Jim Spurling, Fisherman or Making Good

Excerpt

SMASHED UP

"Here comes J. P. Whittington, Junior, Esquire, in his new Norman! Some speed—what?"

The three Graffam Academy seniors, Jim Spurling, Roger Lane, and Winthrop Stevens, who were sitting on the low, wooden fence before the campus, earnestly discussing the one thing that had engrossed their minds for the past two weeks, stopped talking and leaned forward.

On the broad, elm-lined street beyond the Mall suddenly appeared a cloud of dust, out of which shot a gray automobile. Its high speed soon brought it to the academy grounds, and it came to an abrupt stop before the fence.

"Pile in, fellows!" shouted the driver, a bareheaded youth in white flannels, "and I'll take you on a little spin."

He was a slim, sallow lad of seventeen, with a straw-colored pompadour crowning his freckled forehead. The sleeves of his outing shirt were rolled up above his elbows, revealing his bony, sunburnt arms. He wore a gay red tie, and a tennis blazer, striped black and white, lay on the seat beside him.

"No, thanks, Percy," replied Lane. "Sorry we can't go; but we're too busy."

Spurling and Stevens nodded as Whittington's light-blue eyes traveled inquiringly from one to the other.

"Ah, come on!" he invited. "Be sports! Let's celebrate the end of the course. Just to show how good I feel, I'm going to scorch a three-mile hole through the atmosphere between here and Mount Barlow faster than it was ever done before. Tumble aboard and help hold this barouche down on the pike while I burn the top off it for the last time."

Pulling out a book of tissue wrappers and a sack of tobacco, he began to roll a cigarette with twitching, yellowed fingers.

"Anybody got a match? No? Then I'll have to dig one up myself."

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a lucifer. Soon he was inhaling the smoke and talking rapidly.

"I'm so glad this is my last week here I feel like kicking my head off. Once I shake the dust of this dump off my tires, you can bet you'll never catch me here again. Say, do you know what this Main Street reminds me of? An avenue in Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans, with a row of white tombs on each side. I saw it last Christmas. They bury 'em aboveground there, too. The Rubes in this burg are just as dead, only they don't know it."

Drawing a final, long, luxurious whiff, he tossed the half-smoked cigarette away.

"Well, so long! My dad's coming on the five-ten to see his only son graduate cum laude. And me loaded down with conditions a truck-horse couldn't haul! Wouldn't that jar you? Guess I'll have to do my road-burning before he gets here. Hold a watch on me, will you? I'm out for the record."

"Careful, or you'll get pinched for over-speeding," cautioned Stevens.

Whittington spat contemptuously.

"Pinch your grandmother!" he jeered. "I've been pinched too many times to mind a little thing like that."

Off darted the gray car. The three gazed after it in silence. Then Spurling spoke.

"Must seem rather pleasant to have a bank-account you can't touch the bottom of, mustn't it?...