Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Read online

  Once they had begun what Mr. Haskins described as the nickel and dime tour, Nat never left Tom’s side. He seemed to have prior knowledge of everything Haskins was about to say. Nat quickly discovered that not only was Tom’s father a former alumni, but so was his grandfather.

  By the time the tour had ended and they had seen everything from the lake to the sanatorium, he and Tom were best friends. When they filed into the classroom twenty minutes later, they automatically sat next to each other.

  As the clock chimed eleven, Mr. Haskins marched into the room. A boy followed in his wake. He had a self-assurance about him, almost a swagger, that made every other boy look up. The master’s eyes also followed the new pupil as he slipped into the one remaining desk.

  “Name?”

  “Ralph Elliot.”

  “That will be the last time you will be late for my class while you’re at Taft,” said Haskins. He paused. “Do I make myself clear, Elliot?”

  “You most certainly do.” The boy paused, before adding, “Sir.”

  Mr. Haskins turned his gaze to the rest of the class. “Our first lesson, as I warned you, will be on American history, which is appropriate remembering that this school was founded by the brother of a former president.” With a portrait of William H. Taft in the main hall and a statue of his brother in the quadrangle, it would have been hard for even the least inquisitive pupil not to have worked that out.

  “Who was the first president of the United States?” Mr. Haskins asked. Every hand shot up. Mr. Haskins nodded to a boy in the front row.

  “George Washington, sir.”

  “And the second?” asked Haskins. Fewer hands rose, and this time Tom was selected.

  “John Adams, sir.”

  “Correct, and the third?”

  Only two hands remained up, Nat’s and the boy who had arrived late. Haskins pointed to Nat.

  “Thomas Jefferson, 1800 to 1808.”

  Mr. Haskins nodded, acknowledging that the boy also knew the correct dates, “And the fourth?”

  “James Madison, 1809 to 1817,” said Elliot.

  “And the fifth, Cartwright?”

  “James Monroe, 1817 to 1825.”

  “And the sixth, Elliot?”

  “John Quincy Adams, 1825 to 1829.”

  “And the seventh, Cartwright?”

  Nat racked his brains. “I don’t remember, sir.”

  “You don’t remember, Cartwright, or do you simply not know?” Haskins paused. “There is a considerable difference,” he added. He turned his attention back to Elliot.

  “William Henry Harrison, I think, sir.”

  “No, he was the ninth president, Elliot, 1841, but as he died of pneumonia only a month after his inauguration, we won’t be spending a lot of time on him,” added Haskins. “Make sure everyone can tell me the name of the ninth president by tomorrow morning. Now let’s go back to the founding fathers. You may all take notes as I require you to produce a three-page essay on the subject by the time we next meet.”

  Nat had filled three long sheets even before the lesson had ended, while Tom barely managed a page. As they left the classroom at the end of the lesson, Elliot brushed quickly past them.

  “He already looks like a real rival,” remarked Tom.

  Nat didn’t comment.

  What he couldn’t know was that he and Ralph Elliot would be rivals for the rest of their lives.

  7

  THE ANNUAL FOOTBALL game between Hotchkiss and Taft was the sporting highlight of the semester. As both teams were undefeated that season, little else was discussed once the midterms were over, and for the jocks, long before midterms began.

  Fletcher found himself caught up in the excitement, and in his weekly letter to his mother named every member of the team, although he realized that she wouldn’t have a clue who any of them were.

  The game was due to be played on the last Saturday in October and once the final whistle had been blown, all boarders would have the rest of the weekend off, plus an extra day should they win.

  On the Monday before the match, Fletcher’s class sat their first midterms, but not before the principal had declared at morning assembly that, “Life consists of a series of tests and examinations, which is why we take them every term at Hotchkiss.”

  On Tuesday evening Fletcher phoned his mother to tell her he thought he’d done well.

  On Wednesday he told Jimmy he wasn’t so sure.

  By Thursday, he’d looked up everything he hadn’t included, and wondered if he had even achieved a pass grade.

  On Friday morning, class rankings were posted on the school notice board and the preps were headed by the name of Fletcher Davenport. He immediately ran to the nearest phone and rang his mother. Ruth couldn’t hide her delight when she learned her son’s news, but didn’t tell him that she wasn’t surprised. “You must celebrate,” she said. Fletcher would have done so, but felt he couldn’t when he saw who had come bottom of the class.

  At the full school assembly on Saturday morning, prayers were offered by the chaplain “for our undefeated football team, who played only for the glory of our Lord.” Our Lord was then vouchsafed the name of every player and asked if his Holy Spirit might be bestowed on each and every one of them. The principal was obviously in no doubt which team God would be supporting on Saturday afternoon.

  At Hotchkiss, everything was decided on seniority, even a boy’s place in the bleachers. During their first term, preps were relegated to the far end of the field so both boys sat in the right-hand corner of the stand every other Saturday, and watched their heroes extend the season’s unbeaten run, a record they realized Taft also enjoyed.

  As the Taft game fell on a homecoming weekend, Jimmy’s parents invited Fletcher to join them for a tailgate picnic before the kickoff. Fletcher didn’t tell any of the other boys in preps, because he felt it would only make them jealous. It was bad enough being top of the class, without being invited to watch the Taft game with an old boy who had seats on the center line.

  “What’s your dad like?” asked Jimmy, after lights-out the night before the game.

  “He’s great,” said Fletcher, “but I should warn you that he’s a Taft man, and a Republican. And how about your dad? I’ve never met a senator before.”

  “He’s a politician to his fingertips, or at least that’s how the press describe him,” said Jimmy. “Not that I’m sure what it means.”

  On the morning of the game no one was able to concentrate during chemistry, despite Mr. Bailey’s enthusiasm for testing the effects of acid on zinc, not least because Jimmy had turned the gas off at the main, so Mr. Bailey couldn’t even get the Bunsen burners lit.

  At twelve o’clock a bell rang, releasing 380 screaming boys to charge out into the courtyard. They resembled nothing less than a warring tribe, with their cries of, “Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss will win, death to all Bearcats.”

  Fletcher ran all the way to the assembly point to meet his parents, as cars and taxis came streaming in past the lake. Fletcher scanned every vehicle, searching for his father and mother.

  “How are you, Andrew my darling?” were his mother’s first words as she stepped out of the car.

  “Fletcher, I’m Fletcher at Hotchkiss,” he whispered, hoping that none of the other boys had heard the word “darling.” He shook hands with his father, before adding, “We must leave for the field immediately, because we’ve been invited to join Senator and Mrs. Gates for a tailgate lunch.”

  Fletcher’s father raised an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, Senator Gates is a Democrat,” he said with mock disdain.

  “And a former Hotchkiss football captain,” said Fletcher. “His son Jimmy and I are in the same class, and he’s my best friend, so Mom had better sit next to the senator, and if you don’t feel up to it, Dad, you can sit on the other side of the field with the Taft supporters.”

  “No, I think I’ll put up with the senator. It will be so rewarding to be seated next to him when Taft scores th