.” Sam and Ted bent their knees and let their seats roll aft.

“Square your blades and drop them in…Now, lean back easy. Arms, back and legs all together and lift the oar out. Again. Billy, steer out into the river, but keep near the shore out of the tide. Pull on your starboard rudder line to go to starboard.”

The boat slowly crawled out of the cove.

“Way enough.” The stern pair stopped.

“Set her up. Stern pair balance the boat. Bow pair to row.”

Suddenly the boat felt tiddley again as the inexperienced pair in excess of zeal, dug their oars too deep or almost missed the water with a great splash.

“It’s no use to try to get your oar out at the end of the stroke by pulling into your lap, Mark.

Remember when your hands go down, your side of the boat goes down. Pull straight through and lift the oar at the end of the stroke. And Billy, come starboard and miss that great tree coming down on the tide.”

It was a long, chilly afternoon for Billy, but by the end of it he found that he could make the boat go where he wanted and could tell by watching the oars how to help the boys keep the boat balanced. Sam helped by telling him the proper commands although he got exasperated, because the boat was always down to port, his side, although Ted on the other side declared it was always to starboard.

After several practices, the crew learned to set the boat up at least part of the time and to row all four 95

together, sometimes for as much as four strokes with their oars off the water on the recovery. Billy listened to everything that came out of the big end of Gus’s megaphone, thought about it, used it when Gus was not alongside, and shouted blame, shame, and encouragement from the cox’s seat.

During the second week on another balmy day, when Gus came alongside and leveled his megaphone at the crew, Billy was surprised to see Alice driving the launch. She smiled and waved to Billy, but Gus, with his usual air of colorful frustration, appeared to pay no attention to her.

“Sit up straight, bow. Sit up! Your back bends like Robin Hood’s bow. Don’t grab your oar as if you were trying to choke it to death. Loosen up. Relax your hands or you’ll tie your forearm muscles in knots and get wicked blisters ... Bow pair, easy now. Together. Square up your blade, number 2 or it’ll dive straight to the bottom of the Kennebec and you’ll catch the father and mother of a crab. Now lift the blade out of the water at the finish. Don’t drag it out – lift it. Your wrist should arch up a little at the finish. Drop the arch out and lower your hands and the blade will rise out of the salty Kennebec like Diana from her bath.”

After twenty minutes of this barrage, Gus turned to Alice.

“Let’s go chase the fourth boat and leave Billy to pilot the Pride of Sagadahoc back to the cove.

And Billy, try to get that tribe of monkeys to row more or less together.”

As Alice gunned the motor and swung the stern around, she waved to Billy and called, “Courage, mes bràves.”

Before spring vacation, Butch and Billy had learned enough to manage the shells and to coach their crews on many of the fundamentals. The crews responded to their cox’s enthusiasm, treated them not like the ordinary run of “little kids” but as special little kids, with a growing respect and affection.

Dressing in the locker room after a chilly practice, Jock noticed a bruise on Butch’s right arm, turned him around to look at his left, all green and yellow.

“What’s that, Butch? Knuckle on the muscle?”

“Yeah,” said Butch, laconically.

“Kids in McFarland House, huh?”

Butch didn’t answer. However, when he came out of the gym on his way to his room to get his book for the late afternoon class, he found his crew waiting for him. They didn’t say much as they walked together toward McFarland House, Jock leading, Joe on Butch’s right, Jody on his left and Mac Smith behind. They crowded through the door together, up the stairs, marched Butch the length of the hall and back to his room. Most of the doors were open, the occupants getting ready for the last class. The oarsmen left Butch at the door of his room and departed.

Gus was delighted with his third boat, kept Sam at stroke and Billy at cox and talked rowing in the dorm, in class, wherever they met.

And then came spring vacation. Billy beat the term reports home by two days.

Mr. Edwards in eruption was something to behold, but when the safety valve had blown and his bearings cooled, he called Billy before him.

“English C+, History C, Science C-, Algebra D+, Special Conversational French Satisfactory”, he read. “Billy’s social adjustment is satisfactory although he is perhaps more ebullient at times than is entirely acceptable. Academically he is improving, and if he is encouraged to find his own way, I am confident that his native intelligence will lead him in the right direction.

Peace, Andy

Andrew Sloan, PhD. Guidance Director” “Son,” declared Mr. Edwards decisively, “this has gone far enough. If the school won’t show you the way, I will. Here is my old algebra book, which got me into Yale. If you can do the problems in SmithFagin, you can do any problems. Start at the beginning of the book and do 10 problems from each exercise 96

ten per day; and have them ready to show me when I get home at night.

“Now, Conversational French must be a fancy name for nothing. There is only one way to learn French and that is to learn what the words mean. Here is a pack of cards with French words on one side and English words on the other. Learn ten of these each day. Learn them; don’t just look at them and go away.

And each day go back over the ones you have learned before. That way you can pass any exam they give you. I did.”

It was a long, long vacation in Mamaroneck, New York.

The school to which the boys returned in April was quite a different place from the slushy, soggy scene of mud time. Grass was already green in sheltered places. Crocuses starred Ruth Floyd’s flowerbeds, and the tulips she had planted the day of the Penobscot football game were spearing through the ground just raked of dead leaves. The treetops had lost the spiky look of winter and were cloudy with new buds. Robins gathered on the football fields and a gentle breeze lifted the red and yellow folds of Captain Kenniston’s house flag at the masthead of the tall flagpole. But soft as the breeze was, it still had an icy edge.

The school clicked into high gear at once. Classes continued as if there had been no vacation. There was some confusion in the gym and locker rooms as spring athletic gear was distributed, but before the chilly dusk shut down, runners pounded around the track, and the thump of the hove shot, the crack of the bat, and the slap of leather on glove was heard in the land.

On the river, the first four boats coxed by Butch, Henry Phillips, Billy Edwards, and Joe Manson, were quickly manned and pushed off. Coach Whitty Whitmore, impressively tall, well-built, gray-haired, carried his single shell over his head down the ramp to the float as if it weighed no more than a cigar box, set it afloat and pushed off to coach the first two boats. Some said he did it to show off. Untrue, although his motives were mixed. He did it because the spring made him impatient to get on the water, because he liked to see if he could keep ahead of his first boat for a short piece, and principally because, sitting in a shell himself with two oars in his hands he could demonstrate body work and blade work far better than he could in a launch.

Gus Cunningham in baseball cap, football hood, heavy pants and felt-lined boots pushed off in an outboard with a manager at the helm, knowing that April winds have a keen edge and icy salt water quickly draws the heat from human feet through the thin skin of an aluminum boat.

Cap Milliken with a dozen boys of various shapes and sizes in the boathouse began sorting them into crews for the fifth and sixth boats and leading them slowly and carefully through the traditional procedure of launching a shell.

Despite the balmy start, fickle April brought on three days of cold northeaster with a spit of snow in the air and the river so rough that rowing was out of the question. When it cleared, practice resumed with Coach Whitmore now in a launch. With him rode the Headmaster. He had sprung himself loose from paper work, as he often did, to see for himself how his educational machine was running. On this day he had a hidden reason for visiting the crew.

The coach followed the first two boats as they rowed up the river in the quiet water under the west bank. Bodies moved fore and aft with a steady, easy rhythm accented by the sharp rap of the coxes’ toggles on the bang plates and the click-slam of the catch. Astern came the third and fourth boats with Gus alongside. He had persuaded Alice to come along and hold the stopwatch and clipboard for him. His crews were rowing the same easy stroke but a little raggedly with less snap on the catch, an occasional swash as someone washed out and frequent cries of “For God sake set it up.” Gus leveled his megaphone.

After fifteen minutes more, Coach Whitmore, alongside the boat ordered, “All right, Jock, let’s try ten power.”

Butch called, “Three to get going and ten power. A-one, a-two, a-three” and on the following recovery, “Power ten. Hit it.” Jock reached within inches of Butch’s nose, hit the catch hard, followed 97

through with awesome power, snapped the oar cleanly out, and grabbed for the next stroke, the crew right with him. The shell lifted under Butch, seemed almost airborne. Each stroke added more speed. Bubbles sang under the thin planking. “…9 ... 10 …Way enough.” The shell coasted, slowed, perfectly balanced with the oars off the water.

“Oars down.” The coach came alongside.

“Pretty good, but a little ragged still. Mac, you were shooting your tail. Get your shoulders on it before your legs. .

The Headmaster had watched attentively.

“Whitty, these boys ought to win a few. Jock Peterson looks like a first class stroke. Powerful and steady. What were they rowing? About 34?”

It’s early in the season yet. My watch said 32. They’re coming, but I don’t want to push them too fast too soon and have them practicing bad habits.”

“Whitty, would you mind going with the third and fourth for a bit? I’d like to see how they’re coming along with Gus.” They dropped back to watch Billy and Sam Reed’s boat rowing side by side with Joe Manson’s and Sid Blackington’s fourth boat.

The crews, under the Headmaster’s and the head coach’s eye, sharpened up.

Sam, in a low voice to Billy, “Get her set up Billy. She’s down to port all the time. Billy watched the oars carefully.

“Port, finish high. Starboard hands low. Full reach, Ted. You’re missing water.”

“That’s better, Billy. Now let’s put a little muscle on the wood and see if we can leave old Blackie astern. Easy now. No higher stroke. Just a little more power.”

“Together. All together. Long and strong.” Sam put a little more weight on the oar, finished sharply.

The boat seemed to go faster, but Blackie hung dead even. “We’re not together, Billy. I can feel it.

Someone’s early.”

Billy watched for three strokes.

“Ted, you’re early. You’re trying to lift the whole boat. Together. All together.” Billy found himself even with Blackie instead of Joe. “I’ve got one seat. Give me another, “He leaned forward intensely as if to lift the boat ahead with the steering toggles.

“Ease off, third boat,” hailed the coach. “This isn’t the Big Race. Row well, and get together.”

“Your third boat stroke and cox are competitive people,” observed the Headmaster. “Sam Reed is not about to eat anyone’s wash. How about your cox, Edwards? Is he any good?”

“Excellent. Bright, quick, and small. He doesn’t just sit there and yell ‘Set it up’; he finds out why.”

“Glad to hear it, Whitty, but you may lose him. He is not making much progress in math and we may have to jerk him off the river and into softball to give him more study time.”

“Hell, he’d be a dead loss at softball. Couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a shovel. He’s doing fine right here and we need him.”

“If there was some way to give him a little K.I.P. in math, he might make it. He’s not stupid.”

When he returned to the office in the late afternoon after stopping by the intramural softball diamond, he re-read Mr. Edwards’s recent letter. It was a combination of reminiscence and frustration: reminiscence of “the good old days” when education was tough and effective, and frustration at the apparent apathy and aimlessness of the modern teen-ager and the school that had failed to achieve the expected results. Mr. Sawyer replied:

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Dear Mr. Edwards: I understand your distress as expressed in your letter of April 6, but apparently you do not understand that your old school has changed with the years as the art and science of education has advanced. Many attitudes and techniques, which were successful in the old days with some boys and very destructive to others, have been modified and improved. Our faculty consists still, I am glad to say, of some who learned their trade in those good old days and who since then have grown professionally. You will remember, for instance, George Hanshaw and Peter Floyd, neither of whom teaches as he did twenty years ago. We have also a number of younger enthusiastic teachers who have learned from their elders, both in formal university courses and in practice. We now have a guidance man trained in that art, who watches as well as he can the impact of the program on individual boys. He wrote you in February after a talk with Billy.

You want Billy to go to college. I believe he will. Yet at barely fifteen, in grade 9, he is a long way from being a college man. It will take him three more years at least to acquire the maturity and discipline he will need. You cannot teach maturity and discipline by preaching at a boy. But put him among mature and disciplined people, give him tasks which demand a little more of him each time, and he may grow into a mature and disciplined person. This we are doing.

Billy is responding well. Never despair, but give him time and encouragement. He is an intelligent boy; and in my experience, you can’t beat brains. Yale could be in his future yet.

Stop in some Saturday this spring and watch him cox a crew. It is a revelation.

Sincerely, Benjamin A. Sawyer, Headmaster

The word of the sword of softball hanging over Billy went swiftly from Whitmore to Floyd to Cunningham to Reed and so it came to pass that one evening very soon after, Sam invaded Billy’s room after study hall.

“Billy, let’s see your math homework.”

“What for?”

“Never mind what for! Get it. If you don’t shape up in math, you’ll get jerked out of our boat and sold to some intramural softball team. Let’s see what you did.”

Billy grubbed in his notebook and handed Sam a smudged paper.

“God, what a mess, kid. How can anyone read this?” Sam showed him how to lay out the problem neatly. You blew it right here. Plus times minus is minus. Like signs are plus. Unlike signs are minus.

Don’t forget it or it’s off to softball.”

Sam’s visits continued night after night. He did no actual homework for Billy, but he showed him the way.

“When you get a mess of parentheses like this, start in the middle and get the first ones first.

Nothing to it. Now you do it.”

Later: “Look, dummy, you can’t cancel terms, plusses and minuses. You got to factor the top and bottom and then cancel factors. Cancel factors only or you’re out in left field.”

One night they got into a problem about a boat rowing downstream and then rowing up. Billy had a sudden revelation akin to a religious experience when he realized that the negative velocity of the current applied to the positive velocity of the boat was a case of adding a negative number, and the whole confusion of positive and negative numbers shook itself out in his mind.

Under the pressure of Sam’s insistent presence and the threat of softball, Billy’s native intelligence and growing maturity connected with Mr. Marvin’s patient teaching. Algebra began to assume a hazy logic, and then became possible, then tolerable, then a puzzle he could solve if he stayed at it.

Softball faded astern.

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Chapter 22 — Frozen Out

T

he school, which Sam Reed had left in March, bare, brown, muddy, with windrows of grayish snow beside the paths, was a different place when he came back in April. The mud had dried up; grass was showing new green, the frost gone, and Mrs. Floyd’s crocuses bloomed brilliant yellow, blue, and white under the windows of Chelsea House. Although the sun was warm, the southerly wind carried the chill of cold salt water far up the river.

Sam noticed the weather only on the edge of his consciousness. He felt wretched. Down for early admission to Darthurst, a letter which brought disappointment but not despair, he had written the Director of Admissions at the suggestion of Mr. Hallberg, to express his disappointment and to re-iterate that Darthurst was still his first choice, that he would enroll if accepted. He had received a pleasant but non-committal reply. His subsequent applications to Yale, Princeton, Williams, Bowdoin, Mt. Adams, and two colleges in western New York State had brought nothing but formal acknowledgements. Mr. Hallberg said not to worry.

He would hear in April.

The first thing he did, before he went to his room, was to look in his post office box. Letters from Williams and Princeton, disappointingly thin. No matter how a director of admissions tries to soften the blow, no is no. Three days later Yale had said no. Mr. Hallberg hadn’t seemed concerned. “Must be the low SAT verbal score,” he had said. “But with B’s in Math and Physics you ought to look good. And Bowdoin doesn’t pay any attention to scores at all – so they say. Sit tight and wait ‘em out.”

But April 15 came, the magic day. It seemed every senior was jubilant – accepted at Mt. Adams, accepted at Yale, accepted at Haverford, accepted at Harcourt. “I’m playing football for the Big Pink at Vassar,” exulted Jeff with a bit of a wry smile. “Where did you get in, Sam?” “Still waiting,” said Sam. But he wasn’t still waiting. He was out, rejected everywhere. Joe, his roommate, tried to cheer him up.

“It will be OK Sam. You’ll make it somewhere. The school will take care of you. Old Uncle Seth is a sharp guy.” But Joe was into Mt. Adams and on the waiting list at the Great University. He was no great comfort.

Gus Cunningham dropped in to find Sam sitting on the edge of his bed glowering at his shoes.

Gus knew. He had been pulled through the same knothole only four years ago. He had a constructive suggestion.

“Bad news all the way, Sam?” “Yes Sir.” “No waiting list?”

“No. “Know anybody at any good college?”

“No.” “Well, maybe I can help. My sister is on the Admissions Committee at Van Buren in New Jersey.

Want me to write her? It’s a good little college. I should be able to wiggle you in there. I’ll write tonight.”

The Headmaster, Mr. Sawyer, stopped him outside the dining room.

“Bad news, Sam?” “All the way, Sir.” “That’s tough to take. Still, it happens once in a while. Go see Mr. Hallberg. He is likely to have an idea. We have seen this happen before and we have never failed anyone yet. ‘Courage, mon bràve,’ as they 100

say in Montréal.”

Bouchard’s face flashed across the screen of Sam’s mind, a memory of his cheerful French-Canadian opponent in the final hockey game, and just the memory was cheering.

Mr. Hallberg was not very sympathetic, but his businesslike attitude was encouraging.

“Your bad news is making waves all over the place, Sam. I had a call from your father this morning.

He and your mother are coming in tomorrow afternoon. They insisted, although there isn’t much I can tell them.

“I called Dick Smith at Mt. Adams and the office at Bowdoin, but Dick couldn’t tell me anything except that the competition was tough and they couldn’t take all the good candidates they had. I couldn’t get through to Bowdoin this morning. I think they just took the phone off the hook and walked out. They can’t tell anyone anything today.

“And Gus Cunningham was in to say his sister might get you into Van Buren. Do you want to go to Van Buren?”

“No. I’d rather go in the Army.”

“I thought so. Van Buren is a good enough college, but there are better ones.”

“But how can I get in now? The time is past and I am no good. What college would take me?”

“Lots of them – and good ones. No one today, but we have time. You see every college accepts more people than they can accommodate because even the most competitive don’t get every applicant they accept. They all guess on what the “yield” will be, accept about the number they will need to fill the college, and then keep a waiting list. They won’t know until the first week in May exactly how many are actually coming. Then they look at the waiting list and the yield from that is uncertain, because many waiting list people are accepted elsewhere and some of the people who accept them on May 1 may be on a waiting list elsewhere and bug out when chosen from that list. It is June or July before the freshman class is final. So we have some time and we better use it. How have your grades been since mid-year?”

“Fair. 2 B’s and 2 C’s.”

“We have a marking period closing May 2. From now until then, you do two things: First and most important, get me some good grades by then, so I will be able to do you justice with whomever I talk to; and second, make me a list of colleges you would like to go to. Not much use to put on Ivies or colleges where you have been turned down, but put down any you would like to go to and we will worry about getting in after May 2. Ask anyone who can help - your parents, their friends, faculty, anyone. If I can help, ask me.

Bust in here anytime I don’t have a visitor. After May 2, we’ll go to work on it – but get me some grades!

“You probably will want to be here when your parents come – maybe about 3 o’clock.”

“I’ll be on the river then, but I guess I can get excused from crew.”

“Better not. Come in after practice. You’re stroking the 3rd boat now aren’t you? They need you.

See you tomorrow.”

An hour later Gus dropped in on Seth Hallberg.

“Want me to write my sister?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“A boy who is turned down, especially if he is a good kid with considerable guts – which Sam is, reacts in a weird, logical-illogical way. He wouldn’t go to Van Buren if you gave him the place. He reasons, probably only half-consciously, ‘I got turned down everywhere. Therefore, I am no good. If I am no good, any college that will take me is no good. Well I am really not no good so I will be damned if I am going to let anyone’s sister shoe-horn me into a no good college.”

“But Van Buren’s a good school.”

“I know that. You know that. Your sister knows that. If Sam had studied it before April 15, he would know that. But right now he can’t see any good in it, and if he went there, he would bust out.

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Believe me, Gus, I have been here before. Thanks for your help, but right now we can’t use it.”

“OK, coach. You know best, but it sounds crazy.”

The next afternoon Sam’s troubled parents came in. Mr. Reed, in a three-piece business suit, wanted to know why. Why hadn’t Sam been accepted? He was a good boy, reasonably intelligent, good athlete, good grades, went to a good school from which boys far less able than Sam had been accepted to the very colleges where Sam had been rejected. It was not fair. It must be in some way the school’s fault.

“I have been on the telephone with several of these schools. The most competitive ones, Yale, Princeton, Bowdoin, Williams, take only about one applicant in ten. Their admissions committees would like to be “fair,” but their job is to admit an interested, interesting freshman class of varied abilities. Out of 1000 applicants, they might admit without question 50 really outstanding scholars and faculty children, and “special cases” and they reject at once perhaps 200 applicants whom they judge incapable of succeeding academically. From the remaining 750, all of whom are presumably qualified academically, they must select about 250 men and women of varied interests, abilities and backgrounds. They may very well find they have had to reject a quite good scholar in favor, for instance, of a talented musician, also a good scholar whose presence will be a strong asset to the class, or ten men from New York City in favor of ten applicants from Alaska, Hawaii, Arizona and Puerto Rico.”

“But Sam has worked awfully hard and he is a really good boy,” observed Mrs. Reed. “Doesn’t that count for something? They just destroyed the boy. How can they do that?”

“Sam is a good boy and he has proved it over and over again. Quality is not measured by objective tests. Look how he supported a losing football team? He is rowing on a 3rd crew right now, a position many seniors would turn down in favor of perfunctory participation in intramural tennis. This has, and will, have a great deal to do with the selection process.”

“Is it possible,” asked Mr. Reed, “that your recommendations and the school’s did not do him justice?”

“It certainly is not possible. However, the law says that you can review them if you wish. There is a procedure for this, but I can tell you that there is nothing in those letters but the truth and a very favorable presentation of that truth.”

“Then what did we do wrong?” wailed Mrs. Reed, fumbling in her pocketbook for a handkerchief.

“Nothing. Sam is a boy to be proud of. He will do well and go to a good college.”

“I won’t have him go to some little freshwater school on the prairies. I’ll tell you that right now. I’d rather put him in the shipping department of my business and let him paste up boxes for a year.”

“Oh, George ...”

“That is an alternative, although he probably would extract all the intellectual nourishment from that position by coffee time on the first day. Still, there certainly are alternatives to college that he could profitably choose. One of our graduates is in Antarctica right now with a meteorological team and will return to the University of Pennsylvania in the fall. They took him on the recommendation of one of the scientists.

“Another alternative is to go to another secondary school for a post-graduate year.”

“No way will he do that. How about repeating his senior year here?”

“I don’t think that would work. We don’t ordinarily take P.G. students, and Sam might well feel awkward as a member of a younger class. He is ready for college. He can do the work in any college in the country, so I think he should go to college.”

“But how? He got rejected at all the good colleges. He’ll never get into a good one.”

“Where, aside from those where he was actually rejected, would you like to see him go?”

“How about Wesleyan or Trinity College in Hartford? They are near home.”

“Long shots, but we can try them. Nothing will happen until the first week in May when the colleges know how many of the candidates they accepted are going to come. Why don’t you improve the time 102

between now and then by making up a list, with Sam, of perhaps ten colleges you would like to see him enter, in order of your preference? Then we’ll see what we can do.”

Sam knocked on the doorframe and stood in the open door, a strong, healthy, intelligent-looking boy of 17, his hair still wet from his recent shower, radiating a feel of salt water, wind and sunshine. His mother plied her handkerchief and his father choked up a little as he rose to shake Sam’s hand.

“Sit down, Sam. I was just telling your folks of our procedure on the list. Any questions?”

“What about University of San Huronymus? They have a crew.”

“OK, if you want to row. Put it on the list and give me some grades to talk about.”

Half an hour later Mr. Hallberg bowed the family out the door on their way to go out to dinner together, then collapsed in his chair.

“Long afternoon, Seth?” asked his secretary, putting on her coat to leave for the day. “Here’s a few calls I fielded for you this afternoon.”

“I’ll try a couple now if it’s not too late. Nice people, the Reeds. I hate to see it happen to them. See you tomorrow.”

Before Seth finished dialing the first call, Mr. Sawyer bounded up the steps and came in.

“What are we going to do about Sam Reed, Seth? His uncle has been giving me a rough time on the phone. Says we have let him down and all that.”

“Don’t panic, Chief. Sam’s OK and we’ll find a good place for him. We’ve seen this happen before.

Johnson got into Hudson last year and told me he is doing very well and glad he didn’t go to one of those snotty schools that turned him down. I think he was talking about Brown.”

“He would have sold his soul to get into Brown last year.”

“Not now. Don’t worry about Sam. I’ll have him in by May 15.”

“May 15! Can we wait that long?”

“Have no fear. Uncle Seth is here.”

It seemed to Sam that he was the only senior in school who was whole-heartedly committed to studying, but he paid no attention to the “young college boys” lolling in the sunshine and bore down. After the third successive C- English theme, a paper on the development of romanticism in the late 18th century, a paper over which he had worked almost all night, picking out the last of it on Joe’s typewriter at 3 a.m., he went to see Mr. Edgehill.

“Sir, what do I have to do to get a B in English? I worked 10 hours on this paper and other guys knock them out in an evening for honor grades. There must be a trick to it.”

“There must be, Sam. Do you get B’s in any other subject?”

“Sure, in Math.”

“How do you do it in Math?”

“Math is a cut-and-dried subject. You know exactly what you have to prove. You have all the facts necessary to prove it right under your hand. All you have to do is line them up one after the other and, Q.E.D., you’ve got it. And if it’s right, it’s right and no doubt about it.”

“Let’s try it in English if it works in Math.”

“How?” “Easy. Write down in one sentence what you are trying to prove. What was it in this paper?”

“Well, these guys, Burns and Goldsmith and other guys we read, they wrote romanticism but some other guy, Johnson? Said they just found a new way to be dull and they ought to follow the rules...”.

“Hold on. You don’t have to tell all you know in one sentence. Tell me in one simple sentence what you want me to know.”

“Romanticism started in the 18th century.”

“OK Good. That will do very well. Now, just as you did in the math problem, prove it did. Any evidence?”

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“Well, Robert Burns wrote romanticism and so did Goldsmith and Wordsworth and Keats.”

“Take it easy. Take just one. Whom do you like?”

“Burns.”

“OK. What did he write?”

“He wrote about the mouse.”

“What’s romantic about a mouse?”

“I – I really don’t know.”

“You’re in a tough spot. You are trying to prove something started in the 18th century and you don’t know what it is.”

The discussion went on for another hour, but at the end of it, Sam had a one sentence statement of his theme, a definition of his terms, three paragraphs, each dealing with one poet and one poem showing in each case a clear connection with the definition and concluding with a neat Q.E.D. sentence.

“Now, that,” said Mr. Edgehill “is Instant B. That is an academic essay. It works in almost any subject you will ever study and it is a winner on examinations. It isn’t great literary art. It will seldom get you an A. But it is a guaranteed B, and it is a great time-saver because like Napoleon’s armies, you concentrate all your force on the single objective you want to gain and don’t waste time ravaging the whole countryside.”

It worked. English and History, which had always been hard subjects, rose in two weeks to solid B’s to the admiration and delight of all concerned.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” asked Sam. “We did, Sam; we did. But in your unregenerate state you had not sufficient motivation to bear down and do it. Now, never forget it.”

Math soared to an A and Physics held to a solid B so on May 3 Sam came in to see Mr. Hallberg with an A- and 3 B’s, the best record he had ever posted.

May 3 was a miserable afternoon, cold, dark and dirty with fog lying up the river. No day to row.

Sam sat next to Mr. Hallberg’s desk, presented his list of colleges and waited.

Mr. Hallberg got out a composition pad, pushed accumulated papers to one side, hunted around for a pencil, and the telephone rang.

“Jane,” he called. “Catch that foul ball, will you, and any others that come in. Keep the line clear, and I don’t care if the President of the United States comes up the steps, I am too busy to see him. We’ve got work to do.” The next ring of the phone was choked off half way.

“Now, Sam, let’s get it all down on one sheet where I can see it. Scores: 550 verbal, 590 mathematical. Not bad. Achievement tests in English, Physics - English 510, Physics much better. Grades – hey, how about an A and 3 B’s! You been taking smart pills? Old Dr. Edgehill’s Instant B, for best results, use only as directed. I got some others who could use a bottle. What about athletics? Varsity football, varsity hockey 2nd goalie, 3rd crew. What about extra curricular stuff? Plays, debates, anything like that?”

“I was on the stage crew for My Three Angels last year when we built a loft over the stage for the convicts.”

“I remember that. Good show, too.”

“What did you do last summer?”

“Worked for my father.”

“Doing what?”

“Hauling boxes around, loading trucks, packing radios for shipment, nothing very exciting.”

“What did you do that for?”

“Money.

“Did you learn anything?”

“I learned where you end up without a high school diploma.”

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“Do anything else?”

“Took a canoe trip down the whole length of the Connecticut River.”

“Was that any good? Tell me about it.”

Sam told, at length, of the transition from a wilderness stream in the Northeast Kingdom to an industrial resource in Massachusetts and something I like an open sewer in Connecticut.

“OK, anything else?”

“I did win a prize in a science fair in the 9th grade for a windmill generator.”

“We’ll stick that in. I talked with your father about money. He thinks you can make it without financial aid for the first year.”

“Probably. I have a job this summer with Radio Shack. That will help some.”

“Good. We’ll get that down too.”

“Now, let’s see your list. What’s on top? Trinity College in Hartford? A long shot, but the worst they can say is no. Let’s give them a try.”

When he got through to the Admissions Office, “This is Seth Hallberg at Kennebec Academy in Maine. We’ve got a good boy here who had some bad luck on his applications. He’d like to go to Trinity.

Can I tell you about him? He is not on the waiting list?”

“No, he never applied to Trinity.”

“All right. Good luck. You’ve got a real Cadillac problem. We’ll be glad to see you in the fall.”

“No chance there. They’re buying beds at Sears Roebuck and renting rooms. Cross off Trinity.

What’s next?”

“McAlpine College in Winterport, Michigan.”

“That’s a good place, near Detroit. Seems I met an admissions man from there. Hold on.” He went to the door.

“Jane, who was that macho guy from McAlpine that was here in November? He talked big about wrestling. That’s him. Ed Blackiron.”

Seth dialed again, got through to admissions.

“Can I speak to Mr. Blackiron please? … Hi, Ed. Seth Hallberg here. Kennebec Academy in Maine. Yes, I remember. Last November. Oh, it’s miserable here. Fog and rain and just like March. Great for the gardens. We get three crops here: Snow, rocks and crows. Ha, ha … Well, Ed I have a good boy here who had some bad luck and would like to go to McAlpine. Let me tell you about him. Sure. 550 verbal. 590 math.” Seth ran through the scores. “Good grades and right now the best he’s ever done. A and 3 B’s. No senior slump for him. We don’t figure rank in class. We’re too small. Sure he’s an athlete.

Football, hockey, crew. Third boat but a winner. Sure he’s big – big enough, Eddie. His feet reach the ground. Oh, 175. Sure, he takes a part. A good kid. Canoed down the Connecticut River, held a job, working for Radio Shack this summer.

No, Ed, no. Don’t send an application. This boy wants McAlpine; you’re on top of his list. This is no shopping trip. If you take him, he’ll come. He wants to see the place first – of course he does. He’s too smart to buy a pig in a poke. No financial aid problem – at least for this year.

Forget the application. He’s coming out to see you. Tomorrow. Probably around 3 o’clock. We’ll see how the planes fly. Sure. Limousine from Detroit. Can you find a bunk for him overnight? In the dorm.

That’s fine. OK. He’ll be there tomorrow. So long. Talk to you later.”

Sam was breathless. From dark despair he had broken into the sunlight, regardless of the weather outside. Seth’s account of his admirable qualities, the interest in seeing him, the prospect of a trip, changed everything.

Seth was already on the telephone to the airport. “Name is Samuel Reed. Round trip to Detroit tomorrow. 8 am. Yes, he’ll be there at 7 and pay for the ticket at the counter. Thank you.

And another call to Seth’s father.

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“A place at McAlpine. Looks good. More than half their alumni go to graduate school. Sure it’s academically sound. We had a boy there six years ago. Liked it fine. Now in med school. Tomorrow. Sure, the school will advance the fare. Right here in my office. You want to talk to him?”

Sam suddenly found himself telling his father – not being told – about the coming trip. It felt good.

“OK, Dad. I’ll call you from there if I can.”

“I’ll get the paper work together tonight and I’ll pick you up at your dorm at 6. They have a spot at McAlpine I’m quite sure, or Ed wouldn’t have been so hospitable. But you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. They will show you around and probably take you to a class or two. Listen to the professor, but look at the kids and listen to what they are talking about after the bell rings. Go into the library. Is there serious work going on? Sit down at a table in the Student Center with some guy sitting alone, tell him why you’re there and ask him how he likes the place. The guys in the dorm should tell you something. If you think it is a serious academic institution and your kind of place, tell Blackiron you’ll come and tell him with some enthusiasm. Give him the papers. They will be in a sealed envelope, but I will give you copies to read on the plane so you will know what I am telling him. He will probably give you an application to fill out on the spot and the school recommendation to bring back. I’ll meet your plane in Portland on Thursday and we’ll see what to do next. If you don’t 1ike it, you don’t have to go there. We’ll try the next on the list.

Now, get out of my office and let me get to the paper work!”

Sam left, feeling it had been the most important afternoon in his life. Seth had given him serious attention, obviously thought well of him, had persuaded Blackiron to see him, had arranged transportation, taken him into his confidence completely without railroading him into a decision. He felt adult.

He liked McAlpine. Everyone was friendly and hospitable. Mr. Blackiron had taken him around the campus, and then turned him over to a student who took him down to the boathouse where a coach took him out in the launch. The professors were quite young and informal and the guys in the dorm were good guys and seemed to drink a lot of beer – or they said they did – but they studied too. He told Seth all about it on the way back from the airport.

The next morning Seth was on the telephone early.

“Ed … Oh better here today. Yeah, summer’s coming. Saw a car from Michigan. How did you like our boy? Good. Sure he did. Loved the place. You’ll put it through the Committee? Of course you have to. Yes, his father’s good for the deposit. Charge it to me if you want to. I tell you, you’re number one.

Oh, when does the Committee meet? Next Tuesday! Well, give me an idea of how they’ll come down on this boy. If you turn him down, we’ve got to move fast on some other place. Sure I’ll hold. Ask around …

Great! Good news, Ed. Sure. I’ll get the papers in the mail this morning. He gave them to me last night. Can’t tell you how much we appreciate your being so good to him. You’ll be proud of that boy, same as we are. OK. I’ll tell him. See you in the fall.”

Thirty seconds after the bell rang at the end of the second period Sam was in the office. He knew from one look at Jane that the news was good. Seth met him at the door.

“You’re in, Sam, and if you ask me they’re damned lucky to get you. Nothing to it now but paper work and the matter of an enrollment deposit. I’ll call your father. All you have to do now is push that crew across the finish line tomorrow. Seth called the Headmaster to give him the news.

“McAlpine? Is that any good? We couldn’t have sold him that last fall at any price.”

“He went there, Ben. He found real human beings who liked him and wanted him and who took him seriously. It isn’t a list of statistics in a book for him. It’s people. Sure, it’s a good college. I’m not going to send Sam Reed off to Santa Claus U. just because he didn’t get into Bowdoin. Far more important than where a boy goes to college is the attitude he takes with him. Sam goes eagerly and that isn’t half the battle; it’s the whole war.”

“Thanks, Chief. See you at coffee time.”

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Chapter 23 — Parents Day

A

gull flying over Kennebec Academy at 9:30 that spring morning would have seen the sun glinting on an acre of automobile roofs and people moving toward the classrooms as if drawn by invisible wires.

The classrooms filled up, overflowed. Parents looked sideways at the bulletin boards eager to see their sons’ work distinguished. Extra chairs were brought in. Expectant silence settled.

Each teacher in the half period allotted to him wanted to show his course, himself, and his boys at their best. Although none actually staged or rehearsed their “classes,” they were rather carefully planned and most went off smoothly.

Mr. Floyd led Joe Rotch’s class of seniors through a review discussion of All My Sons with emphasis on the morality of supplying defective cylinder blocks to the Air Force because “everybody did it,” a discussion which quickly drew in several parents with very strong opinions.

Mr. Marvin had Henry Phillips and Tommy Brown explain the derivation and application of the quadratic formula, a discussion to which Billy Edwards was able to add a little.

Gus Cunningham, somewhat overstimulated by the presence of a room full of adults, started to question his Ancient History class on the fall of the Roman Empire, got carried away by his subject, delivered half a lecture himself, and got caught by the bell.

Fritz Bauer, who had been through Parents’ Day many times, opened a discussion on oral history and listened with his class to accounts of Pearl Harbor, the McCarthy hearings, Viet Nam, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and Bath Iron Works launchings.

French -1 unfortunately did not meet because Alice was in Portland in cap and gown receiving her degree and would not be back until afternoon.

Alex Colburn produced the sensation of the morning. He had been holding a science competition in his chemistry class, the finals of which were to be judged by the assembled parents, parents of contestants included, as it was assumed that each would vote for his own, thus evening the score.

Glenn Weatherby was first. He dissolved phosphorous in carbon tetrachloride and wrote invisibly on a piece of paper with the colorless liquid. As he held it up before the crowded room, the carbon tetrachloride dried, leaving the phosphorous, which scorched the paper, bringing out the script, SCIENCE IS FUN. But Glenn had been too heavy handed with the phosphorous so that before the last letters appeared, the entire paper was in flames. Startled, Glenn dropped the paper. It fell in the wastebasket, blazed up briefly, but was quickly extinguished as Mr. Colburn moved to the rescue.

The other contestant, Andrew Travis, delivered a short lecture on the properties of metallic sodium, explaining that it is so active that it combines instantly with water, even with the water in the air, so must be kept submerged in a bottle of kerosene. With tongs he brought out a stick of sodium, cut off a crumb with his knife, carefully put the stick back in the kerosene and dropped the crumb in a dish of water. The crumb sizzled and buzzed about the surface as the reaction drove it. Andrew explained that the gas given off was hydrogen and that with a bigger piece; the heat of the reaction would ignite the hydrogen. He cut off a larger piece, turned out the lights so the flame would be visible, and dropped the piece in the water. The piece was too big. The reaction proceeded explosively with a flash and a loud report, splashing water all over the desk and the nearest spectators. Andy reached for the bar of sodium, now wet, hot, and giving off hydrogen, and was about to drop it back in the kerosene when Mr. Colburn grabbed his arm and shouted, “Not in the kerosene.” The dark, the flash, the bang, the flying water, and “Not in the kerosene” coming simultaneously, ignited panic. Mr. Colburn quickly hit the light switch, held up both hands high, and said 107

loudly and calmly that all was well. Fathers and mothers came out from under desks, and boys from the front row came back from the hall, none of them remembering how they got there.

No vote was taken.

In deference to the refined tastes and modest appetites of the parents, the usual Saturday lunch of hot dogs and beans gave way to chicken salad and potato chips. The crew, however, were not present.

They had eaten early – spaghetti for carbo­hydrate loading – because the races were to be run at two o’clock when the tidal Kennebec ceased rushing from the sea to the mountains and paused before rushing from the mountains to the sea.

At the boathouse after lunch the crews of the first four boats in clean, new rowing shirts, red with a yellow “KA” on the left front, sat on the grass nervously waiting in the shade of the building. The managers under the eye of Cap Milliken had cleaned, oiled, checked and tightened every oar lock, rigger bolt, stretcher, seat and slide in each of the first four boats and had cleaned and anointed the bottoms with lemon oil, the scent of which still hung in the air. Cap’s gospel, repeated weekly to managers was, “Anyone can lose a boat race, but it takes everyone to win one, including managers!”

The Androscoggin managers were busy tightening bolts and rubbing down their own shells, laid out on horses on the lawn. Coaches Cunningham and Whitmore, dressed formally in pressed khaki pants, white shirts, neckties and blue blazers and hung about with stopwatches, were up the river taking the coxes, strokes and coaches of the Androscoggin crews over the course in the launches. Whitmore had rowed in Canada and at the Henley Royal Regatta in England and liked to see the ceremonious traditions of gentlemen oarsmen maintained.

As the heavily-loaded launches plowed back into the cove and slowed alongside the float, Cap called, “Fourth boat.” Joe Hanson took the bow of the shell and started the familiar launching ritual with, “Hands on. Lift on three.”

Billy with his crew watched the fourth boats push off, followed by the launches with the coaches of both schools, Whitmore carrying the two referee’s flags, one white and one red. Out on the point north of the cove went Gil, head manager, carrying a big orange flag on a six-foot pole to flag the finish. There was already a crowd on the point, colorful in summer clothes. The boats disappeared around the point.

Nothing happened for a long time. Nothing at all happened. Everyone on the point and at the boathouse waited. The Kennebec lay calm and blue, ruffled only slightly by a light air from the south bringing a hint of North Atlantic chill to the warm sun. The trees on the far bank were a cloud of new green with blotches of dark green spruce and chalk lines of birch trunks. A board floated slowly up the river on the last of the flood tide, circled the cove. A manager pushed off in a punt, paddled out with one oar, picked it up lest it damage a shell.

Still nothing happened.

Then the orange flag on the point suddenly rose over the heads of the crowd, waving in the gentle breeze. People on the point pressed toward the shore, clustered around the flag. The oarsmen waiting by the boathouse stood up, the managers clustered on the float, the Androscoggin crews crowded on the wharf.

From the point floated thin cries of encouragement and enthusiasm. The crews appeared around the point, sprinting splashily for the finish. The launches followed close behind, Coach Whitmore standing tall in the leading one holding the white flag low. Gil’s orange flag on the point dropped then rose again instantly.

Cheers from the point, thinned by distance. Who won?

The coach raised the white flag over his head as the launch scooted close to the orange flag. He raised his megaphone to his ear, listened, then announced, “Androscoggin by four feet.”

Cheers from the Androscoggin crews.

“Third boat,” said Cap. “Here we go.”

“Hands on. Lift on three,” began Billy confidently.

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With the boat in the water, oars in place, riggers held by two managers, Gus came alongside in the launch, stepped ashore.

“The fourth rowed a good race, led for the first half by half a length, but fell apart in the sprint.

Never mind them. Row your own race. Not too fast on the start, Sam, but very strong, very clean, and very quick with the hands. Then ten big ones to get her going. I want to see puddles you could hide a dog in.

Settle to about 36 and keep it long. If you are ahead by half a length, go down to 34 and make it as strong as you can. Don’t rush the slides and stay together. Billy, you keep them together. Then about three strokes from the twin birch, pull the plug. Go up to 40. That’s high enough, and stay together. Watch the blade work and hit the catch hard. If they are ahead in the middle, stay at 36, and whatever happens, even if you have to sprint in the middle, don’t get behind by open water or you’re dead. Have a good row, men.”

As the managers pushed the shell off, Alice came pelting down over the bank and jumped into the launch with Gus and the Androscoggin coach.

Billy went through the regular procedure for getting under way and took his crew gently up the river toward the start, Androscoggin’s third boat close astern, the launches following behind. Billy watched the oars critically. The boat was balanced perfectly, oars off the water on the recovery, smooth acceleration on every catch, oars rising cleanly out of the puddles. The boat felt good to him.

“How’s it feel, Sam?” “Good. We’re ready.”

The two crews crept down toward the starting line together, Kennebec a little ahead, Coach Whitmore in the launch holding the red flag high over his head, megaphone in his other hand, the Androscoggin coaches tense, thumbs on stopwatch.

Sam called across to the Androscoggin stroke the traditional question, “Shirts?”

“Shirts,” answered the stroke.

“Hold her back a little, Billy,” said Sam quietly. “Don’t be ahead or he’ll stop us dead. Get your hand up.”

“Hold all,” said Billy quietly, holding his hand straight up over his head as a signal he was not ready to start. Androscoggin ranged up even, the cox’s hand up.

“Bow pairs, both boats, one easy stroke. Easy,” called Whitmore “Easy, Billy,” said Sam tensely.

“Easy,” repeated Billy, his breath short, his stomach tight.

“Hold hard, lane 2. Hold water lane 1. Billy came even with the Androscoggin cox. Both hands came down.

“Ready all,” from the launch.

“Row!” The back of the seat hit Billy hard as all four oars caught the river, then again and instantly again in three short hard strokes. Then the ten big ones. Billy banged them out with the toggles on the rudder lines, leaning far forward, watching the oars – “You’re late, Ted,” – watching his course, steering on the recovery.

“9...10 ...We have one seat, Sam.” The stroke lengthened. The boat felt good. The oars dipped together, rose out of the puddles together, hit the catch with an inspiring surge of power.

“I got one more seat, Sam.” “Hang in,” gasped Sam. “We’re half way, Sam. Power 10” “Power 10,” called Billy rapping smartly with his toggles. Sam laid it on. There was splashing. The boats held even for a stroke. Then Kennebec dropped back.

“Get together, guys,” screamed Billy. “Ted, you’re early.”

“Starboard. White flag. Starboard,” from Sam. 109

“Lane 1, come starboard.” From the launch. Everything was happening at once. The boat lurched to port. Sam and Jack at number 2 dragged their oars out, missed a stroke. Androscoggin surged ahead. Billy saw the cox’s back, a big red A on a white shirt as he corrected his course.

“Go down, Sam. Go down and get ’em together – finish high port, hands low starboard. Stay with Sam and keep the power on. Pour it on, together.” On each catch Billy called “Hit it ...Hit it ...Hit it.”

Kennebec was two seats back now “We’re holding ’em, Sam.” “Going up.”

“Going up. All together now. Hit it”…We’re gaining on ’em. Pour it on.”

“Birch tree coming up, Sam.” “Pull the plug. Here we go.”

“Up together. Hit it hard ... hard ... hard.” on each catch. Each stroke came quicker, harder and miraculously together. The boat seemed airborne. Bubbles singing under the planking. Billy was leaning far forward, his arms straining on the steering toggles, lifting the boat with all the strength of his spirit. All five men, four oars, fragile cedar shell were one creature with one single driving principle.

“I’ve almost got the cox. Get him for me. Get him... I’ve got him. I’ve got him. Give me ten big ones now to put it away, ten big ones. A fierce intensity in his voice. Across the other boat, Billy saw the flag on the point held high.

6, 7, 8. The flag flashed down and up again instantly.

“Let ’er run.”

All four boys flopped over their oars, gasping for breath. Billy, too, felt drained, breathless.

Gus and Alice slipped alongside.

“Well rowed,” said the Androscoggin coach.

“Who won?” gasped Sam. “You got it! You got it by a foot,” said Gus, still choked up and breathless himself. “It was that close. I thought you were gone when you fell apart in the middle. Nice recovery, Sam, and an elegant sprint.”

“Vive!” said Alice.

“Billy did it. He got us together.”

As they paddled gently into the cove, Butch took the first boat out on the way to the start, the seconds having already gone up. The first boat looked like winners. Four tall, strong lean young men, rowing together smoothly, easily, perfectly controlled, shell and oars shining in the sun over the green water near the shore. Butch, confident, one with his crew, in command.

By the time the first boat raced, Billy and his crew were standing together behind Gil with the flag on the point, carrying Androscoggin shirts carelessly tossed over their shoulders. Looking far up the river, they saw the flurry of white water at the start, then the two boats rowing together, not knowing which was ahead, then no doubt about it as the first boat swept across the finish line a length ahead, magnificently graceful, magnificently powerful.

Meanwhile on the field between the back of the school and the river the baseball game with Mt. Bigelow had made its way into the ninth inning. The sun was warm. The big white pines sheltered the field from the wind. Summer shirts and jackets showed a kaleidoscope of colors. Parents, friends, faculty, visitors, boys and their girlfriends talked, dozed, listened to rock music on portable radios, ate and drank whatever the machines by the gym disgorged for quarters, and some of them watched the game.

To lovers of baseball, the situation was tense. It was to be resolved in the next two instants.

Kennebec was behind by two runs with one out and two runners on base. Jerry Katz was taking a lead off second base and O’Neal off first. Coach Johnson, ever the strategist, saw the Mt. Bigelow shortstop 110

move toward second base to get behind Jerry. He flashed Jimmy at bat the signal to bunt down the third base line.

At this precise instant, as the pitcher was in the midst of his wind-up, a number of different things were happening.

On the top bench in the stands, where his portable radio worked best, Jimmy’s father was tuned to Fenway Park listening to the Red Sox scoop up another victory. Someone in Boston hit a high fly. Going ... going ... at this instant it was up in the air.

Mr. Sawyer, Headmaster, an athlete himself and much interested in the game before him, was playing another game. At this same instant he was saying to Mr. Ashcroft, next to him, “We have a good small school here, but we badly need to grow. For instance, we have only three boys in Calculus. We cannot afford an expert math teacher to teach a class of only three, but we can’t afford not to teach Calculus ... ” Mr. Sawyer missed the bunt signal.

Ashcroft, tired from a long morning’s drive, overheard Jimmy’s father’s radio and was distracted.

At this same instant, Mrs. Johnson, the coach’s wife was half listening to Mrs. Phelps, whose son lived over the Johnsons in Brackett House. “...and he used to beg milk from the neighbors to feed to that awful cat. I was so embarrassed! And Mr. Phelps called it a mangy old flea pasture ...” Mrs. Johnson caught the bunt sign and gripped the bench hard.

The Mt. Bigelow center fielder at this precise instant was watching a pretty little sloop beating down the river against the tide.

The shortstop was moving toward second, hoping to catch Jerry off base.

Jerry saw the bunt sign and broke for third.

O’Neal on first saw the bunt sign and dug for second.

Jimmy at bat missed the bunt sign, tensed to win the game with a home run and come in a hero.

The pitcher finished his wind-up, delivered the ball. The first instant passed into the second instant.

Jimmy connected for a hard line drive between first and second.

Jimmy’s father looked up at the crack of the bat, saw someone running, wasn’t sure who it was, and groaned as the outfielder in Boston dropped the fly.

Mr. Sawyer forgot about Mr. Ashcroft, his new dormitory and his new math teacher and yelled, “Run!” At the same instant, Mrs. Johnson saw Jimmy had missed the bunt sign, lost all interest in young Phelps’s cat, and yelled, “Run!” Many others yelled, “Run!” Mrs. Phelps looked up, not sure why all the boys were suddenly running around so, and forgot to close her mouth.

Coach Johnson, aware that his runners would have to tag up if the ball was caught, yelled, “Hold it!”

The Mt. Bigelow shortstop reached second base.

The Mt. Bigelow pitcher ducked.

The Mt. Bigelow center fielder snapped back to the game too late to see the ball coming.

The Mt. Bigelow second baseman playing between first and second did not have time to think.

Instinctively he leaped toward the ball’s trajectory, glove outstretched. The smack of ball on glove spun him halfway around in mid-air, but he came down with the ball, tossed it underhand to the shortstop standing on second base. The game was over!

Everyone stopped, stopped still, astonished. The runners, Coach Johnson, the umpires, the people in the stands … they stopped. Silence for a second.

Then the instant fell apart. Parents’ Day was over.

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Chapter 24 — The Last Class

T

he last week of May brought apple blossoms through a soft, bright mist of new leaves. Peter Floyd, sitting in the sun on the steps of Chelsea House thought, as he had thought every spring, “Nature’s first green is gold.” He said it out loud to himself, said the whole poem over.

Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower, But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief.

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Nothing gold can stay. That a perfect creation is that poem, he thought. Complete, flawless, so easy, fading the physical into the metaphysical, what Emerson would call the natural into the spiritual – and what an impact! Robert Frost must have been proud of that poem, but humble too, for he must have known that he had been touched by the grace of God. True, nothing gold can stay. Looking back, life at Kennebec Academy had had much gold in it, but it couldn’t last. Even now, I am waiting for the bell to call me to my last class.

Back in February the Headmaster had asked him whether he planned to return in the fall.

“No,” he had said, “I agreed to get through at 65. I will be 65 in the spring so I will not be back next year.” The Headmaster had expressed proper – and sincere – regret.

“Let’s not make any fuss about it,” Peter had added. You know that I abhor sentiment. Mr. Chips makes me sick. If anyone wants to know, simply say I will not be back next year. I will be building a boat or writing a book. No secret, no ceremony.”

And now, he thought, sitting on the step of his dormitory in the May sun, I have written my last examination, I have read my last set of papers and written my last criticisms on them, I have entered my last grades in my last mark book – except for the exams, of course – and I am about to walk into my last class.

A clutch of 9th-graders – intelligent, responsive, occasionally inspired. Remember Jonesey’s description of a rope ski tow? ‘A snake with his tail in his mouth hissing up the hill.’ And full of adolescent hell, too. I have done pretty well with them, but pretty well is not good enough. Maybe I should stay one more year and teach one class really well, do a really good job, just for once. But no. It wouldn’t work. To attempt perfection is to challenge the gods, and no one has done very well at that since Apollo’s son drove his father’s chariot and Icarus took the big drink. Be grateful that we have had a vision of perfection and let it go at that. Today must be the last.

No sentimentality, no tearful farewells. Still, I will let them know that it is the last and I will make an opportunity to tell them how good it is to have to do what you like to do ‘where love and need are one.’

To be paid to read good books and to talk about them and share them with intelligent people is the best of all worlds And I will tell them of some of the boys I have known, boys who have gone on to be –­ some of them – signif­icant in their communities and their professions, some of them writers. Especially the writers.

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The school bell struck the hour. Into Peter’s mind sprang the horse from the book of Job1. ‘Ha Ha, He sayeth among the trumpets (a bell will do as well) and he smelleth the battle afar off’. He picked up his books and his last set of papers and walked through the golden May morning toward his last class.

As he strode down the hall towards Room 14, his classroom for over 20 years, soon to be someone else’s, “sounds of revelry by night” (Byron, wasn’t it). A loud pop. That would be young Cluett jumping on an empty milk carton. He opened the door.

Butch, who had been standing on a chair a split second before, was in the air; beneath his descending feet a milk carton. Gravity operated strictly as usual and the carton burst, “not with a bang but a splatter.”

(Try that on, Mr. Eliot). For the irrepressible Cluett had slipped in a full milk carton for the empty one and milk was everywhere.

Roars of laughter, immediately repressed. Awesome silence.

“Butch, get a mop and clean up this mess. Phillips, get a wad of paper towel out of the boys’ room … In the janitor’s closet, Butch; where else? … How did this happen? Cluett? … You don’t know? Then it is the first time … Butch, no. You aren’t mopping it up. You’re just spreading it around … Ed, get him a half bucket of water … You other guys, swab the milk off your clothes or you’ll smell like a barnyard in distress … Now, Butch, wring out the mop … Grab it by the end and twist its tail. Put some muscle in it, Butch – like this. Now sozzle it in the bucket, twist its tail again and mop ... towards the middle, boy.”

In due course the bucket and mop were washed out and returned, and the class settled to something like normal, having learned about mopping up if not about literature.

Peter – Mr. Floyd – passed out the papers, the last lot. The last one went to Cluett. On his way back to the desk, Peter drew breath to say, “Gentlemen, you may be aware that this is my last opportunity to address a class – any class –” but as he turned to speak, Billy Edwards’ hand was up.

“Sir, you wrote on my paper, ‘Intentional fallacy.’ I didn’t do anything wrong on purpose.”

“Probably not, Billy, but you said the poet intended something for which there was no basis in the poem. You were writing about “Dust of Snow.”

The way a crow Shook down on me A dust of snow From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart A change of mood, And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

“And if I remember correctly, you said the poem was a prophecy of doom, death and destruction because a crow is black and snow is cold, white and sterile. Where did you get all that?”

“From a book in the library.”

“Likely. And the book went on to say that hemlock was the poison Socrates drank. This hemlock is a totally different plant altogether. When you read a poem, or anything else, read what is on the page. If the poet intends a secondary or symbolic meaning, he will say so.”

Once wound up, Peter rushed on just as he always had. “’So leaf subsides to leaf. “’So Eden sank to grief’ … He tells you right there that he is talking about human experiences that 1

Chapter 39 Verse 25

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don’t last: discovery, love, ecstasy – as well as about spring leaves.”

Johnny Cluett spoke up.

“What about ‘Stopping By Woods?’ That is just a story about how an old guy stopped and watched it snow and then went home. That’s all there is to that.”

“What makes you think he was an old guy, Johnny? Anyway, up to the last line, you are about right.

A very observant, sensitive man on his way home at night stops to watch the snow. So does his horse, but the horse is a good deal less sensitive and observant than the man. You, Johnny, are no horse, but on the contrary, you too are an observant and sensitive man. Up to the last line, there is little more; but the repetition of the last line asks the observant, sensitive man ‘What miles do I have to go? What promises do I have to keep? What sleep?’ The repetition makes the traveler’s experience our experience, for we are all travelers. There is magic in the repetition of that last line, Johnny, magic.”

And the bell rang!

A scraping of chairs and a jumble of questions all at once: “Sir, will there be any grammar on the exam? Will spelling count? Will we have to know about the first half year? Is it all essay questions? Any True-False? Will you scale the grades? How much does it count?”

Peter tried to sort out the questions, answered “Yes” to most of them and to Phillips, last to leave, “No, I will not be teaching next year.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” said Phillips; and again, “Thank you sir.”

Peter sat down, overcome, in his chair in the empty classroom.

“It’s the repetition that does it,” he thought as quiet fell over him. “The boy got it. In the repetition is the magic.”

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Chapter 25 — Graduation

A

fter Parents’ Day the school year rushed to its conclusion. The routine of classes and athletics was broken by the last baseball game, the last crew race, and the last track meet. When the last high fly was caught, the last “You’re out!” pronounced, the ball team was suddenly no longer a team. When Butch called, “Way enough” for the last time, and Cap closed the boat house door behind them, the first boat was no longer a smooth, strong, disciplined unit but five good friends who would never forget that final sprint when five men and a shell fused together like quicksilver, a single organism with a single will, the river singing underneath.

The last classes met and dispersed, teachers trying to distill the wisdom from a year’s study of mathematics or science, of literature or history, into a single 40-minute cup – and failing.

Then came the final examinations, the English examinations first. A passing crow looked down on the morning of that event with amazement at what appeared to be a huge centipede, a vast caterpillar armored with shining scales and protected with prongy horns. It was a procession of boys, each carrying over his head a tablet armchair from a classroom to the gym, pro tem examination room. It happened twice a year at midyear and at finals, and every time Peter Floyd was reminded of Jesus carrying his cross and of captives forced to dig their own graves, but he shook off the thought.

The chairs were ranged in rows on the gym floor, covered for today with canvas smelling strongly of something like creosote – an examination smell. Pencils, pens, erasers arranged on writing arms, a bluebook slapped down on every arm, teachers moving up and down the aisles each passing out his own mimeographed examination papers to his own classes.

“Gentlemen, your attention please,” announced Mr. Floyd in his formal voice. “On the English IV examination, page 2, line 6, the final word should be ‘alarm’ ‘Ready to ride and spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm.’ On the English VI examination write on three of the five topics. You have a choice. This examination will close at 11:15, two hours from now. You may begin.”

A proctor wrote “11:15” in letters two feet high on a portable blackboard and under it, “You have _____ minutes remaining” and filled in the blank every 15 minutes.

Silence fell, broken by little things. Proctors paced slowly up and down the aisles. One of Mr. Edgehill’s shoes squeaked. Someone opened a window. A hand shot up. A whisper, “Sir, does this mean I can write on any author I want?” A finger pointed at the question paper. “Read the directions!” A gull screamed over the river. A dog barked. Feet shuffled.

“Sir, may I sharpen my pencil?” The pencil sharpener growled. The proctors paced. One plied eraser and chalk. “You have 1 hr. 15 min. left.”

Joe Rotch, bent over his bluebook, pen laboring line by line, was answering question II: “Write a brief and specific essay distinguishing between poetry and mere verse with reference to the poems of 20th century American writers.” Joe was badly entangled in MacLeish’s Ars Poetica and was struggling to extricate himself.

Sam Reed was “on a roll,” knocking out an Instant B essay on the linked analogies in Moby Dick.

“Gentlemen, this examination will close in ONE HOUR,” pronounced Mr. Johnson, in tones Monhegan’s fog signal might envy. The time on the blackboard shrank to 40 minutes, to 30 minutes.

Billy Edwards was trying desperately to identify ten of the following: pathetic fallacy, Sid Thaxter, Piggy…

Hand up. An alert proctor moving quickly up the aisle. Hand extended. Bluebook put in it as a nurse 115

slaps a tool into a surgeon’s hand.

Someone stood up, collected his pencils, watch and bluebook, laid the bluebook on the table in front of a sign reading “Mr. Evanston Eng. IIIB”, walked out. Another rose to go. Everyone looked up briefly.

“Gentlemen, this examination will close in TEN MINUTES.” The blackboard was erased and marked again. One boy after another stood up. Nearly half the room was moving. Still a number of bent heads, flying pens. Butch was rushing to finish the second part of an essay on “Plot defines character; character determines plot in a short story.”

Confusion increased as boys lined up to hand in papers.

“What did you do for number 3?”

I winged it. How about number 6? And who in hell was Piggy?”

“Gentlemen, the examination is CLOSED. Finish the sentence you are writing and hand in your bluebooks at once. THE EXAMINATI0N IS CLOSED!” General conversation. Almost everyone crowding forward to hand in papers. Almost everyone talking at once. Johnny Cluett still furiously writing, trying incoherently to pull together final thoughts on Julius Caesar. Mr. Evanston stood over him, saw a sentence long enough to make a Laöcoon of the author, dragged the book from under Johnny’s outraged pen.

It was over.

Other exams on other days.

Some studied late, alone under the lamp, bent heads over green blotters. Others studied together, asking and answering questions: “Name three causes of the War of 1812.”

“Impressment, Orders in Council, Indians.”

“What’s impressment?”

“Don’t know. Look it up” “Time for a Coke.”

A few went in for all-nighters: No-Doz pills and other heroic measures. Others played frisbee around the flagpole in the cool dusk.

Gus piled bluebooks on desk, bed, and bookcase, tore into the ancient history ones first. He found it a discouraging experience. Bits and pieces of information and misinformation adrift on a sea of generalities paraphrased if not quoted or misquoted from the text and class discussion. Occasionally a sound essay.

Henry Phillips had a good one. So did Billy Edwards. Cluett had done well on part of it and saved his C grade.

Peter Floyd, reading his last set of examinations, written by boys he would never teach again, sternly restrained his impulse to be over-generous. Carefully as always, he marked every mistake in spelling, punctuation and sentence structure with marginal comments where appropriate. Opposite “history-wise” he wrote “barbaric”. On another page, “Like is a preposition, not a conjunction.” “Adv. clause coming first, comma.” After each answer he wrote a carefully worded comment suggesting improvements just as he had for the last God-knows-how-many papers.

Mr. Marvin read Billy Edwards’s math examination first, hoping he could find enough correct answers and give enough half credit on wrong answers to get his protegé over the curbstone. He was a little surprised and no little delighted to find that he could, without straining his Puritan conscience, give Billy a legitimate C+.

The French -1 was held in the regular classroom, and it was just as well, for it was something between a party and the fall of the Bastille, involving balloons, little Chinese fire-crackers, French chocolates, jokes, riddles, songs led by Tim’s violin, and culminating in a thimbleful of French wine and a full chorus of “Vive la Compagnie.” At the door, Alice saluted each candidate cheek to cheek like General DeGaulle pinning upon a medal and announced, “Tout le monde passent a l’examen.”

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The Science examinations were given on the last day. While most of the school marshaled facts, formulae, and calculators, Gus and Alice borrowed her father’s sloop Esperance for the day. Jerry was not at all in the habit of lending his sloop to anyone, but Alice had sailed with her father since she was a child.

Gus had taught sailing in small boats and it looked like a gentle day. Jerry couldn’t go because he “had to clean up the studio for graduation,” he said.

Although only early June, it seemed like the first day of summer. With the ebb tide under them, Alice made short work of the beat down the river in the bright morning. They landed for lunch on Seguin, a high, bare island several miles at sea with an automated lighthouse on top. In the lee of the tower they ate their lunch where they could see 40 miles of Maine coast spread out before them in green and blue and white. Far below them, Esperance lay to her anchor in the quiet cove. A busy cormorant in his usual black business suit flew low to the water with fast wing beats, obviously late for an important corporate appointment. Gulls, disturbed from their nests, circled overhead, soaring on sun-trimmed wings. Time slowed down, stood still, and the two were quite content to let it.

The shadow of the tower crept around toward them; then time clicked into gear. They gathered up cups, knives, wax paper in the lunch basket, pushed off the skiff left far up the beach by the ebbing tide, set sail, pulled the anchor and headed home before a fair wind.

Jerry watched them slip into Kenniston’s Cove, pick up the mooring, stow sails. As they walked up the wharf together, sunburned and wind blown, swinging the picnic basket between them, Jerry went to meet them with a catch in his breath. Ben Sawyer from the top of the bank wondered whether he was about to gain a good French teacher or lose a good history teacher.

Faculty meeting in the Common Room. Some men still averaging grades or entering them in mark books. Card files with boys’ records being passed around, being filled in. Fragments of conversations: “The boy is illiterate, I tell you. He doesn’t know ‘Come here’ from ‘Sic em.’”

“I got some good exams out of my VC section. McPherson actually got an A-, and I don’t give many of them.”

“He may be a good pitcher. He may have a .400 average. But he can’t do geometry. If he’d promise never to take another math course, I’d give him a C- and tie a ribbon on it.”

“I didn’t actually catch him cheating, but I don’t trust him. I don’t know why, but there is something about the way he...well, forget it.”

Mr. Hanshaw finally collected the cards, shuffled them into order, and rapped on the table.

“The following will graduate Summa Cum Laude: Sullivan and Anderson. Magnas to ...” Then the list of honors for the term to the lower classes. It was a tedious business, eliciting only an occasional comment, although when Hummelman’s name came up with honors, there was brief spontaneous applause.

Then voting on prizes. The Latin medal for highest achievement in the study of Vergil and Cicero to Jackson, who had the highest grade by .0451% … and so on through other subjects. The Dramatics prize to Arthur Sikes for his performance as Mr. Pickwick. The music prize for the most improvement in the study of a musical instrument to Tim Feineman ... The hard one was the Ashcroft Prize “for that member of the graduating class who best demonstrates the ideals of the Academy in mind, body, and spirit.” Five candidates were presented to the meeting. Heated argument ensued as to whether an A in Calculus was “better” than an A in History and whether having been captain of a losing football team showed better spirit than coming from behind to win a cross country race. Of course the problems were insoluble, and after many votes and reconsiderations, the prize was divided between the two candidates with the most articulate and determined supporters. Coach Johnson became quite heated and had to be gaveled into silence. Fritz Bauer, who had been through the same sort of discussion for many years, ignored the senseless debate and fell to watching the birds fluttering in the bath outside the window. Mr. Marvin disliked the whole notion of trying to put people on a number line, said so, was ignored, and lapsed into silence.

“Then, gentlemen, we are adjourned. Reverend Hatchley of Bath will preach the Baccalaureate 117

sermon tonight at 7:30 in the Assembly Hall, where we are all expected. We will gather in this room at 9:45 tomorrow morning to form the commencement procession and again at 9 o’clock on Friday morning to deal with those boys whose advisors recommend them for full faculty attention. Our final faculty party, to which wives and other guests are invited, will be held on Friday night. Cocktails and cook out. Gentlemen’s attire will be casual. That’s all.”

Baccalaureate. Parents gathering, the men in dark clothes for the most part, women quite formal.

Faculty accosted: “I am so glad to meet you at last. Mike has told me so much about you. You must be a great inspiration to the boys ...”

“Coach, in that Mt. Bigelow game, why didn’t you tell Jimmy to bunt on that last play? A good bunt down the third base line would have loaded the bases ...”

“Well, you know his father and grandfather went to Dartherst, and I’m so glad he got in. The school has really done wonders for him ...”

Many boys to many teachers: “Sir, whad-I-get?”

The bell preserved from one of the last Kenniston schooners rang the gathering inside. After a decent interval, the Headmaster stood up: “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and scholars, it is with pride and pleasure...”

An ensemble of assorted instruments including a flute, a trombone, a cello, a clarinet, and two violins played a selection arranged for the occasion.

The glee club sang.

The congregation sang, “Let the Lower Lights Be Burning.”

The Reverend Hatchby at last came to bat and delivered a rousing 15-minute sermon on the text, “If the trumpet giveth forth an uncertain sound, who will prepare himself for the battle?”

He urged everyone within earshot to let his yea be yea and his nay be nay, to stand to his guns, to praise God and keep his powder dry. He concluded with a brief prayer in which he instructed the Almighty to keep His eye on those here gathered because they were the salt of the earth and were dedicated to do good work in His service. Amen.

They sang the school hymn, “How Happy is He Born and Taught,” supported by the glee club, and departed in peace according to His word.

Mr. and Mrs. Edwards arrived in time for Commencement on Thursday morning. Mrs. Edwards found Billy and embraced him publicly, somewhat to his embarrassment. Noticing first his son’s increased stature and responding to his air of confidence, Mr. Edwards could say only, “Well, son – Good to see you.” He would have more to say later.

Mr. and Mrs. Rotch were immeasurably proud of Joe, standing taller than either of them and secure in the knowledge that The Great University had admitted him from the waiting list.

The boys left to line up, each class marshaled in order of height by teachers frustrated because the troops did not maintain a constant order of battle.

The faculty led the procession, Fritz Bauer and Peter Floyd in the lead as senior members. The faculty was followed by the graduating class in solemn procession arranged in alphabetical order. A proud parent snapped a flash bulb as his son passed. Then came the other classes in order, overseen at the last by Assistant Headmaster Hanshaw, Chief Marshall of the whole production.

The ceremonies proceeded in dignified if uninspiring order. The Reverend Hatchby led off with a prayer, prizes were duly awarded to polite applause. The Headmaster spoke briefly on the year’s triumphs.

Dr. Althea Banks, author, State Senator, trustee of the Academy, addressed the graduating class, maintaining that good as their education had been, it had been neglected in one important respect. Half the human race was, and is, and will be female, and it is by no means the lesser half, that as they went forth into the academic world and then into the worlds of business and politics, they would find women who would earn 118

their respect and admiration – she named a few – and concluded that, as Mrs. Bush said, one or more of these distinguished graduates might find himself fortunate enough to become the spouse of a President of the United States.

Prolonged applause.

The diplomas were handed out in alphabetical order, each graduate stepping forward, receiving the rolled document in his left hand, shaking the Headmaster’s right hand, and marching off the stage as the next came up.

“Please hold your applause until all the diplomas have been given out.” But they didn’t.

As the applause died down, the Headmaster came forward once more.

“Most of you know that Peter Floyd will not be back with us next year. Characteristically, he has asked me to make no ceremony of his departure after 23 years of teaching Kennebec Academy boys to write literate English and to read with imagination and understanding. He told me, if anyone asked, to say he was writing a book or building a boat. He observed that this is not his funeral, and no eulogy is in order. So I will say no more about him. But I can say something about us.

We will miss him. We will miss his intimate understanding of our literature and his unique understanding of those who don’t understand. We will miss his kind but firm administration of Chelsea House. The fool, the rogue, and the bully have felt the iron. Those with antisocial attitudes have had their attitudes adjusted – unmistakably. The impulsive, the misguided, the well meaning who have missed the mark have had their compasses corrected that they might steer a straighter course.

We will miss his wife, Ruth. We will miss her flowers, her birds, and the kindly civilizing influence she brought to a sometimes-barbaric boys’ school.

I am forbidden to make a Mr. Chips of Peter, for he deplores such sentimentality, but I can tell you that his colleagues and his students, including those he taught this year, wish him to know that they appreciate his efforts and admire his success. I can tell you this about his future. When he goes home, he and Ruth will find a token of their admiration. We wish him the best of good fortune and hope our paths will frequently cross. That’s all.”

Prolonged applause, during which Peter could do nothing but sit and suffer.

The final faculty meeting waded its way through the tangled swamp of academic difficulty.

Comments regarding William T. Edwards, Jr., who finished with B+ in English, B in History, B- in Science, C in Math and “Pass” in French -1: Guidance Counselor: “You see what thoughtful non-directive guidance can do for the developing adolescent. A little beneficent neglect does wonders.”

Mr. Marvin: “He is fundamentally an intelligent boy. Careful cultivation of his intelligence overcame his math anxiety after he learned to focus his attention. His examination was surprisingly good.”

Mr. Evanston: “He never should have been allowed to cox. He could have done much better with more study time.”

Mr. Cunningham, hotly: “Coxing was the best thing that happened to him this year.”

Mr. Rossignol: “Pass? In French? Mon Dieu.”

Sam Reed, when he heard the news: “How to go, kid.”

Mr. Edwards, when he saw the final report card: “I told you, Billy, that learning the words with those cards would get you through French – any French. And bearing down on Smith-Fagin.” If you can do Smith-Fagin, you can do anything. That’s what got me into college.”

Billy, in answer to Peter Floyd’s query, “How did you do it?” “I got to like the taste of it.”

Mr. Sawyer: “God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform”.

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Chapter 26 — The River

O

n a Saturday morning in early October, Joe Rotch sat near the back of the bus from Boston to Portland as it rumbled along the Maine Turnpike taking him from college back to his old school. He felt disconnected, suspended between two worlds, a little apprehensive, not at all the way he had expected to feel after a month at college.

His years at Kennebec Academy had been good years. He had been a successful student, occasionally even on the Honor List. He had liked his teachers. His roommate had been his best friend. He had been captain of his football team, had won letters in wrestling and rowing had played hard and won his share. He had held a position on the masthead of the school paper. When he had left last spring, diploma in hand, college bound, he had had no intention of dropping Kennebec out of his life. It was home to him, a place where he was confident, secure, successful.

He had come up on the bus this morning, leaving Park Square before daylight to arrive in time to visit around the school before lunch and the football game. As he walked up the drive between the rows of pines, he felt warmly at home again. The same trees, the same thin fall sunshine, someone out on the football field pushing the lime cart, even the familiar squeak of the cart’s bent wheel. He waved to the guy pushing the cart and recognized Eddie Duff, who had been a lowly assistant manager the year before.

“Hiya, Eddie. How’s it goin’?” he called heartily.

Eddie looked up, squinting into the low sun.

“Oh – uh, hi. Anything I can – oh it’s you, Joe. Didn’t recognize you at first. How ya been?”

“Oh, good. How’s the team doing?”

“Pretty good. We lost to the Hawks but won the others. I got to finish the lines or the coach’ll kill me … See you later. OK?” Well, he hadn’t known Eddie very well anyway, and Eddie always had been kind of dumb.

The driveway led him to the school building; and he hesitated, wondering where to begin. Everyone would be in class now. Maybe stop in at the office and see old Moose Henshaw, Assistant Headmaster, He had always liked the Moose and surely the Moose would be glad to see him.

The wooden steps were reassuringly the same with the nail heads sticking up where the wood was worn away around them. Over the door was the familiar Latin motto, and in the dimly-lit hall the Moose’s office door was open as usual. There was a small boy standing before the desk receiving the last of what was to Joe a familiar oration. The boy turned and passed him on the way out. He had never seen the boy before. New kid probably.

“Well! Good morning, Joe. I’m glad to see you.” Exclaimed Mr. Henshaw, springing out of his chair and coming around the desk. Come up to see the game did you? How’ve you been?”

“Fine, sir. I thought I’d like to come back and see – how things were.” Joe couldn’t say that college had overwhelmed him, that the math course was really too hard, that he hadn’t made the freshman football team, that his room mate was a strange guy from Texas who kept odd hours, rode a motorcycle and ended every sentence with “OK, Pal?” That everyone seemed to know everyone else but him, and that there were only maybe a dozen guys in the whole teeming place that he could talk to. The professors seemed miles away, formal and unapproachable, and his advisor called him George. He had come back to Kennebec not to see a game only, but to tag up with his old life, the life where there was respect and friendship – where everyone worked together to win a game or put out a paper or even to learn algebra. He wanted an infusion of the warmth and strength he had always felt at Kennebec.

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safe.

He couldn’t tell the Moose this. He couldn’t even tell himself this. It was just how he felt.

“Yes, ­to see how things were and how you were getting along without me.” Kidding was always

“Staggering on, just barely staggering on. But tell me, how is the great university? Are you finding what you want?” Joe couldn’t tell him. It would be like getting undressed in public.

“Fine, oh fine. Not quite what I expected, but I suppose things seldom are.”

“That’s right. We really can’t tell you. You have to find out for yourself. How was your academic preparation?”

“Good. I’m way ahead in English, but the math course is tough.”

“All math courses are tough. You’ll make it, though. I have a lot of confidence in you, Joe.” Joe smiled thinly. The Moose taught history and probably didn’t remember that Joe had had to repeat both Geometry and Algebra 2 to graduate, and that he was taking the math course in college only because it was the least of the evils from which he had to choose.

“Well, do stay to lunch. And visit around. I’m sure you’ll find people you know in the faculty room.” The Moose grabbed a stack of corrected papers from the corner of his desk, a book from the shelf, and whisked out of the office, leaving Joe open-mouthed.

Other faculty members were the same. They all remembered him, although one man got his name wrong. They were all polite, cheerful and brief. They all asked about college and none of them wanted to hear the answer, an answer which Joe could not articulate but which he felt only as a lost feeling.

Lunch would be better. The school bell rang – the same bell that once hung on the foremast of a schooner belonging to old Captain John Kenniston, founder of the Academy. The bell’s familiar sound and the familiar smell of the traditional Saturday noon beans warmed body and spirit.

In the lunch line he found some of last year’s juniors, seniors now. They knew him at once and they did not brush him off. “How’s college, Joe? Havin’ any fun?”

“Nuts to college. How you doing here?”

“OK, OK. The coach made Stan quarterback but he can’t throw good, so …” The conversation turned to football and Joe felt at home for a bit.

Behind the counter, Ada, dishing out beans with a ladle, recognized Joe and called him by name.

She remembered to fish out a piece of salt pork for his plate.

But at the table, conversation turned to a new French teacher, to the current competition for Ivy League colleges, to discussion of an upcoming dance, to which of course Joe was not going.

The dorm had the same ivy leaves, the same granite doorstep, the familiar smell of floor varnish and wax. The door to the room he and Sam had lived in for three years was ajar. Joe knocked, got no answer, and peeked in. It was a foreign land! The beds had been turned the other way. The back of his desk chair was broken, and there was a big Princeton banner on the wall. Joe fled to the locker room.

The coach welcomed him warmly.

“Hi Joe! Good to see you! Wish I could use you today. How about suiting up? Ha Ha. Anyone seen Stan yet? I want him taped first.” The brush-off again.

But Joe lingered in the locker room. The familiar smells of wintergreen and tape and sweat, the slam of locker doors, the squeak of pads tightened, the rattle of cleats on the floor seemed to help. Joe didn’t talk to anyone. They were all busy or horsing around throwing socks or something. But being there helped.

The coach gathered the team around him and gave them a pep talk. Joe had heard most of it before, and anyway he knew the coach wasn’t talking to him.

He stayed through the first half of the game, sitting on the top bench in the stands between parents of boys he didn’t know. As the team ran off the field at the half, he felt strangely mixed: elated because Kennebec had come from behind to lead by a touchdown, because Stan had gotten off three really good passes, because the rush and crash and thump of the game brought him back; depressed because it wasn’t his 121

team any more. The stands emptied as the crowd hurried to see the cross-country team finish. Joe sat on the bottom bench and shivered.

The Headmaster came by. He seemed to be the only person in the whole of Kennebec Academy – he and Ada serving beans – who had any time for Joe. The headmaster sat down next to him, plucked a long spear of fall grass and bit the end of it.

“How’s it going, Joe?” he asked, and pulled the grass slowly between his fingernails. He waited. He wasn’t going somewhere else to do something important. He wanted to know. He waited.

“Well, not the way I thought,” began Joe. The Head pulled the grass through his fingers again and waited.

“Somehow, no one knows I’m there. I’m not good enough to be any good at anything and I don’t know but only a few guys and I don’t know – maybe I’ll drop out for a year.” That outrageous idea had never occurred to Joe before. It just burst out.

The Headmaster understood all that Joe had not told him.

“I guess it is natural that you should feel pulled up by the roots.”

“But college is so different!”

“It has to be. Every institution has its own character. But maybe the problem is as much with you as it is with the college. You who were football captain have been cut from the freshman team. Then who are you? Not a football player. You who finally earned a B in math, made the Honor List, and were accepted at the Great University now have a D. You who were proud of being a successful scholar are now hanging on desperately to the knot on the end of the academic rope.”

“You mean I need to find myself?”

“You have no idea, Joe, how much I dislike that expression. It suggests that you have to drop what you are doing, go somewhere else and look under rocks to find something lost. If you look for yourself that way, you may not like what you find. People don’t find themselves; they build themselves. A person is part of all that he has seen and heard and been and done, yes, and read. You don’t have to go to the Antarctic or a Quaker work camp to find yourself. Do the work that is put into your hands to do as enthusiastically, as imaginatively, as effectively as you can, and you will build not only yourself but also every institution and organization you touch. But be sure that you are building the kind of person, the kind of organization, the kind of world you want to build, because you can’t go back – ever.”

“I can’t even come back here. It just isn’t the same as it was.”

“No, it isn’t. It isn’t, because a school is a living creature. It grows and changes from year to year and even from day to day. Perhaps years ago the character of Captain Kenniston was the character of the school, but through the years the school has absorbed into its life the characters, not only of successive Headmasters, but of every man and boy – yes, and girl and woman – who has touched it. You had your share in it.” “’What did I ever do?”

“The way you held that losing football team together last fall made a tremendous difference to the morale of the school. It is part of the reason the boys came from behind in the second period today. Your final success in math, the editorial you wrote about co-education, somewhat to the distress of some of the trustees, they all had an effect.”

“But those things will soon be forgotten.”

“Yes, they will. That is, they will soon cease to be identifiable as your achievements and will be absorbed into the pattern and fabric of the school, losing their identity like yesterday’s dinner, but they will always be there. The school will be what it is partly because you were here. And you can never get away from it, because you have left part of yourself here.

“In a living school, this process goes on inexorably. You can’t expect to come back today and find it as it was on June 3, preserved forever in a block of clear plastic. You and your classmates have left. We 122

have about 60 new boys and three new teachers. They have already begun to affect us. Everyone who returned from last year is a year older and has changed and grown. It will never be the same as it was last spring or as it is today. The important thing is that we must be sure that it grows, as we want it to grow, for we can never go back – ever.

“One of those cryptic oriental sages whom scholars love to quote once said, ‘No man can step in the same river twice.’

He meant, you see, that men are always growing and the river always flowing.”

The leaders of the-cross country race broke out of the distant woods beyond the baseball field, pushing for the finish. The Head stood up, and they walked that way, unhurried. Joe felt stronger, more confident, as if he had always known what he had just learned.

He turned to the Headmaster, shook his hand, and said conventional words with more than superficial meaning.

“Thank you, sir. It has meant a lot to see you.”

“Press on, Joe, and come again often. I am going over to see if I can whoop these runners of ours on to a victory. They need one.”

Joe headed for the early bus.

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Chapter 27 — From the Headmaster’s Office

KENNEBEC ACADEMY Founded 1885

Scientia Vires Inducit

Dear Friends,

April 30, 1993

Well, there you have it. The theme is developed and is baldly stated in the last chapter. Yet I find the book a little disappointing. It shows the Academy through a glass darkly, as if one were seeing it through the flawed windowpane of an old house. Many of our excellences are missed: a dramatics program of semiprofessional quality, distinguished literary magazine, newspaper and yearbook, and a debating team with a statewide reputation. Our glee club is only mentioned. Our almost-championship basketball team and our track squad are passed over very lightly.

Many of our teachers are entirely missing from this book and gross injustice is done to others: Coach Johnson, in spite of his leonine pose, is an understanding and sensitive teacher both in the classroom and on the diamond. Mr. Coburn and Mr. Rossignol are thorough professionals. Even Mr. Evanston has much to recommend him, and Mr. Hanshaw is my right hand man, without whom the Academy would quickly fall into chaos.

Mr. Ashcroft, Chairman of our Board of Trustees, has given the school uncounted hours and very generous financial support, yet he is shrugged off in this book.

I should also remind you that the author completely neglects most of the darker side of school life. Drinking, drugs, sexual aberrations, sickness, injury, vice and crime, and even tragic death exist in a school community just as they exist in other communities. Of course it would be impossible to chronicle every event in a school year, and I am sure that the author has made his selections with conscious purpose.

Therefore, even with its omissions and imperfections I commend it to your careful consideration, for there is much here to recommend a thoughtful reading.

Sincerely,

Benjamin A. Sawyer, Headmaster

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