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Read Ebook: Kingsford Quarter by Barbour Ralph Henry Relyea C M Charles M Illustrator
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Ebook has 1597 lines and 56655 words, and 32 pages
"Yes; I was looking for my room when that chap--"
"Frank Hopkins."
"When he got mad because I scowled at him. We tussled, and I fell through the door."
"That was partly my fault. I'm sorry. You see, I'd been fixing the latch so I could open it from bed, and I hadn't quite finished when you bumped against the door. What's your name?"
"Kingsford."
"Mine's Langton; first name Robert; commonly called Rob; sometimes Lanky. Glad to meet you. Nice of you to drop in so casually."
Evan laughed.
"That's better. Wait a minute." Rob got up and went to the wash-stand and dipped a towel in the pitcher. "Put that around your head," he directed. "It's good for aches. Too wet, is it? Let me have it." He wrung some of the water out on the carpet and handed it back. "There you are. What room have they put you into?"
"Thirty-six."
"No good," said Rob, with a shake of his head. "You'll freeze to death there. The Gobbler had it two years ago, and he did something to the steam-pipes so that the heat doesn't get around any more. He vows he didn't, but I know the Gobbler."
"Can't it be fixed?"
"It never has been. They've tried dozens of times. I have an idea what the trouble is, and I told Mac--he's house faculty here--that I could fix it if he'd let me. But he never would."
"Well, I suppose I'll have to live there just the same," said Evan, with a smile.
"Oh, I don't know. Where do you come from, Kingsford?"
"Elmira, New York."
"Really? My home's in Albany. We're natives of the same old State, aren't we? I guess we'll get on all right. What class are you in?"
"Junior."
"But--this isn't 36, is it?" asked Evan.
"Not a bit of it. This is 32. I told you, didn't I, that 36 was no good?"
"But they've put me there! Won't I have to go?"
"Of course not. I'll settle it with the Doctor. You're inclined to colds, you know, and 36 wouldn't do for a minute. You leave it all to me. Any consumption in your family?"
"No. Why in the world do you ask that?"
"Well, if you had a consumptive uncle or cousin or something, it would help. I'd tell the Doctor that your lungs were weak and that your Uncle Tom had consumption. But never mind. I'll fix it."
"But--but do you really want me here?"
"Of course I do! Didn't I just say that I was down in the mouth because I didn't have a room-mate? Besides, I like your looks. And we're both New Yorkers, and we're both juniors. That ought to settle it, I should say."
"Well, it's awfully good of you," said Evan, gratefully, "and I'll be glad to room with you if they'll let me. Only--"
"Only nothing!" said the other, decisively. "Fate threw you in here, and here you stay!"
THE BOY IN 32
Rob Langton was sixteen years of age, tall, a trifle weedy, like a boy who has grown too fast. He always seemed to be in difficulties with his arms and legs. Even his hair, which was dark and long, looked as though in a constant state of mutiny. There was one obstreperous lock which stood straight into the air on the top of his head, and several thick ones which were forever falling over his eyes and having to be brushed impatiently back. Comb and brush and water had little effect on Rob's hair.
His face was thin, with a broad, good-humored mouth, a firm chin, a straight nose, and two very kindly brown eyes. Evan liked him from the very first moment of their meeting. And doubtless Evan's sentiment was returned, otherwise Rob Langton would never have adopted him on such slight acquaintance, for Rob, while generally liked throughout Riverport School, had few close friends and was considered hard to know.
The two boys examined each other quite frankly while they talked, just as boys do. What Rob saw was a well-built, athletic-looking youngster, fairly tall, with a good breadth of shoulder, alert and capable. There was a pair of steady blue eyes, a good nose, a chin that, in spite of having a dimple in the middle of it, looked determined, and a well-formed mouth which, like Rob Langton's, hinted of good humor. Evan's hair, however, wasn't in the least like that of the older boy. In the first place, it was several shades lighter, and, in the second place, it was very well-behaved hair and stayed where it was put. Even the folded towel which he wore around his forehead hadn't rumpled it.
"I ought to be in the middle class," Rob was explaining cheerfully. "When I came last year I expected to go into the junior, but Latin and Greek had me floored, and so, rather than make any unnecessary trouble for the faculty, I dropped into the preparatory. The fact is, Kingsford, I hate those old dead languages. Mathematics and I get on all right, and I don't mind English, but Greek--well, I'd like to punch Xenophon's head! Dad has it all cut out that I'm to be a lawyer; he's one himself, and a good one; but if I can get my way I'm going to Cornell and go in for engineering. They call it structural engineering nowadays. That's what I want to do, and there's going to be a heap of trouble in our cozy little home if I don't get my way. What are you going to be?"
"I don't know--yet. I haven't thought much about it. My father's a doctor, but I don't go in for that. I don't like sick folks; besides, there doesn't seem to be much money in doctoring."
"Well, some of them seem to do pretty well," replied Rob, thoughtfully. "You might be a specialist and charge big fees. When Dad was ill two years ago we had a fellow up from New York in consultation. He and our doctor got together in the library for about ten minutes, and then he ate a big lunch and went home again. And it cost Dad five hundred dollars."
"That sounds all right," laughed Evan, "but I guess he had to do a lot of hard work before he ever got where he could charge five hundred dollars."
"I suppose so. Do you ever invent?"
"Invent? What do you mean?"
"Invent things, like--like this." Rob began a search through his pockets and finally pulled out a piece of brass, queerly shaped and notched, some three inches long.
"What is it?" asked Evan, as he took it and examined it curiously.
"Just a--a combined tool, as you might say. I call it 'Langton's Pocket Friend.' Here's a screw-driver; see? And these notches are for breaking glass after it's cut. Up here there's a little steel wheel for cutting it, only I haven't put that in. This is just a model, you know; I filed it out coming down on the train this morning. Then this slot is for sharpening pencils. There's a nail-file here, you see, only it isn't filed, of course, because this is just brass. The spur is for cutting wire, or you can open a can with it if the tin isn't very thick. Then this end here is to open envelops or cut pages with. There are two or three other things I've thought of since that I can work in. Of course, if I ever made them, they'd be of steel."
"That's fine," said Evan. "Did you think of it yourself?"
"Yes. I'm always tinkering with some silly thing. That's the reason I don't cut more of a figure with studies, I guess. Dad has patented two or three things for me, but I've never been able to sell the patents."
"What are they?" asked Evan, interestedly.
"One's a snow shovel made of wire netting like an ash sifter. It only weighs twelve ounces and works finely. But no one would buy it. Another's a top with a slot just above the peg so you can put in a cap. Then when you throw it on the ground the peg comes up against the cap and explodes it."
"I should think that would be a dandy idea."
"Well, one man I tried to sell it to said if I could induce boys to spin tops around the Fourth of July he would buy my patent. You see, folks are so fussy now that you can't buy paper caps except around the Fourth."
"I see. And what was the other thing?"
"That's the best of the lot," said Rob, thrusting his hands into his pockets and sprawling his legs across the floor. "I've still got hopes of that. It's a patent match safe to carry in your pocket. It looks just like any other match safe, but when you want a match you don't have to open it. You just push a little button, and a match pops out. Maybe I'll sell that yet. It's a mighty good idea, and there ought to be money in it."
"I should think you'd want to be an inventor instead of an engineer."
"There isn't much money in inventions, except for the patent lawyer; at least, that's what Dad says. Besides, engineering is a good deal like inventing. You have problems to solve, and there's always the chance of discovering a better way to do a thing. Dad says I've got a good deal of ingenuity, but that if I don't look out I'll never be anything but a potterer."
"A potterer? That's a funny name for you."
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