Scott Morgan
Boys of Oakdale Academy

CHAPTER XXVIII.
AROUSED AT LAST

On Monday morning Rod was early at the academy, waiting for Springer and Piper. He paid no apparent heed to the disdainful, contemptuous looks of the boys who saw him posted there on the steps; nevertheless, he took note of their manner and felt fierce, resentful wrath burning in his heart.

The girls likewise regarded him with open aversion. Sadie Springer and Lelia Barker, coming up the path together, beheld the defiant young Texan and exchanged words concerning him. It was natural enough that Lelia should espouse her brother’s cause and hold the same opinions regarding Grant; however, for some reason which he himself could not understand, her remark, distinctly heard as she mounted the steps, cut him keenly.

“Why, Sadie,” she said, evidently speaking for his ears as well as those of her companion, “he’s a perfect young ruffian. No one else would do things he has done.”

In many ways Lelia was unlike her brother. She was headstrong and impulsive, and, while Berlin was coldly cautious and calculating, she had often betrayed a daring and almost reckless disposition. He had never been pronouncedly popular, but Lelia was both liked and admired by nearly all the girls and boys of the school. They had never exchanged a word, but Rod, had he analyzed his true feelings, would have found that he also entertained a strong liking for Lelia.

He forgot her in a moment, however, as he saw Phil Springer and Roger Eliot turn in at the gate, with Piper and some other fellows a short distance behind.

“Springer,” said Rod, descending the steps to meet him, “I want to have a little talk with you. You, too, Piper; I’d like to ask you fellows some questions.”

They regarded him coldly, repellantly, Sleuth’s lips taking on a curl of disdain.

Rod continued quickly: “According to Barker, you fellows were with him when he found my silk handkerchief Saturday morning. Is that right?”

“Absolutely correct,” answered Piper, while Springer merely nodded.

“You were following the tracks of some one supposed to have shot Barker’s dog, were you?”

“We were hot on the trail of the scoundrel,” said Sleuth. “Only for the snowstorm, we’d tracked him to his lair.”

“Did you see Barker find my handkerchief?”

“You bet we did.”

“He claims to have found it hanging on a bush. Were you near at hand when he made the discovery?”

“Phil was about five feet behind him, and I was close behind Phil,” replied Sleuth.

“Are you positive Barker did not hang the handkerchief on the bush and then call your attention to it?”

Springer suddenly burst into derisive laughter.

“Now what do you think of that!” he cried. “If that isn’t about the poorest attempt I ever knew of to struggle out of a thing, I’ll eat my huh-hat! It won’t do, Mr. Grant – it won’t dud-do.”

“Not at all,” agreed Piper sternly. “Berlin called our attention to the handkerchief before he’d even reached it. He didn’t have a chance to hang it there.”

“That’s all I want to know,” said Rod quietly, “and I’m much obliged to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” returned Sleuth cuttingly.

Barker reached the academy barely in time to escape being late for the opening of the morning session. As he seated himself at his desk his eyes were turned in the direction of Rodney Grant some distance away, but already Rod had a book open before him and was apparently quite oblivious to his surroundings. And all through the forenoon the young Texan gave constant attention to his books and recitations, not even seeming aware of the fact that the other boys drew away from him in classes, leaving him alone and solitary. Even at intermission he succeeded in maintaining his demeanor undisturbed, although with half an eye and no ears at all he could not have failed to take note of the sneers and disdain of his schoolmates.

As the deep snow had obliterated the path across lots, it was necessary for him to take a roundabout course through the village in order to reach his aunt’s home; and, on his way for midday lunch, turning up Main Street from the square, he perceived several fellows blocking the sidewalk in front of Hyde’s livery stable. Instantly he knew there was trouble impending, but not even for an instant did he hesitate or slacken his steady stride. Rollins, Tuttle, Cooper, Piper, Springer – they were all there. Barker was there, too, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on the approaching lad, for whom he was plainly waiting, and Rod knew they had made haste to reach this spot ahead of him.

Within Grant’s heart a voice seemed calling warningly: “Steady! Be careful! You know what may happen if you lose your head.” But they had sneered at him as a coward, they had branded him as a braggart and a quitter, and now the time had come when his manhood would no longer permit him to betray the slightest wavering; so, with his face a trifle pale, but his eyes shining dangerously, and every nerve in his body keyed, he went forward.

Barker held his place in the middle of the sidewalk; unless he turned aside a bit Rod must brush against him. Their eyes met, and suddenly Berlin cried:

“Hold on a minute, you dog-killing whelp! I told you what I’d do if the law wasn’t sufficient to make you settle for that dirty piece of business, and now you can’t get away unless you turn your back and run for it.”

“Barker,” said Grant, and there was something in his voice that surprised those waiting, staring lads, “I turned my back on you once, and I’ve been mortally ashamed of it ever since, even though it was for your own good, as well as my own, that I did so. You’ve pushed me too far, and I’ll never turn again; but I warn you that you’d better step aside right lively and let me pass.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Berlin, in derisive contempt. “You’re as brave as a cornered rat.”

“Sometimes a cornered rat is dangerous. Get out of my way!”

“I will when I’m through with you – I’ll get out of your way and let you crawl home after you’ve had the thrashing of your life.” As he uttered this threat Berlin, having his coat already unbuttoned, suddenly snapped it off and flung it into the waiting hands of Sleuth Piper. “I’m going to smash your face!” he shouted. “I’ll teach you to shoot inoffensive dogs, you cheap cur!”

He sprang forward with the final insulting word on his lips and aimed a blow at Grant’s mouth. Quick as a flash the young Texan ducked and sidestepped, permitting Berlin’s fist to shoot over his shoulder. Untouched, he drove his own right fist with staggering force against the solar plexus of his assailant, stopping that rush in a twinkling; in another twinkling the knuckles of his left hand crashed full and fair on the point of Barker’s jaw, and the would-be avenger of Silver Tongue crumpled like a frost-struck autumn leaf and went down.

It was done so quickly that the boys who had gathered to see Berlin thrash the Texan scarcely had time to catch a breath before they beheld Grant, his fists clenched, his face ashen and terrible, his lips drawn back from his set teeth, standing over the fallen fellow as if ready to leap upon him as he lay and beat out of his body what breath of life might linger there. But it was Grant’s eyes that terrified them the most, for they were the eyes of a wild beast aroused to the most frightful fury; and Piper, dropping the coat and falling back, screamed aloud:

“Stop him, fellers – stop him, or he’ll kill Bern sure!”

Somehow it seemed as if that cry brought Rodney Grant to his senses, for slowly his fists unclenched and his hands dropped at his sides, while, with a hissing sound like the intake of steam, he drew a long breath that filled his chest to its utmost capacity.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and there was something of that same indescribable, awesome touch in his voice; “I won’t touch him again. The poor fool can’t fight, anyhow. I’ve tried to keep peaceable and decent; but, now that you’ve made it impossible for me to do so, if there are any friends of his present who want to take up his fight I sure hope they won’t be backward about it; for we may as well have the matter settled right now, to prevent any further uncertainty or annoyance.”

But there was no one who showed the slightest desire to take up this challenge, even Rollins, who had once browbeaten and insulted the boy from Texas, slinking behind Chub Tuttle’s roly-poly body in a way that plainly betokened an amazing respect for Grant’s fighting powers, at least. Seeing this, the faintest shadow of an inexpressibly contemptuous smile flitted across the defiant lad’s face.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll leave you to doctor up your indiscreet friend, who, I reckon, will come round all right in a few minutes.” He passed on, and they took care to give him room.

“Jinks!” breathed Piper, as Barker stirred slightly and uttered a faint sound which caused Springer to kneel hastily beside him. “I told you that feller was a perfect fiend to fight. I knew, for didn’t I see him handle Lander!”

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE INCRIMINATING LETTER

At the next street corner Rod hesitated a moment; then, instead of continuing toward his aunt’s house, he turned his steps in the opposite direction and soon arrived at the home of Spotty Davis. He saw and talked with Mr. Davis, who was over from the lower mill for the midday meal.

“My boy?” said Davis. “Oh, he’s gone to Belford.”

“Gone?” exclaimed Rod, surprised.

“Yes,” nodded the man; “I let him have the fare, and he took the mornin’ train.”

“When will he come back?”

“Dunno; mebbe he won’t come back. You see, he’s got some relatives over there, and his cousin Jim said he could git him a job in a machine shop. He ain’t never been much struck on work, but all of a sudden last night he took a notion he’d like to try it, and he wouldn’t let up on me till I give my consent. I guess mebbe ’twill do him good. He got into some kind of a fuss with the perfesser at the academy and was sent home. I cal’late he’s got about eddication enough, anyhow, for he never was no hand to study.”

“Belford,” muttered Grant. “How far is that?”

“Oh, ’bout sixty mile or so. Why, what’s the matter?”

“I would like to see Spotty and have a talk with him.”

“Ho! Well, that would be a master long distance to travel jest for a talk.”

“Spotty was sick yesterday morning when I called. He must have recovered right suddenly.”

“Oh, I guess he wa’n’t very sick; he jest wanted to lay in bed, that was all. I hope he’ll fall into good company in Belford, for the fellers he’s took up with ’round here ain’t done him no good.”

Rod shrugged his shoulders with a wry smile, bade the man good day, and turned away. So Spotty had left town suddenly and unexpectedly; this act seemed to confirm Grant in his suspicions regarding the fellow.

“He stole two dollars of my money,” muttered Rod, as he walked homeward, “and he stole my silk handkerchief also. It was Spotty who shot Barker’s dog, and either he lost the handkerchief afterward or became frightened and left it hanging on a bush in order to turn suspicion from himself. I sure hate to think that last, even of Spotty; but somehow I can’t help it, knowing he would reason it out that the condition of affairs between Barker and myself and the possible finding of the handkerchief would make it seem a sure thing that I did the shooting.”

Neither Barker nor Grant appeared at school that afternoon, Berlin remaining away because of his intense chagrin and shame, and Rod feeling himself too disturbed to study or appear in recitations. The boy from Texas knew his motives might be misconstrued, but he smiled grimly over the thought that any one should fancy that fear had anything to do with them.

School had closed for the day less than half an hour when Grant, chancing to look out, saw the sturdy figure of Ben Stone hurrying up the path toward Miss Kent’s house. The young Texan met Ben at the door.

“Come in,” he invited, and the invitation was readily accepted.

“You didn’t show up at the academy this afternoon,” said Ben when they were in Grant’s room.

“No; I had a reason for staying away, but you can reckon on it that I’ll be there to-morrow.”

“Something happened,” said Stone – “something I want to tell you about.”

“Go ahead; I’m listening.”

“Of course the fellows had lots to say about the way you did Barker up, but I didn’t come to talk about that.”

“For which I’m plenty thankful.”

“Something happened that gave a setback to the fellows who thought it was you that squealed about that hazing. Cooper, who is usually up to something, brought two live mice in a trap. Prof. Richardson is as scared of mice as any woman could be, and Chipper wanted to put them into the professor’s desk. Piper, who always seems to have a key to fit anything, had one that would unlock the desk. You know how Sleuth prides himself on his keen and searching eyes. Well, in the desk he discovered a letter that had been sent to the professor, and he recognized the handwriting on it. Of course he didn’t have any right to look at it, but he did just the same – he read it and kept it, too, to show to the fellows. It stirred up something sure enough, for it told all about that hazing and the breaking of the professor’s skeleton, giving the names of every fellow who took part in that piece of business. The writer of that letter reminded the professor of his promise to protect any one who should tell him the truth.”

“What a sneaking piece of business to do!” exclaimed Rod.

“It certainly was,” nodded Ben, “and I’ll guarantee Prof. Richardson regarded it in that light. Perhaps that’s one reason why he declined to pull all those fellows over the coals. You see, he’d been forced to jump on some that he plainly regards as his best scholars, and, as long as you made no complaint, he let it pass by handing out that lecture about hazing.”

“Which,” said Rod, “was sure enough straight dope. This hazing business, when it’s carried too far, as it is right often, certainly is all to the bad – as I have good reasons to know.”

“You haven’t asked who wrote that letter,” reminded Ben.

“I’m not right sure I want to know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I never could regard the squealer with an atom of respect. I don’t quite understand why he wrote it, either.”

“You know the professor threatened to probe into the matter and do his best to find out and punish the guilty parties.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose the fellow who blowed was afraid some one else would do the same thing, and simply tried to make himself immune from punishment.”

“Likely that’s right.”

“Don’t you want to know who it was? It isn’t probable you can help finding out, for all the fellows know now, and some of them have told the sneak a few things.”

“I don’t opine,” laughed Rod, “they’ll break their necks hurrying to tell me.”

“Oh, there’s been a decided change of opinion about you. If it wasn’t for that dog-shooting affair, I believe you’d be surprised to find a great many chaps ready to become friendly.”

“What do you think about that dog shooting, Stone?”

“I’m dead sure you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Thanks. But of late even you have apparently been influenced by the rising tide of popular prejudice against one Rodney Grant.”

“No,” denied Ben – “no, indeed; but of late you have held yourself away from everybody. Why, you scarcely spoke to me when we met.”

“Being plenty unpopular,” said Rod, “I allowed I wouldn’t involve you. I was independent enough to believe I could paddle my own canoe. I’ve observed that about nine times out of ten things work themselves out if you let them alone. I’ll guarantee the truth concerning the shooting of Barker’s hound will be known in time.”

“I hope so, Rod, as that would come pretty near putting you fully and squarely right in Oakdale. Hunk Rollins’ letter has – ”

“So it was Rollins,” said Rodney quietly. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“Yes, it was Rollins,” answered Stone, “and he’s certainly queered himself with everybody. He knows what the fellows think of him now, for nearly all of them have taken pains to tell him.”

CHAPTER XXX.
THE REASON WHY

“That matter never worried me a whole lot, anyhow,” said Rod, after a few moments of silence. “I turned the laugh on the bunch that started in to have a howling, gay old time with me, and I was satisfied. I knew I hadn’t squealed, and I knew the professor knew it. I will admit, however, that this dog-shooting business has stirred me up some, for it sure was a contemptible thing to do, and I hate to have anybody really think it of me. Have you heard that Spotty Davis has left town?”

“No,” cried Ben, surprised. “Has he?”

“Yes; gone to Belford. He went this morning, and his father says he may not come back. Between us, Stone, I’ll admit confidential that I’m regretful because he made his getaway before I could put the screws on him.”

“Oh!” said Ben, sitting up straight on his chair. “Then you think that Spotty – that Spotty – ”

“I have reasons,” nodded Rod, “to be right suspicious of him. I went to see him yesterday morning and tried to lead him into owning up to me, but he was in bed, pretending to be sick, and refused to talk. I was mightily tempted to put hands on him and choke him into telling the truth, but with my particular failing in mind, which is the one unfortunate failing of all Grants belonging to my family; I kept a tight hold on myself. I didn’t dare even to make a bluff at violence, for fear my anger would get the best of me and I would lose my head.”

“Didn’t dare!” muttered Ben.

“No, Stone, I didn’t dare. We had a confidential talk once before this, and I told you something about the Grants, but a sort of shame kept me from owning up to this special weakness I have just mentioned. It’s characteristic of us all that great excitement or acts of contention or physical violence in which we take part should arouse us to a sort of disgraceful frenzy. This was well known of my father, and in the old fighting days they used to say it was safer to stir up a man-killing lion than to provoke Hugh Grant of the Star D. I’ve told you how he fought his enemies to a standstill and won out, even though maimed for life. The Grants are all fighters, Ben.”

“I guess some fellows around here are beginning to believe that one Grant, at least, is a fighter.”

“My mother is a gentle, peaceful woman, who has suffered indescribably through anxiety and worriment produced by this fighting strain in the Grant blood. She has told me that more than a score of times she’s seen my father leave the ranch fully expecting that he would be brought back dead. In my own case, I have learned by experience that violent physical action on my part, coupled with opposition of the same sort, turns me into a raging creature, wholly lacking in restraint or any thought of consequences. You know what happened to the son of my father’s enemy at school in Houston. I nearly killed Jennings. When I came here to school I made a resolve to avoid anything that would be liable to stir me up and lead me into such folly. That’s why I refused to play football.”

“But football isn’t fighting.”

“Isn’t it?” laughed Rod. “Well, it’s fighting for a Grant, as the case of my unfortunate brother, Oscar, proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. I reckon I may as well tell you about him, for then you’ll understand things some better. Oscar is several years older than I, and two years ago he obtained an appointment to West Point.”

“Oh!” cried the visitor. “Is he – is he the Grant I’ve heard about who was hazed?”

“I reckon he’s the one, for the newspapers printed some stuff about it, although, unlike another certain famous hazing case at West Point, this affair never got into the courts. My brother was a husky fellow, and, urged to do so, he came out for football with the plebe team. He should have known better. It was impossible for him to engage in any sort of a scrimmage without slugging, and he became mighty unpopular in double-quick time. I judge that’s why he was singled out especially for a course of sprouts, and there’s no question but he was given some mighty rough treatment by the hazers. We never knew the full particulars of what happened. However, we do know he was practically stripped naked on a bitter November night and nearly drowned by having ice-cold water turned on him from a hose or a hydrant or something. When they thought him pretty nearly finished, by his appearance, he was taken under cover somewhere and efforts were made to restore him.

“He came round somewhat more sudden than those men expected, for he broke away, seized a chair and lay about him with it like a madman. One of the hazers was knocked stiff before Oscar drove the others out of the room. Oscar made his getaway, leaving that man, who had received a terrible crack on the head, to be picked up and cared for by his companions. His name was Demarest, and he was taken to the hospital. Next morning Oscar was ill and still half crazed. To cap it all, some one brought him word that Demarest was dead, which was a lie concocted, doubtless, for the purpose of frightening him. A run of brain fever followed, and, though my brother is still alive, he never recovered his normal condition; he’s on the Star D now, hopelessly deranged, though harmless.

“Now, Ben, I opine you can understand why I’ve tried right hard to avoid excitement or violence of any sort that might stir me up and make me temporarily forgetful or reckless of consequences. Barker forced a fight upon me, but it sure was a good thing for him that he couldn’t fight much, so that it was all over in a jiffy.”

“If the boys knew this,” began Ben – “if they had known it in the first place – ”

“If I had told them, they’d have thought it more of my bragging,” laughed Rod shortly.

“I’ll tell them now.”

“Please don’t do it. I reckon I’ve satisfied them that I will fight when driven into a corner, and that’s enough. I’m still going to keep a tight hand on myself, for I must learn somehow to control my temper. I’ll own up it has hurt me some to know that the fellows should think me low down enough to shoot a harmless dog by way of getting revenge on an enemy. One thing I will claim, and that is that all Grants fight open and square and there never was a sneak among them. Sometime I’m sure the truth will come out concerning that dog shooting.”

It came out far sooner than Rod expected. On the following day Joshua Haskell, who owned the northern side of Turkey Hill, making certain purchases at Stickney’s store, heard some loungers discussing the shooting of Silver Tongue, and he suddenly developed a great deal of interest in what they were saying.

“What’s that?” he asked. “When did this ere dorg shootin’ happen?”

“Satterday, sometime before the storm begun,” answered Uncle Bill Cole. “The hound was killed in one of the clearin’s near the Pond Hole over on Waller’s land. Barker’s boy and two other young fellers follered the blood drops to that place, and then they tracked the whelp who did the shootin’ almost into the Turkey Hill swamp; but the storm come on, and they couldn’t foller him no further.”

“Huh!” grunted Haskell. “I guess I know who shot that dorg.”

“You do!” cried several voices.

“Yep,” nodded the man, “I cal’late I do. You see, I was cuttin’ wood on Turkey Hill Satterday mornin’. Just before the storm begun I happened to stop and look down, and I saw a boy come out of the woods on Dodd’s land, which j’ines mine. He had a gun, and he was travelin’ on snowshoes. A little while before that I’d heared somebody fire a shot over in the direction of the Pond Hole, and he was comin’ from that way. Seemed to be in a mighty big hurry, too; but all of a sudden he stopped a minute, and I see him hang something red on a bush. Then he hipered along again, as if he was afeared the Old Nick was chasin’ him.”

“Well, well!” cried Stickney, thumping the cheese box on the counter with his knuckles. “That must have been the feller. They found a red silk handkerchief that belonged to this yere Grant boy, who’s stopping with old Priscilla Kent.”

“’Twan’t the Grant boy I see,” declared Haskell. “I knowed the young rascal, fur off as he was, and he’s been up to his shindigs ’round here before. ’Twas old Lem Davis’ sneakin’ cub, as I’ll swear to; and you can bate your last dollar he shot that dorg.”