The Fighting Scrub by Ralph Henry Barbour — Read

The dining hall occupied the ground floor of the rear section of West Hall, a spacious room of oak beams and rough gray plaster, of paneled walls and many high windows. On either side, like soldiers on parade, eight white-draped tables were spaced. There was, also, a seventeenth table, but this was in the corner beyond the door that led to Middle Hall, and, whereas the other tables held twelve persons each, the seventeenth accommodated only Doctor Wyndham; Mr. Frost, his assistant; Miss Coles, the secretary; and Mrs. Flood, Junior School matron. At the head of each of the eight tables along the farther wall sat a faculty member; in Wyndham School parlance, a "fac"; and his surveillance included not only the board at which he sat but also the one directly across from it. Seats at tables bearing even numbers were much sought after since those were the ones lacking, as one might say, local government. Clif, though, wasn't aware of good fortune when he found himself seated at Table 12; beyond, that is, the good fortune of being provided a place where food was supplied.

There was nothing especially remarkable about any of his table companions, he decided after furtive study. Many of the eleven were of about his own age; three or four were older. One of the latter sat at the head of the board, a broadshouldered, athletic-looking fellow of possibly eighteen with good features and a pleasant, crisp voice. He didn't talk much, however. Clif mentally catalogued him as a person of importance, probably a football or crew captain. The boy on his right was thin and nervous and ate a great deal. The one on his left was neither thin nor nervous, but, or so it seemed to Clif, equally heroic with the food. Directly opposite sat a short youth with a large, square head and hair that grew erect and was very thick and coarse and black. This youth had table manners never learned from any book of etiquette, Clif thought. It was evident that the members of Table 12 were not yet well acquainted, for conversation was neither general nor frequent. Clif applied himself diligently to the matter of satisfying his appetite, finding more food than sufficient and of an excellent quality; then, having finished, made his way out again.