A WESTERN SOLUTION
“DO you think Bosworth’s still keeping it up?” asked Melvin, as he stood
before the fireplace in Varrell’s room in Hale a day or two later.
“I am sure he is,” said Wrenn. “You can look right across from this room
to his windows in Sibley. His shades were down close all last evening,
and he doesn’t usually lower them, even when he’s dressing.”
“Tompkins’s conduct is beyond me,” said Melvin. “He seemed as indignant
as any of us when the story came out, but I’ve seen him twice in the
last two days hanging around with that gambler, as friendly as if he had
known him for years.”
“I thought Tommy was a pretty decent fellow,” mused Varrell. “There’s no
counting on these wild Westerners.”
“Well, what do you think?” questioned Dick, returning to the matter that
had brought him over to Hale. “Are we bound to sit quietly and see
Bosworth play his faro tricks on these little fellows? The next step
will be to get them all in debt to him, and then he can keep bleeding
them as they have money by promising them a chance to get even again.”
“And that’s not all,” said Varrell; “they’ll have to write lies to their
families in order to get extra money to pay up with; and when they get
used to lying about one thing, they’ll lie about another, and keep on
lying till there’s no truth left in them. A little kid that’s tough is
about the meanest and most pitiable individual you can find. He goes
down hill like a ball rolling down an inclined plane,—friction
disregarded.” The terms of physics occurred naturally to Varrell, who
took especial delight in the study.
“Suppose we talk to the boys,” said Melvin, tentatively.
“It would probably do no good. The little fools don’t know enough to
take advice.”
“Then we must deal directly with Bosworth,” said Melvin, decisively.
“It’s an awfully unpleasant job to tackle,—makes you feel as if you were
interfering in another fellow’s private affairs, and setting yourself up
to be better than any one else; but the thing must be stopped.”
Varrell nodded in grave approval. “There’s nothing else to be done, and
you’re the man for the job.”
“Why not you?” asked Dick, shortly.
“Because,” replied Varrell, with a smile of satisfaction, “you are
Richard Melvin, the President of the senior class and the most famous
full-back that ever shed glory—”
“Cut that out!” interrupted Melvin, authoritatively. “This is a serious
matter, and we can’t afford to have any confounded nonsense mixed up
with it.”
Varrell’s smile faded reluctantly away. “I am serious. You can do the
thing without giving the fellow a chance to face you down or put you in
a ridiculous light with the rest of the school, or advertise your cheek.
You hold too strong a position to run any risk. I’m a newcomer and
practically unknown.”
“Why shouldn’t both of us go?” said Melvin, after an interval of
consideration, still shrinking from an odious task.
Again his friend had a decisive reply. “No, he will take it better and
it will do more good if you go quietly by yourself, as if you alone knew
it.”
Dick looked at his watch. “I think you are right, and if you are, the
sooner the job is over, the better; so here goes!”
With these words he clapped his cap on his head and started for the
door. Before Varrell could raise himself from his armchair and get
across the room, he heard his visitor jumping quickly down the stairs.
“Oh, Dick!”
“Well, what?” came from the landing below.
“Remember that he’s slippery. Give it to him straight. Don’t let him lie
out of it.”
“Never you fear!” called back Melvin, as he plunged on down the stairs.
Bosworth was sitting at his desk with a book open before him. His
thoughts, however, were not on his lesson, as was clearly shown by the
moody, fitful way in which his eyes wandered from mantel to window. His
face wore a gloomy and bitter look, as if he were brooding on some
particularly disagreeable event of recent occurrence that still rankled
deep. His expression brightened as Melvin opened the door in response to
the usual “come in”; for as Varrell had said, the senior was a
well-known man, and Bosworth, who valued popularity far more than the
ordinary virtues, had a moment of gratified vanity in the thought that
Melvin was honoring him with a call. The pleasure was of short duration.
“No, I think I won’t sit down,” said the visitor. “My business is a
rather unpleasant one which I can perhaps better attend to standing.”
Bosworth’s face hardened.
“I understand that you have been gambling with some of the little boys
and getting their money away from them.”
“I’d like to know who says that!” exclaimed Bosworth, indignantly. “It’s
a lie.”
“I’m sorry to hear you deny it,” returned Melvin, calmly. “The
information was pretty direct.”
“It’s a lie, just the same,” answered Bosworth, fiercely, his pale face
becoming in spots still paler. “It’s no affair of yours, anyway.”
“That’s what I expected you to say. In one sense it isn’t; in another it
is not only my affair but that of every fellow here who feels any
responsibility for the moral condition and honor of the school. It’s a
contemptible trick to teach these little fellows to gamble. The result
can’t be anything but bad for them, even if they don’t get into trouble
from it here in school. And you know what would happen if the Faculty
got on to it.”
“I suppose you’re on your way to let them know,” sneered Bosworth.
“No, I’m not!” retorted Melvin, taking a step forward with clenched
fists, and then checking himself a moment to master the indignation that
was boiling up in his throat. “But mind you, I don’t say what I won’t do
if you keep this thing up. It’s not impossible that I may turn
tale-bearer, but first I’ll try an easier method. Quit this thing, and
quit it right off, or I’ll give you the worst thrashing you ever
had,—and I’ll keep on thrashing you till you’re glad to sneak out of
town.”
“Huh!” said Bosworth, contemptuously, but retreating to a safe position
behind the table. “I’m not the only one that gambles,” he added
significantly.
“I won’t discuss that,” retorted Melvin. “You’re the leader, and that’s
enough.”
He turned toward the door. “I hope I’ve made myself clear. If you want
to get hurt—badly hurt—just try another game with the little boys.”
With that, Melvin shut the door and shot downstairs as if to put the
whole scene as quickly as possible behind him. He kept away from
Varrell’s room in order to avoid the necessity of repeating the
conversation, but with all his efforts it insisted on repeating itself
over and over in his own mind, in exaggerated detail, until he was
finally left with the uncomfortable impression that he had been ugly and
had made savage threats and said ill-considered things, and that
Bosworth had merely denied and sneered.
“It’s just as I thought last year,” he said to himself, dismally, “when
Grim was so serious about the responsibility and the opportunity which
the older fellows have. I felt then it was all nonsense; I know it’s so,
now. The fellow who undertakes to make things better in school just
renders himself unhappy and gets himself disliked.”
And then he felt again the impulse of the spirit that had carried him
through so many months of discouragement to the final triumph of the
great game. Unpleasant though it might be, his course was right; and
having started on it, he would abide the consequences without wavering
or shrinking. With this feeling uppermost, he marched off serenely to
his recitation.
If he could have had a glimpse into Bosworth’s room and seen there the
most frightened boy in school, he would not have wasted so much time in
misgivings. His visit had had its effect.
The next morning Phil did not return promptly from his recitation. When
he did come, there was a glint of pleased excitement in his very
expressive eyes that aroused his room-mate’s curiosity.
“What is it, Phil,” asked Dick. “Encouragement from Sands?”
The boy’s countenance fell. “Not much! I’m not likely to get
encouragement from him. My news is about something else. Eddy has got
his money back.”
For an instant Dick enjoyed a sweet vision of a gambler, frightened into
reform by bold threats, making righteous restitution to his victims. But
the vision merely appeared and vanished, like the landscape under a
lightning flash on a dark stormy night, leaving the boy more in the dark
than ever.
“Got his money back! You don’t mean that Bosworth has given it back to
him?”
“I’m not exactly certain about that,” said Phil. “All I know is that
Tompkins came to him, asked him how much Bosworth had got from him, took
out the money, said it came from Bosworth, and then made Eddy promise
not to play again, and gave it to him.”
Dick whistled. “What in the world had Tommy to do with it?”
“Didn’t I tell you that I don’t know!” said Phil, impatiently. “The main
thing is that Eddy’s got his money back and has promised to keep out of
such things in the future.”
“It’s mysterious,” said Dick.
“Mysterious!” echoed the boy. “I don’t care about the mystery. It’s a
low-down business, and Eddy is mighty lucky to get out of the hole. The
worst thing about it is, that it will do him no good. I can’t really
sympathize with the fellow. He hasn’t any moral backbone at all.”
“You ought to try to stiffen him up,” said the wise upper-class man.
“Stiffen him up! stiffen an eel!” returned the disgusted junior. “The
only way you can do that is to kill it.”
If Phil was superior to curiosity, Melvin was not and Varrell was not.
Together they lay in wait for the Westerner as he came whistling
upstairs, and in a trice had him in the room, with the door held tight
closed behind Melvin’s square shoulders, undergoing a cross-examination.
But Tompkins proved a most unwilling witness. He declared that he had no
information to give. When they threatened to choke him, he gave them a
bland smile; when told he would not be let out for dinner, he averred
that he wasn’t hungry; when promised imprisonment for all day, he
announced himself wholly content, as he had a lot of hard problems to do
in which he should be delighted to have Melvin’s assistance. At last
Varrell abandoned the examination and began to talk athletics. Presently
he asked Melvin whether he had found Bosworth in when he visited him the
day before.
“Why, yes,” replied Dick. “Didn’t I—”
A wink from Varrell stopped him.
“Tell us about it.”
As Dick, prompted by Varrell’s shrewd questions, launched out on a
detailed account of yesterday’s interview, Tompkins passed quickly from
assumed indifference to open interest, and from open interest to
self-forgetfulness. With the end of the story he burst into a shout.
“Well, that’s what I call rubbing it in! and the poor chap hadn’t a cent
to his name!”
Varrell rose with solemnity. “Look here, Tommy, that requires
explanation. Whatever he is, the man isn’t a poor chap in any good
sense. He doesn’t deserve any pity unless because of the way in which he
gave back the money, and that you’re bound to tell us. You’ve said too
much now to keep the rest.”
Tompkins was bursting with merriment. The secret he could keep, but not
the joke.
“I’ll tell you two fellows, not because you’ve made me, or because it’s
any of your business, but just because it’s so blamed funny that I can’t
keep it in, and you’re the safest people to trust it to. I made up to
Bosworth and got him to ask me to play with him. I reluctantly
consented, and before we were through I’d cleaned him all out and had
the money to give back to the kids. Then the very next day Dick pounced
upon him and threatened his life, and he hadn’t a dollar of his
ill-gotten gains about him. That’s where the joke comes in. It’s rich!”
and he burst out again in a noisy laugh.
But neither Melvin nor Varrell seemed to appreciate the joke.
“And that’s the way you got the rascal to give back the money?” asked
Melvin, aghast.
“Yes, why not?” said Tompkins. “Tar the devil with his own stick!”
Varrell looked at Melvin, and Melvin looked at Varrell, and neither knew
what to reply.
“How could you do it?” said Melvin, at last. “Don’t you know that it’s
totally against all rules? They’d fire you without a moment’s notice, if
they knew you played.”
“They won’t know it,” said Tompkins, coolly. “Bosworth isn’t going to
tell them, and I’m not and you’re not. Besides, I don’t play. This was
only a special emergency.”
“But how could you do it?” repeated Varrell, who considered the
practical side, as Melvin the moral. “Bosworth must be an old hand at
the game.”
Tompkins was standing by the door which Melvin had long since abandoned.
He turned on the threshold, and holding his head tightly framed between
jamb and door, he answered with a patronizing air: “Oh, Bosworth plays a
pretty good game for a tenderfoot. But poker? Why, they teach it in the
public schools in Butte!”
[Illustration: A Corner in Sands’s Room.]
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