Barbour Ralph Henry
The Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys
“It must be very close,” he muttered. Then, after a moment, “Jimmie will be badly disappointed if they’re beaten.”
With sudden resolution he stuck his cane under his arm, pulled his waistcoat free of wrinkles, and walked quickly, determinedly, back to the entrance. At the ticket booth he drew a bill from his pocketbook and, in the act of purchasing, recalled his informant of a few minutes before. He was still there, craning his head and listening.
“Here, do you want to see the last of this?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” was the eager answer.
“Two tickets, please.”
Mr. Robinson strode through the gate followed by a freckle-faced, rather tattered youth of sixteen, and sought a seat.
“You come along with me,” he said to the boy. “I may want to know who some of these fellows are.”
Seats were hard to find, but in the end they obtained them on a stand back of third base. Mr. Robinson settled his stick between his knees and looked about him. The triangle of stands was crowded with excited men and women; men in straw hats and all sorts of vivid shirts, women in cool cotton dresses, with here and there a touch of crimson ribbon. The field stretched away green and level as a carpeted floor to the river and the boathouse. Princeton was at the bat. Mr. Robinson turned to his new acquaintance.
“Seven to six, you said?” The boy glanced at the little black score-board.
“Yes, sir, that’s right. See? Harvard made three in the first and two in the third and one in the fifth, and Princeton made three in the third and four in the fifth. That’s when they didn’t do a thing to Miller. Gee, I could hear ’em hittin’ him outside there! I’d like to been inside then, wouldn’t you?”
“Hm, yes,” replied Mr. Robinson.
“Say, what made you so late?” asked the other with a suspicion of a grievance in his voice. “Gee, if I’d been going to this game I bet you I’d been on time!”
“I – ah – I was detained,” replied Mr. Robinson. He realized that the boy held him in some contempt, and knew that it would never do to tell the whole truth about it; the other would simply look upon him as a lunatic. Clearly, too, he owed his acquaintance an apology. “I am sorry that I didn’t get here sooner,” he said, “so that you could have seen – ah – more of the contest.”
“So’m I,” was the frank response. Then, “Still, maybe if you’d come before you wouldn’t have taken me in with you?”
“That’s true; maybe I wouldn’t have – ah – noticed you. So perhaps it’s just as well, eh?”
“Yep. Hi-i-i!”
Mr. Robinson gave attention to the game in time to see the second Princeton batter thrown out at first. The stands subsided again, and the ushers waved their hats and the cheering broke out afresh.
“Supposing you tell me who some of the men are,” suggested Mr. Robinson.
“Sure thing. That’s Hanlon pitching. He’s pretty good, but he ain’t as good as Miller, they say. I guess ‘Mill’ must have had an off day. And that’s Morton catching. Say, he’s a peach!”
“Indeed?”
“You bet; a regular top-of-the-basket peacherina! You just keep your eye on him.”
“Thank you, I will,” answered the listener. “And the small fellow at first base?”
The boy turned and stared at him, open-eyed and open-mouthed. Then he whistled softly but with emphasis.
“Say!” he exclaimed, finally, “where’ve you been?”
“Well, I – ” Mr. Robinson faltered, and the other gave a grunt of disgust.
“Gee, I thought everybody knew ‘Rob’!”
“Knew – ?”
“‘Rob.’ His name’s Robinson; they call him ‘Rob’ for short. He’s the captain, of course. Didn’t you know that?”
“Well, yes, I did, now that you mention it,” answered the man humbly. “Is – is he pretty good?”
“Pretty good! Why, he’s a star! He’s a wonder! He’s – ” Words failed him. “Say, you must live in Chelsea!” he said at last.
“Chelsea?” repeated Mr. Robinson. “No, I don’t live there.”
“Anybody’d think you did,” muttered the boy.
The third man went out on a long fly to center field, and Harvard trotted in to bat.
“If Harvard loses this game,” said the boy, “it’ll break her record. She ain’t lost one this year. That’s Greene going to bat. He ain’t much good at hittin’; he generally strikes out.”
Greene sustained his reputation, and a tall youth, whom Mr. Robinson was informed was Billings, the left-fielder, made a hit to short-stop and reached first by a bad throw. Harvard filled the bases in that inning and the excitement became intense. A base-hit would bring in the desired two runs. But the Princeton pitcher wound himself into knots and untangled himself abruptly and threw wonderful balls, and the umpire, a short, round, little man with a deep voice, yelled “Strike!” “Strikes!” “Striker’s out!”
“Aw, thunder!” lamented Mr. Robinson’s companion. “That’s two gone. Ain’t that mean?”
Mr. Robinson, sitting on the edge of his seat, clutching his cane desperately with both hands, nodded. Over on the other stands, across the diamond, they were standing up and cheering grimly, imploringly. The Harvard short-stop took up his bat and faced the pitcher. Back of second and third bases the coaches were yelling loudly:
“On your toes, Charlie, on your toes! Go down with his arm! Now you’re off! Whoa-a-a! Look out for second-baseman! All right! He won’t throw it! Whoa-a-a!”
“Strike!” called the umpire.
“Aw, gee!” muttered the boy.
“Now, lively. Watch his arm! Come on, come on! Hi, hi, hi! Look out for passed balls! Now you’re off!”
“Strike two,” called the umpire.
Mr. Robinson thumped the boards with his cane.
Then there came a crack as the batsman found the ball, and the men on bases rushed home. But the arching sphere fell softly into the left-fielder’s hands, and the nines again changed places. Mr. Robinson and his acquaintance exchanged looks of disgust.
“Wasn’t that rotten?” asked the boy with the freckled face.
“Awful!” answered Mr. Robinson.
Nothing happened in either half of the eighth inning, but the suspense and excitement were intense, nevertheless. Princeton reached second once, but that was the end of her chances. Harvard got her first man to first, but the succeeding three struck out. The cheers were hoarse, incessant. The ushers waved hats and arms wildly. And Princeton went to bat for the first of the ninth.
“Now, then, fellows, get together!” Mr. Robinson recognized his son’s voice, cheerful, hopeful, inspiriting. The Hero was trotting to his place at first. “Ginger up, everybody, and shut them out!”
“All right, Cap!” “We’ve got them on the run, Cap!” “Lucky ninth, Rob!” The in-fielders were answering with the same cheerful assumption of confidence. To the right of Mr. Robinson a section of the stand was waving orange and black streamers and flags, and cheering joyously. The Princeton pitcher stepped to the plate.
But Hanlon, if he wasn’t the equal of the deposed Miller, was on his mettle. The batter had two strikes called on him, and then struck at a deceptive drop. The ball thumped into the hands of Morton, the “top-of-the-basket peacherina.”
“Striker’s out,” droned the little man in black.
Then came a long hit over short-stop’s head and the batsman reached first without hurrying. A moment later he had stolen second. The next man sent him to third, but was put out himself at first.
“Gee, a hit will bring him in, won’t it?” asked the boy. “But there’s two out. Maybe – ”
The man at bat had found a high ball and had sent it whizzing down the base-line, eight feet or more in the air. The man on third was speeding home, the runner racing for first. The Hero threw his arms over his head and jumped lightly off his toes. The next instant he was rolling head over heels, but one hand was held triumphantly aloft and in it was the ball.
“He’s out!” called the umpire.
The panting, weary crimson-legged players trotted in amid a salvo of applause. Mr. Robinson was beaming proudly, delightedly across at the Hero. The boy was shouting absurdly and beating the planks with his heels.
“Gee, if they can only make two runs they’ll have ’em beaten!” he cried, excitedly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Robinson; “do you think they can?”
“I dunno. Maybe they can. Say, didn’t I tell you that ‘Rob’ was a corker? Did you see that catch? That wasn’t anything for him; I’ve seen him do better stunts than that; that was just ordinary, that was!”
Now had come Harvard’s last chance. After the one round of cheering that greeted the first man at the plate, silence fell. The man was Morton, the catcher, and he struck out miserably, and turned away toward the bench with wobegone countenance. The Harvard second-baseman took his place. With two strikes and two balls called on him, he hit out a straight grounder between second-baseman and short-stop and reached first by a good margin. The next man struck at the first ball and it passed the catcher. The man on first took second. Then the Princeton pitcher steadied down.
“Strike two,” said the umpire.
Then the batter hit at a low ball and popped it high and straight over the base. The audience held their breath. Down – down it came plump into the catcher’s hands.
“Two gone,” groaned the boy with the freckled face. And then, “Hi! Here comes ‘Rob’!”
The Hero was picking out a bat, carefully, calmly, and the stands were shouting “Robinson! Robinson! Robinson!” hoarsely, entreatingly. The Hero settled his cap firmly, wiped his hands in the dust and gripped his bat. Then he stood, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, smiling, confronting the Princeton pitcher. The latter doubled and unbent.
“Ball,” droned the umpire. The Hero tapped the base and smiled pleasantly. The pitcher studied him thoughtfully, while the catcher knelt and beat his mitten in signal for a “drop.” Again the pitcher went through his evolutions, again the ball sped toward the plate. Then there was a loud, sharp crack!
High and far sailed the sphere. The Hero’s crimson stockings twinkled through the dust as he turned first and raced for second. The man who had been on second crossed the plate. The stands were sloping banks of swaying, shrieking humanity. Far out in the green field beyond the center’s position the ball fell, a good ten feet beyond the frantic pursuers. Then the center-fielder seized it and hurled it in to short-stop with a hard, swift throw that made the runner’s chances of reaching the plate look dim. But he was past third and still running like a twenty-yard sprinter, while along the line beside him ran and leaped and shouted two coaches:
“Come on, Cap! Come on! You can do it, Cap! You can do it! Run hard! Hard!”
Short-stop swung, and threw straight and sure toward where the catcher, with outstretched arms and eager white face, awaited it above the dust-hidden plate. Ball and runner sped goalward. The stands were bedlams of confused shouts and cries. Mr. Robinson was on his feet with the rest, his hat in one hand, his gold-mounted cane in the other. He had been shrieking with the rest, stamping with them, waving with them. His face was red and his eyes wide with excitement. And now he measured the distance from ball to plate, from plate to runner, with darting glances, and raised his voice in one final, triumphant effort:
“Slide, Jimmie! Slide!”
Above the riot of sound arose that despairing command. The ball thumped against the catcher’s mit and his arm swung swiftly outward and downward. But it didn’t hit the runner. He was sprawling face down above the plate in a cloud of brown dust. Jimmie had slid.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.
Two hours later the Hero and his father were at dinner in a Boston hotel. Mr. Robinson dropped a crumb into his empty soup-plate and smiled across the table in the manner of one well pleased with the world.
“I haven’t seen a game of baseball like that, Jimmie,” he said, “since we won the class championship back in ’73.” He looked reminiscent for a moment; then asked suddenly: “By the way, didn’t you say they’d make you captain again next year?”
“They will, if I’ll take it, sir.”
“If you’ll take it! What’s to prevent your taking it? Don’t be a fool, Jimmie!”
The Hero applied his napkin to his lips to hide a smile.
“Very well, sir,” he replied, gravely, “I won’t.”
THE HAZING OF SATTERLEE 2d
Satterlee 2d tossed his arms over his head and opened his eyes. It was of no use. As a much smaller boy – he was now thirteen years of age – his mother, on putting him to bed, had always counseled “Now shut your eyes and go to sleep.” And it had worked to a charm; so infallibly that Satterlee 2d had unconsciously accepted it as a law of nature that in order to go to sleep one had only to close one’s eyes. To-night, after lying with lids forced so tightly together that they ached, he gave up the struggle. Something was plainly wrong.
He snuggled the comforter up under his nose and stared into the darkness. A thin, faint pencil of light was discernible straight ahead and rather high up. After a moment of thought he knew that it stole in at the top of the door from the hall, where an oil lamp flickered all night on a bracket. From his right came faint gurgles, as regular as clockwork. That was Sears, his room-mate, fast clasped in the arms of Morpheus. Satterlee 2d envied Sears.
Back of him the darkness was less intense for a little space. The shade at the window was not quite all the way down and a faint gray light crept in from a cloudy winter sky. Satterlee 2d wondered what time it was. Sears had blown out the light promptly at ten o’clock, and that seemed whole hours ago. It must be very late, and still he was not sleepy; on the contrary, he couldn’t remember having ever been wider awake in his life. His thoughts flew from one thing to another bewilderingly.
It had been very sudden, his change from home life to boarding-school. His mother had not been satisfied with his progress at the grammar-school, and when brother Donald, Satterlee 2d’s senior by two years, had returned from Dr. Willard’s school for Christmas vacation, healthy looking and as full of spirits as a young colt, the decision was made; Thomas should go back to school with Donald.
Thomas was amazed and delighted. Until that moment he had conscientiously treated all mention of Willard’s with scathing contempt, a course absolutely necessary, since Don was in the habit of chanting its praises at all times and in all places in a most annoyingly superior manner. But as soon as he learned that he too was to become a pupil at Willard’s Tom swore instant allegiance, for the first time hearkening eagerly to Don’s tales of the greatness of the School, and vowing to make the name of Thomas Polk Satterlee one to be honored and revered by future generations of Willardians. He would do mighty deeds in school hall and campus – more especially campus – and would win wonderful popularity. And then he bade a moist-eyed farewell to home and parents, and, in care of his travel-hardened brother, set forth for boarding-school, filled with pleasurable excitement and fired with patriotism and grand resolves.
One thing alone had worried Satterlee 2d; the school catalogue, which he had studied diligently from end to end, stated very distinctly – in fact, in italics – that hazing was strictly forbidden and unknown at the institution. Brother Don, on the other hand, told scalp-stirring tales of midnight visitations to new boys by groups of ghostly inquisitors. These two authorities, the only ones at Tom’s command, were sadly at variance. But experience had taught Satterlee 2d that printed text was on the whole more apt to be truthful than Brother Don; and he gained comfort accordingly.
He had made his début at Willard’s in proper style, had been formally introduced to many other young gentlemen of ages varying from twelve to eighteen years, had shaken hands humbly with Burtis, the school leader, and had officially become Satterlee 2d.
He and his new roommate, Sears, had become firm friends in the short period of three hours, and, realizing Sears’s good-will toward him, he had listened to that youth’s enigmatic warning, delivered just as the light went out, with respect.
“Say, if anything happens to-night, don’t wake me; I don’t want to know anything about it.”
Satterlee 2d’s troubled questioning elicited only sleepy and very unsatisfactory answers, and he had laid awake, hour after hour, or so it seemed, with ears strained for suspicious sounds. But none had come, and now – he yawned and turned over on the pillow – now he thought that he could go to sleep at last. He closed his eyes.
Then he opened them again. It seemed hours later, but was in fact scarcely five minutes. A bright, unhallowed light shone on his face. White-draped figures, silent and terrible, were about him.
“Ghosts!” thought Satterlee 2d.
But just as he had gathered sufficient breath for a satisfactory scream of terror, and just as some one had forced the corner of a pillow into his mouth, recollection of Brother Donald’s tales came to him and his fears subsided. With the supernatural aspect removed, the affair resolved into an unpleasant but not alarming adventure. It is idle to relate in detail the subsequent proceedings. Blindfolded and attired only in a bath-robe, hastily thrown over his nightshirt, he was conducted along corridors and down long flights of stairs, over strange, uneven expanses of frozen ground, skirting frightful abysses and facing dangers which, had he believed the asseverations of his captors, were the most awful ever mortal braved. Despite his incredulity he was glad when the end of the journey was reached. He was led stumbling down three very chilly stone steps and brought to a halt. The atmosphere was now slightly warmer, and this at least was something to be thankful for.
“Neophyte,” said a deep voice which sounded suspiciously like Brother Don’s, “you have passed unscathed through the Vale of Death. The first period of your initiation into the Order of the Grinning Skull is accomplished. We leave you now to dwell alone, until dawn gilds the peak of yonder mountain, among the Spirits of the Under World. Should you survive this, the most terrible ordeal of all, you will be one of us and will be admitted into the secrets and counsels of our Order. Farewell, perhaps forever!”
The hands that held him drew away, he heard the sounds of retreating footsteps, of a closing door and a creaking bolt. He remained motionless, his heart beating against his ribs. He wanted to cry out, to bring them back, but pride was still stronger than fear. The silence and damp odor of the place were uncanny. He thought of tombs and things, and shuddered. Then summoning back his waning courage, he tore the bandage from his eyes. Alas, he was still in complete darkness.
Satterlee 2d’s reading had taught him that the proper thing to do in such situations was to explore. So he put forth his hands and stepped gingerly forward. He brought up against a cold, reeking stone wall. He followed it, found a corner, turned at right angles, soon found another corner, and then worked back, at length coming in contact with the steps and a heavy door. All efforts to move the latter were vain. The floor was of wood and sounded hollow. The place had a clammy, unwholesome feeling, and now was beginning to strike him as decidedly wanting in warmth and comfort.
Suddenly his subsiding fear gave way before a rush of anger and he stamped a slippered foot. A nice trick to play on a fellow, he declared aloud; he’d tell Don what he thought of it in the morning, and he’d punch somebody’s head, see if he didn’t! In his wrath he stepped impetuously forward and gave a shriek of horror. He was up to his knees in icy water.
He clambered out and sat shivering on the planks, while the knowledge came to him that his prison was nothing else than the spring-house, which Don had exhibited to him that afternoon during a tour of sight-seeing. A narrow staging surrounded a large pool, he remembered; in his journey about the place he had kept in touch with the walls, and so had escaped a wetting, until his impetuous stride had plumped him into it. Cold, wet, angry and miserable, he crept to the farther corner of the house, to get as far as possible from the drafts that eddied in under the door, and placing his back against the wall and wrapping his wet garments about his knees, closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. He told himself that sleep was out of the question. But he was mistaken, for presently his head fell over on one side and he slumbered.
When he awoke with a start, aroused by the sound of the opening of the door, he stared blankly into the gloom and wondered for a moment where he was. An oblong of gray at the end of the spring-house drew his gaze. Two forms took shape, stumbled down the steps, and were lost in the darkness. Then the door was closed again save for a narrow crevice. His first thought that rescue was at hand was instantly dispelled. Some one coughed painfully, and then:
“Phew, I’m nigh dead with cold,” said a weak, husky voice. “Two miles from the village you said it was, didn’t yer? I’ll bet it’s five, all right.”
“Well, you’re here now, ain’t yer?” responded a deeper voice, impatiently. “So shut up. You make me tired, always kicking about something. What do you expect, any way? Think the old codger’s going to drive into town and hand the money over to yer? If you want anything you’ve got to work for it.”
The two had sprawled themselves out on the floor to the left of the doorway. Satterlee considered. Perhaps if he made his presence known, the men, who were evidently tramps, would let him depart unmolested. On the other hand, maybe they would be angry and cut his throat promptly and very expertly, and drop his body into the pool. He shivered and clenched his fists, resolved to perish bravely. He wished he were home in his own bed; he wished – then he stopped wishing and listened.
“How long we got to stay here?” asked the first tramp wearily.
“We’ll wait till ’bout twelve. The doctor’s a great hand at staying up late, I hear.”
“What time do you say it is now?”
“Half past eleven, I guess.”
“Phew!” The other whistled lugubriously. “I’ll be dead with the cold by that time, Joe.” He went off into a paroxysm of coughing that made Satterlee 2d, in spite of his terror, pity him, but which only brought from his companion an angry command to make less noise.
“All right,” was the husky response, “give me some ’baccy, Joe? There’s more’n time fer a bit of a smoke.” There followed sounds from across the darkness and Satterlee 2d surmised that each was filling his pipe. Then a match flared suddenly and lighted up the scene. The boy shut his eyes and held his breath. Then he opened them the least crack and peered across. The men were sitting just to the left of the doorway, diagonally across from him. Between them lay the black oblong of water splashed with orange by the flickering match. Satterlee 2d wondered if it would never burn out! He could see only a tangled beard, a glittering, half-closed eye, two big hands, between the fingers of which the guarded light shone crimson. The light went out and he drew a monstrous sigh of relief. The odor of tobacco floated across to him, strong and pungent.
The two smoked silently for a moment. Satterlee 2d stared wide-eyed into the darkness and tried to discover a way out of the difficulty. From what little conversation he had overheard he judged that the tramps meditated some crime against Doctor Willard, probably robbery. If he entertained any doubt upon the subject it was quickly dispelled. The tramp with the cough was talking.
“Who’s goin’ inside, Joe?”
“You; you’re smallest an’ lightest an’ can get through the window easy. I’ll stand watch. If I whistle, make a run for it an’ try to get into the woods across the road.”
“Ye-es, but I don’t know the lay of the room like you do, Joe.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to tell yer, ain’t I? When yer get through the window, turn to yer right an’ keep along the wall; there ain’t nothin’ there but bookcases; when yer get to the corner there’s a round table; look out fer that. Keep along the wall again; there’s more book-shelves, about six or eight feet of ’em. Then you comes to a high case with a lid that lets down an’ makes a desk and swingin’ glass doors above it; you know the sort o’ thing I mean, eh?”
“Old-fashion’ secretary,” said the other, evidently proud of his knowledge.
“Correct! Well, you want to let down the lid – ”
“Locked?”
“Likely it is; use ther little jimmy; the money’s in the lower drawer on the left side. I don’t know what all’s there; better clean the drawer out, see?”
Satterlee 2d was thinking hard, his heart in his throat and his pulse hammering. He must get out of the spring-house somehow and warn the doctor. But how? The men were practically between him and the door. To make a dash for liberty would surely result disastrously; if they caught him – Satterlee 2d’s teeth chattered! If he waited until they went out and then followed he might be able to arouse the doctor or scare the burglars away, if they didn’t bolt the door again on the outside, and so make him once more a prisoner. The only plan that seemed at all feasible was to creep inch by inch to the doorway and then make a dash for freedom. An impatient stir across the spring-house warned him that whatever plan was to be tried must be attempted speedily. He wriggled softly out of his bath-robe, gathered the skirt of his nightgown in one hand, took a long breath, and started forward on his hands and knees. The men were talking again, and one of the pipes was sizzling loudly.
All went well for a moment, a moment that seemed an age, and he had reached a point half-way to the door, when his hand slipped on the wet boards with a noise, faint but distinct. He stopped short, his hair stirring with fright.
“S – sh!” One of the men scrambled to his feet.
“What’s the matter?” growled the other.
“I heard somethin’ – over there.”
“A frog, likely, you fool; got a match?”
Satterlee 2d was desperate. He was lost unless he could reach the doorway first. He started forward again with less caution, and one knee struck the floor sharply. A light flared out, and for a moment he stared across the pool into two pairs of wide-open, gleaming eyes. Then the match dropped into the water with a tiny hiss, and Satterlee 2d leaped for the door. The streak of light was now but a scant two yards distant. Near at hand sounded feet on the planking, and from the pool came a splashing as one of the men rushed through the water. Then a hand grasped the boy’s bare ankle. With a shriek he sprang forward, the grasp was gone, and from behind him as he fled stumbling up the steps came the sound of a heavy fall and a cry of triumph.
“I’ve got him!”
“You’ve got me, you fool! Let go!”
The next instant Satterlee 2d was through the doorway, had slammed the portal behind him, and had shot the big iron bolt despairingly. With closed eyes he leaned faint and panting against the oak while blow after blow was rained on it from within and hoarse oaths told of the terror of the prisoners. But the stout door showed no signs of yielding, and Satterlee 2d opened his eyes and looked about him. The night was cloudy, but the school-buildings were discernible scarce a stone-throw away.
When Doctor Willard, awakened from sleep by the wild jangling of the bell, drew his dressing-gown about him and looked forth, it was with astonishment and alarm that he beheld a white-robed youth pulling excitedly at the bell-knob. His astonishment was even greater when, having found and adjusted his spectacles, he made out the youth to be Satterlee 2d, who, by every rule of common sense, ought at that moment to be asleep in the dormitory.
“But – but I don’t understand,” faltered the doctor. “Do you mean that you have a gang of burglars locked up in the spring-house?”
“Yes, sir; two, sir; two burglars, sir!”
“Dear me, how alarming! But how – ?”
“Don’t you think we could get the police, sir?”
“Um – er – to be sure. The police; yes. Wait where you are.”
The window closed, and presently the tinkle of a telephone bell sounded. A minute or two later and Satterlee 2d, cold and aching, sat before the big stove in the library, while the doctor shook and punched the coals into activity.
“I’ve telephoned for the police,” said the doctor, gazing perplexedly over his spectacles. “And now I would like to know what it all means, my boy.”
“I – I was in the spring-house, sir,” began Satterlee 2d, “when I heard a noise – ”
“One moment,” interrupted the doctor. “What were you doing in the spring-house at midnight?”
Satterlee dropped his eyes. He searched wildly for an explanation that would not incriminate Donald and the others. Finally he gave it up.
“I – I’d rather not say, if you please, sir.”
“Um,” said the doctor. “Very well, we’ll pass over that for the present. What happened when you heard a noise?”
Before Satterlee 2d had finished his story there came the sound of wheels on the driveway without, which sent the doctor to the door. For a minute the boy listened to the hum of voices in the hallway. Then he commenced to nod – nod —
He awoke to find the winter sunlight streaming through the windows of the doctor’s guest-chamber, and to learn from the clock on the mantel that it was long after breakfast time. His clothes were beside him on a chair and he tumbled into them hurriedly, the events of the night flooding back to memory. He ate breakfast in solitary grandeur, his thoughts fixed miserably on the explanation that must follow. His indignation against Donald and the others had passed; he pitied them greatly for the punishment which he felt certain would soon be meted out to them. And he pitied himself because it was his lot to bring that punishment about. His visions of popularity faded into nothingness. For a moment he thought of cutting it all; of walking straight from the dining-room to the station and disappearing from the scene.
But when he pushed back his half-eaten breakfast and arose to his feet it was to grip his hands rather tight, and with pale cheeks walk, laggingly but directly, to the school hall. Prayers were over, and the doctor was rubbing his spectacles reflectively, preparatory to addressing the pupils. Satterlee 2d’s advent created a wave of excitement, and all eyes were on him as he strode to his seat. The doctor donned his glasses and surveyed the scene.
