AN INTERRUPTED EVENING
The lustre of the victory over Hillbury rested on the quartette about
forty-eight hours. Had Royce got beyond Benton on that last curve, as
he had almost succeeded in doing, and Seaton's portion been defeat
instead of victory, there would have been a cloud over the school for
a much longer period. Owen, having never felt the change in atmosphere
which defeat brings, did not appreciate his escape. The victory seemed
an unimportant matter, taken lightly, soon forgotten. The school looked
up, smiled, and went about its daily routine. Rob put his prize in his
desk drawer, and followed the school's example.
One of his unconfessed ambitions had been to win a prize for
composition. Wolcott Lindsay had put the idea into his head, not by
any direct suggestion, but by the respect with which he spoke of
some of the fellows who had succeeded. Lindsay himself was on the
_Seatonian_, but Owen felt no ambition to enter into competition
before his schoolmates for a position on that paper. The composition
was comparatively secret. If he tried and failed, nobody need know the
fact but the judges who read the compositions.
Owen's production on--let us not say what--was nearly ready to hand
in. He had built no elaborate hopes upon it, but he would have liked
sincerely to surprise his father with some achievement which Mr. Owen
would value. Prowess in athletics was to Mr. Owen but superiority in
play, often shared with the idle and the vicious. In scholarship Rob
could never hope to rank above a low B; he had no gift for public
speaking; no one ever urged him for office. In the composition,
perhaps, he might win some place; it was at least worth trying.
He was busy with this effort one evening after the rest of his work
was done, when his attention was suddenly distracted by a hubbub which
arose at that end of the corridor where lay the abiding-place of the
Pecks. He knew they were both on study hours, Donald having just been
put on along with French and Jacobson, as the result of a series
of petty and apparently accidental annoyances in poor Mr. Payne's
recitation room. It was hardly conceivable, therefore, that the twins
would have attempted any noisy demonstration on their own initiative.
Owen remembered the plagues, and hastened forth to have a part in the
spectacle.
Others were also curious. He noticed, as he hurried past, that Payner's
door was just ajar; and through the six-inch crack to which Smith
cautiously limited the opening of his door, his lank, narrow-shouldered
form was silhouetted against the light of the study lamp in the
background, while curious eyes, doubly protected by glasses and a study
shield, peered wonderingly forth.
Owen knocked at the Pecks' door, but received no response. Instead came
the sound of blows struck with some hard object, of running, jumping
feet, and of heated exclamations, some inarticulate, some distinct
but mysterious, mingled in rapid exchange. "There he goes!" "Look
out!" "I hit him then!" "Never touched him!" "Where is he?" Then more
whacks, more jumps, and more exclamations. Rob pushed the door open
a few inches, and perceived a Peck armed with a golf club sweeping it
beneath the sofa. The wielder of the club seemed to be successful in
his search, for he jumped suddenly back, smote the floor savagely with
the brassey, and catching sight of a face peering in through the crack,
shouted to his twin: "Shut the door, can't you? Lock it!" A command
which was obeyed so promptly that had Owen's nose been longer, or his
disposition more pushing, he must inevitably have suffered personal
injury. While he stood irresolute, uncertain whether to accept the
indignity as deserved, or threaten reprisal, he heard steps ascending
the stairs with labored celerity, and the face of Dr. Mann, swollen
with indignation, appeared at the corner.
"Owen, what is the meaning of this disturbance?" the teacher demanded.
"I don't know, sir," replied Rob. "They seem to be hunting something in
there."
Dr. Mann knocked, but as one of the inmates was at that moment
thrashing wildly at an object in a corner, and the other was
vociferating advice and encouragement, naturally no heed was given to
the summons.
"Open the door!" commanded Dr. Mann. Still no answer. The noise of
blows ceased. Favored by the lull, the teacher again lifted up a voice
of sternness.
"It is I, Dr. Mann. I demand that you open the door instantly!"
At last he had made himself heard. "Coming, sir!" shouted one within,
and the door was thrown open. Dr. Mann strode in, followed by Owen.
Duncan was mopping up ink on the floor with a towel.
"Will you be good enough to explain this outrageous disturbance!" began
the teacher. "Why is it that I am compelled to come up here to secure
for my guests below the privilege of ordinary peace and quiet? And you
are both on study hours!"
Rob turned abruptly away and grinned discreetly at the Indian's head
over the fireplace. Those guests made the case doubly hard for the
rioters. Dr. Mann could not allow his colleagues to suppose that he was
accustomed to put up with such disorder. The ill-starred Pecks were
evidently up against it!
[Illustration: "There's the rat, sir," said Duncan.--_Page 127._]
"We're very sorry, sir, that you were disturbed," Donald was saying,
"but it really wasn't our fault. Some one threw a live rat in at the
door and we've been hunting it. We didn't mean to make any disturbance."
"Incredible!" exclaimed Dr. Mann.
"There's the rat, sir," said Duncan, holding up by the tail the
unfortunate cause of all the trouble. "You can see it yourself."
Dr. Mann could see it. There was unquestionably a dead rat; and the ink
spilled on the floor, the jar knocked from the mantel, the disordered
furniture, scattered books, and the excited faces of the boys attested
the fact that the poor animal had not been an expected guest.
"Who could have played such a contemptible trick!" exclaimed the
teacher, in disgust. "Did you see who threw it in?"
"No, we were studying at the desk, and some one opened the door so
quietly we didn't notice it, and chucked the thing right at us."
"Strange!" mused Dr. Mann. Strange, indeed! Yet after all not so
strange to one who possessed the key. Rob held rolled in his hand a
slip of paper which he had taken from the floor during the discussion.
He glanced at it furtively as he stood listening, and smiled an
involuntary and promptly extinguished smile as he read the expected
legend, "The Third Plague." Even Dr. Mann might have formed a fairly
accurate suspicion if he had considered the manner of the twins. Here
was no wondering indignation, no loud invective against an unknown
perpetrator, but the sullen bitterness of those who nourish a personal
spite. But Dr. Mann, learned in ancient lore, had but slight knowledge
of boys.
"I can't understand it," he said at length. "The matter must be looked
into. It shows a sad misunderstanding of the Seaton spirit. One of you
will please carry the animal to some proper place, and then perhaps we
may have quiet again."
Duncan volunteered for this duty, and Dr. Mann and Owen retired. The
latter reappeared, however, as soon as he heard Duncan's step on the
stairs, in order to deliver the paper which he had secured.
"Oh, you had it!" exclaimed Duncan, as he read the label. "I thought it
must be somewhere. Seven more! Gee whiz! I don't believe I can stand
it."
"You'd better come to terms with him," said Owen.
"I wish we could," sighed Duncan, "but Don's got his back up and he
will never give in. This living in perpetual fear of your life is
wearing. I always pull my bed to pieces every night to make sure there
isn't anything there, and I never can get it together tight again. Go
and see him, won't you, and see what he says."
Owen grinned. The prospect of acting as intermediary pleased him. "All
right," he said cheerfully. "What terms do you offer?"
"None," replied Duncan. "Just sound him and get his terms. And don't
say we sent you."
Duncan returned to his room and Owen knocked at Payner's door.
"Who's there?" demanded the cautious inmate.
"Owen."
"Any one with you?"
"No."
The door was unlocked to admit Rob, the catch being immediately snapped
behind him.
"'Fraid of burglars?" asked Rob, facetiously.
"'Fraid of something, sure enough," replied Payner, quietly. "You can't
be any too careful in this place."
"Payner, how long are you going to keep this thing up?" asked Rob,
coming with most undiplomatic directness straight to his point.
"What up?"
"Oh, all this plague business,--eels and guinea pigs and rats."
Payner snickered. "Did they send you?"
"No, they didn't. That is, not really and officially. I'm just making
inquiries in the general interest of peace."
Payner sniffed. "What business is it of yours?"
Owen hesitated. "Oh, I'd like to help both sides. I don't want to see
either suffer."
"I'm not suffering, I can tell you that. I didn't begin this thing, and
I'm not going to cry baby. Those fellows attacked me without any kind
of provocation, sneaked into my room, ripped it up, and damaged a lot
of valuable specimens. If they've had enough, the least they can do is
to come here and apologize and promise to behave."
"And you'll agree to apologize, too?" asked the mediator.
"Apologize nothing! I'll tell 'em what I'll do, when they come."
Feeling somewhat humble over the failure of his mission, and at the
same time more or less persuaded of the justice of Payner's cause, Owen
returned to Number 7 and called the Pecks to the door.
"Apologize!" cried Donald, when Owen finished his report; "apologize
for having eels put in your bed and rats thrown at you? Never!"
"We did begin it," observed Duncan, in a less violent tone.
"We didn't; he began it," returned Donald. "Didn't he butt in about the
Moons' room?"
Owen turned away in annoyance. "Do as you please," he said, "but you're
fools not to patch up with him some way."
Rob sat down at his desk, less disposed to find excuse for the Pecks
than ever before. "It's that pig-headed Donald that causes the
trouble," he was thinking. "Duncan would settle the thing right off,
but he's scared of his brother;" and while his mind was rebelliously
following the affairs of the Pecks, and refusing to apply itself on the
composition, a knock was heard at the door, and the unfinished work was
again shoved into a drawer out of sight.
"Hello, Ned!" cried Owen, looking up in surprise as Carle appeared.
"Glad to see you," he added cordially; "sit down."
His first impression at sight of Carle's serious face was that the
pitcher had reconsidered the interview of last week and come to make
amends. Otherwise I am afraid his greeting would have been less cordial.
"Is your room-mate in?" Carle asked, looking toward the bedroom door.
"He's getting his Greek with a fellow downstairs. Do you want him?"
"No, I want you. Can you lend me twenty dollars?"
Rob knew that he had not twenty dollars on hand, or half that sum, but
instead of saying so, he answered by a question:--
"What for?"
"I've got to have twenty to settle with a man before to-morrow morning.
If I don't ante up he's going to see Graham, and I'll be fired sure."
"I'm short," said Owen, wondering what this trouble was about. "I might
let you have five."
"That isn't enough," replied Carle, evidently disappointed, turning
toward the door. "I've got to have twenty anyway. I'll try some one
else. Good night."
And before Owen had time for further questions, the door closed behind
his visitor, and Rob was left alone.
And now more time was wasted in considering Carle's case, and guessing
at the cause of his urgent need. The composition at last came out, but
not until Simmons had returned with his Greek books under his arm, and
the lessons for the morning packed away in complete order in his little
brain. Presently another knock was heard, and the literary work was
definitely abandoned.
"Hello, Owen," said Poole, rushing in. "Can I see you a minute?"
Simmons obligingly retired to his bedroom, and Poole began:--
"I've just been talking with Mr. Lovering about Carle. He says the
faculty are very much dissatisfied with him and he's very likely to
lose his scholarship. I heard yesterday that he owed a lot of different
fellows. What are we going to do about it?"
Owen shook his head. "I don't know. I can't do anything with him. His
father wrote me last week, asking me to talk with Ned. I tried it, but
it didn't amount to anything."
"But we must do something," persisted Poole. "A good pitcher is half
the nine, and we haven't any one else within sight of him. I don't
believe O'Connell will come to anything."
"But Patterson will," was on Owen's lips. He checked the words,
however, before they were uttered, and said instead: "Carle was here
just before you came in, trying to borrow some money. He said he must
have twenty dollars before tomorrow morning. I couldn't lend him
anything."
"Where did he go?"
"After some one who could get him the money."
"And he's on study hours. What a fool!" cried Poole, as he clapped on
his hat and started for the door. "He acts as if he'd set his heart on
getting fired. Good night!"
Owen echoed the salutation with emphasis, and got himself ready for
bed. It was depressing to spend so much time on other people's affairs,
and yet be of no apparent use. Then he bethought himself of Patterson,
and felt better. There was one fellow who took his advice!