Left Tackle Thayer | Page 2

An hour had sufficed him to register and unpack his bag
and trunk in the room assigned to him in Torrence Hall. Since that
time--and it was now almost twelve o'clock--he had wandered about the
school. He had peeped into the other dormitories and the recitation
building, had explored the gymnasium from basement to trophy room
and, finally, had loitered across the athletic field to the grand-stand,

where, for the better part of an hour, he had been sitting in the sun,
getting lonelier every minute.
Clint--everyone had always called him Clint and we might as well fall
in line--had never been farther north than Baltimore; and today he felt
himself not only a long way from home but in a country somehow
strangely and uncomfortably alien. The few persons he had
encountered had been quite civil to him, to be sure; and the sunlight
was the same sunlight that shone down on Cedar Run, but for all of that
it seemed as if no one much cared where he was or what happened to
him, and the air felt differently and the country looked different,
and--and, well, he rather wished himself back in Virginia!
He had never been enthusiastic about going North to school. It had
been his mother's idea. Mr. Thayer was willing that Clint should
prepare for college in his native state, but Clint's mother had other ideas.
Mr. Thayer had graduated from Princeton and it had long been settled
that Clint was to be educated there too; and Clint's mother insisted that
since he was to attend a Northern college it would be better for him to
go to a Northern preparatory school. Clint himself had not felt strongly
enough about it to object. Several of his chums had gone or were going
to Virginia Military College; and Clint would have liked to go there too,
although the military feature didn't especially appeal to him. Brimfield
Academy, at Brimfield, New York, had finally been selected,
principally because a cousin of Clint's on his father's side had once
attended the school. The fact that the cousin in question had never
amounted to much and was now clerking in a shoe store in Norfolk was
not held against the school.
So far the boy had liked what he had seen of Brimfield well enough.
The thirty-mile journey from New York on the train had been through
an attractive country, with now and then a fleeting glimpse of water to
add variety to the landscape; and the woods and fields around the
Academy were pretty. From where he sat at the east end of the athletic
field he could look along the backs of the buildings, which ran in a row
straight along the edge of a plateau. Nearest at hand was the
gymnasium. Then came Wendell and Torrence, the latter having the

honour of being Clint's abode for the ensuing nine months. Next was
Main Hall, containing recitation rooms, the assembly room, the library
and the office; an older building and built all of brick whereas the other
structures were uniformly of stone as to first story and brick above.
Beyond Main Hall were Hensey and Billings, both dormitories, and, at
the western end of the row and slightly out of line, The Cottage, where
dwelt the Principal, Mr. Fernald, of whom Clint knew little and, it must
be confessed, cared, at the present moment, still less. In front of the
buildings the ground fell away to the country road over which Clint had
that morning travelled behind a somnolent grey horse and a voluble
driver, to the last of which combination he owed most of his
information regarding the Academy.
Behind the buildings--in school parlance, the Row--lay the athletic field,
almost twelve acres in extent, bordered on the further side by a rising
slope of forest. Here there were football grid-irons--three of them, as
the six goals indicated--quarter-mile running-track, a baseball diamond
and a dozen tennis courts. The diamond was most in evidence, for the
grand-stand stood behind the plate and the base paths, bare of turf,
formed a square in front of it. Even the foul lines had not been utterly
obliterated by sun and rain, but were dimly discernible, where the
mower had passed, as yellower streaks against the vivid green. It was a
splendid field; Clint had to acknowledge that; and for a time the
thought of playing football on it had almost dispersed his gloom. But
the after-reflection that for all he knew his services might not be
required on the Eleven, that very possibly his brand of football was not
good enough for Brimfield, had caused a relapse into depression.
Thrice he had told himself that as soon as the plodding horse reached
the further turn he would get up and go back to