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?” 68
