Read The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Online
Authors: Robert Rimmer
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (4 page)
During the next eighteen years, while Doctor Tangle contributed little
in the way of actual management, and certainly nothing to the genius
that brought the Marratt Corporation to the position of one of the
top companies in the food industry, he managed to maintain an uncanny
knowledge of the financial workings of the company, as well as an
abundance of ideas about everything from production through sales.
It was an act of desperation, Pat thought, but there was no alternative.
He finally decided to telephone Doctor Tangle and ask his help. Labor
Day was next Monday. The fall terms at the New England colleges would
start soon . . . something had to be done. Yale would have to be enrolled
somewhere and quickly.
After telling Doctor Tangle's secretary his name, Pat was greeted with
a booming "Hello, it's nice to hear your voice, Pat." Pat could picture
Doctor Tangle sitting behind his ornate mahogany desk covered with mementos
sent to him by missionaries from all parts of the world. He could visualize
Doctor Tangle's size eight and one-half, bald head gleaming like an
oval-shaped lamp of knowledge.
Pat explained briefly the problem and how he was determined to have
Yale admitted to one of the Ivy League colleges. He didn't bother
to tell Doctor Tangle that Yale evinced little interest, nor did he
tell him that Yale didn't seem to care whether he went to college or
not. Pat suggested that Dean Tracy of Buxton was probably sabotaging his
efforts. He finally suggested that in view of their long relationship
as stockholders in Marratt Corporation and as personal friends, he was
throwing the problem in Doctor Tangle's lap. Certainly Doctor Tangle
could prevail upon his confreres in some New England college to take
Yale in as a freshman. "I'll look into it immediately, Pat. The Lord
has a solution to everything," Doctor Tangle said confidently.
As emissary for the Lord, Doctor Tangle arrived in Pat's office the
next morning. "I know that you and Liz would prefer to have your son go
to Harvard. In your financial position and all, it's the proper place --
but you'll have to face the facts, Pat. I have gone over Yale's records. A
strange boy -- not like you, eh!" Doctor Tangle chuckled with a heh-heh
sound that Pat found peculiarly irritating. "Yale is surprisingly well
read -- way beyond his age group. Dean Tracy mentioned to me that he had
few friends at Buxton. Didn't take part in athletics. A little bit of a
crusader. I read some of his themes. Excellent! Excellent! But his marks
outside of literature." Doctor Tangle shook his head. "Geometry, French,
Chemistry . . . barely passing. Well, all is not lost. Who knows? The
boy might have the makings of a minister."
Pat frowned. "Are you suggesting Midhaven College? Christ . . . no!
I won't buy it."
Doctor Tangle froze in his chair. Slowly and pompously he placed his black
Homburg hat on his shining head. "For a man who is the president of a
pretty big business, you are remarkably dense," he said ironically.
"Money does not make a college. If you would study the various college
standings the way you study a profit and loss statement, you would
find that Midhaven College rates academically as high as any college
in New England. If Yale is accepted to Midhaven it will be on a trial
basis motivated simply by our long friendship. College starts in three
weeks. If you wish to register Yale with us, it will have to be done no
later than next Friday."
His inability to have Yale accepted by the Ivy League colleges became
a thorn in Pat's side. Al Latham's son was going to Harvard. Tom Ames,
the Midhaven Buick dealer, told Pat while they were having a drink at
the club, that his son was accepted at M.I.T. Even Ed Barnes who ran a
cut-rate jewelry store in Midhaven had a son going to Princeton.
While Pat had let Doctor Tangle leave his office without a decision,
it was apparent that there was no alternative. Liz Marratt blamed her
husband, accusing him of not having spent enough time with Yale. She
ignored Pat's remark that between her activities as Midhaven's most active
hostess and wintering in Florida, she would have difficulty accounting
for the time she spent with her son. "I might remind you," she told Pat,
"that our daughter Barbara is in her second year at Bryn Mawr. I can't
remember that it was a desperate decision on her part. She could have
gone to Wellesley or Smith."
Having placed the blame where she felt it belonged, Liz took the idea of
Yale's going to Midhaven College philosophically. "While he will live
at the college, he will be near home. Besides, despite your own lack
of interest in religion, I feel that Doctor Tangle will work miracles
with him."
Pat's look was sour. He had been a deacon of the Midhaven Congregational
Church for nearly ten years. Prodded by Doctor Tangle and Liz, he had
contributed several thousand dollars annually to God-knew-what religious
causes, but he rarely went to hear Doctor Tangle preach. Privately,
he figured that his contribution to the church absolved him from seeing
Doctor Tangle more often than necessary.
So the son of Patrick Marratt, Yale Marratt, who owned a red Ford
convertible which he rarely drove; who usually had twenty or thirty
dollars in his pocket, which, if he spent at all, he spent on books;
Yale Marratt, eighteen last April, son of the next to wealthiest man in
the city of Midhaven; Yale Marratt who had kissed one girl in his life,
and under pressure from his sister and mother, had dates with two others
(and found them dull); Yale Marratt, a bewilderment to his parents,
was enrolled in Midhaven College.
2
Yale met Cynthia Carnell at the George Kramer picnic. Doctor Tangle
had personally checked to make sure that Yale was among the mixed group
of about two hundred boys and girls who gathered on the lawn in front
of Doctor Tangle's home. It was the first Saturday after their arrival
at college.
Doctor Tangle pumped Yale's hand heartily. "Even though you have lived
in Midhaven all your life, boy, you're going to find a new world in the
next four years. Years from now you'll look back on this picnic with a
real nostalgia for Midhaven College."
Yale was skeptical . . . and bored. He never could remember the names
of those he met for the first time. He was so conscious of his own
embarrassment that all he retained was the blurred memory of a smile.
Later, when he became better acquainted on the campus, he was surprised
to number among his friends those who claimed they had first met him at
the Kramer picnic.
Accompanying Dr. Amos Tangle and George Kramer on the hike to the picnic
grounds were Dean Amelia Wiswell, in charge of women, and Harry Shaw,
Dean of Men. Several of the upper classmen who had suffered through the
picnic as freshmen came along to direct the cooking of hot dogs.
Dean Wiswell trotted along with the freshmen girls. Dressed in a tweed
skirt, she darted from one group to another, showing her large teeth in
an insincere smile as she attempted to mix the groups and spread the
shyer girls among the more homely men. "Mr. Yale Marratt, meet Miss
Beardsley. Mr. Marratt, meet Mr. Williams. Yale lives in Midhaven,
you know. He can tell you all about the city. Mr. Marratt, meet Miss
Cynthia Carnell."
Yale looked at the girl smiling at him. He retained a flashing image
of sweet, heart-shaped face and wide-apart brown eyes. As he was
mumbling hello, she disappeared in the crowd. He felt a momentary
disappointment. Her swift glance had given him an elusive feeling of
intimacy.
A get acquainted party for the freshman class, the George Kramer picnic
had been an annual function for fifteen years. The picnic, in the words
of Doctor Tangle, was now a "college institution."
Doctor Tangle wearing knickers, argyle socks and a tweed jacket, along
with George Kramer, professor of Zoology, who was second-in-command on
the hike, led the straggling procession. The rear guard was composed
of several worldly sophomores and Dean Shaw who urged along the less
enthusiastic male hikers. Yale found himself somewhere in the middle of
the procession listening to the denunciations of his new roommate Sonny
Thompson, "What a crackpot way to spend a Saturday. How far do we have
to walk?"
Yale told him that the picnic grounds were about five miles from the
college. "Oh brother," Sonny groaned. "Five miles on a hot day like
this. I hate this jerk stuff. . . ."
They exchanged the usual comments about the co-eds. Yale gathered that
Sonny was enrolled in Midhaven College for much the same reason as he.
Sonny had been a big man in a small suburban high school just outside
of Boston. Unfortunately, he had become so involved in being assistant
manager of the high school football, track and baseball teams, that his
marks had suffered. To the dismay of his father, who had arduously saved
the money from his earnings as an insurance salesman, it was discovered
that, academically, Sonny was not prepared to go to Princeton. "I'll
transfer next year," Sonny said. "Even if no one ever heard of it,
Midhaven College has a good reputation."
Yale grinned. He wondered how many were in the freshman class at Midhaven
College who actually planned to stay the four years.
When they arrived at the picnic grounds Doctor Tangle, waving his arms
ostentatiously, formed the class in a half circle. He then proceeded to
make an interminably long speech about the traditions of Midhaven College
and the wonderful opportunities that lay before these eager freshmen.
Standing near the portly Doctor Tangle, George Kramer listened with an
expression of interest that belied the fact that he had heard this speech
practically word-for-word for the past fifteen years. When his turn
finally came, the class was treated to a further long discussion. In a
surprisingly deep voice, Professor Kramer expounded on the value of this
land as a future bird sanctuary. It was suggested that this glorious new
class, like its predecessors, would be anxious to contribute in the form
of a class gift to the growing Sanctuary fund. Usually by graduation,
some member of the class would remember with nostalgia the George Kramer
picnic, and old Goosey Kramer's bird sanctuary would get a few hundred
dollar donations.
That's the way things were done at Midhaven College. Compared with some of
its more venerable New England companions, Midhaven was a young college,
only seventy-five years old. Few alumni with sufficient money to endow
it heavily had been graduated. The courses with a strong emphasis on
training teachers and ministers inevitably developed alumni who were
embarrassingly deficient in funds. What the college lacked in money,
however, was compensated for by the enthusiastic energy of its president
and former missionary to China, Dr. Amos Tangle.
After eating a hot dog and drinking a glass of warm cider, Yale managed
to extricate himself from the crowd of freshmen who were being coached in
the Midhaven College songs. He wandered along the river by himself. This
country was familiar to him; the Marratt farm was located only a few miles
farther up the river. Many times he had followed the winding course of
the river directly into the city of Midhaven.
Yale amused himself scaling flat stones across the water to the opposite
bank. It occurred to him that he had never been on the other side at this
point. He was plagued with curiosity as to what was over there. Looking
across he could see that it was heavily wooded. He knew that once on
the other side, if he walked in a straight line for about a half mile,
he would come to Route 6. It would then be possible to hitchhike the
several miles to his home. He could skip out and not bother to go back
to college this afternoon. Yale had scarcely adjusted to living in the
small dormitory with a stranger called Sonny Thompson; a boy from Boston
who said words like car and park with such a peculiar "ah" sound that
Yale shivered every time the combination of "a" and "r" came together
in a word.
No one would miss him at the picnic. By tying his pants and shoes around
his neck, he could partly walk and partly swim to the other side and still
emerge fairly dry. He was about to take off his shoes when he heard a
feminine voice. He turned and recognized one of the girls he had been
introduced to earlier. She was sitting on a flat ledge, partially obscured
by a heavy growth of white birches. She held a pint of whiskey which
she waved in Yale's direction.
"Have a shot, freshman," she said. "Larry won't mind. By the way, meet
Larry McQuail." She giggled. "Met you once but I've forgotten your name.
Mine's Cynthia. Cynthia Carnell."
Yale tried to conceal his surprise. Students at Midhaven College didn't
drink. Dr. Amos Tangle had recently issued a statement to the nation's
press: "There is no drinking problem at Midhaven. No matter what occurs
at other colleges, Midhaven, with its long religious tradition, has
successfully overcome the problem of drinking. We attribute this to close
supervision and strict admission requirements that have eliminated such
deplorable practices."
Yale took the bottle. He had consumed quite a lot of beer in the past
year, more or less encouraged by his father. But Pat had never given
him any encouragement with whiskey. Yale had experimented several times
with Pat's Scotch, but had given it up in despair. He disliked the hot,
searing effect as it went down. He knew he would make a face with the
whiskey and tried to conceal it. Who did this Carnell dame think she was,
he wondered? Just because she was drinking a sophomore's whiskey didn't
raise her from her green freshman's ranks.
Yale took a long swallow. "Rotgut." His voice was hoarse. "Why don't you
drink good whiskey?" These were lines he had heard his father speak but
he mouthed them effectively. "This stuff will kill you."
Any doubts in their minds about Yale vanished with his words. They passed
the bottle around several times. They weren't much more experienced
drinkers than he, although Larry McQuail seemed the more confident of the
three. In the distance they could hear the freshmen singing
Midhaven,
our alma mater
. . . .
Larry burped and said, "In the real song it goes like this:
in the way of actual management, and certainly nothing to the genius
that brought the Marratt Corporation to the position of one of the
top companies in the food industry, he managed to maintain an uncanny
knowledge of the financial workings of the company, as well as an
abundance of ideas about everything from production through sales.
It was an act of desperation, Pat thought, but there was no alternative.
He finally decided to telephone Doctor Tangle and ask his help. Labor
Day was next Monday. The fall terms at the New England colleges would
start soon . . . something had to be done. Yale would have to be enrolled
somewhere and quickly.
After telling Doctor Tangle's secretary his name, Pat was greeted with
a booming "Hello, it's nice to hear your voice, Pat." Pat could picture
Doctor Tangle sitting behind his ornate mahogany desk covered with mementos
sent to him by missionaries from all parts of the world. He could visualize
Doctor Tangle's size eight and one-half, bald head gleaming like an
oval-shaped lamp of knowledge.
Pat explained briefly the problem and how he was determined to have
Yale admitted to one of the Ivy League colleges. He didn't bother
to tell Doctor Tangle that Yale evinced little interest, nor did he
tell him that Yale didn't seem to care whether he went to college or
not. Pat suggested that Dean Tracy of Buxton was probably sabotaging his
efforts. He finally suggested that in view of their long relationship
as stockholders in Marratt Corporation and as personal friends, he was
throwing the problem in Doctor Tangle's lap. Certainly Doctor Tangle
could prevail upon his confreres in some New England college to take
Yale in as a freshman. "I'll look into it immediately, Pat. The Lord
has a solution to everything," Doctor Tangle said confidently.
As emissary for the Lord, Doctor Tangle arrived in Pat's office the
next morning. "I know that you and Liz would prefer to have your son go
to Harvard. In your financial position and all, it's the proper place --
but you'll have to face the facts, Pat. I have gone over Yale's records. A
strange boy -- not like you, eh!" Doctor Tangle chuckled with a heh-heh
sound that Pat found peculiarly irritating. "Yale is surprisingly well
read -- way beyond his age group. Dean Tracy mentioned to me that he had
few friends at Buxton. Didn't take part in athletics. A little bit of a
crusader. I read some of his themes. Excellent! Excellent! But his marks
outside of literature." Doctor Tangle shook his head. "Geometry, French,
Chemistry . . . barely passing. Well, all is not lost. Who knows? The
boy might have the makings of a minister."
Pat frowned. "Are you suggesting Midhaven College? Christ . . . no!
I won't buy it."
Doctor Tangle froze in his chair. Slowly and pompously he placed his black
Homburg hat on his shining head. "For a man who is the president of a
pretty big business, you are remarkably dense," he said ironically.
"Money does not make a college. If you would study the various college
standings the way you study a profit and loss statement, you would
find that Midhaven College rates academically as high as any college
in New England. If Yale is accepted to Midhaven it will be on a trial
basis motivated simply by our long friendship. College starts in three
weeks. If you wish to register Yale with us, it will have to be done no
later than next Friday."
His inability to have Yale accepted by the Ivy League colleges became
a thorn in Pat's side. Al Latham's son was going to Harvard. Tom Ames,
the Midhaven Buick dealer, told Pat while they were having a drink at
the club, that his son was accepted at M.I.T. Even Ed Barnes who ran a
cut-rate jewelry store in Midhaven had a son going to Princeton.
While Pat had let Doctor Tangle leave his office without a decision,
it was apparent that there was no alternative. Liz Marratt blamed her
husband, accusing him of not having spent enough time with Yale. She
ignored Pat's remark that between her activities as Midhaven's most active
hostess and wintering in Florida, she would have difficulty accounting
for the time she spent with her son. "I might remind you," she told Pat,
"that our daughter Barbara is in her second year at Bryn Mawr. I can't
remember that it was a desperate decision on her part. She could have
gone to Wellesley or Smith."
Having placed the blame where she felt it belonged, Liz took the idea of
Yale's going to Midhaven College philosophically. "While he will live
at the college, he will be near home. Besides, despite your own lack
of interest in religion, I feel that Doctor Tangle will work miracles
with him."
Pat's look was sour. He had been a deacon of the Midhaven Congregational
Church for nearly ten years. Prodded by Doctor Tangle and Liz, he had
contributed several thousand dollars annually to God-knew-what religious
causes, but he rarely went to hear Doctor Tangle preach. Privately,
he figured that his contribution to the church absolved him from seeing
Doctor Tangle more often than necessary.
So the son of Patrick Marratt, Yale Marratt, who owned a red Ford
convertible which he rarely drove; who usually had twenty or thirty
dollars in his pocket, which, if he spent at all, he spent on books;
Yale Marratt, eighteen last April, son of the next to wealthiest man in
the city of Midhaven; Yale Marratt who had kissed one girl in his life,
and under pressure from his sister and mother, had dates with two others
(and found them dull); Yale Marratt, a bewilderment to his parents,
was enrolled in Midhaven College.
2
Yale met Cynthia Carnell at the George Kramer picnic. Doctor Tangle
had personally checked to make sure that Yale was among the mixed group
of about two hundred boys and girls who gathered on the lawn in front
of Doctor Tangle's home. It was the first Saturday after their arrival
at college.
Doctor Tangle pumped Yale's hand heartily. "Even though you have lived
in Midhaven all your life, boy, you're going to find a new world in the
next four years. Years from now you'll look back on this picnic with a
real nostalgia for Midhaven College."
Yale was skeptical . . . and bored. He never could remember the names
of those he met for the first time. He was so conscious of his own
embarrassment that all he retained was the blurred memory of a smile.
Later, when he became better acquainted on the campus, he was surprised
to number among his friends those who claimed they had first met him at
the Kramer picnic.
Accompanying Dr. Amos Tangle and George Kramer on the hike to the picnic
grounds were Dean Amelia Wiswell, in charge of women, and Harry Shaw,
Dean of Men. Several of the upper classmen who had suffered through the
picnic as freshmen came along to direct the cooking of hot dogs.
Dean Wiswell trotted along with the freshmen girls. Dressed in a tweed
skirt, she darted from one group to another, showing her large teeth in
an insincere smile as she attempted to mix the groups and spread the
shyer girls among the more homely men. "Mr. Yale Marratt, meet Miss
Beardsley. Mr. Marratt, meet Mr. Williams. Yale lives in Midhaven,
you know. He can tell you all about the city. Mr. Marratt, meet Miss
Cynthia Carnell."
Yale looked at the girl smiling at him. He retained a flashing image
of sweet, heart-shaped face and wide-apart brown eyes. As he was
mumbling hello, she disappeared in the crowd. He felt a momentary
disappointment. Her swift glance had given him an elusive feeling of
intimacy.
A get acquainted party for the freshman class, the George Kramer picnic
had been an annual function for fifteen years. The picnic, in the words
of Doctor Tangle, was now a "college institution."
Doctor Tangle wearing knickers, argyle socks and a tweed jacket, along
with George Kramer, professor of Zoology, who was second-in-command on
the hike, led the straggling procession. The rear guard was composed
of several worldly sophomores and Dean Shaw who urged along the less
enthusiastic male hikers. Yale found himself somewhere in the middle of
the procession listening to the denunciations of his new roommate Sonny
Thompson, "What a crackpot way to spend a Saturday. How far do we have
to walk?"
Yale told him that the picnic grounds were about five miles from the
college. "Oh brother," Sonny groaned. "Five miles on a hot day like
this. I hate this jerk stuff. . . ."
They exchanged the usual comments about the co-eds. Yale gathered that
Sonny was enrolled in Midhaven College for much the same reason as he.
Sonny had been a big man in a small suburban high school just outside
of Boston. Unfortunately, he had become so involved in being assistant
manager of the high school football, track and baseball teams, that his
marks had suffered. To the dismay of his father, who had arduously saved
the money from his earnings as an insurance salesman, it was discovered
that, academically, Sonny was not prepared to go to Princeton. "I'll
transfer next year," Sonny said. "Even if no one ever heard of it,
Midhaven College has a good reputation."
Yale grinned. He wondered how many were in the freshman class at Midhaven
College who actually planned to stay the four years.
When they arrived at the picnic grounds Doctor Tangle, waving his arms
ostentatiously, formed the class in a half circle. He then proceeded to
make an interminably long speech about the traditions of Midhaven College
and the wonderful opportunities that lay before these eager freshmen.
Standing near the portly Doctor Tangle, George Kramer listened with an
expression of interest that belied the fact that he had heard this speech
practically word-for-word for the past fifteen years. When his turn
finally came, the class was treated to a further long discussion. In a
surprisingly deep voice, Professor Kramer expounded on the value of this
land as a future bird sanctuary. It was suggested that this glorious new
class, like its predecessors, would be anxious to contribute in the form
of a class gift to the growing Sanctuary fund. Usually by graduation,
some member of the class would remember with nostalgia the George Kramer
picnic, and old Goosey Kramer's bird sanctuary would get a few hundred
dollar donations.
That's the way things were done at Midhaven College. Compared with some of
its more venerable New England companions, Midhaven was a young college,
only seventy-five years old. Few alumni with sufficient money to endow
it heavily had been graduated. The courses with a strong emphasis on
training teachers and ministers inevitably developed alumni who were
embarrassingly deficient in funds. What the college lacked in money,
however, was compensated for by the enthusiastic energy of its president
and former missionary to China, Dr. Amos Tangle.
After eating a hot dog and drinking a glass of warm cider, Yale managed
to extricate himself from the crowd of freshmen who were being coached in
the Midhaven College songs. He wandered along the river by himself. This
country was familiar to him; the Marratt farm was located only a few miles
farther up the river. Many times he had followed the winding course of
the river directly into the city of Midhaven.
Yale amused himself scaling flat stones across the water to the opposite
bank. It occurred to him that he had never been on the other side at this
point. He was plagued with curiosity as to what was over there. Looking
across he could see that it was heavily wooded. He knew that once on
the other side, if he walked in a straight line for about a half mile,
he would come to Route 6. It would then be possible to hitchhike the
several miles to his home. He could skip out and not bother to go back
to college this afternoon. Yale had scarcely adjusted to living in the
small dormitory with a stranger called Sonny Thompson; a boy from Boston
who said words like car and park with such a peculiar "ah" sound that
Yale shivered every time the combination of "a" and "r" came together
in a word.
No one would miss him at the picnic. By tying his pants and shoes around
his neck, he could partly walk and partly swim to the other side and still
emerge fairly dry. He was about to take off his shoes when he heard a
feminine voice. He turned and recognized one of the girls he had been
introduced to earlier. She was sitting on a flat ledge, partially obscured
by a heavy growth of white birches. She held a pint of whiskey which
she waved in Yale's direction.
"Have a shot, freshman," she said. "Larry won't mind. By the way, meet
Larry McQuail." She giggled. "Met you once but I've forgotten your name.
Mine's Cynthia. Cynthia Carnell."
Yale tried to conceal his surprise. Students at Midhaven College didn't
drink. Dr. Amos Tangle had recently issued a statement to the nation's
press: "There is no drinking problem at Midhaven. No matter what occurs
at other colleges, Midhaven, with its long religious tradition, has
successfully overcome the problem of drinking. We attribute this to close
supervision and strict admission requirements that have eliminated such
deplorable practices."
Yale took the bottle. He had consumed quite a lot of beer in the past
year, more or less encouraged by his father. But Pat had never given
him any encouragement with whiskey. Yale had experimented several times
with Pat's Scotch, but had given it up in despair. He disliked the hot,
searing effect as it went down. He knew he would make a face with the
whiskey and tried to conceal it. Who did this Carnell dame think she was,
he wondered? Just because she was drinking a sophomore's whiskey didn't
raise her from her green freshman's ranks.
Yale took a long swallow. "Rotgut." His voice was hoarse. "Why don't you
drink good whiskey?" These were lines he had heard his father speak but
he mouthed them effectively. "This stuff will kill you."
Any doubts in their minds about Yale vanished with his words. They passed
the bottle around several times. They weren't much more experienced
drinkers than he, although Larry McQuail seemed the more confident of the
three. In the distance they could hear the freshmen singing
Midhaven,
our alma mater
. . . .
Larry burped and said, "In the real song it goes like this:
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