"As Gold in the Furnace" : A College Story

CHAPTER VI

The boys were as free and as genial with him as ever. Every one appeared to like him as usual, yet withal there was an intangible something in the atmosphere, as it were, which appeared to militate against his success. Roy often tried to discover the cause. Was this silent but unmistakable change toward him, which had lately come over most of the boys, of his own causing? After much introspection he could discover no reason for blaming himself.

His retirement from the field of college sports had been more than a nine-days' wonder. All his friends, not understanding or guessing his motive, expostulated with him, and time and again urged him to reconsider his decision. He had remained firm.

His more immediate friends had long ago ceased to make the matter a subject of conversation in his presence, giving him credit for acting from right intentions, although what these were, now near Christmas, was as much a mystery to them as they were on the September day on which he had announced his withdrawal.

Others were not so considerate. With a savagery often found among thoughtless but not necessarily ill-intentioned boys, they frequently discussed his "going back on his team,” as they expressed it, in Roy's presence, with an almost brutal unreserve.

“If I could play ball as you do, Henning,” said a coarse-grained youth named Stockley, one day, “I would call myself a dog in the manger.”

“And why, please?”asked Henning, who was by this time getting used to such talk from those whose opinion he did not value.

“The old reason. A bird that can sing and won't sing, ought to be made to sing. The honor of the college is at stake.”

“Your motto has no application in this case," replied Henning. “If I do any injustice to any one by not playing ball, then I ought to be the bird who should be made to sing. But I think you will have some difficulty in proving that I am acting against justice. As to the honor of the college being at stake, in that you know as well as I do, if you have any sense at all, that you are talking sheer nonsense.”

“I don't know whether I am,” sneered Stockley. "I am not the only one who thinks there is a nigger in the woodpile in this affair. Your cousin was saying only this morning that he could tell the boys something why you will not play ball that would make things mighty ugly for you.”

“Now look here, Stockley,” said Henning warmly, "you go and mind your own business and leave me and Garrett alone or—or it will be decidedly unpleasant for you.”

Stockley, coarse as he was, was observant. He saw Henning's fist close tightly, and he observed the muscles of his arm swell up for a minute. He discreetly moved some paces away.

“When I want your advice upon my conduct," continued Henning, “I will ask it. Till then, mind your own affairs, and keep your tongue from wagging too freely about mine.”

The young fellow walked away, muttering some unintelligible words between his teeth. Roy saw no more of him for several days.

Henning entered the Philosophy classroom with a flushed face and an unpleasant frown.

“What's up, Roy?” asked Ambrose Bracebridge, seeing that his friend had been suffering some annoyance.

“Nothing, Brosie; only I have had to talk pretty freely to one fellow who attempted the mentor business over me.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Oh, no. I merely told him to mind his own business; that's all.”

“Do you care to walk?”asked Bracebridge, who saw Henning was very much annoyed.

“Yes, come along,” replied Henning.

They walked some time in the face of a cutting wind, such as brings tears to the eyes. While facing it conversation was impossible. Presently they came to the base of a wooded hill which afforded them some shelter. Here they could talk at ease.

“How much money have you collected, Roy, for the cage?”asked Ambrose as soon as both had finished rubbing their chilled cheeks to bring back the circulation.

“I have collected sixty-four dollars in cash, but about eighty-seven has been subscribed. Why do you ask?”

“Please do not think me impertinently curious if I ask you where you keep it.”

“Certainly not. It is in the drawer of the table in the dressing-room of the gymnasium. That room just off the playroom. You know, Ambrose, that is the place of meeting of all committees of the various college associations. It's safe there; don't you think so?”

“Yes—perhaps,” answered Bracebridge, with evident hesitation. “I would rather you keep it there than in your desk, or in your trunk.”

“Why? You appear uneasy. What's the matter?”

“It may be foolish of me, but, Roy, I can not help thinking there is some ugly work being concocted. No doubt you think I am fanciful, but I have accidentally overheard here a word and there a word which I do not like.”

“From whom?”

“I can not tell you from whom, because it is all too vague, and if I mentioned any name I may be doing an innocent boy a grave injustice. There is a good deal of talk against you. Many silly fellows have taken it as a personal affront that you refuse to play ball.”

“Pshaw! I——”

“Wait, old fellow: of course that is all nonsense. It is no one's business except your own, and their talking is not worth your consideration. Nevertheless there are a few restless spirits here this year, and it is my opinion they are only waiting their chance to make trouble for you.”

“What would you advise me to do, Brosie?”

“Why not put all the money you have collected into the hands of the college treasurer? He will take care of it for you. It will be safer in the office vault than in the committee room.”

“I think it would be the better plan, but really I do not think there is any necessity for it. There is no one here who would attempt a robbery.”

“Maybe there is not; but as I said, it is better to be on the safe side.”

“All right. Much obliged. I guess I'll take your advice. Jack Beecham, only yesterday, hinted something similar to what you have just said about the ugly spirit against me. I wonder why it should have arisen, Ambrose, if it really does exist outside of your imagination. I have done nothing small or mean to any one. The head and front of my offending seems to be that I have withdrawn from next year's ball team. I happen to be a good player. Personally I regret having to take the course, but circumstances have occurred, which, in a way, compel this action. I can not divulge my reasons for so doing, even to my nearest friends—not even to Jack or you, Ambrose.”

“Nor do we wish to know them,” replied Ambrose, "it is quite sufficient for us to know that you do not wish to give them. Both Beecham and Shealey, and of course, myself, have every confidence in you, and you may rely on our staunch support in anything that may happen. By the way, how does the prefect, Mr. Shalford, regard you?”

“I do not know exactly,” said Henning, cautiously. “You see, he is a great enthusiast for sport and games among us boys. I know I have vexed him by my decision. More than once he asked me to retract it. When I refused to do so, and told him I could give him no reason, he seemed, or at least I fancied he seemed, to be cool toward me.”

“Don't misjudge him, Roy,” said the other, warmly. “It was only yesterday that he advocated your cause to half a dozen pessimistic baseball malcontents. He's all right. Before he had done with these fellows, they held very different views concerning you. Still, he has not influenced all in your favor, for, as you know, not all will take a common-sense view of things, nor listen to reason.”

Henning nodded assent.

“The fact is,” Ambrose continued, “the yard seems to be dividing or divided into two camps. One is pro-Henning, the other contra. Therefore, and I know you will take what I say in the right spirit, I want you to watch yourself and be quite careful in what you say and do.”

“Do you think I shall be attacked?”

Ambrose glanced over the big form of his friend, and laughed loudly.

“Not much. There is no one such a fool as to invite corporal punishment. But there are a dozen means of annoying and vexing without resorting to the lowest means—physical force.”

“I am really very grateful, Ambrose, for the interest you take in me. Be sure that, come what may, you shall never be ashamed of having done so. It seems to me that, without the slightest fault of my own, I am placed in a most awkward position. Come what may, I'll try to do nothing I should afterward regret.”

“That's right. I know you will be careful.”

The two shook hands with the warmth of confident friendship, as they began to retrace their way to the college.

On their way home they were joined by Garrett, who still affected the sky-blue sweater, although he now wore it under his coat. In the presence of Garrett the two friends dropped the subject of their confidences, and the conversation became general.

CHAPTER VII

None entered into the work of remotely preparing for Christmas more heartily than Roy Henning and his friends, Bracebridge, Shealey, and Beecham. There is a certain skill required in decorating. To some this proficiency never comes. It is perhaps an innate quality. It had never come to Roy Henning: He was no decorator. He could neither make a wreath of evergreens, nor cover a device with green stuff creditably.

Owing to this defect of at least a certain kind of artistic temperament, Henning was the subject of a good amount of banter from his friends. He took all their teasing good-naturedly, and admitted his utter inability to make or cover designs.

“I have been thinking—ouch,” said Henning. The last word was spontaneous. It came from sudden pain, caused by the sharp point of a holly leaf penetrating his finger, which member he immediately applied to his mouth.

“By my halidom,” remarked Shealey, “'tis strange,”

“Don't do it again,” laughed Bracebridge, “but learn from experience what an awful and immediate retribution follows upon such a crime. Hast lost much blood in this encounter?”

“I think each of you fellows has a screw loose," retorted Roy, still sucking his wounded finger. “I am sure Shealey is non compos mentis.”

“Sane enough to keep holly thorns out of our fingers,” retorted Shealey.

“But, fellows, I really have an idea,” said Henning.

“Halt! Attention! Stand at ease! Dismiss company!" shouted Beecham with mock gravity, and then with a military salute, he said:

“Now, colonel, I am all attention. What is it?”

“It's this, boys. It wants but five days to Christmas. Between now and the great day all our Christmas boxes will have arrived.”

“There's nothing very new in that idea,” answered Jack Beecham. “History, just at this time of the year, has the pleasantest way in the world of repeating itself.”

“You'll be accused of having brains, Jack,” said Henning, “if you keep on that way. If it is not too great a waste of gray matter, or too violent a cerebration for you, just try to listen to me for a moment.”

Jack Beecham fell against the wall, and fanned himself with his handkerchief.

“Poor fellow! Isn't it too bad! and so near the holidays, too,” he said. “Does any one know when the first symptoms appeared?”Jack turned to Shealey and Bracebridge. “Hadn't we better call an ambulance at once?”

“You'll need one if you don't stop your nonsense and listen to me,” said Roy, and he doubled up his great fist. His friends knew Roy's blows, although given only in jest, and having no desire for sore bones for Christmas, they were immediately all attention. Henning laughingly relaxed his muscles and allowed his hands to fall to his sides.

“I thought I could bring you fellows to reason," he remarked.

“We are all attention. Say on, say on,” they shouted.

“My idea is this, then. When we get our Christmas boxes, we shall each have much more than we need. Now you know the Little Sisters of the Poor maintain a large number of men and women in their institution. Without any settled income, don't you think it must often be a difficult matter for them to secure enough for the old people to eat and drink?”

“Never thought anything about it. Guess it's true, though; but how does that affect us?”

“Just this way,” said Roy. “Let us ask every boy to give something out of his abundance to provide a feast for the old people.”

“Capital idea,” shouted Bracebridge. “I do not believe there is a boy who would refuse.”

“I agree with you,” said Jack.

“But the difficulty is,” remarked Ambrose, “that we can not feast old folk on cake and nuts and candy. I suppose this is about all that comes in those boxes.”

“You mistake,” remarked Roy. “I am sure you will find all sorts of cooked meats—turkeys, chickens, geese, and an unlimited supply of canned meats and delicacies.”

Bracebridge was surprised, but then he had not much experience in college Christmas boxes. He was inclined to be slightly incredulous. This was Ambrose's second year at St. Cuthbert's. As he had spent the previous Christmas at home, owing to the fact that he lived but a few miles from the college, he had not yet seen the college sights of Christmas time.

Had he seen the hundreds of Christmas boxes arrive a few days before the great feast; had he learned that one of the smaller study-halls had to be converted into a temporary boxroom for the holidays; had he seen the contents of an average Christmas-box from home, he would have been possessed by no doubt as to the possibility of the boys, presuming they were willing, to supply the inmates of the home for the aged poor with as bounteous a dinner as heart could desire.

The proposal appealed to the fancy of our friends. They went at once to the President to obtain the necessary permission.

“I give you leave willingly,” said the head of the college, “and I am pleased to see my boys cultivating a spirit of charity and considerateness for others. It will bring down God's blessing on you all.”

“Father, it wasn't our idea at all,” said Jack. “It originated with——”

“We have another permission to ask, Father," interrupted Roy Henning.

“What next?”said the President, smiling.

“We would like to be allowed to go and serve the dinner to the old people some day during the Christmas week.”

“Dear me! What would three hundred and fifty boys do there?”

“I don't mean everybody, Father.”

“Whom, then?”

“Just enough to serve all their tables.”

“How many inmates are there in the Home?" asked the Father.

“About two hundred, I believe,” replied Beecham.

“Very well, Henning; you may select two dozen boys to go with you.”

“Thank you, Father. When may the feast take place?”

“Christmas day falls on Monday this year. Suppose you arrange matters for Wednesday. But Wednesday night there is to be the Seniors' play, isn't there?”

“Yes, Father,” said Bracebridge, “but I do not think that will interfere. We can have the last rehearsal in the morning, if necessary, or we can be back by three o'clock in the afternoon.”

“Very good,” said the genial President; “arrange everything with your prefect; but remember the matter drops unless the response is generous among the students. It would not do to send half a feast.”

“There won't be any danger of that, Father,” said Jack Beecham confidently.

“Very well. God bless you for your charitable intentions,” and they were dismissed.

Beecham was correct. The students, almost to a man, became enthusiastic over the proposed feast. Abundance of provisions from the boys' boxes was donated. Every boy, instinct with the spirit of the season, gave something and gave it willingly. Some were offended because they were not allowed to give as much as their generosity prompted. One or two who were inadvertently neglected were very much vexed over not being asked to give their share. Many wondered why the beautiful idea had not occurred to them before. Others were so certain in advance of the success of the banquet that they then and there proposed to make it an annual occurrence.

The little black wagon of the Sisters—and who does not know those wagons! a familiar sight in nearly every city in the Union—made several trips to the college on the Wednesday of Christmas week. Hitherto the boys had paid little attention to this vehicle as it daily drove modestly to the door of the kitchen. On this day it came triumphantly into the boys' yard, amid the lusty cheers of the generous-hearted lads. Even old “Mike,” the driver, noted everywhere in town for his delicious brogue, was an object of special interest.

Owing to the excitement of the occasion—the boys afterward declared this most solemnly—the driver performed the remarkable feat of making the old gray mare, which had seen almost as many years as her driver, canter, actually, positively canter, up to the classroom door where the provisions were stored. In the after-discussion of this startling event authentic documents were called for, and as they were not forthcoming the cantering incident remains an historic doubt until this day. This old gray mare was known——

The boys would not let the two nuns load the wagon. There were too many strong arms and willing hands for that. At last all the boxes were on the wagon, and old “Mike” mounted his chariot once more. This was a slow operation, for the old man's joints were stiff and he was no longer active. When one of the boys put the lines into his knotted rheumatic fingers, he broke through his usual taciturnity and said:

“You are good boys: good boys. God bless yees all.”

“Three cheers for Mike,” shouted a lively youngster in the crowd. The signal was taken up, and it is safe to say that the old man never received such an ovation before in all his life.

As the leather curtain fell the cheering boys caught a last glimpse of the faces of two smiling Sisters, jubilant over the fact that they were carrying home an unwonted treasure for their old people. When the wagon had driven clear of the mob of good-natured boys, Jack Beecham ran alongside, and lifting the flap said to the Sisters:

“Twenty of us are coming by eleven o'clock to-morrow. So you are to do no work. We are going to set the tables and serve the old people. Please tell the Mother-Superior that she and the Sisters are to stand by and give the orders, and we will do the rest.”

And the feast itself! What a revelation the inside of the convent was to these gay, careless, happy boys. The sight of so much pain and suffering and dependence and resignation was to them a revelation indeed.

To Ambrose Bracebridge, who eagerly accepted the invitation to don an apron and turn waiter for the occasion, the scene was one of absorbing interest. It will be remembered by those who have read the second book of the series of three which deal with the fortunes of the St. Cuthbert's students, that at this time Ambrose was a convert to Catholicism of about six months' standing, and consequently had seen little or nothing of the workings of the vast fields of practical charity within the Catholic Church. The immense Catholic charities of almost every imaginable kind which dot the land are so familiar to ordinary Catholics that they scarcely cause comment or notice. To Ambrose Bracebridge all was new and wonderful. As a waiter on the old people he did not prove a success. He did not do much serving, but spent most of his time watching the old people feasting, and the good Sisters looking after their comfort.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said the chaplain of the institution as he came up to Ambrose.

“I was thinking, Father,” said Ambrose, amid the rattle of knives and forks, “what a wonderful charity this is.”

“Yes? What impresses you most deeply?”

“The retiring modesty of the Sisters, I think, and the wonderful way they have of managing these old people.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, I am impressed with the docility and evident gratitude these old people show toward the Sisters. How is the institution supported, Father?”

“By the charity of all classes. Have you not often seen the Sisters' modest wagon on the streets? It seems to me that this one charity has touched the tender spot in the heart of the American people. Did you ever know a merchant, or a hotel manager, Catholic or non-Catholic, to refuse the Sisters?”

“Never,” replied the boy.

“Yet, after all, this is Catholic charity working in only one direction. Did you ever realize what the Catholic Church is doing for the State in this country? It seems to me that the State would be simply overwhelmed if all the Catholic orphanages, asylums, hospitals, academies, protectories, deaf-mute institutes, and, above all, the vast system of parochial schools, which make, literally, a network of Catholic charity over the land—if, I say, all these were closed and the State had to do the work.”

“Some, of pessimistic view,” continued the chaplain, who was evidently quite optimistic in his own views, “are always grumbling over the fact that many non-Catholic institutions of learning are so richly endowed, and that Catholics of the country are doing nothing for education. I believe there never was a greater mistake. It is true that, as yet, there are few large Catholic endowments. They will come in time. The money paid by Catholics in the interest of Catholic education—and, mind you, at the same time they are paying their pro rata share of taxes for the support of all secular institutions, including the public schools—the money paid by Catholics, I say, throughout the country, makes a magnificent showing when compared to the few highly endowed secular universities.”

“Is not this a rather optimistic view, Father?" asked Bracebridge.

“I do not think so,” was the reply. “Ponder over it, and you will see that what I say is correct.”

“Here, you lazy rascal—oh! excuse me, Father—here, Ambrose, you lazy rascal, get some of that cranberry sauce from that table. You would not earn your salt as a waiter, Brosie,” and Roy Henning, red-faced and excitedly busy, laughingly pushed Ambrose in the direction of the sideboard.

Thus the talk with the chaplain was abruptly broken off. Nevertheless, Bracebridge had received much food for thought for future days. He pondered to good effect, and the result was that his graduation speech at the end of that year was on “Catholicity, a State Aid,” which was subsequently the cause of much comment.

One event occurred during the old folks' dinner which was of great interest to some of our friends. Roy Henning, during the latter part of the feast, when the demand for the services of the voluntary waiters was not so urgent, frequently passed a few words with the chaplain who had acted as a sort of honorary general superintendent of the banquet.

On one of these occasions Jack Beecham happened to be passing with a plate of fruit for the table in one direction, and Bracebridge was carrying something in the opposite. Both were near enough to inadvertently hear portions of what appeared to the priest to be a very interesting revelation. Both boys heard the end of a sentence:

“Seminary! You?”

“Yes, Father, please God.”

“When?”

“Next year.”

“For this diocese?”

“No, my own.”

“Ah! I am sorry.”

Bracebridge and Beecham exchanged glances as they passed each other. What a revelation was here for both in regard to Henning's conduct. Did not this explain a thousand things?

As soon as the services of the two amateur waiters could be dispensed with, they came together in one corner of the room, and while wiping their fingers on the aprons the thoughtful Sisters had provided for them, they eagerly discussed their accidental discovery, but in a rather curious fashion.

“Please, Brosie, give me a good kick,” said Jack.

“Why?” asked his companion.

“Just to think, numskulls that we are, that we never thought just this about dear old Roy.”

“I do not see how we could. Roy never gave us the slightest hint.”

“No, but if we were not such ninnies—Oh! I say, Ambrose, do you think it is true?”

“No doubt of it. 'Seminary—next year—his own diocese' tells the tale most conclusively for me.”

“I'm so glad! If any one of us fellows is worthy of being a priest, it surely is Roy.”

“Amen. But why has he kept it such a secret? Now all his actions are clear to me, although I confess I think some of them are mistaken or ill-advised.”

“I won't admit that until I know more,” remarked loyal Jack.

“That's right, too. But knowing what we now know, we can make things much pleasanter for Roy than they have been so far this year.”

“Yes; if only for that I am glad we were involuntary eavesdroppers.”

CHAPTER VIII

Before the curtain, much expectancy; behind it a much larger amount of suppressed excitement. Some of the actors were busy scanning over their lines for the last time, and with regretful haste, sorry now that they had not taken more to heart the advice of the trainer and committed them to memory better. Others were thronging around the busy make-up man, getting into his way, and—as always happens—upsetting the spirit-gum used to fasten on artificial mustaches and beards.

Roy Henning, in the scarlet robe and white fur tippet of Richelieu, nervously tugged at a blue silk ribbon which was around his neck, and patiently waited his turn for his make-up.

Shealey was De Mauprat and looked well in a black velvet suit. Ambrose Bracebridge had a decidedly comical appearance in a Capuchin's brown habit and cord, with fleshlings and sandals, as the monk, Joseph. Ernest Winters, who this year had been promoted to the large yard, was to impersonate Richelieu's page, François, and certainly his brother Claude would have been proud of him could he have seen at this moment how fine he looked in his handsome doublet and trunks.

The play had been slightly modified to allow of its presentation by college students. The Julie de Mortemar had been for this occasion metamorphosed in Julius de Mortemar, and was consequently nephew instead of niece of the great cardinal. The adaptation of the lines had been cleverly done, so the transposition of this character did not greatly injure the play.

Behind the curtain the actors could hear faintly the squeakings and tunings of the orchestra violins. Presently the first overture began, and the actors knew their time had come. The manager, with a commendable horror of delays and stage waits, and knowing that anything of that kind would ruin the very best production, had everything arranged for the opening scene when the music ceased.

The manager's little bell rings once, twice, and up rises the curtain on the drinking scene in Marion de Lorme's house. The great play of the year had begun. Is it not strange that so many really good plays open with a drinking or carousing scene? At best, there is nothing elevating in them, and it takes the finest kind of professionalism to make them even tolerable. The St. Cuthbert's college boys were not professionals. The consequence was that the first scene went but slowly.

It was not until Henning, magnificently costumed as Richelieu, entered, in the second scene, that any of the players appeared at their ease. The round of applause which greeted his entrance with Joseph seemed to steady the actors and give them confidence.

There now occurred a strange thing during this scene, which led to much talk and fruitless speculation for many subsequent days. Henning made a good entrance. He began his lines in a rich baritone:

Just as Henning had finished the rendering of the sentence, “That where the lion's skin fell short he eked it out with the fox's,” there was heard from the far right-hand corner of the hall a loud, distinct sound—one word. Clear and resonant, every one in the hall and the actors on the stage heard it distinctly. As nearly as letters will represent the sound it was “UGH,” The intonation of the one syllable was such as to convey without doubt to the hearers that the perpetrator regarded the words of the cardinal as practically applicable to the actor himself.

Many heads were momentarily turned in the direction whence the sound had come. Henning himself gave a rapid glance to the corner of the hall. As he did so, he saw his cousin Garrett drop his head and look fixedly at the floor.

Boys at a Christmas play do not usually fix their gaze on the floor. Henning felt that, for some reason or other, his cousin had made the interruption. For what purpose? Roy could not imagine. That it was Garrett there was no shadow of a doubt, for the actor plainly recognized the blue sweater his cousin wore constantly. Perhaps after all this time, thought Roy, his cousin was now trying to “get even” with him, as he had promised, for refusing to accompany Garrett to that carpet dance during the summer. Roy loyally put this thought out of his mind, but in doing this he was more mystified than ever, as it left him without a motive which could explain the curious action.

Fortunately for the success of the play the intended interruption, and probably intended insult, did not sufficiently distract Henning to the extent of spoiling the scene. There was a pause but for a moment. "A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander," he repeated, and thus recovering himself, the play went on without further interruption to a most successful finish.

The next day the attempted spoiling of the scene was the general subject of conversation. Many boys were uncertain who made the attempt. Henning did not refer to the matter when Garrett approached him. He accepted the many congratulations without evidence of either pleasure or displeasure, merely politely bowing. He appeared indifferent to praise or blame from his cousin. When, however, among his own special coterie of friends he was by no means passive.

After breakfast the Philosophers met in their own classroom, which, as we have before stated, was a sort of clubroom for them. Everybody crowded around Roy. Some shook his hand vigorously, others patted him patronizingly on the shoulders, assuring him that he was “the stuff” without deigning to explain their use of that word; others, in their enthusiasm, thumped him on the back, and Ernest Winters, who because he had taken part in the play, had been allowed to come up to the classroom, presented him, amid the profoundest salaams, with a bouquet of paper flowers surrounded by cabbage leaves which he had purloined from the kitchen.

“Ye done rale good, an' this is fer yees,” said the young rascal.

“He did that,” said Jack Beecham, and turning to Roy he continued: “If I knew who it was who tried to rattle you, I would——”

“What?”asked Roy.

“I would—would punch his head,” replied Jack, and manner, look, and gesture showed how pugilistic were his inclinations at that moment.

“Who was it, Roy?”he continued, “I wasn't on the stage just at that time, you know.”

“I do not know,” replied Henning slowly.

“Mental reservation,” said Bracebridge laughing.

“I do not know,” repeated Roy, and his friends could get no more out of him.

“By the way,” said George McLeod, “are you going to finish taking the subscriptions for the pitcher's cage to-day, Roy?”

“Yes,” answered Roy. “The boys seem to have plenty of money now, and we want only about twenty-six dollars more.”

“That's splendid,” said George, “we must have that cage ready by the time classes begin again after the Christmas holidays.”

“That reminds me,” said Henning, aside to Ambrose Bracebridge, “that I forgot to take that money out of the table-drawer and place it with the treasurer. I intended to do it every day for several days past, but every time I put more money in I forget all about it.”

A shade of vexation passed over Bracebridge's bright features. He said:

“I am sorry you forgot. It would be much safer with the treasurer of the college. But I suppose it's all right, anyway.”

“I have seven dollars in my pocket now belonging to the fund. Let us go over to the playroom, boys, and I will unlock the drawer and take the money to the treasurer for safe-keeping.”

The group of boys left the classroom and went diagonally across the yard to the playroom, which was situated under a large study-hall, and was a half-basement room.

There were about two dozen boys in the playroom when our friends entered it. As Roy passed up the long room, first one and then another complimented the Richelieu of the previous evening on his fine acting. Roy's cheeks flushed with pleasure. There was some of that semiconscious gentleness of perfect success about him. He was experiencing some of the pleasantest moments he had ever spent at St. Cuthbert's.

Jack Beecham took the key from Roy and unlocked the door of the sports-committee room. The group that had recently left the classroom entered, those in the playroom paying little attention to them. Boys were accustomed to see various groups enter the small room for the purpose of discussing various sporting events and conditions of the college games.

“How much have you collected, Roy?”asked Tom Shealey.

“About seventy-two dollars—seventy-nine with this in my pocket. Wait; we'll see in a minute.”

He felt in his pocket for a small bunch of keys, but could not find them.

“There! I have left my keys in my desk. Wait a moment, boys, and I'll be back,” and he started for the classroom.

“What a dastardly thing that attempt last night was,” said one of the company.

“I guess Roy knows who it was well enough," remarked Tom Shealey, “but cousin or no cousin, if he did such a thing to me, I would have to get a very satisfactory explanation, or by the nine gods he would pay dearly for it.”

“But Henning is too generous to take any further notice of it,” said a boy named White, “but I wonder whether Mr. Shalford will move in the matter at all.”

“Haven't the least idea,” said Shealey. “I do not see what he could do exactly. It seems to me it were better to let the matter drop, and I am sure that is Roy's wish too. Treat it with the silent contempt it deserves.”

Which speech shows that Shealey was not always consistent.

Ambrose agreed with him, although at the time he was furiously angry. As Joseph in the play he was close to Richelieu, and beneath the disguising grease-paint on Henning's face he saw the hot flushes of passion rise, for a moment. Ambrose thought that Roy was going to address the interrupter, but he saw him check himself in time to save a scene that would indeed have been memorable.

“Go on, Roy,” Ambrose had whispered. “A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander.”

Henning took the cue from Ambrose, and although trembling with suppressed indignation his friend knew the play was saved.

“Where on earth is that Roy all this time?”asked Beecham.

Just at that moment that young man reappeared, red, and out of breath.

“Oh! I say, fellows, forgive me for keeping you waiting so long, but Mr. Shalford caught me in the yard, and—and, really, he was very complimentary.”

“Is he going to find out who attempted the interruption last night?”asked young McLeod.

“Not if I can help it, George,” replied Roy.

CHAPTER IX

“That's what you say, Jack,” answered Roy good-naturedly; "I would like to see you do as well, anyway.”

Jack Beecham was not in earnest. Henning had caught him winking to the others while decrying his work.

“Well,” continued Roy, as he put his hand again into the drawer, “I would not ask Mr. John Beauchamps—to draw—for me—a—a barn door—Great heavens! Where's that money! I can't feel it anywhere in the drawer,”

All this time Henning's forearm was in the drawer and his fingers were nervously searching for the bag.

“Give yourself more room. Open the drawer wider, you goose,” said Beecham.

Henning pushed back his chair so suddenly that it fell. He pulled out the drawer to its full length. Then taking out the contents of the drawer he put them excitedly on the table. There was a large leather blotter, with pouches, a pad of athletic club letterheads, a lot of spoiled half sheets of foolscap, about a quire of clean paper, and a few small miscellaneous articles.

“Did you have the money in a purse?”asked Bracebridge, who could not keep his anxiety out of his voice.

“No; it was in one if those yellow bank canvas bags.”

“Look again through the pile of papers and be sure it is not there.”

They all searched. The money was gone.

Those who saw Henning at that moment pitied him from the bottom of their hearts. For a few seconds he stood as one dazed. When he realized the force of the catastrophe which had happened to him he turned ghastly pale. His lips became livid. Around them were distinct white lines.

For a moment the six boys stood in perfect silence. Ambrose Bracebridge seemed afraid to look at his friend.

Henning stood as one dazed, not at present seeming to realize all of the untoward thing that had happened to him. It seemed to him as if he were under water and could not breathe. He panted for breath. A moment or two later a reaction set in and the blood rushed to his head, making his sight waver and his temples throb, and reddening his face to crimson. He felt as if he were falling forward, yet he remained motionless.

“Fetch Mr. Shalford, Ernest, but tell him nothing. Say we want him at once,” whispered Bracebridge to young Winters. The boy slipped out noiselessly and it is doubtful if any one except the last speaker noticed or knew of his departure. In half a minute Mr. Shalford came in. As he pushed the door open he saw the standing group, and began to laugh.

“High tragics, eh? Are you all posing for a tableau? Where's the camera? What! What on earth is the matter with you boys? Speak some of you; what has happened?”

They certainly did look a lot of frightened boys. Suddenly Roy regained the power of speech. With a full realization of his own predicament he threw up his hands in a despairing attitude.

“Oh, oh, oh! I shall be branded as a thief,”

Then he dropped on his knees and buried his face in his arms on the table.

“That's quite dramat——”again began Mr. Shalford, but suddenly checked himself. He now saw there was something woefully wrong.

A moment before Roy Henning had a strong inclination to burst out laughing at his ridiculous position, but his self-control was too great to permit him to give way to the nervous hilarity of misfortune. Just as Mr. Shalford entered the room the thought flashed across his mind of the consequences at home for him. What would his stern father say! Then a momentary thought of his mother's grief—and he gave way.

Who can blame him? Roy was as yet only a boy, after all. At present he lacked the stability and poise of later years. Fifteen or twenty years later he would have borne the crash of a financial misfortune with a certain kind of equanimity. But he was young yet, living in boy-world, with all a boy's thoughts and feelings. And he wept. Do not blame him. It is more than probable that under the same circumstances you and I, and a hundred others, if we ever had a spark of boy nature, or boy feeling about us, would have done the same, and not thought it derogatory either.

Mr. Shalford, putting his hand on Roy's shoulder in a kindly way, said:

“What is wrong, Roy? What has happened? Your friends do not want to see you in this way.”

The poor boy raised his head from his arm.

“It's gone. The money's gone. My character is ruined,”

“That is not so, my boy. Be sensible. No one in his senses will ever accuse you. How much was taken?”

“All, sir, except seven dollars in my pocket.”

“But how much?”

“Seventy-two dollars.”

“Dear me! dear me! Seventy-two dollars! Why did you keep so large a sum in a place like this, Roy?”

“If I had a particle of common-sense I would have taken Bracebridge's advice long ago. He recommended putting it away safely two weeks ago, but I forgot to do it. What a fool I was—fool! fool,”

“Don't say that, my boy. Come, cheer up. There is not a shadow of moral wrong for you in the whole affair. It's a misfortune for you, truly. You can bear that bravely. We may catch the thief yet.”

“Yes; but, sir, I shall be suspected. Many fellows will point the finger at me. Oh!—oh! I think I had better go home and give up all my plans.”

Give up all his plans! In the bitterness of his heart he thought that all was ruined, that the secret hopes of a vocation were now irretrievably lost, character gone, opportunities wasted. Well, Roy Henning was not the first and will not be the last of those who, when sudden misfortune comes, grow exceedingly pessimistic and want to give up. This was the first great grief of Roy's life. All the petty annoyances he had suffered from Garrett and his undesirable clique sank into insignificance in the face of this overwhelming calamity. Oh, why had he not followed Bracebridge's advice, and, days ago, put the money out of his own keeping!

“Yes,” he said again, “I think I had better leave——”

“No, no, no, no, Roy,” came the chorus from his friends.

“If you do so, now, Roy,” said Mr. Shalford, who motioned silence to the others, “you make the mistake of your life. You give your enemies—I mean those ill-disposed toward you, if there are any—a free field, and unlimited opportunities to vilify you. You can not, you must not go.”

“But I must.”

“No, no, you must not, Roy.”

“But I must, sir. Oh, I can't stand it,”

“Well, if you must, think over your friends' sorrow at such a course.”

“Sir?”asked the bewildered boy, not at all understanding.

“I say, think of our sorrow, your friend's sorrow at such a step. And, Roy, think of your mother's sorrow! A son with a blighted name! Don't you see that by running away now you make a tacit confession of some guilt? No, you must not go,”

Long ago Mr. Shalford had surmised what were Henning's intentions and aspirations for a future career. He saw this affair would be an occasion of trying the very soul of the boy before him, and that it would either make or break him. He thought, and correctly, that he knew the character of the youth now in such deep trouble, and he was anxious that he should make no false step. He looked Roy straight in the eye, and said seriously:

“Definitely, you must not go,” and then, as calmly as he had spoken before, he made use of a somewhat enigmatic expression: “Eagles live on mountain heights where storms are strongest.”

A quick glance from Henning told the prefect that the boy understood him, and the saying also told the boy that the prefect had divined his intention accurately. Mr. Shalford had thought the words and the glance would be understood by himself and Henning only. In this he was mistaken. Two boys, who had overheard Roy's words to the chaplain at the Little Sisters, understood perfectly.

“Very well, sir. I stay,” said Roy.

“That is right; that is sensible,” said Mr. Shalford, but in a moment Henning burst out, with an agony in his voice that was piteous:

“Oh, the shame of being suspected! What shall I do! What shall I do,”

“Let me think what is best to do,” said Mr. Shalford, who walked up and down the room once or twice. He realized that it was a critical moment in Henning's life, and he wanted to gain a little time. He decided that it was wisest to get Henning away from the scene of his misfortune at least for a few hours.

“What you will do now is this, all of you. You—Henning, Bracebridge, Beecham, and Shealey, will go out at once for a long tramp, buy your dinners somewhere, and do not come home till dark. Have you plenty of money?”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir, lots of it,” answered the delighted three who were not in trouble.

“I don't think——”began the despondent Henning.

“That's right; just now do not think,” said the energetic prefect. “It will do no good. Walk and talk instead. Come home tired out, all of you.”

Three out of the group were enthusiastic over the plan. But there were two other very long faces just then. George McLeod and Ernest Winters were not included in the generous proposal.

“I say, Mr. Shalford, may not the kids come, too?”asked Tom Shealey.

“The kids! Whom do you mean?”and the prefect turned and saw two very disconsolate faces. He thought for a moment.

“Let—me—see. Records clear, Ernest? George?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the two, their hopes rising.

“How were your notes in the Christmas competitions?”

“Pretty good, sir, eighty-two,” answered Ernest.

“Fine, sir, mine were eighty-nine,” answered McLeod for himself.

In the meantime Mr. Shalford had caught Henning's eye. By a slight raising of his eyelids he wordlessly inquired if the company of these smaller boys would be acceptable. Roy answered by an almost imperceptible affirmative movement of the head.

“Very well, then,” the prefect said, “I suppose you both may go, too, but it's only another weakness on my part, letting small boys out all day. You big boys must take care of them.”

“Whoop,” shouted Ernest vociferously, and even the disconsolate Henning smiled at Ernest's resemblance in voice and manner to Claude, his brother, especially under stress of any pleasurable excitement.

“Of course I will set about investigating this money matter at once,” resumed Mr. Shalford, “and you six here had better keep the whole matter a secret, at least for a time.”

This injunction was useless. The prefect, this time, had reckoned without his host. At his own exclamation of surprise at the discovery of the theft, several boys who were in the large playroom, crowded around the door, unobserved by the prefect, whose back was toward them. Already the fact was known in the yard to some extent. Already had little excited groups begun to discuss the startling event.

CHAPTER X

“H—hm! Have a good time, eh? Well, that's right. You can all be trusted. Hope you will enjoy yourselves. Wait. Where are your skates? If I were you I would take them with me. In your journeying you may come across a frozen pond, and then you would regret being without them.”

“That's a good idea, Father. We will go back and get them,” said Jack.

“Do, and meet me here before you start.”

The boys turned back into the yard, and the President went to his office. A few minutes later he met the boys. He was carrying a good sized parcel.

“Were you not some of the charitable boys who, out of their abundance, provided the old folks with a feast yesterday?”

Not one of those engaged in that enterprise answered, but Ernest Winters said:

“Yes, Father, these four big fellows were some of them and I think they are all a set of mean fellows.”

The four, and the President, too, looked surprised.

“Why do you think that, my child?”he asked.

“Because they didn't give any of us smaller boys a chance to give anything toward the feast.”

The four big “mean” fellows burst into a laugh.

“Never mind, Ernie, this time,” said Jack Beecham, “we had too much anyway. You shall have a chance for the next spread.”

The President smiled at Ernest's vehemence, and at the nature of his charge.

“On your way,” he said to Henning, “I want you to call at the Little Sisters and give them this package. I learned last night that although your dinner there was a great success yesterday, still there are many poor creatures, both men and women, who are in the infirmaries and could not attend. Here are a couple of boxes of cigars for these old men, and two boxes of candy for the old women.”

The boys were delighted to be given such a mission. A bright smile of welcome spread over the features of the Sister who answered the door, when she saw these college boys again.

“Come into the parlor, young gentlemen, and I will call Mother.”

The Superioress soon came. She was profuse in her thanks for what the students had done that week for her charges.

“May God bless you all,” she said. “Our old people, since yesterday's dinner, have done nothing but talk about the kindness of the young gentlemen in remembering them. Many extravagantly funny, and some really comical things were said in your praise,” and the nun's eyes twinkled and a smile stole around the corners of her mouth at the remembrance of many a quaint bit of Irish humor from the old men.

“Oh, tell us some of the things, Mother,” said the impetuous young Winters.

“I am unable to reproduce any of it. I should only spoil it if I were to attempt it. You must come and hear them yourselves some day.”

Henning then told her their mission.

“Please convey my thanks to the President. All of you must visit the infirmaries and distribute the gifts.”

Whether this is what the President intended—we are inclined to think it is—that visit was the very best thing that could have happened to Henning in his present frame of mind. There is nothing like witnessing the sorrow and misery of others to make us think less of our own. For the first time in his life Henning was face to face and in close touch with pain and suffering and disease and all the calamities of impoverished old age. What was a misfortune like his to that of being doubled and rendered helpless by rheumatism? Here one was totally blind, but marvelously patient. There another whose distorted hands rendered her powerless to help herself. Another had to be lifted and tended and fed as a little child in the helplessness of old age and years of sickness. Yet all, under the fostering charity of the nuns, were clean, docile, grateful, and as cheerful as their condition would permit. Yes, the visit was very beneficial to Henning.

It is true that Roy's greatest distress was, after all, in the anticipation of what was to come. He knew there were many who were by no means kindly disposed toward him. Would these set afloat rumors and reports? Would they attempt to blacken his character? He greatly feared they would.

The chagrin caused by having lost the money entrusted to him through want of a little prudential forethought, or through mere forgetfulness of what he had the intention of doing, was bad enough. The imputations and the innuendos he dreaded far more. He realized that life could be made very bitter for him. But after all, what was all he might have to suffer, even granting the gloomiest view of the future to be the actual one, in comparison to the chronic and hopeless pains of these poor people in the Sisters' infirmaries?

He left the convent in a much more cheerful frame of mind than he had experienced since the discovery of the theft. His companions gladly saw the change. They did their utmost during the long tramp over the hills, by quip and prank and song and jest, to make the time pass pleasantly.

It was a splendid day for a winter's walk. It is true there was no sun, but neither was there a breath of cold air stirring. There was an even gray sky, a motionless atmosphere, and just sufficient snow to accentuate the beauties of a winter landscape, but not enough to envelop everything in an indiscriminating white pall. It was an ideal winter day in which to be outdoors.

The fresh snow that had fallen during the night and early morning remained on the trees, loading down every branch and twig. The well-known bridle-path through the woods, along which the boys passed merrily, had a double carpet, the upper one of snow, and beneath that a spreading of dry autumn leaves.

The great charm of a windless snow-covered forest is the absolute silence that prevails. Nothing was heard by the travelers save the distant occasional bark of a shepherd-dog, or a far-off train whistle, sounding like a dismal appeal for help, and subconsciously regarded by the hearers as an irreverent intrusion upon the silence of the solitude. Once in a while from an overweighted bough the soft snow would fall, but with a muffled sound as if fearful of breaking nature's sabbath calm.

As the boys traveled merrily on, here and there they saw the “vestigia” of birds or rabbits, and once they discovered what they supposed to be deer tracks in the snow. Descending to a pretty hollow they saw a scene which delighted them immensely. In the bottom of the hollow, which in the summer time was a beautiful glade in the forest, there was standing out alone with a clear space around it, a magnificent snow-laden spruce tree. Each graceful downward curve of the limbs sustained its load of pure white snow. The symmetry of the forest king was unmarred, but appeared glorified by its covering of whiteness.

The six were enraptured. They gazed long at the beautiful sight and would have delayed much longer had not Jack Beecham, who had assumed a temporary leadership of the excursion, warned them of the unwisdom of staying too long in one place.

A little farther along they saw an ideal winter scene. A large, comfortable farmhouse, with all the sheds and barns of a well-kept farm, lay at their feet under a mantle of white. From the broad chimney arose a straight column of blue smoke, telling of warmth within. In the barnyard were several head of comfortable looking sheep and fat cattle were contentedly ruminating in the shelter of a huge straw stack. One of the inmates of this cosy looking farmhouse had, probably unconsciously, added the last touch to complete the artistic effect of this scene of gray and white. In the door yard on a clothesline were three or four brilliantly red woolen shirts which heightened by contrast the more somber colors of the scene.

“That's our Mecca if the fates be propitious,” said Tom Shealey, as the boys were viewing the scene here described from an elevated point at least a mile away.

“It is a comfortable looking house and doubtless has a well-stocked larder. I wonder if the Dowsibel of the Kitchen could be induced to turn a spit for us.”

“'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,” observed Beecham, “for already I believe I could eat a couple of sheep and a Michaelmas goose.”

The boys had already walked a good seven miles. All were beginning to feel tired and to realize the necessity of a good meal.

“Suppose we can not be entertained there?”suggested Ernest Winters.

“Then we shall have to tramp on till we find a place where we can be—perhaps ten miles more," said Roy Henning teasingly.

“O—oh,” groaned Ernest. Roy laughed.

“Well, do not despair, little one. Nine miles from here I know of a wayside hostelry where we may perhaps get some year old crackers and eggs, with an apology for coffee, and have the privilege of paying Delmonico prices.”