ROY HENNING gave much anxious consideration to the ugly tangle in which he found himself involved. He sincerely, but unavailingly, regretted that he had allowed himself to become the treasurer. Perhaps, he thought, if he had followed the letter of his father's wishes this unfortunate business would never have happened.
The more he thought over what he remembered to have seen on the night of the play the more convinced he became of the guilt of one who would be the very last he could wish to be implicated.
At times he doubted and wavered in his convictions. Was he absolutely sure that it was his cousin whom he had seen that night? Could it not have been some one else? There was no one else in the yard who wore a blue sweater. He was sure he had seen this on the boy who had entered the window. Yet was he absolutely sure that it was Andrew? When he put this question to himself and demanded an answer, he always gave it unhesitatingly in the affirmative. Yet, strange to say, at other times he doubted the accuracy of his conclusions. Might he not be mistaken after all? There was a possibility. The figure was in the glare of the arc light so short a time, and in the shadow so much longer. Was it not possible that he was mistaken after all?
The size of the boy certainly corresponded with his cousin's build and height, but, after all, most boys of about the same age resemble each other in build. Oh, if it had not been for that soft hat pulled down over the face! Could he have obtained but one glance at the face in the strong electric light there would be no hesitating. But this the thief took precautions against. The leaf of the hat was drawn well over the nose, making it impossible to see the face.
There was no question about the blue sweater being there. The short black coat which Garrett usually wore over the sweater was there too. Was there a sufficient motive on the part of Andrew to commit such a crime? On this point the boy was much puzzled. Garrett, he knew, had plenty of money. There could be no pecuniary inducement to commit the crime. Ha, perhaps there was an inducement after all. Before Christmas had it not been an open secret that several boys had lost heavily—heavily for boys at school—on some foolish betting? Mr. Shalford had heard of this foolishness, found out a few of the bets, and forced the winners to return the money. He had broken up, apparently, the habit which periodically becomes a temporary mania with a certain class of boys. Perhaps Garrett had lost a bet and wanted money!
Henning could not believe that any personal pique against himself would be a sufficient inducement for his cousin to go to such lengths to gratify it. Felony is high payment for the gratification of spite. That threat of “getting even,” which Garrett had used against him last summer, Roy believed to be the expression of a momentary vexation. It is certain he did not connect it with anything so serious as this robbery. Long ago he had forgotten it, and he supposed Andrew had done so too.
What then, supposing it were he who had committed the crime, could have been Garrett's motive? Roy could not fathom the difficulty. He had to leave it unsolved. He saw there was no proportion between Garrett's little pique and the enormity of this deed, which would forever brand the perpetrator as belonging to the criminal class. Surely Andrew had more sense than to do such a thing; and yet!
“Why, oh! why did I,” said Roy to himself, “go mooning about and looking out of that window after the play that night! Why didn't I go to bed at once, like the rest? Then I would never have been haunted with this memory. I am going to get this thing settled, and that soon. I'll see Garrett privately if I can, publicly if I must. I will make him exonerate me from all suspicion. I can not imagine how any suspicion became attached to me. He would hardly dare to set it afloat. This thing has to come to an end, and that at once.”
These tormenting thoughts came to his mind one Sunday afternoon in early spring. Everything out of doors spoke of joy and cheerfulness. The trees had burst their buds, and the winter bareness of landscape had been once more turned into a thing of beauty. No trees were as yet in full leaf, but there was a delicate pale-green tracery on bough and twig, a sign of life and luxurious beauty later on, and full of the beauty of promise now. Beneath the feet the young grass was rich and soft, while here and there were seen the first white flowers in the vocal hedgerows.
Full of thoughts by no means attuned to the happy season, or in keeping with the loveliness of the day, Roy started out to find his cousin. He was just in the mood to “have it out” with him. He had worked himself up to a pitch of resolution, in which was blended no little anger at the injustice of his position. He was determined to have the wretched affair settled at once and forever. He was morally certain that no one save himself knew of his cousin's supposed delinquency, because, he argued and probably correctly, if any one else had known it, it would have been divulged long ago.
Searching the yard, study-hall, and gymnasium, as well as the large reading-room and playroom, he could find no trace of Garrett.
“He is out walking, I suppose. Oh, well! I'll catch him before supper and see what he has to say for himself.”
Henning did not care to have his friends, Jack and Ambrose, with him just now. He wanted to be alone to think over the situation. With this object in view he went toward the college walk, a beautiful winding path, overshadowed by fine old elms, beeches, and oaks. Here and there along this half-mile of graveled way rustic seats had been placed for the convenience of the students. The path was irregularly circular. In the center the ground was much lower and was thickly covered with fine trees, whose tops in many instances barely reached the level of the footpath. On the outer side of the walk the ground rose and the slope was covered with noble forest trees.
The softness of the spring verdure, the sweet caress of the warm air, the repose of this charming spot, and its complete sequestration from the perennial noise and bustle of the yards and ballfields, tended to soothe the irritated feelings of our friend. He went to the farthest limit of the walk without meeting a single friend. There he sat down on a bench to rest. In a few minutes he heard approaching footsteps on the gravel. Determined to let the intruder upon his thoughts pass on unnoticed, he did not raise his head from his hands as the walker approached.
“Good afternoon, Roy.”
Henning looked up and saw—Garrett. He was surprised by the way his cousin addressed him, for, never since the first week of the school-year had the cousins used any other form of address than their surnames.
“Oh! Good afternoon.”
“Fine weather for early spring.”
“Yes.”
Roy saw that, by his manner, Garrett had something to say, but he wanted just then to have the saying. At all events he was determined to say the first word of consequence.
“I wonder you are willing to talk with me—are not afraid of being seen talking with me.”
“I don't see why you should——”
Henning interrupted. He was quite ill-tempered this afternoon, and this was quite unusual with him.
“No, you don't see why,” he said. “You haven't been the cause of my being suspected of that wretched thieving, have you! You are not hand and glove with those fellows who would stop at nothing if they could injure me.”
“I must admit,” said the other, “I have heard a great deal some of them say.”
“And of course believe it all, or pretend to.”
“Pretend to! What do you mean?”
“I mean that before them you pretended to believe me guilty. Knowing what you know, it must have been all a pretence.”
“Knowing what I know! What do you mean?”
“You know very well, indeed, what I mean.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do; you are only pretending now. Your action now is of a piece with your whole conduct ever since December 28, when the money was taken.”
“Roy Henning! what on earth do you mean? You are either crazy, or laboring under some great mistake.”
Garrett saw with alarm the trend of Henning's remarks. Was his cousin going to charge him with the theft? He was very well aware that Roy's charge, if he should make one, would receive much more credence in the yard than would any counter-charge against Roy. He became quite alarmed, for he was quick enough to see some very unpleasant consequences. His look of alarm tended to confirm Roy in his suspicions.
“No wonder you look frightened, cousin—dear cousin—loving cousin,” said Henning sarcastically. He had a long time suffered greatly from innuendo and unfriendliness, but we must do Roy the justice to say that such a manner of speech was uncommon with him. Just at this moment he was nervous and over-irritable and had not complete control of himself or of his words.
“No wonder you look frightened,” he continued, "now that the tables are beginning to turn. I have borne suspicion and averted looks from the boys long enough. You have to bring about a change. You can do it.”
“And how, pray?”Garrett was getting angry.
“You know how very well. One word from you would clear me. And—you—have—got—to say it,”
“It seems to me that you are taking leave of your senses. How on earth will one word of mine clear you? The only way that could be done, it seems to me, would be to incriminate myself, and as to that—no, I thank you.”
“I care not one red cent whether you incriminate yourself or not. You must clear me—do you hear?”
“I would like to know how, and, moreover, I would like to see you make me.”
“I can not—that is, I will not make you—but not for your own sake.”
Henning remembered the promise he had made to himself of silence on the night he had spent in the infirmary. On the other hand Garrett was becoming very much afraid of his cousin. He had never seen him so excited or determined before. What did Roy know? What could he tell to harm him? He knew that his record with the faculty, and with the boys too, was not an enviable one. Whatever Roy would do he would undoubtedly be believed, and he realized that he would have hard work to disprove any allegations Roy might make.
“You speak correctly when you say you can not," Andrew retorted.
“I do not! I can make you if I will. For other reasons I do not wish it. You must do it without compulsion.”
“Do what?”
“Clear me. Clear me of all suspicion.”
“It seems to me that in the present state of the boys' minds that would be impossible. In saying what I have said about you, Roy, I have only followed the lead of others. Things have been hinted so often that at last I began to believe some of them—at least partly believe them.”
“You coward,” said Henning, now thoroughly angry. Both boys rose from the bench simultaneously and faced each other. By a singular chance each had his hands in his pockets. It appeared for an instant that they were coming to blows. So strained was the situation, that if either had at that moment taken his hand from his pocket it would have been a signal for a fight. Henning's face was white with anger. Garrett's was red with apprehension and vexation.
“You are a coward,” repeated Henning; “you know a great deal about this affair.”
Garrett thought best to deny all knowledge.
“I do not.”
“Indeed! and I suppose you know nothing of the loosened bars of the window of the committee-room?”
“No.”
“I thought not. And I suppose you know nothing of the boy who was seen to have gone through that window on the night of the play?”
“No.”
“Oh, no! Of course not. I suppose, too, there are half a dozen boys who sport sky-blue sweaters to make themselves conspicuous.”
Henning waited a moment and Garrett said:
“It is no one's concern but my own what I wear.”
“Well, my dear, affectionate cousin, that blue sweater was seen—seen, mind—that night to go through that window and come out again.”
Garrett started violently. Henning took the motion for an admission of guilt, but Garrett had no intention of making such acknowledgment. Indeed he became as angry as Henning was.
“Whether I am guilty or not, a question I absolutely decline to discuss, do you think, you jackanapes, that I would admit it to you? Not if I know myself. Do you think I am going to swallow whole a story like that? You must think I am dreadfully green, or dreadfully afraid of you. If you have evidence, bring it forward. That you can, and will not, is to me, permit me to say, all buncombe. Bah! You weary me! Do what you can and what you dare,”
Snapping his fingers with a show of righteous indignation, Garrett walked away. If the boy were guilty, if it were he who was seen to enter the room through that window on the night of the theft, he now acquitted himself of a splendid piece of acting. If he were innocent, then his indignation were natural. Henning would then have to acknowledge that he had done him a gross injustice. But Roy was firmly convinced that his cousin had brazened the thing out. He regretted that he had let him know that he would not compel him to make an acknowledgment of his guilt. Roy had never expected that he would do so. All he required from his cousin was that he would speak in his favor and make an effort to turn the tide of opinion, trusting in his friends for the rest.
When Andrew Garrett moved away Roy's first impulse was to follow him and compel a confession. Suddenly the thought came to him that perhaps he had blundered. Under the new and annoying impression he stood motionless until Garrett had disappeared along the winding walk. Once more, as his anger left him, he sat down and, head in hands, meditated on the ugly position in which he found himself, made worse than before if he had blundered.
He began now to have doubts regarding the identity of the thief. Was it not just possible that some other person possessed a blue sweater as well as his cousin? Could he have been mistaken, after all? The window from which he saw the thief was a hundred yards away. Could he, after all, positively identify a person at that distance at night? Was he not too much excited after the successful Richelieu performance to be in a condition to be certain? He had taken only a casual glance at the figure, and it was more than twenty-four hours afterward that he had remembered the boy wore the fatal blue sweater, which he now began to realize was the one and only means of identifying his cousin. Garrett must have some good grounds for his steady and persistent denials; yet that he should deny was not surprising to Roy for he knew his cousin fairly well.
The young man would have remained long in his unpleasant and disturbing meditations had he not heard some one approaching, and singing some ridiculous parody which had recently “caught” the yard, having been cleverly introduced into a recent debate on the relative importance of the Hibernians and the Anglo-Saxons in this country. It ran:
It was Jack Beecham's happy voice, and his merry laugh echoed through the trees. At that moment, as he turned a bend in the walk, he caught sight of Roy.
“Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home,” he shouted. “Come on, Roy; Tom Shealey and myself are going for a good long tramp in the woods. Why, man, you look as doleful as a November day. What's up? Come on; a good walk will drive the blues away.”
The two friends took Henning for a good long tramp, which is the most satisfactory curative process for driving away depression of spirits, settling one's nerves, and banishing ill-temper.
WHEN Andrew left his cousin on the college walk he was in a very angry mood. He was quite sure that Henning did not know whether he was guilty or not, and he was satisfied that he had so guarded his words in his unexpected interview that Roy would not be able to take anything he had said as an admission of guilt. As soon as he discovered the drift of his cousin's remarks he made up his mind that he would not be betrayed into any speech that afterward might be used against him.
He had actually started out, as Henning had done, to find his cousin to talk with him. It will be remembered that he had used a very conciliatory tone, and spoke to his relative by his Christian name. He was acting at the moment under one of the few good impulses that came to him at that period of his life. But all this was most unfortunately frustrated by Henning's miserable ill-humor of the moment.
Returning to the yard after this stormy interview, he met the two boys, who, unfortunately, exercised the worst influence over him of any boys in the school, Smithers and Stockley. Nothing could have been more inopportune than their presence just when he was sore in spirit and angry. He was sore and more or less ashamed at the part he had played in regard to his cousin's reputation. He was not always without touches of compunction on this subject. He was angry, too, because of the recent interview. He knew that on account of this very anger he would very likely do more injury to Henning. His mind was in that state that made it ripe for any mischief these two worthies might suggest.
“We have been looking for you, Garrett. Where have you been?”said Smithers.
“Along the walk.”
“Some one in the yard said you had gone hobnobbing with your respectable relative,” remarked Stockley.
“I was talking with him for a while, but not hobnobbing, as you call it.”
“What had he to say?”asked Smithers. There was an ugly, vindictive leer on Smithers' face which Garrett never liked and which in his better moments he detested. He really despised him, and all his life he had never associated with this class of boy. Not being in very good humor, he said:
“He had no compliments for you, at any rate.”
“Didn't expect he had. It's not very likely that one hanging over a precipice with regard to his reputation, as he is, would have any compliments for any one. But what did he say, anyway?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Garrett. “I find that he is more fully aware of the suspicions against him than I imagined. He is pretty sore under them, I can tell you.”
Smithers' eyes glittered with satisfaction. By a strange perversion he was pleased that Henning was suffering. Why? The answer is difficult. Because, perhaps, Henning had done him many a good turn. In time of necessity he was glad enough to receive assistance. When better times came for him, he promptly forgot. He lacked gratitude. He was only one more exemplification of the old adage: “If you want to lose a friend, lend him money, and if you want to gain an enemy put some one under great obligations to you.”
“Sore, is he? I can make him sorer still. Have you heard what has been found?”asked Smithers, looking first at Stockley and then at Garrett.
Had the latter been a little more observant he would have noticed Smithers' eyelids twitch in an unmistakably nervous way, and his fingers open and close spasmodically.
“No, I have not. Not the stolen money, I suppose," laughed Garrett mirthlessly.
“Not much,” said Smithers, “that's not likely to be found. I guess that's gone for good.”
“What then?”
“A piece of writing,”
“Whose?”
“Henning's.”
“Of what nature? What has it to do with the suspicion in the yard?”
“It has a good deal to do with it.”
“Well, out with it, if you have anything to tell. I'm tired of this dallying. What's up?”
Garrett, still out of temper, was quite testy. It can be seen that he had very little respect for these boys. He made no pretense of choosing his words with them.
Smithers, nothing daunted by the surly manner in which he had been addressed, after more or less fumbling, drew from the inside pocket of his coat a crumpled sheet of letter-paper. It bore the college printed address on the top, and was dated December 23.
“Whose writing is that, do you think?”asked Smithers.
“I don't know. Let me look at it. Yes, I do though! It's my cousin's! What does he say?”
He straightened out the creases and read the letter hurriedly.
“Phew! by all that's great, this is a stunner,” said Garrett.
The other two boys exchanged glances of satisfaction. Smithers' eyelids twitched more than ever.
“Where did you get this from?”
“No matter where it came from,” answered Stockley; “it's just what we want to settle this business. It has been hanging fire long enough. It ought to be settled for everybody's sake. I think this will do it.”
Garrett did not like his cousin, and hitherto had not been above doing him a bad turn occasionally. He was recognized, more or less, as the mouthpiece of those opposed to Roy. To do Andrew justice it must be admitted that he never quite realized what injury he was doing his cousin. A full realization of the injustice of his course was not to come to him for a long time, but now, since this interview, he was very uneasy. If Henning was determined to act on the offensive, he must prepare to defend himself. Here was a piece of paper, luckily thrown in his way, with which he could divert suspicion from himself should his cousin be goaded into retaliating. He knew enough of Roy's character to realize that he would have his hands full, if that individual decided to take the initiative in the tangle.
But what of the “find” of Smithers? What important piece of information did it contain which was evidently so detrimental to Henning as to draw the sudden exclamation of surprise from Garrett's lips? It was not a complete letter, but merely a first draft. It ran as follows: “My dear friend.”
The word “friend” had been marked through and "chum”inserted instead.
“Your letter rec'd last Monday. Sorry to say that ... have no money now ... so can't possibly do the thing you wish ... awfully sorry ... feel like stealing the money rather than letting this thing go undone. However, wait till the end of Christmas week. It won't be too late then. Something's going to happen before that! Then we can go into partnership—at least for the merit of the thing. Keep everything dark. Don't say a single word to anybody about it. Mind now, chum, everything must be kept a secret, or—smash. Yours, Roy H.”
The missive, or first copy of one, looked mysterious enough. To these boys into whose possession it had by some means fallen, it had a decidedly dark-lantern appearance. To their minds, in view of what had happened near the end of the Christmas week, the words seemed to have a peculiarly sinister meaning in proportion to each one's prejudice.
Was the sketch of the proposed letter genuine? There was no doubt as to that in Garrett's mind. Everybody knew Henning's writing. Without hesitation Garrett pronounced it genuine.
But what could the letter mean? Had his cousin deliberately planned the robbery? Smithers believed, or said he believed, this to be the case. Garrett knew better. In spite of this letter he knew that was too absurd a notion to entertain. He was, nevertheless, shrewd enough to see the value of this crumpled note as a weapon of defense for himself.
He deliberately put it into his pocket.
“Hold on there, Garrett,” exclaimed Smithers, "that note belongs to me.”
“Excuse me,” replied Andrew, “but I believe it belongs strictly to Roy Henning.”
“No, it doesn't. It's my property. I risked—I mean I discovered it, and it's mine.”
“I beg your pardon, but for the present you may consider it my property. There may be further risk, you know, for you. It will be quite safe, I assure you, in my keeping.”
“Well, I'll be hanged,” exclaimed the dismayed Smithers.
“Shouldn't wonder in the least—some day," replied Garret imperturbably.
“But it's mine,”
“Beg to differ with you. It never was yours. It is mine now, at least for a time. I haven't decided yet what to do with it—whether to tear it up, or restore it to its rightful owner.”
He intended to do neither one nor the other. He had formed his plan, but he had not the slightest intention of taking either Stockley or Smithers into his confidence. The latter was very angry at the loss of the letter, but he knew very well that he could not get it back until Garrett pleased to return it. His ill humor was not lessened when Garrett said as he walked away:
“By the way, I should recommend you to say nothing about this so-called 'find' of yours, you fellows, for I am strongly under the impression that it is bogus, and besides, it might be difficult to convince people you came by it honestly.”
Smithers' eyelids exhibited that nervous twitching more rapidly than ever.
SHEALEY and Beecham captured Roy Henning and took him for a long stroll through the woods that Sunday afternoon. He, in the keen enjoyment of witnessing nature once again awake from its long winter slumber, for a time forgot his annoyances, and was the merriest of the three. The time passed as only a bright holiday can pass with the light-hearted.
Now there was a hunt for the nimble squirrel, which always got safely away. Anon there was a plunge into the thickest coppice for spring flowers. From these dense undergrowths the three more than once emerged minus the treasures they sought, and plus a number of scratches on hands and face, and with not a little damage to Sunday suits. In the sunny spots they found the first delicate fern fronds. In one particularly romantic spot they found a number of beautiful fungi. Jack Beecham dexterously made a little birch-bark box, which he filled with soft green moss, carefully placing his treasures therein. In their journey they were lucky enough to come across some morels, and one or two of those vegetable curiosities, the earth-star. With these boys a ramble into the country was much more than so many steps taken to a certain spot, and so many back again. Their studies had sharpened their powers of outdoor observation, so that a walk was an intellectual exercise as well as a physical one.
Many times during that afternoon Roy recalled the interview with his cousin a few minutes before starting, but with a certain determination he put the matter from his mind for the present, intent on giving himself entirely to the enjoyment of the beauties of nature on an ideal spring day, and to the pleasant companionship of two very delightful fellow-students. For a time he forgot all about Garrett.
When the journey was near its end; when the tired and healthy, hungry three were once more nearing the college grounds, the thoughts of what he had said and done with regard to his cousin, and that same cousin's noncommittal responses, once more filled Roy's mind and made him thoughtful and reserved again.
“There you are,” scolded Jack Beecham; “I do declare, Roy, you ought to live in the woods altogether. As soon as you come near home you at once put on a long face, turn down the corners of your mouth, and look as sour as—as vinegar and water.”
“Yes,” added Tom Shealey, “I'm going to call you in future Old Glum—that's the only name that suits you now. What on earth is the use of being so sober and somber about things?”
“Just at present,” answered Roy, “I do not think I have anything to make me unusually cheerful; nothing certainly that would make me dance and sing with joy.”
“Afraid of your semi-annual exam?”asked Beecham.
“No. That examination does not bother me. The Little Go, as our English cousins call it, will, I believe, be somewhat of a picnic for me.”
“That's what you think,” said Jack, “but we don't all think that way, do we, Tom?”
“Indeed, no,” answered Tom Shealey grimly. The half-yearly had certain terrors for poor Tom. He had not shone with particular brilliancy in the examination in minor logic. He assured his friends that the examiners were unanimous that he had not shown any remarkable scintillations of genius in his mathematical trial, and the least said about the opinion entertained of him by his professor in geology and astronomy, the better for Tom's reputation as a hard student.
“Well, then, Roy,” asked Beecham, “if you are not afraid of the semi, why do you look so gloomy?”
“I wish most heartily, Jack, that something would turn up to settle that wretched robbery business. At all events, one great load is off my mind. Yesterday I received a letter from my father. I think I have already told you that he is a pretty stern man. Well, he's all right. He wrote that he had the fullest confidence in me in this money business.”
“Whoopla,” shouted Shealey, “good for the old gentleman. Whoop! Don't you know, old fellow, I was terribly afraid for you from that quarter. He's a brick,”
“He tells me that every effort should be made to discover the culprit. He even said he was willing to bear a good share of the expense of securing a detective and so forth, considering that his son was the one who had the management of the funds.”
“What's the matter with Henning père?”shouted Shealey the irrepressible.
“Wait, Tom. He wrote more. He is willing to send me a check for the seventy-two dollars, if by paying it back into the fund I do not compromise myself.”
“How? What does he mean?”asked Beecham.
“This way, I suppose. If I pay it back I shall be considered by some to have—to speak plainly—to have taken it myself, or to have had some knowledge of the guilty party, and, consequently, to have connived at it.”
“Does any living soul in his sound senses, you Don Quixote,” exclaimed Beecham, with an earnestness curiously resembling anger, “for an infinitesimal moment imagine you knew anything of it,”
The generous tone of voice, the absolute confidence it displayed, was grateful and soothing to the worried boy. His suspicions of his own cousin, which were not dissipated by that afternoon's encounter, was the difficulty with him now. The letter of his father said: “to have any knowledge of the guilty party.”Of course, conniving was out of the question. But Garrett! What to think of that which he saw on the night of the play! Could he have been mistaken? Oh, if Garrett that afternoon had only openly denied all knowledge of it, how happy Roy would be now! Under his present knowledge, however, he felt he could not accept the money from his father. Under a full conviction of his cousin's guilt he had made that strange promise of silence, and this he was determined to keep, let come what might. Thus his quandary, which arose on his part from a certain sense of honor, for he would not act upon a mere suspicion, and he also earnestly desired to save a relative the shame of being accused.
“No, I really believe,” said Henning, in answer to Beecham's indignant question, “I really believe that even those boys who profess to suspect me do not believe what they say. I do not believe there is a boy in the yard, nor a single member of the faculty, who has the least real suspicion that I know anything about the theft.”
“I guess not,” said Jack, and then added, “well, then, it's settled, isn't it?”
“Unfortunately, no. There is something in this affair, which, until the robber is caught and the whole question disposed of forever, I can not mention; yet it is important enough for me to be prevented in honor from writing for that money.”
Jack Beecham and Tom Shealey looked at each other in blank surprise. They then indulged in a long stare—not a mere look or glance, but a long, open stare—at Roy. Under the two pairs of very wide-open eyes he remained as inscrutable as a sphinx. There was not a movement of eyes or lips which could give them the slightest clue by which they might arrive at some understanding of the strange announcement.
“You don't mean to say,” said Shealey, with eyes still wide open, “that, after all, you are in some way impli— oh! hang it all, I'm talking nonsense now,”
Roy Henning burst out laughing. Notwithstanding his worry he enjoyed his friends' bewilderment.
“I guess you are,” he said.
“Look here, Mr. Roy Aloysius Henning,” said Jack Beecham, “I consider you the most inexplicable, inexorable, incomprehensible creature on the face of the footstool. Now look here! No humbug, you know—we, your friends, I, Tom, and Brose, for here he comes—demand from you an explanation right here and now. You must tell us the whole affair.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No. I can not do it.”
“If you don't do it, I'll——”Jack stopped dismayed. He saw that Roy was firm. “I'll fling some more big names at you.”
“Can't help it, Jackie. I guess I can stand 'em.”
“But this thing's got to be straightened out,”
“If so, it has to be done without my taking any part in the straightening—see?”
“But, man alive! You are the most interested! If you know anything of importance, why not inform your friends, and let us ferret out the truth or falsity of your surmises?”
“No. It can not be done. If I am to be exonerated from these very unjust and, I confess, very annoying aspersions, it must be done gratuitously and of the free will of the person or persons malignant enough to start the rumors. Do you not see, my friends, that if you began to move in order to exonerate me, everybody would consider you as acting as my agents and under my direction——”
“Quixotic nonsense——”began Beecham.
“Wait, Jack. This is the penalty you pay for your friendship. I will tell you this much, in gratitude for your interest and loyalty. I have made a solemn pledge to keep absolutely silent with respect to any suspicions I may have until the whole is settled and cleared up.”
“But you in the meantime are suffering,” said Jack.
“Can't help it. Better suffer than be unjust. Better bear a little, than perhaps do another an almost irreparable injury.”
His friends began to have some glimmerings of the reasons why he would not move or be moved. All of them were aware of his delicacy of conscience. They knew of his high sense of honor, of his exactitude, which amounted in their eyes to scrupulosity. It was, therefore, with no small amount of admiration, which, however, they disguised under much banter and teasing, that they acquiesced in Henning's view of his own conduct in the matter.
“Roy, you're a chump,” said Shealey.
“Yes, and a gump,” added Jack Beecham.
“And my quota of abuse is,” said Bracebridge, who by this time understood the drift of the talk, “is that you are a—what shall I say—oh! yes—that you are a frump, whatever that is; it rhymes anyway.”
Roy bowed low, as if receiving compliments and bouquets. When he left to go to his classroom to write to his father, Jack Beecham said:
“That fellow is a second Bayard—sans reproche.”
“So say all who know him,” added Shealey, and Ambrose said: “Amen.”
IT WAS remarkable, and even surprised Garrett himself, that Smithers and Stockley made no capital out of their knowledge of the existence of what appeared to be an incriminating document. The sketch of the letter which they had shown with such assurance to Garrett, and which that individual, with an assumption of superiority that had completely cowed the two, had coolly kept in his possession, did have something of a suspicious appearance.
Why did Garrett retain it? Was it a last card held in reserve to play against his cousin's hand? Did he believe the letter to be genuine? Finally, after all, did he wish to spare his cousin?
At this time this last consideration had no weight with him. He had various reasons for acting as he had done. One strong one was that he proposed to hold all the threads of the plot in his own hands and manipulate them to his own advantage. He was by no means sure how this evidence of Roy's supposed complicity would be received by the boys. He felt sure that many would pooh-pooh such a document as worthless. He did not desire to prove nothing by overstepping the mark in attempting to prove too much.
Suspicious as the letter looked objectively, Garrett was not so stupid as not to know there must be some very good explanation of the words; although unsupported by an explanation they certainly did appear to incriminate the writer, in view of all that had happened since they were penned.
Smithers saw plainly enough that without the letter being produced (confound that Garrett's impudence!) his words would have no weight. This young man was quite well aware that he bore a very odorous—in fact a malodorous—reputation among even his friends. Many knew of his despicable ingratitude toward Roy Henning.
Stockley had a plan of his own which he told to neither Smithers nor Garrett, and had adopted a Fabian policy. Thus it happened that Roy Henning was spared the knowledge that one of these boys had in his possession a copy or draft of a letter of his, which he could, had he so wished, use against him and thus cause him more annoyance.
Meanwhile time flew on. The warm weather had come. It was now very pleasant to be out of doors, and, of course, the great question now occupying all interest was that of the prospects of the ball team. It was found to the general satisfaction that there was very good material after all, in spite of the lack of the winter practice.
Harry Gill, a fast friend of Henning, and a great supporter of Rob Jones, was chosen captain and manager. He was a popular boy who could write a pleasing challenge and gain and retain the good will of those teams who even refused to play St. Cuthbert's. To the surprise of all he secured a game with the celebrated Blandyke team, to be played on the home grounds. This was delightful news for the yard, the more so because it was so unexpected.
The Blandykes had assured the St. Cuthbert's boys early in the spring, that they had played them for the last time, not because of any disagreement or because they had been beaten previously, but because their faculty had ruled against the long travel. Yet here was Gill, at the very opening of the season, securing the first great game without hitch or flaw, and on the home grounds.
The boys were jubilant. Their satisfaction was increased when they learned that Gill, by his irresistible charm of manner, had induced Henning to practice with the team. He could not get Roy to promise to play in the match game, but to have him in the practice games was something. Every one admitted that Roy was an exceptionally fine player. Much of the beginning of the undercurrent of talk against him in the previous fall was, it will be remembered, owing to his refusal to have any more to do with sports, and especially with baseball.
How could he now reconcile himself to his father's positive injunction to engage in no sports and yet play practice games? Roy had thought the matter over and had come to a decision.
His father had told him there were to be no sports. This he adhered to scrupulously. His father had said there was to be enough exercise only by which to keep a sound mind in a sound body. Now to him, as to many another healthy, hearty boy, after the long dormant months of winter, there was need of good outdoor exercise. Where could one find it better than in the great game? But was not this sport, in the understanding of his father? Roy thought it was not, that is, practice games were not. With match games it was different. He reasoned that his father knew that he was athletic, that wheeling could not always suffice, and that long walks were a mere winter expedient. He therefore arrived at the eminently satisfactory conclusion that his father did not intend, when he told him to keep a sound mind in a sound body, that he should be altogether excluded from the game which, above all others, was best able to secure that end. Casuists may argue pro and con on the soundness of Roy's conclusion if they will. We leave it to them.
It is well known that there is nothing in a college so well adapted to the breaking up of animosities and of undesirable alliances and dangerous particular friendships which lead to no good, as baseball. The adage, “birds of a feather flock together,” is particularly true of boys at school during the winter season. Crowded together in a certain circumscribed space of one or two or three halls, according to the excellence of the college equipment, the very best boys are often forced to form acquaintances with those with whom they would otherwise not closely associate.
This had been particularly the case this year at St. Cuthbert's, owing to the diversity of opinion as to the question of the identity of the undiscovered thief. As we know, many boys were inclined to suspect Roy Henning. Among these were some of the best ball-players. Now Harry Gill, captain and manager, was substitute pitcher. Stockley was a splendid first baseman, and could pitch well. Smithers, too, although not liked generally by the boys, was too fine a player to be ignored. Beecham, of course, was on the team, as was Bracebridge. Garrett, so the boys declared, “would have eaten his hat”to have been selected for a place on the first nine. Gill, however, appointed strictly according to merit, and Andrew rose no higher than substitute for third baseman. That, however, was something in a place like St. Cuthbert's, because the substitutes, beside traveling with the team, were always the opposing team in practice games, and during the spring and early summer saw a deal of fine work.
It is an axiom that in order to play good ball, all differences of opinion must be dropped. No team could be enthusiastic for victory with three or four currents of self-interest or animosity thwarting and dampening all efforts and rendering harmonious and united action impossible.
All disagreements had been dropped, or at least hidden away. All were enthusiastic. When Gill announced to the team that Roy Henning had consented to play at all practice games, the percentage of enthusiasm, if it could be measured in that way, rose very high. Now all bickerings and animosities seemed to be forgotten, and they actually were for a time. As far as team work went, there was one heart and one soul. The prospects were indeed bright.
What a splendid player Roy was! He stood there in the pitcher's box, a picture of fine young manhood. His long brown hair blowing over his forehead appeared to get into his eyes at every move. With a graceful leonine backward movement of the head he would toss the hair out of his way. He was never excited. He always had his wits about him. In a critical moment he could be relied upon. He had the habit of keeping a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. To the uninitiated it appeared the most important part of the game for him to keep his jaws in steady, slow motion. Some said it kept him from becoming excited—that the attention required to keep up the regular, slow motion of his molars prevented any other kind of distraction. Be this as it may, he never showed excitement, but was always calm and cool, and not unfrequently at critical moments exasperatingly slow.
And then what an arm he had, and what movement! He seemed merely to put his hand forward and the ball went high, or low, or wherever he willed. He was a great acquisition to the team. The baseball enthusiasts, which is equivalent to saying all the boys, certainly had some excuse for chagrin when, without explanation, he retired from the game the year before.
Who does not love the sight of ball players on the diamond, especially in the early summer! The bright uniforms, the brighter faces flushed with the joy of living and of anticipation! Then the merry shout and laugh! How it makes the blood tingle, and sends the spirit of youth once more through one's veins!
In the last practice game before the match with the Blandykes the boys in their uniforms, white shirts and blue pants, stockings, and caps, presented a picturesque scene. The kindly sun, as yet not too hot, flushed their cheeks, while the liquid blue above and the fresh tender grass beneath their feet lent additional zest to their enjoyment. It was the first important practice game the boys had played.
When at length it came to an end all the players clustered around Roy Henning at the home plate, congratulating him on his pitching. Jack Beecham and Ambrose stood a little apart, watching the group.
“Isn't it a pity, Brose, that Roy won't play against the Blandykes next Tuesday,” remarked Jack.
“Indeed it is—a thousand pities. But you may be sure he knows what he is doing.”
“Guess he does. But there's a particularly sable individual in the woodpile somewhere! I wonder what it all means?”
“Many beside you have wondered,” responded Bracebridge.
“Oh, he must play next week—must, must, we can't do without him! He must play, and that's all there is about it.”
“I am afraid he won't though. Hello, what's up? Look, here comes Mr. Shalford. How serious he looks,”
The two boys touched their hats as the prefect approached.
“Have you seen Henning, boys? Ah, there he is,”
The prefect went to the group surrounding their ideal pitcher. They were using all the art persuasive they could command to extort a promise from him to play in the forthcoming match game. It is hard to say how much longer he would have had to withstand their importunities, had they not suddenly ceased upon catching sight of Mr. Shalford.
“Henning, I want you.”
Roy disengaged himself from the crowd.
“Here's a telegram for you. The President told me to give it to you at once, and you are to go to him immediately.”
Outside of strictly business circles, the arrival of a telegram has always its preliminary terrors. The yellow missive may contain such startling news! The message which Roy's father had sent him was startling enough. It read:
“Ethel is believed to be dying. Come at once. G. H.”
Roy went over to where Beecham and Bracebridge were standing. Without a word he placed the telegram in Ambrose's hand. After reading it the three friends at once moved toward the college. The crowd of boys, lately so loud and clamorous, were silent now, in the presence of some unknown calamity.
Roy walked on as if stunned, for a little while scarcely knowing where he was going. Jack and Ambrose, after one sympathetic pressure of his hand, walked with him in silent sympathy.
THE President was waiting for Henning in his office. The two friends left Roy at the door, and quietly stole out of the corridor into the sunshine, where with subdued voices they discussed the misfortune which was overshadowing their friend.
“I never knew a boy to meet with so many misfortunes in one year as Roy has done,” said Beecham.
“It is hard,” replied Bracebridge, “but God knows best. I sometimes think he is being tried, as gold is tried in the furnace, for some great purpose.”
Beecham was silent. Such thoughts were just a little above Jack's ordinary plane of thinking. Bracebridge continued:
“What do you say if, during his absence, we make a grand effort to find the thief? What a glorious thing it would be if he could come back cleared of all suspicion,”
Beecham was never patient when the words “suspicion” and “Henning” were mentioned in the same connection. This time he said something quite rough, and, to tell the truth, quite unlike himself. Ambrose looked up in surprise.
“You must excuse me. I lose all patience in this affair.”
“All right, old fellow. We will make a big effort, eh?”
“You may bet your last little round red cent we will.”
Henning reappeared. He had but little time to spare if he would catch the six o'clock train. By traveling all night he would reach home by seven o'clock in the morning. Hurriedly changing his clothes, he shook hands with the two and was driven to the depot. Both promised to write as soon as there was anything important to write about.
While Roy Henning is traveling homeward as fast as a night express can take him, we will explain the reason why the telegram had been sent. This can not be done better than by going to the Henning home, and there tracing the course of events.
“I think it's real mean to rain like this,” said Tommy Henning, early in the morning of the day on which Roy, his big brother, had received the alarming telegram. Tommy let his picture book drop to the floor, and swung his fat little legs backward and forward. Soon tiring of this, he flattened his nose against the window pane of the drawing-room where the two children had been trying to amuse themselves.
“What's mean, Tommy?”asked his sister, Ethel.
“Oh, things,” and with this broad generalization he continued to exercise his legs. “What's the use if it's going to rain all the time?”
“But it isn't going to rain all day. It will clear up before long, see if it doesn't.”
Tommy was a real boy and, like his big brother, hated above all things to be obliged to remain indoors. It had been raining for twenty-four hours, and he longed to get outside in the free, fresh air, being particularly anxious just now to take Ethel for a ride in the boat on the big pond below the orchard.
Tommy was sturdy, but his sister was a frail girl, of shy and nervous disposition. Her chief characteristic was her passionate love for her brother Tom, who did not show much appreciation of her affection, because he did not realize its depth. He loved his sister, but in a somewhat boisterous manner. Not unfrequently he showed his affection in a way that was rather painful than otherwise to the delicate child. This was because he did not think. He did not intend to be rough, yet he secretly thought that it was a hardship that she was not a boy, for then he could have “lots more fun.” They got along well together, however, and loved each other very dearly.
True to Ethel's prediction, it soon ceased raining, the clouds breaking and rolling away in great masses. Tom's vivacity returned with the sunshine.
“Ma! ma! may we go down to the pond now, and get some of those lilies?”begged Tommy, as he rushed into his mother's room.
“I am afraid not for the present, my son,” replied his mother, “at least Ethel can not go. It is a little chilly after the rain, and besides, the boat will be full of water.”
Ethel did not really care about going just then, but seeing how anxious her brother was to enjoy the ride and get the beautiful flowers, the first lilies of the summer, she also pleaded for permission. At length under the combined pleading of the two, Mrs. Henning consented.
“Now, Tommy,” she said, “if I let you go, you must promise me not to go near the mill-race.”
“All right, Ma; there's lots of room without going near there,” and the handsome little fellow scampered off in high glee, with the full intention of keeping his promise.
The injunction was not an unnecessary one. The mill-race was a dangerous spot. At the sluice there was a considerable current of water which would take a boat caught in it over the bank and dangerously dash it into deep water, if it escaped being broken to pieces on some large boulders which had formerly been a part of the masonry of an old mill.
The pond was noted in the neighborhood for the profusion and beauty of its water-lilies. The children found no greater delight in the summer than in gathering them and adorning their pretty suburban home with them.
The boy found there was not much water in the boat. With Ethel's assistance he bailed it out and they were soon among the water-lilies. They formed a pretty picture—these two children, Tom in his white flannel shirt adorned with a pretty pink tie, a special Christmas gift of Ethel; she in her pink dress and white sunbonnet, her lap almost covered with luxuriant flowers.
“That's enough, Tom; plenty for to-day,” said Ethel.
“All right. Now for a good row around the pond while you cut the stalks.”
Tommy had a good voice, and as he rowed he began to sing: