The next morning’s mail carried to every member of Company C, and also
to Clark, Freeman and Crawford, a request from Professor Keene to be at
his office that morning at ten o’clock. There was some grumbling, as it
was Saturday, and the summons interfered with various holiday plans;
but more than one face was shadowed with uneasiness and anxiety, and
among this number was that of Captain Henderson.
“I’m afraid you’re in for it, Hen,” Crawford said to him on the way to
the school.
“They can’t prove anything against me,” replied Henderson, uneasily;
“not if you and Freeman don’t blab.”
“I shan’t, of course, and I don’t believe Freeman will. He’s a plucky
little chap.”
“I’m not so sure of him as you seem to be, Crawford; but if he does let
out anything, I’ll pay him out for it. He may be sure of that,” said
Henderson.
When they reached the school, they found most of the company already
there, and Clark and Freeman appeared a few minutes later.
The professor told Clark, Crawford and Freeman to remain in his office,
while he led Henderson and his company to one of the class-rooms.
Closing the door, he stood for a moment in silence, looking from one
to another of the faces before him, and some of the boys felt plainly
uncomfortable beneath that searching glance. It seemed an endless
time to these before the professor said, “Boys, I was intensely
mortified over some of the occurrences at the drill, yesterday. I can
make allowances for excitement and high spirits and thoughtlessness;
but that any of my boys should have been guilty of such meanness and
rowdyism, such shameless and reckless efforts to prevent others from
winning the prizes, has pained and shamed me more than I have words to
express.
“In the four years that these competitive drills have been held,
there has never before been anything like the outrageous affair of
yesterday--the throwing of that cracker.”
He paused for a moment, then went on slowly, “When I think what the
results might have been had that cracker exploded _towards_ the boys, I
feel as if no punishment could be too severe for those who would risk
the destruction of eyesight, or even life itself, to keep others from
winning a well-deserved prize. It was only God’s mercy that prevented
such awful consequences.
“Think, for one moment, boys, how some of you would be feeling
to-day, if that deed of yesterday had blinded or killed some of your
schoolmates!
“A thorough investigation has been ordered, and no effort will be
spared to find out and to punish the guilty persons, _unless_ they
confess their guilt. If any boy will confess his share in the matter,
I will do my best to lighten his punishment, but anyone who will not
confess and who shall be proven guilty need look for no mercy.”
While the professor spoke, some of the boys shifted uneasily from one
foot to the other, and some cast furtive glances at Henderson, who
stood leaning against a desk, with a hard look in his eyes and his lips
close shut.
Suddenly, Professor Keene turned towards him. “Henderson, what do you
know about this affair?” he asked.
Henderson looked full into the professor’s searching eyes, and answered
calmly, “Nothing whatever, sir.”
“You had nothing to do with it in any way?” pursued the professor.
“No, sir,” said Henderson.
With a disappointed look and a half sigh, the professor turned from
him.
“Boys,” he said, “you have heard Henderson’s denial--now I call upon
you. If anyone here knows anything about this matter, I beg him, for
his own sake, to speak now. Do not let any school-boy notion against
telling of another keep anyone silent. This is a very grave affair, and
it is your _duty_ to tell whatever you know about it.”
As the professor paused, Baum lifted his head and took a step forward,
but the professor did not see him, and a threatening look from
Henderson made him drop his eyes and keep silence.
“So,” said the professor sadly, “you all deny any knowledge of this
thing? Boys, you don’t know how heartily I wish that I could believe
you, but I am sorry to say that there is evidence against some of you,
and some of you have not given your teachers reason to put implicit
faith in your statements. I sincerely hope, however, that in this case
you have told the truth. You will remain here until I return.”
He left the room, closing the door after him.
The boys did not talk much after his departure. Henderson tried to
laugh the matter off, but no one responded to his flippant remarks,
and, after a little, he sauntered to the window and stood there looking
out in silence.
Meantime, the professor questioned Crawford, but, like the others, he
steadily denied any knowledge in regard to the affair.
“You may join the others in the class-room,” said the professor, and,
as Crawford left the office, he turned to Freeman. Freeman’s face was
pale and disturbed, and as he stood before the professor his eyes were
downcast, and he looked as if he might himself be the guilty one.
“Freeman, will you answer truthfully the questions that I am going to
ask you?” said the professor.
He was feeling greatly disheartened, for he did not believe that the
boys that he had questioned were all of them innocent or ignorant, yet
every one had declared himself so.
“Yes, sir.” Freeman’s voice was low, and he did not look up as he
answered.
“Do you know who called out the wrong order to Company B last Thursday?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who threw the cracker at Company D yesterday?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any knowledge whatever about these doings--who suggested
them, or who had any part in carrying them out?”
Lower yet dropped the boy’s head, and his voice was almost inaudible,
but again the answer was “No, sir.”
The professor’s tone changed then. There was a ring of contempt in it
as he said curtly:--
“You may go.” And Freeman went.
Then the professor turned to Clark.
“Clark,” he said, sadly, “I can forgive anything sooner than a lie.
Will you tell me the truth?”
“If I can, sir. I will certainly tell you nothing _but_ the truth,”
replied the boy. His eyes met his teacher’s as boldly as Henderson’s
had done, but with a very different expression in their clear depths.
The professor gave a sigh of relief. He was skilled in reading boys’
faces, and he felt instinctively that he could trust this boy.
“Tell me what you know about this miserable business,” he said.
“I know very little,” replied Clark. “I had been afraid that there
might be trouble because of the strong feeling in regard to the prizes;
and while Company D was drilling, I saw a lot of the rougher fellows
whispering together. Then I saw one of them leave his seat and speak
to a boy--not a high-school boy I am sure, certainly not a Central
boy--and give him something, and then this boy walked to the back of
the stand. He waited a moment, and then I saw him light a match, and
it flashed across my mind what he was going to do. I ran across to try
to stop him, but the stand was so crowded that I couldn’t reach him
in time. He saw me coming, and I think that that made him throw the
cracker before he was quite ready, and maybe that is why he threw it
as he did, so that it did not explode towards the boys.”
“He was gone, I suppose, before you could get to him?” said the
professor.
“Yes, he disappeared. I think he dropped from the back of the seats to
the ground.”
“Should you know him if you should see him again?”
“I cannot tell, sir,” replied Clark.
The professor mused for a few minutes, then he asked, “Can you tell
me the name of the boy who talked with this fellow, and gave him
something?”
Clark hesitated.
“I know who it was, Professor,” he said at last, “but the boys of
section D have more than once accused me of telling tales, though I
have never once done so. In this case I think that you ought to know
who this boy was; but, sir, won’t you try to find out some other way
first? If you fail to find out by other means, I cannot refuse to tell
you, but please do not ask me now.”
“Very well, my boy, I will not ask you to-day, but I think likely it
will be necessary for me to ask you again later. I want to thank you,
Clark, for what you have told me. It is a relief to question a boy upon
whose word I can rely. I need not ask you to keep silence as to what
has passed this morning. I know you will do so.”
He rose, and held out his hand, and Clark grasped it and departed with
a breath of relief that that ordeal was over.
Crawford, Henderson and Freeman left the school together, but Freeman
turned off at the first cross-street. He was in no mood for Crawford’s
careless gaiety and Henderson’s sneers and flings. He was going along
with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, when,
turning a corner, he almost ran into his cousin. He would have passed
on without a word, but Clark put his arm affectionately across his
shoulders, and fell into step with him.
“I was just going around to your house, Ray, to see if you would go
with me for a tramp over the hills,” he said; “I don’t feel like
settling to work to-day, and I don’t believe you do. Come on--won’t
you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Freeman, wearily.
“Don’t you feel equal to it?” Clark asked.
“Yes, I’m well enough; ’tisn’t that,” replied the boy.
Clark thought that he looked very far from well, but he had his reasons
for urging his request.
“You go on home, then, and tell Edith, so she won’t be worrying about
you, and I’ll go home and get some luncheon to take along with us, and
then I’ll stop for you. We can take the cars up to the end of the line,
and walk the rest of the way.”
“Well, I don’t care. Suppose I might as well go as to mope ’round at
home,” said Freeman, and with a cheery “That’s good, I’ll be at your
house within twenty minutes,” Clark hurried away.
It was cool and restful in the open car, and Clark, seeing that his
cousin was disinclined to talk, left him to his thoughts, with only a
word now and then. Even after they left the car, and struck into the
woods, they spoke but little.
Clark led the way to a cool, shady spot where he knew there was a
spring of clear, cold water.
“There!” he said, “sit there and rest, Ray. That big tree trunk makes a
splendid support for a tired back. I brought some lemons and sugar, and
now I’m going to make some lemonade with this spring water. It’s almost
as cold as ice. You can take out the rest of the stuff while I’m gone.”
But when he returned with his kettle of lemonade, the lunch-basket
stood, unopened, where he had left it, and his cousin sat with his eyes
on the distant hills--his thoughts evidently far away. Clark made no
remark, but set out the luncheon himself.
“Come now, pitch in, Ray,” he said, “I’m as hungry as a bear, and I
hope you are too. I don’t want to have anything to lug home but the
basket and kettle. Here--try my lemonade,” and he filled a glass, and
passed it to his cousin.
“I’m not hungry,” objected Freeman, but Clark laughed at him.
“Well, you ought to be. Take hold and keep me company, else I shall be
ashamed of my healthy appetite.”
With merry talk and gay jokes he beguiled Freeman out of his despondent
mood, and presently the little fellow found himself eating and
drinking, and felt much the better for it. When the meal was finished,
Clark threw himself down on the grass, and again a silence fell between
the two. Clark was wondering how he could win his cousin’s confidence,
and Freeman had fallen again into troubled thought.
“Ray, you don’t look happy,” said Clark, suddenly.
“Happy!” echoed the other, “I’m too miserable to live.”
“Can’t you tell me all about it, Ray?” said Clark, in a voice so full
of sympathy, that, in spite of himself, Ray’s eyes filled with tears,
but he choked them back.
“I’ve nothing to tell,” he said, coldly.
Silence again, and once again Clark broke it.
“Ray,” he said, “do you remember your father?”
Freeman looked up in surprise at the question.
“Yes, I remember him well,” he said. “I was eight, you know, when he
died. Oh, Stanley, I _wish_ my father had lived. I believe I’d be a
better fellow to-day, if he had.”
“I remember him so well,” said Clark, slowly. “Mother used to tell me
stories about him when he was a boy. He was her twin brother, you
know, and she was as devoted to him as Edith is to you. I used to think
that if I could ever be such a boy as Uncle Raymond was, I should be
about right.”
Freeman’s eyes were shining now. He had forgotten all about himself,
and was thinking only of the father whose death he had never ceased to
mourn.
“Yes,” he said eagerly, “almost the first thing I can remember is
walking in the street with him, and feeling so proud because he was so
grand and handsome, and even now, it seems to me that he must have been
nobler and finer than most men. It makes me proud to think I bear his
name.”
“Raymond,” said Clark, earnestly, “are you bearing it so that he would
be proud of _you_--if he were here now?”
The boy threw himself down, and burying his face in his hands, broke
into bitter sobs.
“Oh, no, Stanley, no,” he cried; “I’m ashamed--ashamed, when I think
how I’ve dragged his dear name in the dirt. Oh, what _shall_ I do, what
shall I do!”
The agony of shame and bitter sorrow in that woeful cry, wrung his
cousin’s heart. He laid his hand lovingly on the bowed head as he
said:--
“Turn right about, Ray, and make a new beginning. Determine that from
this time on you will never do or say one thing that you would be
ashamed to have Uncle Raymond know.”
“Oh, but you don’t know how bad I’ve been. Why, Stanley, I lied to
Prof. Keene this very morning. I _did_ know about that cracker. I
carried the message from Henderson to Baum, myself.”
“I knew you did, Ray.”
Freeman sat upright and stared in blank amazement.
“_How_ did you know it?” he said.
“Perhaps I ought to say I guessed it, for of course I did not know
_what_ message you carried to Baum, but I saw Henderson speak to you,
and then I saw you go to Baum, and I thought you gave him something.
Afterward, when I saw him hand something to the rascal that fired
that cracker, I guessed at once that Henderson had sent you to do the
abominable errand for him.”
“Did you tell all this to the professor?” questioned Ray.
“No, Ray, I gave the professor no names, but I may have to tell him
about Baum. I cannot tell him about you.”
Freeman’s head went down on his hands again and he groaned out:--
“That isn’t all, either, Stanley. It was I that snapped the marble that
broke Raleigh’s glasses, and I lied about that, too.”
“Did you do that, Ray? I was afraid it was you, but I hoped I was
mistaken. Why didn’t you own up when Mr. Horton gave you the chance?
He wouldn’t have been hard on you. He knew it was an accident,” said
Clark.
“But it wasn’t, Stanley. At least, I meant the marble to hit Raleigh’s
head, though of course, I didn’t think of his glasses. I’ve had a hand
in all the mischief that has been done in the room these last two
terms, and I’ve lied like a trooper right straight through it all.
Stanley--I don’t believe I can _help_ lying now.”
“Nonsense, Ray!” Clark spoke sternly, now. “Don’t be so weak as to give
up trying to make a man of yourself. I tell you, Ray, your father’s
son _must_ be a true, honorable man. You have to take his place in the
world--fill his place to your mother and Edith.”
“Oh I wish I could, Stanley. You don’t know how much I wish it
sometimes. You think I don’t try, but I do. Lots of times I’ve made
up my mind that I would break with Crawford and all that lot, and
then he’d come and coax me to go for a drive or a sail, and I’d
give in and go and do anything they wanted me to, though I knew all
the time I was breaking mother’s heart and Edith’s. I’m just a weak
good-for-nothing--I never shall amount to anything in the world,” he
added, hopelessly.
“Raymond,” said Clark, solemnly, “I believe that you have come to
a turning-point in your life. You’ve been going down hill--you
acknowledge it. Now, if you will, you can turn right about, and go up.
It will be hard at first, I know, but I’ll stand by you, and Hamlin
will too, I’m sure, and when Gordon and the rest see that you mean to
do the right thing, they’ll back you up too.”
“Oh, Stanley, I wish I could. I do so wish I could,” cried the boy.
“But you forget about the drill. Prof. Keene will find out that I lied
to him, and he’ll expel me--and mother”--he broke off, and groaned.
“Ray, if things at school could be made all right for you, would you
really break with Crawford and that crowd, and try to live down this
year’s doings?”
“Oh, I would, I would so gladly,” cried the boy, “but it can’t be. It
can’t be made right about the drill.”
“It can in one way, Ray. If you will go to Prof. Keene and tell him
what you have told me, and how sorry you are for it all, I’m sure he
will forgive you.”
Freeman fairly gasped. “Go to the professor? Oh, I never could in the
world!” he said, “and Henderson--he vowed he’d kill me if I told a
soul, and you must never let him know that I’ve told you, Stanley.”
“Ray, you _must_ go to the professor. He told me that he was determined
to get to the bottom of the affair, and what he sets out to do, he
does. He suspects Henderson, I am sure, and I believe that he will
ferret out the whole business. Then you would be punished _sure_;
but if you go and confess of your own accord, it will make all the
difference in the world to him; I am certain of it.”
“But Henderson, Stanley. I’ve no right to tell on him,” said the boy.
“I think you have, in such a serious business as this. I think he
deserves heavy punishment. But, Ray, you need not mention his name. You
can tell what you did without implicating anyone else. Oh, Ray, do it.
Your father would tell you to do it, if he could speak to you.”
Freeman turned his face away, and sat silent for many minutes. When he
spoke again, his voice was low and firm.
“I’ll do it, Stanley,” he said, “but I must do it right away. Will you
come with me?”
“Gladly,” and without another word, Clark picked up the basket and led
the way homeward.
An hour later, Professor Keene was informed that two boys wanted to
speak to him, and going down to his library, found Clark and Freeman
awaiting him there. Clark stayed only until Freeman’s confession was
made; then he quietly left the room and waited on the sidewalk for his
cousin.
It was a long time that he had to wait. Indeed, it was nearly dark
before Freeman joined him, and the two walked on together in a silence
that Clark dared not break and Freeman could not.
“Not going home, Ray?” Clark said, inquiringly, as his cousin turned
another way.
“I must see Mr. Horton before I go home,” Freeman answered. “I told the
professor I would.”
Mr. Horton was quite as much surprised as the principal had been,
when he heard what Freeman had to say to him; but he, too, was very
kind, and most heartily glad to know that this one, at least, of
his troublesome pupils would henceforth cease to be a trial in the
class-room.
When Freeman left Mr. Horton’s house, he looked worn and weary, yet
there was an expression of relief--of peace even, in his pale face.
He looked as if he had laid down a heavy burden that he had long been
bearing; and this, indeed, was just what he had done.
“Now I can go home,” he said. “But, oh, Stanley, I can’t be thankful
enough that you persuaded me to own up to it all. You saved me from
being suspended, if not expelled, for Professor Keene and Mr. Horton
had found out all about it.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Clark, in surprise. “Why, how had they found it
out so quickly?”
“Mr. Horton sat where he could see both Henderson and our fellows in
the bleachers.”
“Queer that the boys didn’t see him,” said Clark, wonderingly.
“His eyes were troubling him, and he wore dark glasses that day. I
suppose that’s why we didn’t notice him. And, Stanley, he even knew
that I threw the marble that smashed Raleigh’s glasses, and if I hadn’t
acknowledged it to-night, he was going to call me up before the school
next Monday. So you see, Stanley, I owe it all to you that I am to be
let off so easily.”
“Without punishment, Ray?” questioned Clark.
Freeman’s sensitive face flushed, even in the darkness, as he answered
in a voice that he vainly tried to steady, “No--I’ve got to make
acknowledgment before the whole school, and apologize to Mr. Horton.”
Clark flung his arm affectionately across the boy’s shoulders.
“It will be a tough job for you, Ray, but I’m sure you’ll brace up and
be a man about it; and if you do it in manly fashion, no fellow that
amounts to anything will ever cast it up to you again.”
Freeman made no reply, and presently, at his own gate, he bade his
cousin “good-night,” adding only, “I’ll never forget this day, Stanley.”
Before Freeman slept, he had to tell his story once more, to his mother
and Edith; but he knew them too well to shrink from their verdict,
and he knew, too, that they would but too freely forgive and forget
all his wrong-doing in the gladness of the assurance that henceforth
he would do his best to make up to them for all that he had made them
suffer.