AGAIN THE MAGIC DOOR OPENS
A change of trains and a brief hour's journey brought the travelers
safely to Coventry where Havens met them with the automobile.
"This will be our last ride this fall," observed Mr. Tolman, as he
loitered on the platform while the luggage was being lifted into the
car. "We shall have to put the motor up in a day or two. It will not
need much of an overhauling in the way of repairs this season, I guess,
for it is comparatively new and should be in pretty good condition.
There may be a few slight things necessary but nothing much. Isn't that
so, Havens?"
"It is badly scratched, sir."
"Scratched!"
"Yes, sir--both inside and out. I wonder you haven't noticed it. Still
you wouldn't unless you got it in just the right light. I did not myself
at first. There are terrible scratches everywhere. You would think ten
men had climbed all over it. Look!"
"Oh, it can't be so bad as all that," laughed Mr. Tolman good-humoredly,
evidently not taking the chauffeur's comment seriously. "The car was
new in the spring and we have not given it very hard wear. What little
luggage we have carried has been carefully put in; I have seen to that
myself. Only a short time ago I thought how splendidly fresh the varnish
looked. In fact, I examined it just before you were ill. It can't have
become very much defaced since then for we have not had the car out of
the garage except for one short excursion."
Havens' brow darkened into a puzzled frown.
"I don't understand it at all, sir," he replied. "I could swear the
scratches were not there when I went away. If you didn't tell me
yourself the car hadn't been used much I'd stake my oath it had had a
great deal of knocking about while I was gone. Look here, Mr. Tolman!
Look at that, and that, and that--great digs in the paint as if people
with boots on had climbed over the sides."
Mr. Tolman looked and so, with a sinking heart, did Stephen.
"Mercy on us! I never noticed all this before!" cried Mr. Tolman, in
consternation. "What in the world--" he stopped as if he could find no
words to voice his amazement. "Look at this!" He placed a finger on a
broad, clearly defined line that extended from the top of the tonneau to
the bottom. "You would think somebody had dug his heels in here and then
slid down until he reached the ground! And this! What on earth has
happened to the thing, Havens? It looks as if it had been used for a
gymnasium."
Hot and cold by turns, Steve listened. The marks to which his father
pointed told a truthful story. Somebody had braced his heels against the
side and then slid to the ground; it was Bud Taylor. And that other
jagged line indicated where Tim Barclay had scrambled over the edge and
made his hurried exit. The history of the whole miserable adventure was
etched in the varnish as vividly as if it had been traced there in
words. Stephen gasped with horror when he saw how plainly the entire
story stood out in the sunlight of the November day. Why, the most
stupid person alive could read it! Every moment he expected that his
father or Havens would wheel on him and ask accusingly:
"When was it you carried all those boys to Torrington?"
He could hear his heart thumping inside him and feel the beat of the
blood that scorched his cheek. He had not pictured a dilemma like this.
The affair had gone off so smoothly that he had flattered himself every
possibility of discovery was past, and in this comforting knowledge he
had basked with serenity. And now, behold, here he was at the brink of
peril, and just when he had had such a glorious holiday, too!
"How do you solve the riddle, Havens?" he heard his father asking.
"I ain't solvin' it, sir," was the drawling answer. "Maybe Steve could
give you a hint, though," he added slyly.
The lad stiffened. He and Havens had never been friends. They had been
through too many battles for that. The chauffeur did not like boys and
took no trouble to conceal the fact, and as a result he had been the
prey of many a mischievous prank. It was through his vigilance that
Stephen had more than once been brought to justice and in the punishment
that followed Havens had exulted without restraint. As a retaliation the
boy tormented him whenever opportunity presented, the two carrying on a
half-bitter, half-humorous feud which was a source of mutual
gratification.
Had not this been the case the confession that trembled on Stephen's
tongue would doubtless have been uttered then and there. But to speak
before Havens and afford him the chance to crow and rejoice,--that was
not to be thought of. Therefore, drawing in his chin and holding his
head a trifle higher than was his wont, he replied with hauteur:
"I've no solution at all to offer. How could I have?"
For the fraction of a second Mr. Tolman looked sharply at his son as if
some new thought had suddenly struck him; then the piercing scrutiny
faded from his eyes and he turned away.
"Well, I guess we shall have to drop the matter for the present, anyway,
and be getting home," said he. "It will do no good for us to stand here
in the cold and argue. We shall be no nearer an answer. Come, jump in,
Steve!"
With a strange sense of reluctance the boy obeyed. He felt the door to
confession closing with finality behind him; and now that he saw all
chance for dallying on its threshold cut off, he began to regret that it
should so completely close. Once again the opportunity to clear his
conscience had come about in an easy, natural manner; confession had
been gently and tactfully invited and he had turned his back. Never
again, probably, would he have such a chance as this. Without any
ignominious preamble he could have spoken the few words necessary and
been a free man! But alas, he had hesitated too long. His father
followed him into the car, banged the door, and they shot homeward.
Perhaps, temporized the lad as they rode along, he would say something
when they reached the house. Why wasn't it better anyway to wait until
he and his father were quiet and alone? Who could blame him for not
wanting to confess his misdemeanors before an audience? His father would
understand and forgive his reticence, he was sure. Having lulled his
conscience to rest with the assurance of this future reparation he sank
back against the cushions and drew the robe closer about him. There was
no use in letting the ride be spoiled by worry. He did not need to speak
until he got back, and he needn't speak at all if he did not wish to. If
no favorable opening occurred, why, he could still remain silent and
wait a better chance. He had taken no vow, made no promise; nothing
actually bound him to act unless he chose.
It was surprising how his spirits rose with this realization. He even
ventured to talk a little and make a joke or two. These overtures
received only scant response from his father, however, for Mr. Tolman's
brow had settled into a frown and it needed no second glance to assure
Stephen that the happenings of the past half-hour had put the elder man
very much out of humor. How unfortunate, mused the boy, that this mood
should have come upon his father. It would take more than an ordinary
measure of courage to approach him now. Why, it would be braving the
lions, actually tempting fate to go to him with a confession when he
looked like this. Would it not be much wiser to wait?
With a sharp swerve they turned in at the gate and rolled up the long
driveway; then the front door burst open and from it issued not only
Mrs. Tolman and Doris but with them the girl with the wonderful hair,
Jane Harden, whom he had seen at Northampton. A hubbub of greeting
ensued and in the interchange of gay conversation all thought of
confession was swept from Stephen's mind.
Nor in the days that followed, with their round of skating, hockey,
snow-shoeing, and holiday festivities, did the inclination to revert to
the follies of the past arise. The big red touring-car was sent away
without further allusion to its battered condition and with its
departure the last link with the misfortunes that tormented him seemed
destroyed. Once, it is true, when he overheard his father telling his
mother that the bill for repainting and varnishing the car was going to
be very large, his conscience smote him. But what, he argued, could he
do? Even were he to come forward now and shoulder the blame it would not
reduce the expense of which his father complained. He had no money.
Therefore he decided it was better to close his ears and try and forget
the entire affair. His father had evidently accepted the calamity with
resignation and made up his mind to bear the consequences without
further demur. Why not let the matter rest there? At this late date it
would be absurd to speak, especially when it could not alter the
situation.
In the meantime letters came from Mr. Ackerman and from Dick. The latter
was very happy at the New Haven school and was making quite a record for
himself, and it was easy to detect between the lines of the steamboat
magnate's epistle that he was much gratified by the progress of his
protege. Thanksgiving would soon be here and if the Tolmans still
extended their invitation for the holidays the two New Yorkers would be
glad to accept it.
"I'll write Ackerman to-day," announced Mr. Tolman at breakfast. "The
invitation has hung on Stephen and Dick, and I am glad to say they each
have made good. How fine that that little East Side chap should have
turned out so well! I don't wonder Ackerman is pleased. Everybody does
not get appreciation in return for kindness. I know many a parent whose
children repay what is done for them only with sneaking, unworthy
conduct and utter ingratitude. Dick may not have been born into
prosperity but he is a thoroughbred at heart and it shows in his
actions. He is every inch a gentleman."
At the words Stephen's blood tingled.
What would his father think of him if he knew what a mean-spirited
coward he was? Well, it was impossible to tell him now. It would upset
the whole Thanksgiving party.