"As Gold in the Furnace" : A College Story

“Oh, oh! Nine miles—oh! Sixteen miles and crackers! Oh,” groaned Winters again. All burst out laughing at the comical look of despair Ernest's face had assumed.

“Look here, Ernie,” said Roy again,“if it comes to the worst we can eat our shoes and our skate straps, and our gloves for dessert.”

During their chatter they had continued their walk down the hillside toward the comfortable-looking farm. When about half way down the road they saw a jolly looking, red-faced man—in the clear atmosphere they could easily distinguish his red face—come out of the farmhouse, take his stand on the stoop or veranda, shade his eyes with his hand, and look a long time at the approaching boys.

“We shall know our fate in a few minutes,” said Jack Beecham in a tragic whisper to Ernest. “If we are not welcome he will set his savage dogs on us as soon as we get near enough, and then we shall be hungry orphans out in the cold world, sure enough.”

But no such catastrophe occurred. After gazing a few minutes the man went into the house and closed the door. The boys opened the yard gate with trepidation, fearful of the onslaught of some vicious watchdog, and more afraid than they would have been owing to the rascal Jack's ominous forecast of the possibilities. To their great relief no canine enemy appeared.

All they saw pleased them. There was an air of prosperous, generous plenty everywhere. The hay-mows were bursting with sweet-smelling hay. The wheat barn was congested with unthreshed grain. The cows, pigs, and sheep were fat, and evidently well cared for. Repose was everywhere. In such a place as this, thought Roy, life must be well worth the living.

“Cave canem,” whispered Bracebridge, as he espied the watchdog lying on the porch of the house. This old Roman warning, “Beware of the dog” was, on this occasion, unnecessary, for when the animal saw the visitors he merely wagged his tail and did not take the trouble to stir. He seemed too fat and too contented with life to care about molesting a mere parcel of college boys, and his instinct told him they did not belong to the genus tramp.

As they reached the porch of the house the good-natured looking man who had watched them coming down the hillside opened the door. The boys noticed that he had put on his coat to welcome them. While making his observations he had been in his shirt-sleeves.

“Welcome, young gentlemen. Come right in by the fire,” was his hearty greeting. “Mother, Mother! Here are some young gentlemen from Cuthberton,” he called to some one in the large living-room.

A kind, motherly woman appeared in the doorway. She was clad in a warm homemade linsey dress, with a white handkerchief over her shoulders, and white muslin cuffs to match. A black lace coif surmounted her snow-white hair. The boys saw a very smiling, kindly face in the doorway greeting them.

“Welcome, welcome, my dears. You are welcome. But, please, scrape the snow off your shoes before you come in. I am very particular about that, am I not, Roland?”and she glanced affectionately at the big man beside her.

“Yes, yes, indeed she is,” he remarked humorously. "Would you believe it, gentlemen, she leads me an awful life about my dirty boots—awful—awful,”

“Roland,” said the elderly lady, “how you do talk,”

The husband gave a sly, comical wink to the boys, who immediately understood the nature of the amicable bantering which they soon found was going on constantly between these two.

“Take off your overcoats, my dears, and come up to the fire. You must be cold. There's no wind, but it's near zero. And did ye walk all the way, from St. Cuthbert's College? You must all be tired.”

She saw at once they were college boys.

“Did ye now! Well now! well! well! My! but that's a long way to walk. Roland, go ye and get another hickory back log, and start a good blaze. Now sit ye there and warm yourselves. I'll be back in a minute or two,” and the kindly woman put down her knitting and bustled out of the room.

“This is fine,” said Tom Shealey. “We are in luck for sure.”

“I wonder where she has gone,” ventured Ernest Winters, in a whisper.

“Gone? Um! um! don't you know, youngster?" said Jack Beecham, with a shrug, and a stage whisper. He was a terrible tease. “Better keep your eyes on your skates and overcoat, Ernest. Of course she has gone to gather all the hired men on the farm who will soon be here to drive us off the premises. The ogre of this castle won't stand for any such invasion as ours. You can see it in her eye.”

But Ernest was not to be caught a second time.

“You can't fool me this time, mister. I think—but hush! here she comes.”

She came. With her came two of her maids bearing with them eatables—sweet homemade bread, apparently created to make a hungry schoolboy's mouth water, delicious pats of golden butter, red cheese, and an enormous pitcher of new milk—what a lunch for hungry boys!

“I am very glad you came,” again remarked the dear old lady. “To-day I give the farmhands and the dairy maids a sort of Christmas-week feast. It is a holiday in this house to-day. We don't have dinner to-day until after two o'clock, and as that is late and you must be hungry with your long walk already—- my! it's nigh onto eight miles to the big school, isn't it—you had just better take a snack before dinner-time. Come, sit up to the table, my dears; that is if you are warmed enough.”

The young fellows did not need a second invitation. Hunger is a good sauce. Growing boys are always hungry and the sweet, wholesome farmhouse fare was extremely enticing. Such butter! No oleomargarine there. Were it not, as mentioned before, that boys have a perpetual appetite, I am afraid that the amount of bread, cheese, butter, and milk disposed of would have seriously interfered with the enjoyment of the forthcoming dinner. At all events it wanted considerably over two hours to dinner-time.

CHAPTER XI

“To call the hands to dinner. We have no bells or whistles out here in the country, so we use a horn, or a big shell, which is the next best thing, and I believe it sounds farther. On a still day I have heard this shell five miles away.”

“Come, boys; wash for dinner,” called the motherly housekeeper. They were not allowed in the kitchen while the maids were dishing the dinner. They were taken to a side porch and there shown a rain-barrel and several tin pans and soap. A large round towel hung on a nail close by. The boys enjoyed this primitive method of performing their ablutions.

The dinner was a surprise even to those boys who were not unused to occasional big dinners at home. George McLeod said that never in his life had he seen so large a turkey, but it was found none too large after it had passed the guests and traveled to the end of the table. And the stuffed ham! And the mince pies, and tarts, and rosy apples and nuts, and that old-fashioned plum pudding! Well, we must stop: it is not fair.

There were two wings in the rear of the house which the boys had not noticed when descending the hill in front of the dwelling. To one of these all the maids of the large household retired after dinner, and the farmhands went to the other, where they spent the rest of the afternoon in smoking and enjoyment until it was time to feed and water the stock, milk the cows, and do the other necessary daily farm chores.

Roy Henning and his companions, after the dinner, were invited to sit around the blazing yule log. The old lady sat in the center of the group in an old-fashioned armchair whose back reached some twelve inches above her head, and which had large, broad, comfortable arms. It was well padded and comfortable, and was covered with a serviceable chintz of a soft green color. She sat in the midst of her guests, before the blazing logs, a very picture of content and matronly dignity. Her husband sat next to her, and their guests were arranged on either side.

With fine tact she drew out each boy and made him appear at his best. Although, owing to the generous welcome given them, all reserve and bashfulness had vanished long before the dinner, yet the coziness of a winter afternoon indoors made them chatty and even confidential. They told her of the play the night before and of its success. They found interested listeners in host and hostess.

“I should so like to have been there,” said the old lady. “I am so fond of good dramatic productions. Providing the tone is correct there is no more elevating form of amusement than the drama.”

“Hold on there, mother,” said the husband, “grand opera is finer. In that we get all that dramatic presentation gives, with the addition of excellent music.”

“You know, my dears,” said Mrs. Thorncroft, for that was the old lady's name, “my husband is an enthusiast in matters musical.”

“So is Ernie Winters,” said his friend George McLeod.

“Is that so?” said Mr. Thorncroft, enthusiastically. "Is that so? Well, well! Now I wonder, mother, whether these young gentlemen could not sing some songs for us. Wouldn't that be fine, eh?”

“Jack Beecham can sing, ma'am,” said George again.

“Oh! you keep quiet, youngster,” said Jack.

“I won't. He sings first rate, sir.”

“Capital! Anybody else?”

“Yes,” said Beecham, “George McLeod there, who is so fond of getting other people into difficulty, can sing, too.”

McLeod shook his fist at Jack. But it was well known that he had a good voice.

Then, to the infinite delight of the musical farmer, songs and glees and madrigals and rounds were sung. It was an impromptu concert, but of no mean order, for the lads were well trained and had a good stock of songs. They wished, properly, to make a return in some way for the kindly treatment they had received and were still receiving. “Holy Night" was given, and “Good King Wenceslaus,” and “God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen," “Angels We Have Seen and Heard,” and many others. Then followed the college songs, and the concert was closed with the old favorite of St. Cuthbert's, the “O Sanctissima.”

When the singing had ceased there was a momentary silence, during which the six boys exchanged signals and glances. Suddenly there were two very startled people in the company around the ingle nook. The old lady half arose from her chair in consternation and amazement. Her husband stared in wonder when he heard such a vociferous and unexpected sound. Had the boys gone crazy? Certainly the old people, kind and hospitable as they were, for at least one minute thought so. Such an unearthly noise! It resembled nothing so much as a wild Indian warcry.

After all it was only the college yell.

In the school days of Mr. and Mrs. Thorncroft no such thing had ever been dreamed of. Living now in seclusion out in the country amid plenty and a certain rustic refinement, this elderly couple had never heard that modern accomplishment of a college man—the yell. It may be exhilarating to the college man; its use may be within the modern bounds of propriety, and it may, among the coteries of the more advanced, be considered the correct thing; but it is certain that the old lady, who had been educated in a French convent in her youth, hearing the yell for the first time did not think so. Her unformulated idea, judging from her looks, was that it was an indication of atavism—a going back, in one particular—to man's former state of savagery.

The boys were amused at her surprise. She then saw that it was something done for her entertainment. They evidently thought it was something very fine. These lads lacked, just now, what one may call perspective. They lacked the proper appreciation of the correctness, or fitness, of things. They knew the college yell was the most enthusing thing on earth to them when used on the campus in a grand rush to victory, but they did not think, or realize, that the same yell given in a small room might be startling and even offensive to an elderly lady.

“You must excuse me now, boys, for a little while,said the farmer. “I must go and look after my men. I will be back soon. Mother"—he always called his wife by that name—"are all the walnuts gone?”

“No. Dear me! I never thought about them. I will get some.”

She returned with a large dish of walnut and hickory nuts. In lieu of the usual table nut-crackers she brought a flat stone and two hammers. While the boys were busy cracking and eating nuts she said:

“You do not know, my children, what an unexpected pleasure your visit has been to me. Would you like to know the reason? Very well, I will tell you,she seated herself comfortably again in her green chintz-covered chair.

“I love boys because somewhere in the world there are wandering two of my own dear children. Both left home when they were about the age of you four big boys, and I love to remember them as such even now. They were fine lads, with rosy healthy cheeks, and they were good. You lads with your bright eyes and clear skins, and good pure faces make me see my own two darlings once again. Do I long to see them? Ah, yes. Oh, how much, how much!—once again before I die. But I am not grieving about them. No. Every night I commend them to the keeping of our blessed Mother, and I feel that wherever they may be a mother's prayers for them must be heard. I am sure that Our Lady is taking care of them.”

“Why did they leave home?”asked Henning sympathetically.

“Ah! the wanderlust. The desire to see the world. But you boys must come and see me again and I will tell you the story. There is no time now, as I see my husband coming from the cattle-shed.”

“Mother,” said the cheery voice of Roland Thorncroft a moment later, as he opened the door, “would not these young gentlemen like a good skate on the meadow pond? It has been swept by the wind, and is capital ice.”

Jack Beecham looked at his watch. It was already four o'clock.

“We are thankful,” he said, “but I am afraid we must do without that pleasure. It is quite time we started for home.”

Husband looked at wife. She nodded, and then he nodded. Something was settled between them.

“Don't you like skating, boys? I thought you did, seeing each had a pair of skates along.”

“Very much, sir,” said Tom Shealey, “but we must be starting now.”

“Come along, then. Bring your skates. There is no wind and it is not nearly as cold as it was this morning. You will not want your top-coats.”

The boys looked puzzled. The host saw the look of mystification on their faces. He burst into a merry laugh.

“You simple children,” he said, as soon as he could. “Do you think that after being our guests all day, and singing for us as you have done, we are going to let you walk home! No, no. You just get your skates and come along with me. I'll show you the finest piece of ice in the country. You can skate there for an hour or an hour and a half. By that time coffee will be ready, eh, mammy? And a bobsleigh. We are going to have just the finest, most musical sleighride this evening you ever saw, or heard. You had better come along, mother, too.”

“Really, I have half a mind to.”

“Do, do, do, Mrs. Thorncroft; do, do,” chorused the boys.

“I will see by the time you return for supper.”

When the time came for starting, however, she decided to stay at home. She had prepared a lunch for the journey, for there was no time now for a formal supper. After each boy had taken a bowl of steaming coffee, she bade them adieu. Such handshakings! Such good-byes! The jolly lads subdued their merriment momentarily when she kissed each one a farewell on the brow. It was a beautiful moment in each one's life and was never forgotten by any of them.

They had a glorious ride in the moonlight and the frost. And so it happened that six merry boys came joyously into the college yard at about seven o'clock, happy, tired, excited, and chattering like magpies about the unexpected good time they had enjoyed.

“I am glad the plan worked,” said Mr. Shalford to himself. The boys never learned that the dinner at Thorncroft's was a prearranged affair. As soon as he had decided to send Henning and his companions out for a day's change, the prefect had told one of the farmhands to get a fast horse and arrange with the Thorncrofts for the boys' entertainment. He had suggested to Tom Shealey and Jack Beecham the best route to take without arousing their suspicions, and everything had happened just as he had planned. Some men are positively ingenious in their charity.

CHAPTER XII

“No. What robbery? No one has stolen our costumes, have they?”

Rob Jones was full of the play of the night before, and just at this moment he considered the costumes, if not the most valuable, at least the most attractive things for a thief to make away with.

“Costumes! Not much! It's cash. Hard-earned cash; at least cash subscribed by other people. The delectable and very pious Henning has managed to lose seventy-two dollars which the boys had already subscribed for the cage.”

“Managed to lose! I don't understand. Speak plainer.”

“I mean, then, that Roy has lost that money and the report is that he was robbed of it.”

“You miserable cur,” said Rob Jones.

In a flash he saw Smithers' motive. There had evidently been a robbery. No matter how, or when, or where, without knowledge of any of the details whatever, Rob Jones was as sure as he was sure of his own existence that Roy, big, generous, noble-hearted Roy, was guiltless of the least shadow of complicity. As soon as he realized that Smithers, in the mere telling of the event, was so coloring the facts by innuendo and sneer that Roy's name would probably suffer, Jones became furiously angry.

“You miserable cur,” he repeated, and made a spring for the other's throat. Luckily the high collar he wore saved Smithers to some extent, or he might carry to this day some ugly marks. Jones fairly shook him, as a mastiff would shake a whelp.

“You cur! Is this the way you would blacken one's reputation! I tell you Roy is innocent, and you shall apologize to him for your dastardly insinuations. Come with me, come with me, I say,” and he began to drag the now frightened boy across the yard to where he thought Henning was. Smithers, trembling, began to say something, but it was unintelligible, which is very likely to be the case when another has a strong hold on the speaker's throat.

“Hold on there, Jones. You can't find Henning. He's gone out. I saw him and several others leave about half an hour ago,” said John Stockley. A crowd had now gathered about the two.

“A fight! a fight,” was the word that ran around the yard.

Rob Jones relaxed his hold, but did not release the boy. Holding his fist close to his captive's face he said:

“Now take it back, or I'll thrash you till you can't see.”

“Wha—what did I say?”asked Smithers.

“You know very well what you said. You said that the delectable and pious Henning had managed to lose seventy-two dollars of the boys' money. That's a lie. Take it back, or I'll——”

“It isn't a lie,” whimpered the choking Smithers. "Didn't he have charge of the money? And hasn't it been stolen?”

“But did he, as you say, manage to have it stolen? That is, is he implicated in the theft, as you imply, or is he not? Speak out, man, if you have a spark of honor in you. Speak out, or I'll thrash you if I have to leave here to-morrow.”

Generous Rob! There were few boys at the college at this time who knew that this same Rob Jones once played the rôle which Smithers was so unsuccessfully attempting. He had repented of that long ago, but never had there come a time, for which he had often wished, when he could safeguard another's reputation, as a species of reparation for the damaging of Howard Hunter's in the long ago.

Irrespective of the idea that actuated him, Jones was quite convinced, even without knowing the simplest details, that Roy Henning must be free from all moral blame. Roy Henning was a boy whom Jones honored and loved. All these circumstances must be considered when we pass judgment on the vehement burst of passion which put young Smithers in danger of strangulation. He muttered some kind of apology to the absent Roy, and Jones with a positive grunt of disgust flung the frightened boy as far as he could send him. He stumbled along for several paces before regaining a steady footing. Mumbling something inaudibly, he slunk away, but more than one of the students saw an ugly, ominous look on his face as he went.

“I hear all sorts of reports,” said Stockley; “tell us the true story, somebody.”

There was no lack of talkers, and almost as many theories. Few versions of the affair agreed in substantials. In the course of the morning all sorts of foolish rumors were flying around. One was, that Roy Henning had been caught in the act of pocketing the money and had been instantly expelled. In confirmation of this, the question was asked: “Where is he? No one has seen him since the discovery!" Another busy rumor had it that six boys were implicated and had been summarily dismissed.

“Did not the President see six boys off the premises this morning?”was advanced as a reason for this wild guess. Robert Jones, the absent boy's champion, happened to hear this last stupid remark.

“You set of babbling geese! You lot of old women! Here you go and jabber away people's reputations as easily as—Oh! you make me sick! Look here, you fellows, those six boys, and Henning among them, are out for a day's holiday. I say the President would rather send home six dozen dull-heads such as you fellows, than these six. They have been given a privilege that you ninnies would never get if you were here fifty years. Mark my words! To-morrow morning I shall call upon some of you brainless gossips—some of you silly babblers—to repeat before them what you have the impudence to say behind their backs.”

In this manner Rob Jones did much to keep down the public excitement, and to reduce all stupid talk to a minimum. Mr. Shalford, also, had put something of a quietus on many senseless and ugly remarks which some malicious or thoughtless boys had set afloat. While admitting that the loss of the money was to be deplored, he did all in his power to exonerate Henning.

“Although the loss is severe,” he said, “yet after all no one individually suffers much. It is true that, probably, we shall not be able this winter to purchase the much-wished-for cage. Well, we have never had one yet, and we can wait a little longer. The whole affair might have worn a much worse aspect than it does. Suppose it had been one of our own boys that had been guilty! I shudder to think of such a thing! Now do not spread idle and useless conjectures as facts. We shall endeavor strenuously to discover the thief, and until he is discovered it were better to make no rash surmises. Especially must we refrain from accusing any one of the crime until we have positive proof of his guilt, and until he is discovered it were better and safer to make no surmises. Some very stupid rumors have already reached me. Pray do not lose all credit for common-sense. Let every boy act with moderation and justice. No one has a right to constitute himself a judge of his fellows. If any well-grounded suspicious circumstance comes to light, I am the one to be consulted and no other.”

With such sensible remarks, and Rob Jones' generous defense of his absent friend, much of the excitement had died down before the return of the six excursionists.

When they arrived, wrapped in buffalo robes and hoarse from singing on the way, all the boys had assembled in the college theater to hear a burnt-cork minstrel entertainment and to listen to the orchestra. Supper was prepared for them in the infirmary, and they were told that they might occupy beds there "for one night only”if they wished to avail themselves of that privilege.

Thus it happened that Roy Henning and his friends met none of the boys that night. They had no opportunity of judging the public pulse until the next morning. Tired as Henning was from the exercise and the strain and excitement of the day, he could not sleep. After tossing from one side to the other for an hour he got up, and, throwing a blanket around him, sat at the window and began to do the worst possible thing under the circumstances. He began to think and brood.

CHAPTER XIII

Henning had one peculiar trait, and to this may be traced much of the trial and vexation to which he had already been subjected, and much of which was to fall to him for the remainder of his time at St. Cuthbert's. He remained too much self-centered. This was frequently an occasion of trouble to him. An instance: it will be remembered that he was told by his director not to tell any one save his parents of his intention of entering the ecclesiastical state. He took this advice as absolute, and on it molded his conduct, with what inconvenience to himself we have already seen.

It is not to be wondered at, then, that he kept his thoughts and his fears and troubles arising from the loss of the money to himself. All that day, except that first burst of grief, he made no outward manifestation of what he was feeling or suffering. Of course he was thus depriving himself of the sympathy and help which his friends were only too ready to offer. Actuated by the highest of supernatural motives, he nevertheless deprived himself in his difficulties of the guidance and assistance of a faithful friend. Roy had yet to learn that troubles told into sympathizing ears are more than half healed. Small wonder then, with this habit of reserve, if the circumstances in which he found himself on this holiday night of Christmas week paved the way for a very gloomy meditation.

He recalled his early school-days. Why had he been so unlike other boys at school and at college? They were always full of self-assertiveness and self-reliance; he had always been timid and retiring. Perhaps it was the reflection of that timidity he had always felt in the presence of his father. Had his college life been a happy one? Unfortunately, for the most part, no. Not until last year—one year out of seven—when he had the company and full sympathy of such noble characters as Howard Hunter, Claude Winters, Harry Selby, Frank Stapleton, and others. With such characters as those he could not help being happy. But all these had gone; passed out of his life. Oh, if some of them were here now to help and show him what to do!

Those dear boys! And oh, that visit to Rosecroft, and that nearly fatal accident when he so narrowly escaped being struck by the chute boat! There was this consolation, that if the clouds thickened around him he would get Ambrose Bracebridge to take him over to Rosecroft Manor. There was Mrs. Bracebridge there, who would understand him and who could always help and direct and encourage him.

Thinking of her, Roy became more cheerful. I have said that he was a creature of temperament. Here it served him in good turn. He began to take a brighter view of the trials he knew awaited him on the morrow. Was he not entirely innocent? Who would dare to impugn his character? He would face all bravely, explain how he discovered the theft, and blame himself publicly for his imprudence in keeping so much money locked in a common table drawer. Then who would dare to say a word against his integrity! All would pass over soon. He would write a full account to his father, who would doubtless make good the loss.

“By the way,” he suddenly thought, half aloud, "am I responsible? Must I make restitution of the lost money?”This was a puzzling question which he could not decide. He determined to consult his spiritual director the first thing in the morning. But wouldn't he like to catch the thief!

This last thought led him to a mental survey of all persons who might possibly be guilty. To his credit, he spurned the idea that any one of the college boys could be the culprit. No St. Cuthbert boy could do such a thing, and if by chance it should happen to be a student, were they not all Catholic boys? Would not the first confession the thief made result in a full restitution of the ill-gotten goods? He had little hope that any such thing would occur, but he had not the slightest idea that any college student would prove to be the delinquent.

He endeavored to imagine a way the theft could have been accomplished. It must have been committed between seven o'clock on Wednesday night and six on Thursday morning, when the boys rose. It could not have been done later than a minute or two after six, because it was the custom of a number of boys who were in training to use the playroom as a kind of indoor running-track immediately upon rising and before they took their shower bath.

He remembered that the door of the committee-room had been locked by himself in the evening just before the play began. It is true that the only window of this room was not fastened, but there were iron bars on the outside. He remembered now that one of these bars—they were half above ground and half in a window well which was covered by an iron grating, that one of these bars was loose, for he now recalled the fact that yesterday he had seen a boy move one of them with his foot as he stood on the grating. Could the thief have gone through the window?

Henning suddenly clutched his chair in the greatest excitement. There had flashed into his memory an incident which he had witnessed the night before, but which until this very moment had not come to his memory.

He remembered now that after the play last night he stood at the Philosophy classroom window, and across the yard he had seen a boy crouching down at these very bars. He had paid little attention at the time, as his mind was full of the Richelieu he had just played. The electric light in the yard was so located that it put the boy, the window, and one third of the sidewalk in deep shade. The other part of the sidewalk was very bright. He now remembered that when he first saw the boy he was in a crouching position. He had not paid much attention, and other things occupying his mind, he soon forgot all about it. What was that other thought? Ah! now he remembered. It was that wretched attempt to spoil the second scene of the play. He now recalled that for some time he forgot all about the boy at the grating but when he did think of him again he remembered seeing the boy as if he were just rising from his knees, which, as he stood, he brushed with his hand. At the time the boy received very little attention from Roy, who now remembered having vaguely wondered why any one was out in the yard when all, except the players, were in the chapel at evening prayers. Chapel bell had sounded immediately after the play, so the actors could not divest themselves of paint and disguises in time to attend.

Who could that boy have been? Last night Henning was not interested enough to find out. To-night he would give a great deal to know. He remembered now that the person, whoever he was, wore a black soft felt hat, which was pulled down well over his eyes and hid a great portion of his face. A soft felt hat would not identify any one. There were dozens of them in the yard. Oh, if he could only remember how the boy was dressed!

“Great heavens,” he ejaculated aloud in sudden, intense excitement.

He arose and clutched the blanket around him and folded his hands across his breast. His face was very white. He trembled. He began to pace the floor, muttering as one demented, or at least as one under the strongest stress of excitement. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. At one time he thought he was going to faint. He had made a discovery, and the discovery sickened him.

The boy he saw at the window grating had worn a blue sweater!

“No, no, no, no,” said Roy to himself many times. "I can't—I won't believe it. I must be mistaken. It can not be he! No, no! Yet no one else has a sweater of that color,”

By this time he had left his room and was excitedly pacing up and down the lengthy corridor. Luckily he was barefooted, or he would have disturbed everybody. The more he thought over his discovery the more he became convinced of the identity of the burglar. His conviction and wretchedness grew in proportion.

“It can not be! It can not be! Impossible! Impossible!" he muttered, as he strode up and down. "Andrew is mean in many things, but not a common felon! It can not, can not be true,” and he was hoping against hope for his family's sake.

Henning was never so excited in his life. For a long time he walked up and down on the cocoa-matting. His blanket trailing behind him, often caught the leaden binding of one of the strips of matting. This would be raised about a foot and fall with a bang; his excitement prevented him from noticing the noise he was making.

Not so the old infirmarian, whose room was at the end of the corridor. Peering out, he at first thought he saw a ghost. But ghosts do not trip on cocoa-matting. He followed the disturber of his repose. Henning, still under pressure of strong excitement, walked the whole length of the corridor. He turned suddenly to encounter the angry infirmarian.

“Oh, it's Henning! What are you doing at this unearthly hour of the night, disturbing my sleep?" said the old man in an unusually sharp tone for him, for he was generally mild and kindly. The official at first thought it was an ordinary case of somnambulism, but he soon found Henning to be very wide-awake.

“I've found it—the secret. I've got it,” exclaimed Roy in excitement.

“I guess you have—bad,” said the old man with grim humor. “Well, if you boys will fill yourselves up with rich plum-pudding and cake in the daytime, you must expect to suffer at night. There now, get back into bed, and don't disturb the whole house with your nonsense.”

“Oh, if I were only sure, I would settle the whole thing to-morrow,” muttered Roy. It is doubtful if, in his excited condition, he had seen the infirmarian at all.

“I'll settle you in the morning if you don't get back to bed at once. Get now.”

But Roy did not move. He had lapsed into a thoughtful mood. He stood, with his chin on his hand, motionless.

“Do you hear me, boy? It's time to stop this Indian ghost-dance business. There's no sense in breaking an old man's rest. Get to bed.”

The infirmarian was fully persuaded that the whole affair was only a practical joke, such as even sick boys, or those, at least, who sometimes get passed into the infirmary on the plea of sickness, are not always above playing. Seeing that Henning did not move or pay any attention to his words, the infirmarian took hold of his shoulders and gave him a vigorous shaking. This operation had the effect of bringing the distracted boy down to the knowledge of mundane things at once.

“Eh! oh, ah,” he said in a bewildered, sheepish way. “I've made—a horrible—discovery,”

“You'll make another very unpleasant one in the morning if you don't get into bed at once. Don't cause any more disturbance.”

Without another word Henning went back to his room, and softly closed the door. He did not get into bed, but continued his ruminations.

“Andrew! Andrew,” he moaned, “I did not think it would come to this,”

He dropped his head on the window-sill and thought for a long, long time. It was in some degree a contest between self-interest and family pride. It was a long struggle, and the result of these cogitations he announced to himself as he threw the blanket from his shoulders across the bed. They were comprised in two short sentences:

“I must keep silence! I will keep silence,”

The decision may have been fanciful, or it may have been heroic. We shall see later. It led him into complications, the nature of which he little dreamed.

CHAPTER XIV

Rob Jones occupied the outer seat of the bench. As the two friends were passing him he turned his knees aside for them to do so and took Roy's hand and gave it a warm squeeze. The pressure was gratefully returned. Roy took heart. Much strengthened by this show of sympathy, he determined to meet all inquiries after breakfast and give all the information he possessed to any one who should ask.

His regret over the loss was as poignant as when it was first discovered, but in some way he now felt that he could face all the boys and answer all their questions. He could not have done this the day before. Perhaps Jones' unspoken sympathy had given him courage.

As he expected, a large group gathered around him after breakfast.

“How did it all happen?”asked John Stockley, anxious to learn the particulars down to the minutest detail.

Henning gave them all the information he possessed. When the discussion had died down a little, he said: “As far as I can see, the thief must have entered through the window.”

“From the yard side, or the garden side?”

“There is but one window, if you remember, in the committee-room, and that is on the yard side. All the windows on the garden side are in the playroom outside the committee-room.”

“That's true, come to think of it,” said Stockley; "but could not the thief have gone in by the playroom by way of the partition door?”

“I do not think so,” answered Roy, “because, you know the door has a Yale lock, and I am the only one who has a key to it, except Mr. Shalford.”

“It is not likely that he robbed the drawer,” said Stockley with a laugh. “We are all very sorry for you and you have our sympathy.”

Stockley looked around, and the others in the group nodded in affirmation.

“Thanks. You are very kind. You can not regret this occurrence more than I do, especially since I failed to take Bracebridge's advice to put the money in a safer place.”

“It's lucky that a fellow like you lost that money, and not a poor beggar like me,” remarked Smithers, who was standing on the outer edge of the gathering. Henning looked sharply at the speaker:

“Why?”he asked.

“Simply because a fellow like you who always has plenty of money will find no difficulty in replacing that which is gone. Such a thing would be impossible for impecunious me,” and the speaker turned his empty trousers' pockets inside out, and spun around on his heel. A few laughed, but the majority were silent, not liking the clownish exhibition of bad taste.

Henning was, naturally under the circumstances, in a nervous condition. He at once suspected that this Smithers was merely the spokesman of many others, and that he was expressing their sentiments as to what his line of action should be. Whether he acted judiciously or not in this immature stage of developments, we leave to subsequent events to determine. He replied, and rather warmly, too:

“I don't know so much about that, Smithers. It may turn out to be the misfortune of all, at least of all who contributed. I really do not remember whether you gave anything or not. I shall certainly not make up the loss unless the President fully convinces me that I am under obligation to do so. I am going to see him now. Even should he decide against me I do not know whether I shall be able to replace the money.”

A faint murmur of surprise and dissatisfaction, Henning was convinced, ran through the increasing group, as he, in company with Bracebridge, moved away toward the President's office.

The two walked slowly away from the crowd of boys. Bracebridge appeared to be thinking deeply. He had something to say, but hesitated to say it. Ambrose, with the instincts of a born gentleman, was always extremely careful of the feelings of others.

“Roy,”

“Yes.”

“You said just now to that cad of a fellow that you did not know——”

“Whether I should be able to repay the money. Yes. What of it?”

“That is a startling statement——”

“Not so very. But in the first place I am not at all sure that I shall be held responsible. Look here, Brose——”

They stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the President's room.

“Look here. Supposing there had been a fire, and the money had been burned. I should not have been told to restore it, should I?”

“I do not know that you would be held.”

“Now if one undertakes to hold money temporarily for others, and takes ordinary precautions for safe-keeping, do you think he would be held responsible for it if it were stolen?”

“But the safer plan would have been——”

“Am I held to take the safer plan? Of course, I regret that I did not take the safer plan, as you suggested, but am I held to have taken the safer plan? Wasn't the ordinary precaution sufficient? The door of that room was locked, the drawer of the table was locked, and it was not generally known that I kept the money there at all.”

“You seem to make out a good case for yourself," said Bracebridge laughing, “but we will let the President decide the case. It is too hard for us. But I did not intend to talk about that.”

“What then, old fellow?”

“You told Smithers, for the benefit of the whole yard I take it, that you did not know whether you would be able to pay back the money. Now I thought——”

But he stopped awkwardly upon seeing the deep blushes suffuse Henning's brow. What had he said? Were these blushes of shame or vexation? What could possibly be the matter?

“I—I—thought—that—I thought——”he stammered, at a loss how to proceed.

“Go on, old man. I know that whatever you would say, you do not intend to wound me.”

“Thank you, Roy. That's perfectly true. But perhaps I should not have broached the subject at all.”

“Go on; go on.”

“Well, if you insist. I thought that you always had plenty of money. From what you say it seems that this is not the case. Now if—if you will allow me—if I might—if you would not be offended—if—oh! you understand me, Roy,” he blurted out at last. “I want to help you pay it back.”

Henning did not speak: indeed he could not have done so just at that moment. There was a very big lump in his throat. He hemmed and coughed once or twice, but that only made it worse. Bracebridge saw his friend's embarrassment, but did not speak. He took Roy's hand.

“I understand—true friend,” said Roy, huskily, "but I can not explain.”png—-\D.F Pg110 png—-\D.F Pg110

He was silent for some time. He then said, partly to himself and partly aloud—"but I can. Why should I not do so? He is true and loyal. My father put no conditions of secrecy on me, or on his strange action. Ambrose?”

“Well?”

“Will you listen to me?”

“Of course I'll listen to you.”

“Thank you. In order that you may know why I believe I shall not be able to pay back that money, I must first tell you of a peculiar thing my father has thought fit to impose upon me.”

“Go ahead then, but since confidences are in order, let me tell you one first, which will make your story easier to tell, more probably. Next year you are going to study for the priesthood,”

“How on earth did you learn that?”

“At the Little Sisters' dinner. I was an unintentional eavesdropper, and I heard you say to the chaplain, as I was passing with some dish or something, these words—'for my own diocese: next year.' Let me congratulate you, Roy, on your choice. I have always thought ever since I first knew you that you were worthy of that high calling.”

“You do surprise me, indeed,” said Roy, “but your knowledge does not make my story the easier to tell.”

Roy Henning then told Ambrose of his desire to enter the seminary, of his broaching the subject to his father during the last vacation, and of the strange test to which his father had thought fit to subject him.

“Now, Ambrose,” he said, when he had finished his narration, “you may understand my conduct in refusing to play ball this year, on account of which so many of the boys seemed so disappointed. I have met with so many annoyances since last September that more than once before this loss of yesterday I had all but determined to leave old St. Cuthbert's, and be quit of it all. I would have done so if it had not been for you and Jack and Tom.”

“I am sincerely glad you did not.”

“Well, I do not know whether I am. But let me go back to my subject. You see, that with my father's present peculiar view of things, it is by no means certain that he will make good this loss, and if he refuses I shall be in a bad pickle.”

“Oh, Roy,” said Bracebridge, with a vehemence that was almost passion, “let me do it. Let me do it for you. You know my father. You know that he has every confidence in me; he is not a crank, and——”

“Stop, Ambrose,” said Roy, “I can not allow you, even by implication, to speak disrespectfully of my father. That I do not understand his motives is true. That it is mighty hard on me is equally true, but he is my father.”

“There,” said the other in dismay. “I am always putting my foot into it. Forgive me. I didn't mean anything; indeed I did not. Oh! Roy, you know what I mean. Let me help you out of this. It's as easy as A-B-C, you know. No one need know. Pshaw! one would be a poor friend, if, when quite able, he should hang back.”

“Thanks, dear old fellow. Many thanks. We will see. We will see. If it comes to the worst, I won't hesitate to talk to you again about this. In the meantime we will drop it for the present.”

With this Ambrose had to be content. The two friends then rapped at the President's door.

CHAPTER XV

The pitcher's cage was not purchased that winter. It was noticed by the boys that Andrew Garrett, as far as they could observe, never once spoke to his cousin about the loss. Roy, owing to the result of the thoughts of the sleepless night he had spent in the infirmary, imagined that Garrett had good reasons for keeping clear of him.

He was keenly alive to Garrett's every action, resulting from what he believed to be well-grounded suspicions. He did not fail to notice one peculiarity on the part of his cousin. Very soon after the robbery Garrett discarded the sky-blue sweater which had made him so conspicuous a figure in the yard ever since September. Roy confessed to himself that he was unable to attach any importance to this.

The theft had been too genuine a sensation at the college for all discussion to die out soon. In the course of time the whole yard appeared to be divided into two factions or parties. One side was loyal and strenuous in upholding Henning, claiming him to be beyond reproach and spotless in his integrity. As may be surmised, the leaders of this party were Jack Beecham, Tom Shealey, Ambrose Bracebridge, and Rob Jones, the first defender of Roy in his absence. These companions knew Henning well. They called him “Don Quixote.”They teased him often, yet they knew that he was the soul of honor. Any one of these would as soon suspect himself as cast suspicion on Roy.

The existence of this party was the outgrowth of a popular indignation against a few boys who had, in discussing the robbery, persistently left the impression that they considered that there was an unsatisfactory mystery about it.

Out of kindness to Roy, little—scarcely anything—of what his friends heard in the yard reached his ears. When he did not happen to be present his friends were by no means backward in denouncing the opposition.

Henning asked no questions, even of his friends, yet by a kind of unconscious assimilation he became aware of the strong sentiment against him, and of the strong resentment of those opposed to him. These things he learned more by averted glances and partially concealed avoidances than by overt act or speech. He never mentioned this to his friends, who thought he did not observe it. No one had ever told him of Jones' catlike spring at the throat of Smithers, yet Roy learned of it in some way, and while he was filled with gratitude toward Jones it only tended to confirm his own opinion that there was a large party antagonistic to him.

There was now only a mere speaking acquaintance between Henning and Garrett, which, as cousins, they could not avoid. They observed the merest civilities.

About the middle of February Henning and his friends were surprised to note that Garrett was spending money very freely. He had always availed himself of every little luxury that could be purchased within the college bounds, but now it seemed that he was more lavish than ever. Spring was approaching. Garrett purchased two or three baseball bats, a fine shield, mask, catcher's glove, and a number of the best baseballs. He evidently paid the highest prices, for upon inquiry it was found he had had no communication with the prefect, or with the sports' committee who usually secured some discount for cash. Clothes, shoes, hats, and ties were also lavishly purchased. What could it all mean? To add to the mystery Stockley and that boy Smithers, who had turned his pockets inside out in proof of his impecuniosity, were also spending considerable money, although a much less amount than Garrett.

All this, of course, strengthened Roy's suspicions. Where did he get all the money? And why was he making such a lavish display? Roy was, nevertheless, puzzled by the evident fact that while all noticed Garrett's free purchasing, no one appeared to suspect him of any connection with the lost funds.

Henning could not in conscience mention his suspicions to any one. If any one would but broach the subject, then he would talk and take advice on what was the best line of action to pursue. His common-sense told him that to accuse his cousin publicly on his mere suspicion would be worse than useless.

To add to the complications of the situation, within a week or two of Garrett's expenditures Roy himself began to spend money freely. Where it came from was a mystery which was not cleared up for many a day. He expended quite a sum on books, baseball goods, shoes, etc.

It is quite certain that Henning did not realize how large the majority was who were in opposition to him. Had he done so he would have acted with more discretion, for the time was critical for him. Even some of his best friends were sorely put to it to account for his outlay. More than one of his staunchest supporters began to waver in their allegiance. No one doubted his integrity, but some were not pleased with his want of prudence. Before closing this narrative we shall explain where this money came from, why Roy bought the particular goods he did, and why he bought them at this particular time.

“I wonder how it is,” said Smithers, “that Henning has so much money to spend just now.”

“Don't know I'm sure, but I suppose it is all right,” replied Stockley.

“But isn't it strange that he who has been so close all the year should change and be lavish so suddenly?”

“Oh, come off! that's an innuendo! Give the fellow a show. You are hinting that it is the subscription money he is now spending, and that, consequently, he was the thief.”

“Oh, say, don't put it that strong,” said Smithers uneasily.

“But that's what you mean, all the same. I don't like him, but to do him justice, I don't think—I'm sure—he had any hand in getting away with that money.”

“Why?”

“Oh, because—because I don't believe he had, that's all.”

“But that's no proof.”

“Didn't say it was. I said it was my belief.”

Just at that moment Bracebridge and Garrett joined the speakers.

“Look here, Bracebridge,” said Smithers, “Stockley says that he doesn't believe that Henning had anything to do with taking that money.”

“I'm sick of all this talk,” said Ambrose angrily; "just as if any one who knew Henning at all could entertain such a thought for a moment,”

“But why is he spending so much just now?”insinuated Smithers.

“I don't know, and I don't care. It's none of our business anyway.”

But he did care. He was very uneasy. He remembered what Roy had told him of his home affairs. He was sorely puzzled, yet his loyalty did not waver.

“For my part,” said Garrett, “although Henning is my relative and I am therefore naturally concerned in all that he does, I can not help thinking that his action is a little unfortunate.”

“For your part,” retorted Ambrose, “and for your own credit, you had better say as little as you can.”

“For my part I shall say what I choose, and to whom I choose.”

“Then do not choose to say it to me, for I won't hear it,” and Ambrose walked away, very angry.

“Humph! the great mogul is getting quite huffy," remarked Smithers. “Well, never mind, Garrett, for although Henning is your cousin you are not to blame if he falls under suspicion.”

In his heart Garrett knew Henning was innocent. But he did not like him. He was jealous of him. He saw in him qualities of mind and heart which he knew he himself did not possess, and, as is the case with all small natures, he was jealous. He had neither the wish nor the courage to state his belief in Roy's innocence.

On the other hand Garrett despised Smithers. The boy was poor. Every one knew that. But poverty is no disgrace, and never at St. Cuthbert's has it been a subject of reproach. There are some natures which become vicious because of their poverty. Smithers was one of these. He was one of those who, in season and out of season, was forever reiterating what he called his suspicions. This was the more base, because, had there been any foundation for them, gratitude should have compelled him to remain silent. On more than one—on many an occasion—Henning had quietly and unostentatiously helped this boy out of little financial difficulties, such as paying his library fees and fines, securing for him tennis shoes, and little things of that kind.

Garrett had just heard all this for the first time, and the better side of his nature at that moment, notwithstanding his strange remark to Bracebridge, was in the ascendant. Secretly he was ashamed of his comradeship with Smithers, who was perhaps one of the most undesirable boys at St. Cuthbert's.

“Shock”Smithers—so named on account of the permanently untidy condition of his hair—was, therefore, very much surprised indeed at what he next heard from Garrett.

“Of course,” Garrett began, “as you speak with so much certainty about my cousin, you have positive proof of his guilt?”

Smithers began to laugh. He thought that a good joke.

“I see no laughing matter. I ask you a plain question. You have proof of Henning's guilt—which for some reason you are withholding?”

“Not—not exactly proof, you know, but, eh—but you know, eh—you know as well as I do how suspicion points to him.”

“Then you make all this to-do on mere suspicion?”

“Of course. We have nothing more than suspicions, have we?”

“Yes, certainly. You must have more than suspicion when you state publicly that Roy deserves to be in State's prison.”

“I—I did not say that. I—”

“Yes, you did. I heard you myself, and on that I largely based my own judgment. Don't lie.”

“I did not say that definitely, you know. I said that if what is said about him is true he ought to be there, Andy.”

“You are a liar! I myself heard you say it, and what is more, I have only just now heard how Roy has been treating you ever since September, giving you books, money, and buying things for you. You're a skunk! that's what you are.”

Garrett walked away. Smithers was left in no enviable frame of mind. The principal part of his chagrin arose, not from the fact that he had been mean and cowardly, but that it had been discovered that he had received assistance from any one, and especially from Roy Henning.