The Story of Sugar | Page 3

New Hampshire house for Easter. They're going up
for my spring vacation and take in the sugaring off. What a lark! And

listen to this. She writes: 'You'd better arrange to bring your roommate
home with you for the holiday unless he has other plans.'"
"Oh, I say!"
"Could you go, Van?"
Bob eyed his chum eagerly.
"I don't see why I couldn't. I'm not going home to Colorado. It's too far.
I was thinking of going to Boston with Ted Talbot, but I'd a good sight
rather go batting with you, Bobbie, old man. It was fine of your mother
to ask me. Where is the place?"
"Our farm? It's in Allenville, New Hampshire, near Mount Monadnock.
It used to be my grandfather's home, and after he died and we all
moved to New York Father fixed it over and kept it so we could go
there summers. I've never been up in the spring, though. It will be no
end of fun."
"I hope you do not call this weather spring," put in Van, sarcastically,
pointing to the snow-buried hills outside.
"Well, it is the middle of March, and it ought to be spring, if it isn't,"
answered Bob. "Just think! Only a week more of cramming; then the
exams, and we're off. I'm awfully glad you can go."
"You speak pretty cheerfully of the exams. I don't suppose you dread
them much." Van lapsed into a moody silence, kicking the crumpled
wrapping-paper into the fireplace. "You don't need to worry, Bob. But
look at me. I'll be lucky if I squeak through at all. Of course I've never
really flunked, but I've been so on the ragged edge of going under so
many times that it's no fun."
"Cheer up! You'll get through. Why, man alive, you've got to. Now
come on and get at this Latin and afterward we'll pitch into the
plum-cake."

"What do you say we pitch into the cake first?"
"No, sir. Not a bite of cake will you get until you have done your
Caesar. Come on, Van, like a good kid, and have it over; then we'll eat
and talk about Allenville."
Once more Bob opened the book.
"Here we are! You've got to do it, Van, and to-morrow you'll be glad
that you did. Stop fooling with that paper and bring your chair round
this side of the desk. Begin here: _Cum Caesar esset_--"
Persistently Bob followed each line of the lesson down the page,
translating and explaining as he went, and ungraciously Van Blake
listened.
The little brass clock on the mantelpiece ticked noisily, and the late
afternoon sun that streamed in through the windows lighted into scarlet
the crimson wall-paper and threw into prominence the posters tacked
upon it. It was a cozy room with its deep rattan chairs and
pillow-strewn couch. Snow-shoes, fencing foils, boxing-gloves, and
tennis racquets littered the corners, and on every side a general air of
boyish untidiness prevailed.
Although the apartment was not, perhaps, as luxurious as a college
room, it was nevertheless entirely comfortable, for the Colversham
School boasted among its members not only boys of moderate means
but the sons of some of the richest families in the country. It aimed to
be a democratic institution, and in so far as this was possible it was; the
school, however, was richly endowed and therefore its every
appointment from its perfectly rolled tennis courts to its instructors and
the Gothic architecture of its buildings was of the best.
Van Cortlandt Blake, whose father was a western manufacturer, had by
pure chance stumbled upon Bob Carlton the day the two had alighted
from the train and stood helpless among the new boys on the station
platform, awaiting the motor-car which was to meet them and carry
them up to the school. Before the five mile ride was finished and the

automobile had turned into the avenue of Colversham the boys had
agreed to room together. Bob came from New York City. He was
younger than Van, slender, dark, and very much in earnest; he might
even have passed for a grind had it not been for his sense of humor and
his love for skating and tennis. As it was he proved to be a master at
hockey, as the school team soon discovered, and before he had been a
week at Colversham his classmates also found that he was most loyal in
his friendships and a lad of unusual generosity.
Van Blake was of an entirely different type. Big, husky,
happy-go-lucky--a poor student but a right jolly companion; a fellow
who could pitch into any kind of sport and play an uncommonly good
game at almost anything. More than that, he could rattle off ragtime
untiringly and his nimble fingers could catch up on the