Barbour The Purple Pennant

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-231-8
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 211 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

The Purple Pennant is a novel written by Ralph Henry Barbour about a group of students at a fictional New England boarding school called Hillton. The story follows the lives of two main characters, Phil Clinton and Tom Percival, as they navigate the challenges of high school and strive to excel both academically and athletically. Phil is a talented football player who dreams of winning a championship for Hillton. However, he faces several obstacles, including a strained relationship with his father and a rival player who is determined to beat him on the field. Meanwhile, Tom is a hardworking student who struggles to balance his studies with his desire to join the football team. He also falls in love with a girl named Elaine, who is dating Phil. As the football season progresses, tensions rise between the two friends and their teammates. The story culminates in a thrilling championship game, in which Hillton faces off against their archrival, Broadwood. Along the way, the characters learn important lessons about teamwork, leadership, and the true meaning of success. The Purple Pennant is a classic coming-of-age story that explores themes of friendship, loyalty, and perseverance. Barbour's writing is engaging and vivid, capturing the excitement and intensity of high school sports and the complex relationships that develop between students. The novel offers a nostalgic glimpse into a bygone era and will appeal to readers who enjoy sports fiction and stories about the challenges of adolescence.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Barbour, Ralph Henry

Leseproben

CHAPTER I
FUDGE IS INTERRUPTED
“‘Keys,’” murmured Fudge Shaw dreamily, “‘please’—‘knees’—‘breeze’—I’ve used that—‘pease’—‘sneeze’—Oh, piffle!” His inspired gaze returned to the tablet before him and he read aloud the lines inscribed thereon: “O Beauteous Spring, thou art, I ween, The best of all the Seasons, Because you clothe the Earth with green And for numerous other reasons. “You make the birds sing in the trees, The April breeze to blow, The Sun to shine——” “‘The Sun to shine——,’” he muttered raptly, “‘The Sun to shine’; ‘squeeze’—‘tease’—‘fleas’—— Gee, I wish I hadn’t tried to rhyme all the lines. Now, let’s see: ‘You make the birds——’” “O Fudge! Fudge Shaw!” Fudge raised his head and peered through the young leaves of the apple-tree in which he was perched, along the side yard to where, leaning over the fence, was a lad of about Fudge’s age. The visitor alternately directed his gaze toward the tree and the house, for it was Sunday afternoon and Perry Hull was doubtful of the propriety of hailing his friend in week-day manner. “Hello, Perry, come on in!” called Fudge. And thereupon he detached the “Ode to Spring” from the tablet, hastily folded it and put it in his pocket. When Perry climbed the ladder which led to the platform some eight feet above the ground Fudge was in the act of closing a Latin book with a tired air. “What are you doing?” asked Perry. He was a nice-looking chap of fifteen, with steady dark-brown eyes, hair a shade or two lighter and a capable and alert countenance. He swung himself lithely over the rail instead of crawling under, as was Fudge’s custom, and seated himself on the narrow bench beyond the books. “Sort of studying,” answered Fudge, ostentatiously shoving the books further away and scowling distastefully at them. “Where have you been?” “Just moseying around. Peach of a day, isn’t it?” It was. It had rained until nearly dinner time, and grass and leaves were still beaded with moisture which an ardent April sun was doing its best to burn away. It was the first spring-like day in over a week of typical April weather during which Clearfield had remained under gray skies. Fudge assented to Perry’s observation, but it was to be seen that his thoughts were elsewhere. His lips moved soundlessly. Perry viewed him with surprise and curiosity, but before he could demand an explanation of his host’s abstraction Fudge burst forth triumphantly. “‘B-b-bees!’” exclaimed Fudge. (Excitement always caused him to stammer, a fact which his friends were aware of and frequently made use of for their entertainment.) Perry involuntarily ducked his head and looked around. “Where?” he asked apprehensively. “Nowhere.” Fudge chuckled. “I was just thinking of something.” “Huh!” Perry settled back again. “You’re crazy, I guess. Better come for a walk and you’ll feel better.” “Can’t.” Fudge looked gloomily at the books. “Got to study.” “Then I’ll beat it.” “Hold on, can’t you? You don’t have to go yet. I—there isn’t such an awful hurry.” The truth was that Fudge was not an enthusiastic pedestrian, a fact due partly to his physical formation and partly to a disposition contemplative rather than active. Nature had endowed Fudge—his real name, by the way, was William—with a rotund body and capable but rather short legs. Walking for the mere sake of locomotion didn’t appeal to him. He would have denied indignantly that he was lazy, and, to do him justice, he wasn’t. With Fudge it was less a matter of laziness than discrimination. Give him something to do that interested him—such as playing baseball or football—and Fudge would willingly, enthusiastically work his short legs for all that was in them, but this thing of deliberately tiring oneself out with no sensible end in view—well, Fudge couldn’t see it! He had a round face from which two big blue eyes viewed the world with a constant expression of surprise. His hair was sandy-red, and he was fifteen, almost sixteen, years old. “It’s too nice a day to sit around and do nothing,” objected Perry. “Why don’t you get your studying done earlier?” “I meant to, but I had some writing to do.” Fudge looked important. Perry smiled slightly. “I finished that story I told you about.” “Did you?” Perry strove to make his question sound interested. “Are you going to have it printed?” “Maybe,” replied the other carelessly. “It’s a pippin, all right, Perry! It’s nearly fourteen thousand words long! What do you know about that, son? Maybe I’ll send it to the Reporter and let them publish it. Or maybe I’ll send it to one of the big New York magazines. I haven’t decided yet. Dick says I ought to have it typewritten; that the editors won’t read it unless it is. But it costs like anything. Morris Brent has a typewriter and he said I could borrow it, but I never wrote on one of the things and I suppose it would take me a month to do it, eh? Seems to me if the editors want good stories they can’t afford to be so plaguey particular. Besides, my writing’s pretty easy reading just as soon as you get used to it.” “You might typewrite the first two or three sheets,” suggested Perry, with a chuckle, “and then perhaps the editor would be so anxious to know how it ended he’d keep right on. What are you going to call it, Fudge?” Fudge shook his head. “I’ve got two or three good titles. ‘The Middleton Mystery’ is one of them. Then there’s ‘Young Sleuth’s Greatest Case.’ I guess that’s too long, eh?” “I like the first one better.” “Yes. Then I thought of ‘Tracked by Anarchists.’ How’s that sound to you?” “‘The Meredith Mystery’ is the best,” replied Perry judicially. “‘Middleton,’” corrected Fudge. “Yep, I guess it’ll be that. I told that fellow Potter about it and he said if I’d let him take it he’d see about getting it published in the Reporter. He’s a sort of an editor, you know. But I guess the Reporter isn’t much of a paper, and a writer who’s just starting out has to be careful not to cheapen himself, you see.” “Will he pay you for it?” asked Perry. “He didn’t say. I don’t suppose so. Lots of folks don’t get paid for their first things, though. Look at—look at Scott; and—and Thackeray, and—lots of ’em! You don’t suppose they got paid at first, do you?” “Didn’t they?” asked Perry in some surprise. “Oh, maybe Thackeray got a few dollars,” hedged Fudge, “but what was that? Look what he used to get for his novels afterwards!” Perry obligingly appeared deeply impressed, although he secretly wondered what Thackeray did get afterwards. However, he forebore to ask, which was just as well, I fancy. Instead, tiring of Fudge’s literary affairs, he observed: “Well, I hope they print it for you, anyway. And maybe they’ll take another one and pay for that. Say, aren’t you going out for baseball, Fudge?” “Oh, I’m going out, I guess, but it won’t do any good. I don’t intend to sit around on the bench half the spring and then get fired. The only place I’d stand any chance of is the outfield, and I suppose I don’t hit well enough to make it. You going to try?” Perry shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I can’t play much. Warner Jones told me the other day that if I’d come out he’d give me a good chance. I suppose he thinks I can play baseball because I was on the Eleven.” “Well, gee, if you could get to first you’d steal all the other bases, I’ll bet,” said Fudge admiringly. “You sure can run, Perry!” “Y-yes, and that makes me think that maybe I could do something on the Track Team. What do you think, Fudge?” “Bully scheme! Go out for the sprints! Ever try the hundred?” “No, I’ve never run on the track at all. How fast ought I to run the hundred yards, Fudge, to have a show?” “Oh, anything under eleven seconds would do, I suppose. Maybe ten and four-fifths. Know what you can do it in?” “No, I never ran it. I’d like to try, though.” “Why don’t you? Say, I’ve got a stop-watch in the house. You wait here and I’ll get it and we’ll go over to the track and——” “Pshaw, I couldn’t run in these clothes!” “Well, you can take your coat and vest off, can’t you? And put on a pair of sneakers? Of course, you can’t run as fast, but you can show what you can do. Perry, I’ll just bet you anything you’ve got the making of a fine little sprinter! You wait here; I won’t be a minute.” “But it’s Sunday, Fudge, and the field will be locked, and—and you’ve got your lessons——” “They can wait,” replied Fudge, dropping to the ground and making off toward the side door. “We’ll try the two-twenty, too, Perry!” He disappeared and a door slammed. Perry frowned in the direction of the house. “Silly chump!” he muttered. Then he smiled. After all, why not? He did want to know if he could run, and, if they could get into the field, which wasn’t likely, since it was Sunday and the gates would be locked, it would be rather fun to try it! He wondered just how fast ten and four-fifths seconds...