|
 |
American Literature
A College Santa
Clause
by Ralph Henry Barbour
A story of friendship and companionship extended during the holiday
season. Note well, that "Santa Clause" is a play on words rather than a
misspelling.
Satherwaite, '02, threw his overcoat across the broad mahogany table,
regardless of the silver and cut-glass furnishings, shook the melting
snowflakes from his cap and tossed it atop the coat, half kicked, half
shoved a big leathern armchair up to the wide fireplace, dropped
himself into it, and stared moodily at the flames.
Satherwaite was troubled. In fact, he assured himself, drawing his
handsome features into a generous scowl, that he was, on this Christmas
eve, the most depressed and bored person in the length and breadth of
New England. Satherwaite was not used to being depressed, and boredom
was a state usually far remote from his experience; consequently, he
took it worse. With something between a groan and a growl, he drew a
crumpled telegram from his pocket. The telegram was at the bottom of it
all. He read it again:
E. SATHERWAITE,
Randolph Hall, Cambridge.
Advise your not coming. Aunt Louise very ill.
Merry Christmas.
PHIL.
"' Merry Christmas!'" growled Satherwaite, throwing the offending sheet
of buff paper into the flames. "Looks like it, doesn't it? Confound
Phil's Aunt Louise, anyway! What business has she getting sick at
Christmas time? Not, of course, that I wish the old lady any harm, but
it--it--well, it's wretched luck."
When at college, Phil was the occupant of the bedroom that lay in
darkness beyond the half-opened door to the right. He lived, when at
home, in a big, rambling house in the Berkshires, a house from the
windows of which one could see into three states and overlook a
wonderful expanse of wooded hill and sloping meadow; a house which
held, besides Phil, and Phil's father and mother and Aunt Louise and a
younger brother, Phil's sister. Satherwaite growled again, more
savagely, at the thought of Phil's sister; not, be it understood, at
that extremely attractive young lady, but at the fate which was keeping
her from his sight.
Satherwaite had promised his roommate to spend Christmas with him,
thereby bringing upon himself pained remonstrances from his own family,
remonstrances which, Satherwaite acknowledged, were quite justifiable.
His bags stood beside the door. He had spent the early afternoon very
pleasurably in packing them, carefully weighing the respective merits
of a primrose waistcoat and a blue-flannel one, as weapons wherewith to
impress the heart of Phil's sister. And now--!
He kicked forth his feet, and brought brass tongs and shovel clattering
on the hearth. It relieved his exasperation.
The fatal telegram had reached him at five o'clock, as he was on the
point of donning his coat. From five to six, he had remained in a
torpor of disappointment, continually wondering whether Phil's sister
would care. At six, his own boarding house being closed for the recess,
he had trudged through the snow to a restaurant in the square, and had
dined miserably on lukewarm turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes. And now
it was nearly eight, and he did not even care to smoke. His one chance
of reaching his own home that night had passed, and there was nothing
for it but to get through the interminable evening somehow, and catch
an early train in the morning. The theaters in town offered no
attraction. As for his club, he had stopped in on his way from dinner,
and had fussed with an evening paper, until the untenanted expanse of
darkly furnished apartments and the unaccustomed stillness had driven
him forth again.
He drew his long legs under him, and arose, crossing the room and
drawing aside the deep-toned hangings before the window. It was still
snowing. Across the avenue, a flood of mellow light from a butcher's
shop was thrown out over the snowy sidewalk. Its windows were garlanded
with Christmas greens and hung with pathetic looking turkeys and geese.
Belated shoppers passed out, their arms piled high with bundles. A car
swept by, its drone muffled by the snow. The spirit of Christmas was in
the very air. Satherwaite's depression increased and, of a sudden,
inaction became intolerable. He would go and see somebody, anybody, and
make them talk to him; but, when he had his coat in his hands, he
realized that even this comfort was denied him. He had friends in town,
nice folk who would be glad to see him any other time, but into whose
family gatherings he could no more force himself to-night than he could
steal. As for the men he knew in college, they had all gone to their
homes or to those of somebody else.
Staring disconsolately about the study, it suddenly struck him that the
room looked disgustingly slovenly and unkempt. Phil was such an untidy
beggar! He would fix things up a bit. If he did it carefully and
methodically, no doubt he could consume a good hour and a half that
way. It would then be half past nine. Possibly, if he tried hard, he
could use up another hour bathing and getting ready for bed.
As a first step, he removed his coat from the table, and laid it
carefully across the foot of the leather couch. Then he placed his damp
cap on one end of the mantel. The next object to meet his gaze was a
well-worn notebook. It was not his own, and it did not look like
Phil's. The mystery was solved when he opened it and read, "H.G.
Doyle--College House," on the fly leaf. He remembered then. He had
borrowed it from Doyle almost a week before, at a lecture. He had
copied some of the notes, and had forgotten to return the book. It was
very careless of him; he would return it as soon as--Then he
recollected having seen Doyle at noon that day, coming from one of the
cheaper boarding houses. It was probable that Doyle was spending recess
at college. Just the thing--he would call on Doyle!
It was not until he was halfway downstairs that he remembered the book.
He went back for it, two steps at a time. Out in the street, with the
fluffy flakes against his face, he felt better. After all, there was no
use in getting grouchy over his disappointment; Phil would keep; and so
would Phil's sister, at least until Easter; or, better yet, he would
get Phil to take him home with him over Sunday some time. He was
passing the shops now, and stopped before a jeweler's window, his eye
caught by a rather jolly-looking paper knife in gun metal. He had made
his purchases for Christmas and had already dispatched them, but the
paper knife looked attractive and, if there was no one to give it to,
he could keep it himself. So he passed into the shop, and purchased it.
"Put it into a box, will you?" he requested. "I may want to send it
away."
Out on the avenue again, his thoughts reverted to his prospective host.
The visit had elements of humor. He had known Doyle at preparatory
school, and since then, at college, had maintained the acquaintance in
a casual way. He liked Doyle, always had, just as any man must like an
honest, earnest, gentlemanly fellow, whether their paths run parallel
or cross only at rare intervals. He and Doyle were not at all in the
same coterie, Satherwaite's friends were the richest, and sometimes the
laziest, men in college; Doyle's were--well, presumably men who, like
himself, had only enough money to scrape through from September to
June, who studied hard for degrees, whose viewpoint of university life
must, of necessity, be widely separated from Satherwaite's. As for
visiting Doyle, Satherwaite could not remember ever having been in his
room but once, and that was long ago, in their Freshman year.
Satherwaite had to climb two flights of steep and very narrow stairs,
and when he stood at Doyle's door, he thought he must have made a
mistake. From within came the sounds of very unstudious revelry,
laughter, a snatch of song, voices raised in good-natured argument.
Satherwaite referred again to the fly leaf of the notebook; there was
no error. He knocked and, in obedience to a cheery "Come in!" entered.
He found himself in a small study, shabbily furnished, but cheerful and
homelike by reason of the leaping flames in the grate and the blue haze
of tobacco smoke that almost hid its farther wall. About the room sat
six men, their pipes held questioningly away from their mouths and
their eyes fixed wonderingly, half resentfully, upon the intruder. But
what caught and held Satherwaite's gaze was a tiny Christmas tree,
scarcely three feet high, which adorned the center of the desk. Its
branches held toy candles, as yet unlighted, and were festooned with
strings of crimson cranberries and colored popcorn, while here and
there a small package dangled amidst the greenery.
"How are you, Satherwaite?"
Doyle, tall, lank and near-sighted, arose and moved forward, with
outstretched hand. He was plainly embarrassed, as was every other
occupant of the study, Satherwaite included. The laughter and talk had
subsided. Doyle's guests politely removed their gaze from the newcomer,
and returned their pipes to their lips. But the newcomer was intruding,
and knew it, and he was consequently embarrassed. Embarrassment, like
boredom, was a novel sensation to him, and he speedily decided that he
did not fancy it. He held out Doyle's book.
"I brought this back, old man. I don't know how I came to forget it.
I'm awfully sorry, you know; it was so very decent of you to lend it to
me. Awfully sorry, really."
Doyle murmured that it didn't matter, not a particle; and wouldn't
Satherwaite sit down?
No, Satherwaite couldn't stop. He heard the youth in the faded
cricket-blazer tell the man next to him, in a stage aside, that this
was "Satherwaite, '02, an awful swell, you know." Satherwaite again
declared that he could not remain.
Doyle said he was sorry; they were just having a little--a sort of a
Christmas-eve party, you know. He blushed while he explained, and
wondered whether Satherwaite thought them a lot of idiots, or simply a
parcel of sentimental kids. Probably Satherwaite knew some of the
fellows? he went on.
Satherwaite studied the assemblage, and replied that he thought not,
though he remembered having seen several of them at lectures and
things. Doyle made no move toward introducing his friends to
Satherwaite, and, to relieve the momentary silence that followed,
observed that he supposed it was getting colder. Satherwaite replied,
absently, that he hadn't noticed, but that it was still snowing. The
youth in the cricket-blazer fidgeted in his chair. Satherwaite was
thinking.
Of course, he was not wanted there; he realized that. Yet, he was of
half a mind to stay. The thought of his empty room dismayed him. The
cheer and comfort before him appealed to him forcibly. And, more than
all, he was possessed of a desire to vindicate himself to this circle
of narrow-minded critics. Great Scott! just because he had some money
and went with some other fellows who also had money, he was to be
promptly labeled "snob," and treated with polite tolerance only. By
Jove, he would stay, if only to punish them for their narrowness!
"You're sure I shan't be intruding, Doyle?" he asked.
Doyle gasped in amazement. Satherwaite removed his coat. A shiver of
consternation passed through the room. Then the host found his tongue.
"Glad to have you. Nothing much doing. Few friends, Quiet evening. Let
me take your coat."
Introductions followed. The man in the cricket-blazer turned out to be
Doak, '03, the man who had won the Jonas Greeve scholarship; a small
youth with eaglelike countenance was Somers, he who had debated so
brilliantly against Princeton; a much-bewhiskered man was Ailworth, of
the Law School; Kranch and Smith, both members of Satherwaite's class,
completed the party. Satherwaite shook hands with those within reach,
and looked for a chair. Instantly everyone was on his feet; there was a
confused chorus of "Take this, won't you?" Satherwaite accepted a
straight-backed chair with part of its cane seat missing, after a
decent amount of protest; then a heavy, discouraging silence fell.
Satherwaite looked around the circle. Everyone save Ailworth and Doyle
was staring blankly at the fire. Ailworth dropped his eyes gravely;
Doyle broke out explosively with:
"Do you smoke, Satherwaite?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid--" he searched his pockets perfunctorily--"I
haven't my pipe with me." His cigarette case met his searching fingers,
but somehow cigarettes did not seem appropriate.
"I'm sorry," said Doyle, "but I'm afraid I haven't an extra one. Any of
you fellows got a pipe that's not working?"
Murmured regrets followed. Doak, who sat next to Satherwaite, put a
hand in his coat pocket, and viewed the intruder doubtingly from around
the corners of his glasses.
"It doesn't matter a bit," remarked Satherwaite heartily.
"I've got a sort of a pipe here," said Doak, "if you're not
overparticular what you smoke."
Satherwaite received the pipe gravely. It was a blackened briar, whose
bowl was burned halfway down on one side, from being lighted over the
gas, and whose mouthpiece, gnawed away in long usage, had been reshaped
with a knife. Satherwaite examined it with interest, rubbing the bowl
gently on his knee. He knew, without seeing, that Doak was eying him
with mingled defiance and apology, and wondering in what manner a man
who was used to meerschaums and gold-mounted briars would take the
proffer of his worn-out favorite; and he knew, too, that all the others
were watching. He placed the stem between his lips, and drew on it once
or twice, with satisfaction.
"It seems a jolly old pipe," he said; "I fancy you must be rather fond
of it. Has anyone got any 'baccy?"
Five pouches were tendered instantly.
Satherwaite filled his pipe carefully. He had won the first trick, he
told himself, and the thought was pleasurable. The conversation had
started up again, but it was yet perfunctory, and Satherwaite realized
that he was still an outsider. Doyle gave him the opportunity he wanted.
"Isn't it something new for you to stay here through recess?" he asked.
Then Satherwaite told about Phil's Aunt Louise and the telegram; about
his dismal dinner at the restaurant and the subsequent flight from the
tomblike silence of the club; how he had decided, in desperation, to
clean up his study, and how he had come across Doyle's notebook. He
told it rather well; he had a reputation for that sort of thing, and
to-night he did his best. He pictured himself to his audience on the
verge of suicide from melancholia, and assured them that this fate had
been averted only through his dislike of being found lifeless amid such
untidy surroundings. He decked the narrative with touches of drollery,
and was rewarded with the grins that overspread the faces of his
hearers. Ailworth nodded appreciatingly, now and then, and Doak even
slapped his knee once and giggled aloud. Satherwaite left out all
mention of Phil's sister, naturally, and ended with:
"And so, when I saw you fellows having such a Christian, comfortable
sort of a time, I simply couldn't break away again. I knew I was
risking getting myself heartily disliked, and really I wouldn't blame
you if you arose en masse and kicked me out. But I am desperate. Give
me some tobacco from time to time, and just let me sit here and listen
to you; it will, be a kindly act to a homeless orphan."
"Shut up!" said Doyle heartily; "we're glad to have you, of course."
The others concurred. "We--we're going to light up the tree after a
bit. We do it every year, you know. It's kind of--of Christmassy when
you don't get home for the holidays, you see. We give one another
little presents and--and have rather a bit of fun out of it. Only--" he
hesitated doubtfully--"only I'm afraid it may bore you awfully."
"Bore me!" cried Satherwaite; "why, man alive, I should think it would
be the jolliest sort of a thing. It's just like being kids again." He
turned and observed the tiny tree with interest.
"And do you mean that you all give one another presents, and keep it
secret, and--and all that?"
"Yes; just little things, you know," answered Doak deprecatingly.
"It's the nearest thing to a real Christmas that I've known for seven
years," said Ailworth gravely. Satherwaite observed him wonderingly.
"By Jove!" he murmured; "seven years! Do you know, I'm glad now I am
going home, instead of to Sterner's for Christmas. A fellow ought to be
with his own folks, don't you think?"
Everybody said yes heartily and there was a moment of silence in the
room. Presently Kranch, whose home was in Michigan, began speaking
reminiscently of the Christmases he had spent when a lad in the pine
woods. He made the others feel the cold and the magnitude of the
pictures he drew, and, for a space, Satherwaite was transported to a
little lumber town in a clearing, and stood by excitedly, while a small
boy in jeans drew woolen mittens--wonderful ones of red and gray--from
out a Christmas stocking. And Somers told of a Christmas he had once
spent in a Quebec village; and Ailworth followed him with an account of
Christmas morning in a Maine-coast fishing town.
Satherwaite was silent. He had no Christmases of his own to tell about;
they would have been sorry, indeed, after the others; Christmases in a
big Philadelphia house, rather staid and stupid days, as he remembered
them now, days lacking in any delightful element of uncertainty, but
filled with wonderful presents so numerous that the novelty had worn
away from them ere bedtime. He felt that, somehow, he had been cheated
out of a pleasure which should have been his.
The tobacco pouches went from hand to hand. Christmas-giving had
already begun; and Satherwaite, to avoid disappointing his new friends,
had to smoke many more pipes than was good for him. Suddenly they found
themselves in darkness, save for the firelight. Doyle had arisen
stealthily and turned out the gas. Then, one by one, the tiny candles
flickered and flared bluely into flame. Some one pulled the shades from
before the two windows, and the room was hushed. Outside they could see
the flakes falling silently, steadily, between them and the electric
lights that shone across the avenue. It was a beautiful, cold, still
world of blue mists. A gong clanged softly, and a car, well-nigh
untenanted, slid by beneath them, its windows, frosted halfway up,
flooding the snow with mellow light. Some one beside Satherwaite
murmured gently:
"Good old Christmas!"
The spell was broken, Satherwaite sighed--why, he hardly knew--and
turned away from the window. The tree was brilliantly lighted now, and
the strings of cranberries caught the beams ruddily. Doak stirred the
fire, and Doyle, turning from a whispered consultation with some of the
others, approached Satherwaite.
"Would you mind playing Santa Claus--give out the presents, you know;
we always do it that way?"
Satherwaite would be delighted; and, better to impersonate that famous
old gentleman, he turned up the collar of his jacket, and put each hand
up the opposite sleeve, looking as benignant as possible the while.
"That's fine!" cried Smith; "but hold on, you need a cap!"
He seized one from the window seat, a worn thing of yellowish-brown
otter, and drew it down over Satherwaite's ears. The crowd applauded
merrily.
"Dear little boys and girls," began Satherwaite in a quavering voice.
"No girls!" cried Doak.
"I want the cranberries!" cried Smith; "I love cranberries."
"I get the popcorn, then!" That was the sedate Ailworth.
"You'll be beastly sick," said Doak, grinning jovially through his
glasses.
Satherwaite untied the first package from its twig. It bore the
inscription, "For Little Willie Kranch." Everyone gathered around while
the recipient undid the wrappings, and laid bare a penwiper adorned
with a tiny crimson football. Doak explained to Satherwaite that Kranch
had played football just once, on a scrub team, and had heroically
carried the ball down a long field, and placed it triumphantly under
his own goal posts. This accounted for the laughter that ensued.
"Sammy Doak" received a notebook marked "Mathematics 3a." The point of
this allusion was lost to Satherwaite, for Doak was too busy laughing
to explain it. And so it went, and the room was in a constant roar of
mirth. Doyle was conferring excitedly with Ailworth across the room. By
and by, he stole forward, and, detaching one of the packages from the
tree, erased and wrote on it with great secrecy. Then he tied it back
again, and retired to the hearth, grinning expectantly, until his own
name was called, and he was shoved forward to receive a rubber
pen-holder.
Presently, Satherwaite, working around the Christmas tree, detached a
package, and frowned over the address.
"Fellows, this looks like--like Satherwaite, but--" he viewed the
assemblage in embarrassment--"but I fancy it's a mistake."
"Not a bit," cried Doyle; "that's just my writing."
"Open it!" cried the others, thronging up to him.
Satherwaite obeyed, wondering. Within the wrappers was a pocket
memorandum book, a simple thing of cheap red leather. Some one laughed
uncertainly. Satherwaite, very red, ran his finger over the edges of
the leaves, examined it long, as though he had never seen anything like
it before, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket.
"I--I--" he began.
"Chop it off!" cried some one joyously.
"I'm awfully much obliged to--to whoever--"
"It's from the gang," said Doyle.
"With a Merry Christmas," said Ailworth.
"Thank you--gang," said Satherwaite.
The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were
crowding about Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket
and, writing on it hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it
from the tree, when the others turned again.
"Little Harry Doyle," he read gravely.
Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself.
"Open it up, old man!"
When he saw the gun-metal paper knife, he glanced quickly at
Satherwaite. He was very red in the face. Satherwaite smiled back
imperturbably. The knife went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic
admiration.
"But, I say, old man, who gave--?" began Smith.
"I'm awfully much obliged, Satherwaite," said Doyle, "but, really, I
couldn't think of taking--"
"Chop it off!" echoed Satherwaite. "Look here, Doyle, it isn't the sort
of thing I'd give you from choice; it's a useless sort of toy, but I
just happened to have it with me; bought it in the square on the way to
give to some one, I didn't know who, and so, if you don't mind, I wish
you'd accept it, you know. It'll do to put on the table or--open cans
with. If you'd rather not take it, why, chuck it out of the window!"
"It isn't that," cried Doyle; "it's only that it's much too fine----"
"Oh, no, it isn't," said Satherwaite. "Now, then, where's 'Little Alfie
Ailworth'?"
Small candy canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more
around the hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery
enjoyingly. Smith insisted upon having the cranberries, and wore them
around his neck. The popcorn was distributed equally, and the next day,
in the parlor car, Satherwaite drew his from a pocket together with his
handkerchief.
Some one struck up a song, and Doyle remembered that Satherwaite had
been in the Glee Club. There was an instant clamor for a song, and
Satherwaite, consenting, looked about the room.
"Haven't any thump box," said Smith. "Can't you go it alone?"
Satherwaite thought he could, and did. He had a rich tenor voice, and
he sang all the songs he knew. When it could be done, by hook or by
crook, the others joined in the chorus; not too loudly, for it was
getting late and proctors have sharp ears. When the last refrain had
been repeated for the third time, and silence reigned for the moment,
they heard the bell in the near-by tower. They counted its strokes;
eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve.
"Merry Christmas, all!" cried Smith.
In the clamor that ensued, Satherwaite secured his coat and hat. He
shook hands all around. Smith insisted upon sharing the cranberries
with him, and so looped a string gracefully about his neck. When
Satherwaite backed out the door he still held Doak's pet pipe clenched
between his teeth, and Doak, knowing it, said not a word.
"Hope you'll come back and see us," called Doyle.
"That's right, old man, don't forget us!" shouted Ailworth.
And Satherwaite, promising again and again not to, stumbled his way
down the dark stairs.
Outside, he glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes. Then he
grinned, and, scooping a handful of snow, sent it fairly against the
glass. Instantly, the windows banged up, and six heads thrust
themselves out.
"Good night! Merry Christmas, old man! Happy New Year!"
Something smashed softly against Satherwaite's cheek. He looked back.
They were gathering snow from the ledges and throwing snowballs after
him.
"Good shot!" he called. "Merry Christmas!"
The sound of their cries and laughter followed him far down the avenue.
Read this and other articles at American Literature
|
|
|
|
