The Chums of Scranton High

"The best day so far this spring, fellows!"

"It feels mighty much like baseball weather, for a fact, Otto!"

"True for you, K. K., though there's still just a little tang to this April air."

"What of that, Eli? The big leagues have opened shop all over the land, and the city papers are already full of baseball scores, and diamond lore. We ought to be getting busy ourselves in little old Scranton."

"Allandale High is practicing. Sandy Dowd and I saw a bunch of the boys out on their field after school yesterday, didn't we, Sandy?"

"That's right, we did. And I understand Belleville expects to put an extra hard-hitting nine in the game this season. They're still sore over the terrible drubbing Allandale gave them last summer."

"Since Scranton has now become a member of the Three-Town League, taking the place of Lawrence when that nine dropped out, seems to me we ought to lose no time if we expect to commence practicing. That same Allandale team swept the circuit, you remember, like a hurricane."

"We've plenty of good material, fellows, believe me, right here in Scranton High. And somehow I've got a hunch that we're going to make even mighty Allandale take a tumble before the season gets old."

"Don't boast too soon, Eli Griffin. That's a wee Yankee trick you must have inherited from your forebears."

"Easy for you to say that, Andy McGuffey. Why, you're a regular old pessimist, like all your canny Scotch ancestors were. You love to look at the world through smoked glasses. On my part, I prefer to use rose-colored ones, and expect the best sort of things to happen, even if I do get fooled lots of times."

A number of well-grown lads were perched in all sorts of grotesque attitudes along the top rail of the campus fence. That same fence of Scranton High was almost as famous, in its modest way, as the one at Yale known throughout the length and breadth of the whole land.

It had stood there, repaired at stated and frequent intervals, for at least two score of years. Hundreds upon hundreds of Scranton lads, long since grown to manhood, and many of them gone forth to take their appointed places in the busy marts of the world, kept a warm corner in their hearts for sacred memories of that dear old fence. Many a glorious campaign of sport or mischief had been talked over by a line of students perched along the flat rail at the summit of that same fence. More than one contemplated school mutiny had been hatched in excited whispers amidst those never-to-be-forgotten historic surroundings.

Why, when a few years back the unthinking and officious School Directors voted to have that fence demolished, simply because it seemed to be out of keeping with the grand new building that had been erected, a storm of angry protest arose from students and parents; while letters arrived from a score and more of eminent men who were proud to call Scranton their birthplace. So overwhelming was the flood, that a hurry call for an extra meeting of the Board went out, at which their former ill-advised decision was rescinded.

And so there that fence remained, beloved of every boy in Scranton, the younger fry only longing for the day to come when passing for the high school they, too, might have the proud privilege of "roosting" on its well-worn rails. Possibly it will still be in existence when some of their sons also reach the dignity of wearing the freshman class colors, and of battling on gridiron and diamond for the honor of Old Scranton.

As to the identity of the boys in question, from whom those remarks proceeded, they might just as well be briefly introduced here as later, as all of them are destined to take part in the lively doings that will be recorded in this and in other volumes of this series.

Otto was Otto Brand; Eli Griffin came of New England parentage, and had some of the traits that distinguish Yankees the world over, though a pretty fine fellow, all told; Andy McGuffey, as his name would indicate, could look back to a Scotch ancestry, and occasionally a touch of the brogue might be detected in his speech; Sandy Dowd had red hair, blue eyes and a host of very noticeable freckles; but could be good-natured in spite of any drawbacks; while the lad called "K. K." was in reality Kenneth Kinkaid; but since boys generally have little use for a name that makes a mouthful, he was known far and wide under that singularly abbreviated cognomen.

The Committee on Sports connected with Scranton High was a body of seniors appointed by the students themselves, and given authority to handle all questions connected with athletics. As a rule, they carried out their duties in a broad-minded fashion, and not only merited the confidence of the entire school but also the respect of the faculty as well.

There was considerable anxiety abroad just at present, because it was well known that the committee had been discussing the possible make-up of the baseball team to which would be given the proud privilege of representing the school that season in the Three-Town League. No one knew absolutely just who would be selected among the numerous candidates, though, of course, it was only natural that many entertained wild hopes, which were only doomed to disappointment.

Two more boys came sauntering along, and found places on the "roost." One of these was a burly fellow with a pugnacious face and a bold eye. He seemed to be no favorite among the boys, though they treated him with a certain amount of respect. Well, there is never a town or a village but has its particular bully; and for several years now Nick Lang had ably filled that role in Scranton.

He was a born "scrapper," and never so happy as when annoying others. A fight appeared to be the acme of pleasure with him, and it was seldom that he could be seen without some trace of a mix-up on his face in the shape of scratches, or a suspicious hue about one of his eyes.

The other boy was Leon Disney, the "under-study" of Nick. While just as tough as the other, Leon never displayed the same amount of boldness. He would rather attain his revenge through some petty means, being a born sneak. The boys only tolerated Leon because Nick chose to stand up for him; and every one disliked to anger the Lang fellow, on account of his way of making things unpleasant for others.

The general talk continued, with Nick taking part in it, for he at least was known to be a smart hand at athletics, and had often led in such things as hammer-throwing and wrestling.

During the course of the conversation, which had become general, Eli chanced to mention the name of Owen Dugdale.

"Why, they say that even he aspires to get a place on the substitute list, just to think of his nerve. Perhaps a few other fellows might feel they'd been slighted if the committee turned them down for Owen Dugdale."

"Hold up there a bit, Eli," said K. K., reprovingly. "If I were you I'd go a little slow about running a fellow down, just because he happens to be called Owen Dugdale, and live with a queer old gentleman he calls his grandfather, but who chooses to keep aloof from Scranton folks as if he were a hermit. I happen to know that two of our most respected chums, Hugh Morgan and Thad Stevens, seem to have taken a great liking for that dark-faced chap. I've seen Owen in their company considerably of late."

Eli gave a snort of disdain. He was one of those impulsive boys who often say disagreeable things on the spur of the moment, and then perhaps afterwards feel sorry for having done so. Evidently, he had taken a notion to dislike the said Owen, and did not care who knew it.

"That fellow had been a mystery ever since he and his ancient granddaddy came to Scranton, and started to live in that old house called The Rookery, and which used to be thought a haunted place. I've always had a hunch they must be some relation to the notorious Luther Dugdale who has had a bad reputation as a dishonest operator down in the Wall Street district in New York. Why, lately I even asked my cousin in a letter about that man, and he wrote me the old chap had strangely disappeared some years ago, carrying off a big bunch of boodle dishonestly gained. Well, I'm not saying it's the same old rascal who's living in our midst right now, but, fellows, you can draw your own conclusions, for they came here just two years ago this summer!"

"Wow! that's something new you're telling us, Eli!"

"It takes you to pick up clues, and you'll miss your vocation if you don't look for a job with the Government Secret Service, believe me, Eli!"

"So Hugh Morgan has taken up with that gloomy looking chap Owen, has he?" remarked Nick Lang, with a suggestive wink at his crony, Leon. "Mebbe, now, I might badger him into having a friendly little bout with fists through that kid. As the rest of you happen to know I've tried about every other way to make the coward fight, and he only gives me one of his smiles, and says he's opposed to scrapping. That wise mother of his has tied little Hughy to her apron strings, seems like; but I'll get him yet, see if I don't."

The other fellows exchanged significant looks and nods. Hugh Morgan had apparently always been more or less of an enigma to them. They knew he was no coward, for only the last winter he had leaped boldly into the river at the risk of his own life, and saved little Tommy Crabbe just when the unfortunate child was about to be drawn by the fierce current under the ice. Still, no one had even known Hugh to be engaged in a fight. There was some deep object back of his reluctance so to demean himself, most of the fellows believed, and as he was so well liked, they respected his motives.

Just then keen-eyed Andy McGuffey was heard to cry out:

"Speak of an angel and you'll hear the rustle of his wings, and there comes our Hugh right now. See, he's waving his hand to us, and is hurrying along at almost a run. Say, it may be he's fetching some news from the committee, because he told me he had an idea they'd reach an understanding this afternoon. Yes, he's looking mighty wise, so I reckon we're going to hear something drop."