Tom admitted that he had not. Guy gave him the version he had heard,
which proved to be the correct one. He gave it between fits of laughter
and that kind of sympathetic clapping on the back which can never be
withheld from the harum-scarum dare-devil playing his maddest prank.
When Tad had run from the door of Westmorley Court he had run to the
police station. There he had laid a charge against an unknown car-thief
of running off with his machine. He could be caught by telephoning
the traffic cops on the long street leading from Cambridge to Boston.
He gave the number of the car which was registered in the State of
New York. His own name, he said, was Thorne Carstairs; his residence,
Tuxedo Park; his address in Boston, the Hotel Shawmut, where he was
known and could be found. Having lodged this complaint, and put all
the forces of the law into operation, he had dodged back to Westmorley
Court, had his dinner sent in from a restaurant, locked his door
against all comers, and turned into bed.
In the morning, according to Guy, there had been the devil to pay. As
far as Tad was concerned, the statement was literally true. Thorne
Carstairs had been locked in the station all night. Not only had he
been caught red-handed with a stolen car, but his lack of the license
he had neglected to carry on his person, as well as of registration
papers of any kind, confirmed the belief in the theft. His look of a
cheap sport, together with his tendency to use elementary epithets, had
also told against him. Where another young fellow in his plight might
have won some sympathy he roused resentment by his howlings and his
oaths.
"We know you," he was assured. "Been on the look-out for you this
spell back. You're the guy what pinched Dr. Pritchard's car last week,
and him with a dyin' woman. Just fit the description--slab-sided,
cock-eyed, twisted-nosed fella we was told to look for, and now we've
got our claw on you. Sure your father's a gintleman! Sure you live at
the Hotel Shawmut! But a few months in a hotel of another sort'll give
you a pleasant change."
In the morning Thorne had been brought before the magistrate, where two
officials of the Shawmut had identified him as their guest. Piece by
piece, to everyone's dismay, the fact leaked out that the law of the
land, the zeal of the police, and the dignity of the court had been
hoaxed. Thorne himself gave the clue to the culprit who had so outraged
authority, and Tad was paying the devil. Guy didn't know what precisely
had happened, or if anything definite had happened as yet at all; he
was only sure that poor Tad was getting it where the chicken got the
ax. He deserved it, true; and yet, hang it all! only a genuine sport
could have pulled off anything so audacious.
With this Tom agreed. There were spots in Guy's narrative over which
he laughed heartily. He condemned Tad chiefly for going too far. It
was his weakness that he didn't know when he had had enough of a good
thing. Anyone in his senses might know that to hoax a policeman was
a crime. A policeman's great asset was the respect inspired by his
uniform. Under his uniform he was a man like any other, with the same
frailties, the same sneaking sympathy with sinners; but dress him up in
a blue suit with brass buttons on his breast, and you had a figure to
awe you. If you weren't awed the fault was yours. Yours, too, must be
the penalty. The saving element was that beneath the brass buttons the
heart was kindly, as a rule, and humorous, patient, generous. Tom had
never got over the belief, which dated from the night when his mother
was arrested, of the goodness of policemen. He trusted to it now.
He was not long in making up his mind. Leaving Guy, he cut a lecture
to go to see the Dean. He went to the Dean's own house, finding him at
home. The Dean remembered him as one of two or three young fellows
who in the previous year had adjusted a bit of friction between the
freshmen and the faculty without calling on the higher authorities to
impose their will. He was cordial, therefore, in his welcome.
He was a big, broad-shouldered Dean, human and comprehending, with a
twinkle of humor behind his round glasses. There was no severity in
the tone in which he discussed Tad's escapade; there was only reason
and justice. Tad had given him a great deal of trouble in the eighteen
months in which he had been at Harvard. He had written to his father
more than once about the boy, had advised his being given less money
to spend, and a stricter calling to account at home. The father was
distressed, had done what he could, but the mischief had gone too far.
Tad was the typical rich man's son, spoiled by too easy a time. He had
been so much considered that he never considered anybody else. He was
swaggering and conscienceless. The Dean was of the opinion now that
nothing but harsh treatment would do him any good.
Tom put in his plea. The matter, as he saw it, was bigger than one
fellow's destiny; it involved bigger issues. It was his belief that the
country would soon be at war. If the country was at war, Tad Whitelaw's
father would be one of the first of the bankers the President would
consult. The Dean knew, of course, that the bankers would have to
swing as much of the war as the army and navy. Henry T. Whitelaw was a
man, as everyone knew, already terribly tried by domestic tragedy. You
wouldn't want to add to that now, just at the time when he needed to
have a mind as free as possible. This boy was the apple of his eye;
and if disgrace overtook him....
But that was only one thing. Should the country go to war, it would
call for just such young fellows as Tad Whitelaw; fellows of spirit, of
daring, of physical health and strength. Didn't the Dean think that it
might be well to nurse him along for a few weeks--it wasn't likely to
be many--so that he could answer to the country's call with at least a
nominal honorable record, instead of being under a cloud? If the Dean
did think so, he, Tom, would undertake to keep the fellow straight till
he was wanted. He wasn't vicious; he was only foolish and headstrong.
Though he didn't make a good student, he had in him the very stuff to
make a soldier. Tom would answer for him. He would be his surety.
In the long run the Dean allowed himself to be won by Tom's own
earnestness. He would do what he could. At the same time Tom must
remember that if the college authorities stayed their hand the civil
authorities might not. The indignation at police headquarters was
unusually bitter. Unless this righteous wrath were pacified....
Having thanked the Dean, Tom ran straight to the police station. The
Chief of Police received him, though not with the Dean's cordiality.
He too was a big, broad-shouldered man, but frigid and stern through
long administration of law, discipline, and order. He impressed Tom
as a mechanical contrivance which operates as it is built to operate,
and with no power of showing mercy or making exceptions to a rule.
Outwardly at least he was grave and obdurate.
The victory lay once more with Tom's earnestness. The Chief of Police
made no secret of the fact that they were already considering the
grounds on which "the crazy fool" could most effectively be prosecuted.
The law was not, however, wholly without a heart, and if in the present
instance the country could be served, even in the smallest detail, by
giving the blamed idiot the benefit of clemency it could be done. Tom
must understand that the nonsense had not been overlooked; it was only
left in abeyance. If his protégé got into trouble again he would be the
more severely dealt with because of the present lenity.
Tom ran now to Westmorley Court, where he knocked at Tad's door. To a
growling invitation he went in. The room was a cloud of tobacco smoke,
through which the shapes of half a dozen fellows loomed dimly in the
deepening winter twilight. Tad tilted back in the revolving chair
before the belittered desk which held the center of the room. His coat
was off, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his feet on the edge of the desk. A
cigar traveled back and forth from corner to corner of the handsome,
disdainful mouth.
Tom marched straight to the desk, speaking hurriedly. "Can I have a
word with you in private?"
The owner of the room neither moved nor took the cigar from his lips.
"No, you can't." He nodded toward the door. "You can sprint it out
again."
"I shall sprint it out when I'm ready. If I can't speak in private I
shall speak in public. You've got to hear."
The insolent immobility was maintained. "Didn't I tell you the last
time I saw you that if you ever interfered with me again--?"
"That you'd shoot me, yes. Well, get up and shoot. If you can't, or if
you don't mean to, why make the threat? But I've come to talk reason.
You've got to listen to reason. If you don't I'll appeal to these chaps
to make you. They don't want to see you a comic valentine any more than
I do. Now climb down from your high horse and let's get to business."
It was Guy Ansley who cleared the room. "Say, fellows--" With a
stealthy movement, which their host was too preoccupied to observe,
they slipped out. He knew, however, when he and his enemy were alone,
and still without lifting his feet from the desk or taking the cigar
from his mouth, made the concession of speaking.
"Well, if business has brought you here, cough it up."
"I will. I come first from the Dean, and then from the Chief of Police."
"Oh, you do, do you? So you're to be the hangman."
"No; there's not to be a hangman. They've given you a reprieve--because
I've begged you off."
The feet came off the desk. The cigar was taken from the lips. Tad
leaned forward in his chair, tense and incredulous.
"You've done--_what_?"
Tom maintained his sang-froid. "I've begged you off. I went and talked
to them both. I said I'd answer for you, that you'd stop being a crazy
loon, and try to be a man."
Incredulity passed into angry amazement. "And who in hell gave you
authority to do that?"
"Nobody. I did it on my own. When a fellow gets his life as a gift he
takes it. He doesn't kick up a row as to who's given it. For the Lord's
sake, try to have a little sense."
"What's it to you whether I've got sense or not?"
"Nothing."
"Then why in thunder do you keep butting in--?"
"Because I choose to. I'll give you no other answer than that, and no
other explanation. What you've got to do is to knuckle under and show
that you're worth your keep. You're not a _born_ fool; you're only a
made fool. You're good for something better than to be a laughing-stock
as you are to everyone in college. Buck up! Be a fellow! After being a
jackass for a year and a half, I should think you'd begin to see that
there was nothing to it by this time."
Never in his life had Tad Whitelaw been so hammered without gloves.
It was why Tom chose to hammer him. Nothing but thrashing, verbal
or otherwise, would startle him out of the conviction of his
self-importance. Already it was shaking the foundations of his
arrogance. In his tone as he retorted there was more than a hint of
feebleness.
"What I see and what I don't see is my own affair."
"Oh, no, it isn't. It's a class affair. There's such a thing as _esprit
de corps_. We can't afford to have rotters, now especially."
Tad grew still feebler. "I'm not the only rotter in the bunch. Why do
you pick on me?"
"I've told you already. Because I choose to. You might as well give in
to me first as last, because you'll not get rid of me any more than you
will of your own conscience."
Tad sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing, in a new outburst. "I'll be
damned if I'll give in to you."
"And I'll be damned if you don't. If I can't bring you round by
persuasion I'll do it as I did it once before. I'll wale the guts out
of you. I'm not going to have you a disgrace."
"Ah!" Tad started back. "Now I've got you. A disgrace! You talk as if
you were a member of the family. That's what you're after. That's what
you've been scheming for ever since--"
"Look here," Tom interrupted, forcefully. "Let's understand each other
about this business once and for all." Looking from under his eyelids
he measured Tad up and down. "I wouldn't be a member of the family that
has produced _you_ for anything the world could give me."
Tad bounded, changing his note foolishly. "Oh, you wouldn't wouldn't
you! How do you know that you won't damn well have to be?"
Walking up to him, Tom laid a hand on his shoulder, paternally. "Don't
let us talk rot. We both know the nickname the fellows have stuck on me
in Harvard. But what's that to us? You don't want me. I don't want you.
At least I don't want you that way. I'll tell you straight. I've got a
use for you. That's why I keep after you. But it's got nothing to do
with your family affairs."
They confronted each other, Tad gasping. "You've got a use for me?
Greatly obliged. But get this. I've no use for you. Don't make any
mistake--"
Withdrawing his hand, Tom gave him a little shove. "Oh, choke it back.
Piffle won't get you anywhere. I'm going to make something of you of
which your father and mother can be proud."