CHAPTER II – THE GIRL IN THE WHITE MIDDY

When Doctor John Hyde Hillman started a modest school for boys, on the bank of the Hudson River, at Orstead, the town barely crept to the one brick building that contained dormitory and recitation-rooms. But that was nearly twenty years ago, and to-day the place is no longer isolated, but stands well inside the residence section of the village. There are four buildings, occupying most of an unusually large block. School Hall, four stories in height, is a red-brick, slate-roofed edifice, whose unloveliness has been mercifully hidden by ivy. It faces Summit Street and contains the class-rooms, the offices, and, at one end, the principal’s quarters. Flanking it are the two dormitories, East Hall and West Hall. These, while of brick too, are modern and far more attractive. Each contains sleeping-rooms to accommodate forty students, two masters’ studies, a recreation-hall, dining-room, kitchen, and service-rooms. Behind East Hall is the gymnasium, a picturesque structure of random-set stone, gray stucco, and much glass. Here, besides the gymnasium proper, is an auditorium of good size, a modest swimming-tank, locker-room and baths, and a commodious office presided over by Mr. Wells, the physical director. From the gymnasium steps one looks across an attractive, well-kept quadrangle of shaded turf, vegetable and flower gardens, and tennis-courts.

Doctor Hillman occupies an apartment at the west end of the School Hall, gained from the building by way of the school offices, and from without by way of a wide porch, vine screened in summer and glassed in winter, an outdoor living-room where, on seasonable Friday afternoons, the doctor’s maiden sister, Miss Tabitha, who keeps house for him, serves weak tea and layer-cake to all comers. Miss Tabitha, I regret to say, is known among the boys as “Tabby,” with, however, no more intention of disrespect than in alluding to the doctor as “Johnny.” Miss Tabitha’s thin body holds a warm heart, and her somewhat stern countenance belies her kindly ways.

On this fifteenth day of September, shortly after twelve o’clock, Miss Tabitha was seated on the vine-shaded porch in an erect and uncompromising attitude, her knitting-needles clicking busily. Near by, but a few moments before released from the office, the doctor was stretched in a long wicker chair, a morning paper before him. At the other end of the porch, a gate-legged table was spread for the mid-day meal, and a middle-aged colored woman – who, when it pleased her, answered to the name of Aunt Persis – shuffled in and out of sight at intervals. It was Miss Tabitha who, hearing the sound of steps on the walk, peered over her glasses and broke the silence.

“Two more of the boys are coming, John,” she announced.

The doctor grunted.

“I think they are new boys. Yes, I am sure they are. And bless my soul, John, they’re alike as two peas!”

“Alike?” The doctor rustled the paper to indicate interest. “Well, why shouldn’t they be? Probably they’re brothers. Let me see, weren’t those two boys from California brothers? Of course. Turner’s the name.”

“Well, I never saw two boys so much alike in all my born days,” Miss Tabitha marveled. “Do you suppose they can be twins, John?”

“It’s quite within the realm of probability,” was the reply. “I believe that twins do occur occasionally, even in the – er – best-regulated families.”

“Well, they certainly are twins!” Miss Tabitha laid down her work, brushed the front of her immaculate dress, and prepared to rise. “I suppose I had better go and meet them,” she added.

“I don’t see the necessity for it, my dear,” the doctor protested. “Cummins may, I think, be relied on to deal even with – er – twins.”

“Of course; but – still – California’s such a long way – and they may feel strange – or lonesome – ”

The doctor laughed gently. “Then by all means go, my dear. If you like, have them out here for a few minutes. If the resemblance between them is as striking as you seem to think, they must be worth seeing.”

When Miss Tabitha had tripped into the house, the doctor dropped his paper, stretched luxuriously, and, with a sigh of protest, sat up. He was several years younger than his sister – which is to say, in the neighborhood of forty-seven. He was a smallish man, compactly built, with a pleasant countenance on which a carefully-trimmed Vandyke beard made up to an extent for the lack of hair above. He wore shell-rimmed glasses and was very near-sighted, a fact emphasized by his manner of thrusting his head forward to eke out the deficiencies of his lenses. This trick was apparent a minute later when, following in the tripping footsteps of Miss Tabitha, the two boys emerged on the porch. They were amazingly alike, the doctor decided: same height, same breadth at hip and shoulder, same coloring, same leisurely, yet confident, ease of movement, same expression of lively curiosity twinkling through an almost depressingly respectful solemnity.

“These are the Turner boys,” announced Miss Tabitha. “This is Edward and this is – ” She halted to look doubtfully from one to the other. “Or – or perhaps this is Edward and – Dear me!”

“I’m Edward, ma’am,” said the boy in blue.

“Well, I don’t see how you can ever be certain of it!” sighed Miss Tabitha, doubtfully. “This is Doctor Hillman.”

They shook hands, and in a moment the boys found themselves seated side by side and replying to the doctor’s questions.

“You are entering with certificates from your high school principal, I believe, young gentlemen. What year were you?”

“Second, sir,” answered Ned.

“And your home is in – ”

“Santa Lucia, sir,” replied Laurie.

“California,” added Ned.

“Well, you’re quite a ways from home. Did you make the trip alone?”

“Yes, sir. Dad was coming with us as far as Chicago, but something happened so he couldn’t. We didn’t have any trouble, though.”

“Really? Well, I believe you have the distinction of residing farther away than any of your fellows here. I don’t recall any one who lives as far away as California; do you, sister?”

Miss Tabitha looked doubtful and hesitated an instant before she replied, “George Watson comes from Wyoming, I think, John.”

“So he does,” assented the doctor, gravely; “but measured in a straight line, my dear, California is slightly farther than Wyoming.”

“Is it?” asked Miss Tabitha, untroubled. “I never could remember where those western States are.”

“You remember many more important things, however. My sister, boys, fancied that she detected a certain resemblance between you, and even surmised that you might be – er – twins. Doubtless she’s mistaken.”

“No, sir,” answered Ned, more than a trace of surprise in his voice. “I mean, we are twins, sir.”

“Why, now that’s interesting! Looking closer – ” the doctor leaned forward and craned his head – “I believe I detect a certain slight similarity myself!”

There was a perceptible twinkle behind the glasses and Laurie dared a laugh, in which the doctor and Ned joined, while Miss Tabitha murmured: “Well! I should think you might!”

“I hope you are both going to like the school,” continued the doctor. “Of course, you’ll find our ways a little different, but we’ll try to make you feel at home. You are the first representatives of your State who have attended our school, and I trust that both in conduct and industry you will bring honor to it. Mr. Cornish, your hall master, will advise you in all matters pertaining to your studies, Other questions may be taken to Mr. Cummins, the school secretary, whom you have doubtless already met. But I want you always to feel at perfect liberty to come to me at any time on any matter at all. And,” added the doctor, with a twinkle, “if we fail you, there is still my sister, who, I assure you, possesses more wisdom than all of us.”

Miss Tabitha acknowledged the compliment with a little wry smile, and Ned and Laurie arose.

“Yes, sir,” said the former.

“Thank you, sir,” said Laurie.

“Luncheon is served at one in West Hall,” continued the doctor. “That’s the dormitory behind you there. Beginning with supper to-night, you will take your meals in your own hall, but only a few of the students have arrived as yet, and so only one dining-room is open. I’m very glad to have met you, young gentlemen. Mr. Cummins will direct you to your room. Good morning.”

Five minutes later, the Turner twins set their suitcases down on the floor of Number 16 East Hall and looked about them. Number 16 was not palatial as to size, but it was big enough to hold comfortably the two single beds, the study-table, the two narrow chiffoniers, and the four chairs that made up its furnishing. There was a generous-sized closet at each side of the door, and two windows set close together between the beds. Under the windows was a wide seat, lacking only pillows to make it inviting. From the casements the boys looked over or through the topmost branches of the maples that lined Washington Street and followed Summit Street as it continued its ascent of the hill and presently leveled out between a thick wood on one side and an open field on the other.

“That must be the athletic field,” said Laurie. “See the stand there? And the goal-posts? How do you like it?”

“The field? Looks all right from here.”

“I mean the whole outfit, you simp; the school and Doctor Hillman and Miss Frosty-Face and everything.”

“Cut out calling names, Laurie. Miss Hillman’s all right. So’s the doctor. So’s the school. I like it. Wonder when our trunks will get here.”

“Half an hour ago you had a hunch you weren’t going to like it,” jeered Laurie. “Changed your mind, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m going to change more than my mind.” Whereupon Ned opened his bag and selected a clean shirt. “What time is it?”

“What do you wear a watch for if you never look at it?” grumbled his brother. “It’s ten to one, Lazy. I’m going to find a place to wash up. I choose this side of the room, Ned.”

Ned studied the room a moment. “No, you don’t,” he challenged. “I’ll take this side. I’m the oldest.” “There isn’t any difference, you chump. One side’s as good as the other.”

“Then you won’t mind taking the other,” answered Ned, sweetly. “Run along and find the lavatory. I think it’s at the head of the stairs. Wonder why they put us up two flights.”

“Guess they knew you were naturally lazy and needed the exercise.”

Laurie dodged a pair of traveling slippers in a red-leather case and disappeared into the corridor.

Some ten minutes later they descended the stairway together and set out for West Hall. Laurie drew attention to the gymnasium building, but Ned, who had recovered his appetite, only deigned it a glance. Two boys, luggage laden, evidently just arrived, came down the steps of School Hall as the twins passed, and stared curiously.

“Guess they’ve never seen twins before in this part of the world,” grumbled Laurie. “Those chaps nearly popped their eyes out!”

West Hall proved an exact duplicate of their own dormitory, and the dining-room occupied all the right end of it. There were about fifteen boys there, in age varying from fourteen to eighteen, and there was a perceptible pause in the business of eating when the newcomers entered. A waitress conducted them to seats at a table already occupied by three other lads, and asked if they’d have milk or iced tea. Ned, as usual, answered for both.

“Iced tea, please, and lots of lemon.”

A very stout boy, sitting across the table, sniggered, and then, encountering Ned’s inquiring regard, said, “Guess you think you’re in the Waldorf!”

“What’s the Waldorf?” asked Ned. “Don’t you get lemon with iced tea here?”

“Sure! but you don’t get much. Say, are you fellows – twins, or what?”

“Twins?” repeated Laurie. “Where do you get that stuff? This fellow’s name is Anderson and mine’s Stenman. What’s yours?”

“Crow. Honest, is that a fact?” Crow looked appealingly at the other occupants of the table. These, however, two rather embarrassed-looking youngsters of fourteen or thereabouts, fixed their eyes on their plates, and Crow turned his regard incredulously back to the twins. “Gee, you fellows look enough alike to be – be – ” He swallowed the word. “Aren’t you even related?”

Ned gazed speculatively at Laurie and Laurie gazed speculatively at Ned. “We might be,” hazarded the latter.

Laurie nodded. “If we went back far enough, we might find a common ancestor.”

The arrival of luncheon caused a diversion, although Crow, who was a round-faced, credulous-looking youth of perhaps seventeen, continued to regard them surreptitiously and in puzzlement. At last, making the passing of the salt an excuse, for further conversation, he asked, “Where do you fellows come from?”

“California,” said Ned.

“Santa Lucia,” said Laurie.

“Well, but,” sputtered Crow, “isn’t California in Santa – I mean, isn’t Santa – Say, you guys are joking, I’ll bet!”

“Methinks,” observed Ned, helping himself gravely to mustard, “his words sound coarse and vulgar.”

Laurie abstractedly added a fourth teaspoon of sugar to his iced tea. “Like Turk or Kurd or even Bulgar,” he murmured.

Crow stared, grunted, and pushed his chair back. “You fellows think you’re smart, don’t you?” he sputtered. “Bet you you are twins – both of you!”

Ned and Laurie looked after him in mild and patient surprise until his broad back had disappeared from view. Then a choking sound came from one of the younger lads, and Ned asked gently, “Now what’s your trouble, son?”

The boy grew very red of face and gave way to giggles. “I knew all the time you were twins,” he gasped.

“Did you really?” exclaimed Laurie. “Well, listen. Just as a favor to us, don’t say anything about it, eh? You see, we’re sort of – sort of – ”

“Sort of sensitive,” aided Ned. “We’d rather it wasn’t generally known. You understand, don’t you?”

The boy looked as if he was very far indeed from understanding, but he nodded, choked again, and muttered something that seemed to indicate that the secret was safe with him. Laurie thanked him gratefully.

After luncheon they went sight-seeing about the school, snooped through the dim corridors and empty class-rooms of School Hall, viewed the gymnasium and experimented with numerous apparatus, and finally, after browsing through a flower and vegetable garden behind the recitation building and watching two boys make a pretense of playing tennis, returned to Number 16 in the hope of finding their trunks. But the baggage had not arrived, and presently, since the room was none too cool, they descended again and followed the curving drive to the right and past a sign that said “Exit Only” and wandered west on Summit Street.

For the middle of September in the latitude of southern New York the weather was decidedly warm, and neither grass nor trees hinted that autumn had arrived. In the well-kept gardens across the way, scarlet sage and cosmos, asters and dahlias made riots of color.

“Hot!” grunted Ned, running a finger around the inside of his collar.

“Beastly,” agreed Laurie, removing his cap and fanning his heated face. “Wonder where the river is. If we had our bathing-suits, maybe we could go for a swim.”

“Yes, and if we had a cake of ice we could sit on it!” responded Ned, sarcastically. “This place is hotter than Santa Lucia.”

At the next corner they turned again to the right. Morton Street, like so many of the streets in Orstead, refused to go straight, and after a few minutes, to their mild bewilderment, they found themselves on Walnut Street once more, a block below the school.

“I’m not going back yet,” said Laurie, firmly. “Let’s find a place where we can get something cool to drink.”

As Walnut Street was unpromising, they crossed it and meandered along Garden Street. The houses here appeared to be less prosperous, and the front yards were less likely to hold lawn and flowers than dilapidated baby-carriages. At the first crossing they peered right and left, and were rewarded by the sight of a swinging sign at a little distance.

What the sign said was as yet a mystery, for the trees intervened, but Laurie declared that he believed in signs and they made their way toward it. It finally proved to be a very cheerful little sign hung above a little white door in a little pale-blue two-story house, the lower floor of which was plainly devoted to commercial purposes.

L. S. DEANE

BOOKS, TOYS, AND

CONFECTIONERY

CIRCULATING LIBRARY

LAUNDRY AGENCY

TONICS

That is what the sign said in red letters on a white background. The windows, many paned, allowed uncertain glimpses of various articles: tops of red and blue and green, boxes of pencils, pads of paper, jars of candy, many bottles of ink, a catcher’s glove, a dozen tennis-balls, some paper kites —

Laurie dragged Ned inside, through a screen door that, on opening, caused a bell to tinkle somewhere in the farther recesses of the little building. It was dark inside, after the glare of the street, and refreshingly cool. Laurie, leading the way, collided with a bench, caromed off the end of a counter, and became aware of a figure, dimly seen, beyond the width of a show-case.

“Have you anything cold to drink?” asked Ned, leaning across the show-case.

“Ginger-ale or tonic or something?” Laurie elaborated.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the apparition, in a strangely familiar voice. “If you will step over to the other side, please – ”

Ned and Laurie leaned farther across the show-case.

It was the girl in the white middy dress.