Chapter 2 — New Boy

Gus 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.

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.