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Updated: May 4, 2025
The passage was deserted, and, for a moment, there was no sound save some one shouting down in the cricket field and the buzzing of the fly on the pane. Then he heard voices from behind Jerrard's door. "No, I say Jerrard don't give me any more please ... please don't." "There I say hold his mouth open; that's right, pour it down. We'll have him singing in a moment."
Jerrard an experiment in culvert construction, in which he took an originator's pride. The band kept on playing and the men roared choruses. After the young engineer had bellowed his explanation in Jerrard's ear, and Jerrard had howled back some warm compliments, striving to make himself heard above the uproar, the two climbed the embankment and approached the coach. The band was quiet now.
He daubed the white face of the city man with an evil-smelling compound of tar and oil. Jerrard's mind was rapidly freeing itself from transportation worries. Then came the long paddle across Spinnaker Lake, with only the unfamiliar insecurity of a canoe beneath him, and after that the six-mile Poquette carry. By this time Jerrard had forgotten the P. K. & R. entirely.
The sounds were muffled; there was laughter and then some one cried out. He knew that it was Jerrard's study and he hated Jerrard more than any one in the school. The fellow was a huge stupid oaf, low down in the middle fourth, but the best bowler that the school had; yes, he hated him. He opened his study door and listened.
A smile crept into the wrinkles about Jerrard's shrewd eyes. "Whittaker," said he, "there's a side to our railroad enterprise that neither you nor I appreciated at first. I've been getting some points from our counsel, who had a talk with Bevan. When we were up at the lake, you remember something that Rotre said about the timber-land owners not especially hankering for a railroad at the carry.
"Oh I say " there were sounds of a struggle and then silence again. At last there began the most horrible laughter that Peter had ever known; weak, silly, giggling, and little excited cries. Then Jerrard's voice: "There, that will do; he's merry enough now." Peter waited for no more, but strode across the passage and flung open the door.
The unconsciousness of the corpulent Whittaker as he left the train, spick and span in tweed and polished shoes appealed to Jerrard's sense of the ludicrous so acutely that the president, following the baggage-laden guide down to the shore of the lake, stopped and looked at his friend with puzzled gaze. "I say, Jerrard, you seem to be in a good humor."
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