IV

Barnstead celebrated that evening. Not that the school was unduly

elated because of the victory over Norwich, nor that the score was

anything to be especially proud of, but merely because football

enthusiasm was rampant and the afternoon’s success, slight as it was,

provided an excuse. As soon as supper was over the fellows congregated

in front of School Hall and began cheering. Songs followed the cheers,

and then a voice cried: “We want to march!” The suggestion won

immediate favor, and in almost less time than it takes to tell it the

fellows were falling into line four abreast, two hundred throats were

singing the school anthem and the march had begun. Shouting, cheering,

singing, pushing and jostling, the long column swung around the corner

and began the circuit of the campus.

Harry found himself between Tracey, who had been with him when the

celebration began, and a substitute tackle named Cummings. Linking

arms, they followed on, adding their quota to the noise and hilarity.

The procession paused at each dormitory to cheer the resident

instructor, and wound four blocks out of bounds to reach Mr. Worden’s

rooms in a little white clapboarded cottage. The noise soon brought the

coach to the doorway and, when the throng had quieted down, he made

a short speech that rekindled the waning enthusiasm. After that the

procession headed back to the campus, paid a visit to the principal’s

residence and finally disbanded in front of School Hall. As it was a

Saturday night there was no imperative need of studying, and so Harry

and Tracey followed a discordant group of revelers across to Hutchins

Hall and spent an hour with Joe Phillips and his roommate, Bert Means,

talking football and predicting an overwhelming victory over St.

Matthew’s.

The Sunday morning mail――one called for it at the office between

breakfast and chapel――brought a letter to Harry from Pete Wilkinson,

back home. Pete had written once before during the Fall, and as his

letters, while rambling, held a deal of home news, Harry was always

glad to get them. The present epistle, four full pages in length,

detailed the doings of mutual acquaintances since his last report and

brought the chronicles of the Hillston High School Football Team down

to date. Toward the end Pete wrote:

Fellows think it funny we don’t see more about you in the

papers. We read most everything from around there and haven’t

seen your name in them but once some time ago. Aren’t you

on the team for regular? I see your name down at left half

sometimes and sometimes I see a fellow named Dyker down. Tom

Rawlins told George High the other day that he’d heard you

weren’t making good and George told him he didn’t know what

he was talking about. And I guess he don’t. Write me how you

are getting on, Harry, and tell me all about everything. Do

you like the school and how many fellows are there there? Who

is your coach? Are you going to try for the hockey team this

winter? I hear that Barnstead is a great place for hockey. I

wish my father would let me go there next year, but he says it

costs too much. How much does it cost, Harry? Are you coming

home at Christmas? Answer soon. All the fellows want to be

remembered to you. Good luck, Harry, and I hope you do fine a

week from to-morrow. All the fellows say the same. Your friend,

Pete.

Harry replied that afternoon and answered Pete’s numerous questions

to the best of his ability. The effect of writing this letter and a

less lengthy one to his father and mother was to make Harry a little

bit homesick, and, after he had mailed the two epistles, he went off

alone for a long walk through a gray mist that added very little to his

spirits.

But Monday dawned fair and crisp, and the qualm of homesickness was

gone and forgotten. Practice that afternoon was as hard as any during

the year. Coach Worden was not satisfied with the team’s defense, and

so for the better part of an hour the second was given the ball time

and time again, on the first team’s thirty yards, on its twenty and,

finally, on its five, and told to put it over. It did so at last, from

the five-yard line, but not until the first team forwards were battered

and tired out. There was signal work on the floor of the gymnasium

that evening and on the two evenings following, but the final hard

practice out of doors came on Tuesday. After that the team were given

only enough work to keep them in shape. There was a fifteen-minute

scrimmage on Wednesday and a good deal of punting and catching and some

signal practice. All the week it was Harry who had the call for left

half and Dyker got into the play but once, for a brief ten minutes or

so on Tuesday. Thursday it rained hard all day, and the short work at

signals planned to take place on the field was held in the basement

of the gymnasium. In the evening there was a chalk talk upstairs,

during which the players underwent a pretty stiff examination as to

their familiarity with the plays to be used against St. Matthew’s. The

second team disbanded Thursday afternoon and had its annual feast in the

visitors’ dining-room. Afterward it moved in a body to the auditorium

at the top of School Hall and helped make the mass meeting a howling

success. Most of the first team fellows joined the assemblage after

Coach Worden released them, arriving late, but receiving each one a

deafening cheer as he tried to slip unostentatiously into a seat at the

back of the hall. All the songs which had ever been sung at previous

games and many new ones were rehearsed, with the aid of the school

Musical Club, and every player got his share of applause. There were

speeches, too, and it was well toward ten o’clock when, after singing

the school anthem, the crowd, still joyously noisy, made its way down

the stairs.

Harry, who had arrived at the mass meeting late and had done his best

to reach a seat undetected and had failed, met Joe Phillips on the way

downstairs and paused at the entrance to talk to him. Joe had made a

speech and was feeling exhilarated and communicative. Consequently

when Harry started off alone across the campus for his room most of

the fellows had disappeared. Overhead there were still a good many

heavy, dark clouds floating, but here and there a frosty star twinkled,

and over the top of Noyes Hall the moon was trying bravely to make a

showing. As Harry reached the corner of his dormitory he became aware

of three boys ahead of him on the flag walk. They had almost reached

the entrance when he saw them and the dim light above the doorway threw

their forms into relief without revealing their faces. They had stopped

just short of the entrance, and as Harry approached, his rubber-soled

shoes making almost no sound on the flags, one of the three raised an

arm and appeared to throw something at a window. Startledly, Harry

listened for the resultant crash of breaking glass. But there was no

sound save the scrape of feet as the trio dashed up the steps and

disappeared through the entrance. Then Harry saw that the window, which

was one of those in Mr. Adams’ bedroom, was raised at the bottom. The

room was dark. Wondering what mischief the three boys had been up to,

Harry reached the entrance almost on their heels, just in time to see

the last of the trio, apparently one of the older boys and rather

heavily built, disappear around the turn of the stairs. There was only

time to note the general build of the youth and the fact that he wore a

dark-brown sweater, at the back of which, an inch or two above the hem,

gleamed a small white tag. Then they were gone and a faint snicker of

laughter floated down from above through the empty hall. At that moment

the door of Number 2 opened quickly and Harry, one foot on the first

step, turned to find Mr. Adams confronting him, Mr. Adams pulling a

faded red dressing-gown about his gaunt form and scowling angrily.

“You, Danforth?”

The resident instructor’s voice held both surprise and wrath and Harry,

equally surprised and a trifle disconcerted, replied a bit uncertainly:

“Yes, sir?”

Mr. Adams held out a thin arm, from which the sleeve of his sleeping

garment fell away, and opened his outstretched hand. In it lay a

squashy brown mass. Harry viewed it doubtfully.

“What――what is it, sir?” he asked.

“You know perfectly what it is,” replied the instructor, his voice

shaking with anger. “It is an apple, a rotten apple! Your aim was so

good, sir, that it landed against my face! A rotten apple! Outrageous,

Danforth, outrageous, I say!”

“But――but, Mr. Adams――――”

“If that is your idea of a joke, Danforth, I fear we shall have to tame

your humor, sir. It’s insulting, sir, insulting!”

“But I didn’t, sir!”

“You didn’t! Oh, certainly not!”

“I was just coming in when you opened your door and――――”

“But I asked you and you confessed!” replied Mr. Adams triumphantly.

He was growing calmer, but the crimson spots on his thin cheeks told

plainly that his anger still held. “Don’t make matters worse by lying,

Danforth.”

“I’m not, sir. I didn’t throw it, word of honor, Mr. Adams!”

“A likely story! Who did, then? This――this unspeakable abomination”――the

instructor’s long nose seemed to quiver with disgust as he viewed the

object in his hand――“was thrown into my room, right on to my pillow as I

lay in bed, against my very cheek, sir! Faugh!” He made as if to hurl

the apple through the doorway, but thought better of it. “I jump from

bed, Danforth, open my door and find you here, guilt stamped eloquently

upon your face! And now you have the――the brazen effrontery to tell me

you didn’t do it! I shall see that you are severely punished, sir, and

the fact that you have added lying to your――your gutter-snipe act will

make me no more lenient, sir!”

“But I tell you, sir,” protested Harry, flushing resentfully, “that I

did not do it! You’ve got to believe me, sir! I know that appearances

seem against me, but I was halfway between your window and the corner

of the building when the apple was thrown, sir.”

“Indeed?” sneered Mr. Adams. “Then you saw it done, did you?”

“Yes, sir――that is――――”

“Well? Well? Did you or did you not? Go on with your story. Let’s see

how fertile your imagination is, Danforth. You didn’t do it yourself,

but you saw it done. Very well; pray proceed!”

“I――I saw someone in front of the window, sir, as I came along.

They――he ran away and I came in here and you opened your door and

called my name, and I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ That’s all I know about it.”

“Really?” Mr. Adams smiled sourly. “And the boy you saw in front of the

window? What became of him, Danforth?”

“He――he ran away,” faltered Harry; “quickly.”

“Very quickly indeed! So quickly that, although I fairly bounded to the

window, there was no one in sight when I reached it; no one, I should

say, but you. Sounds a likely story, Danforth, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t help it, sir,” replied Harry doggedly. “It’s the truth.”

“Which way did this――this figment of your imagination run, sir?”

Harry glanced toward the stairs. Not a sound came from the upper

floors. Mr. Adams tapped impatiently on the floor with one slippered

foot.

“I――I can’t say, sir,” answered Harry finally.

“You can’t say! You don’t know whether he entered this dormitory or

not?”

“I――――” Again Harry hesitated. Even if he told what he knew it was

unlikely that the boys could be detected now. “I think they came in

here, sir.”

“You think! Don’t you know whether they―――― Look here, you said before

that there was but one boy! Now how many were there? Careful, Danforth!

You’re getting mixed!”

“There was more than one; I think three. They came in here, sir. That’s

all I can say.”

“You saw them enter this dormitory?” pursued Mr. Adams relentlessly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did they turn to the right or to the left? Or did they go upstairs?”

“I can’t tell you, sir. They――they came in ahead of me.”

“That will do, my boy. Go on to your room. You’ll hear more of

this――this pleasant little escapade, this gentlemanly trick――in the

morning.”

“Don’t――don’t you believe me, sir?” asked Harry desperately.

Mr. Adams smiled sarcastically. “Oh, perfectly, Danforth, perfectly!

You tell a most convincing story, I assure you. Dear me, yes, most

convincing. Let us hope, Danforth, that you’ll be able to do as well

before the Principal in the morning. But don’t try to embroider

it any more, Danforth. It’s quite elaborate enough as it is.” The

instructor smiled broadly but disagreeably. “I shall――ah――preserve

this odoriferous memento of my pleasant experience, this slight token

of your respect and regard, Danforth, as Exhibit A. I’ve no doubt your

Principal will view it with interest. Good night!”

Mr. Adams’ door closed with dignity, but as it had shut upon a corner

of the dressing-gown and had to be reopened, the effect was somewhat

marred. Harry, smarting with the injustice of the instructor’s

conviction, apprehensive of what would follow and generally discouraged,

sought his room. The light was turned low and Tracey was sleeping

audibly. After a moment of indecision, for he wanted very much to tell

his story and get sympathy, Harry undressed as noiselessly as possible

and tumbled into bed without arousing his chum. But sleep didn’t come

easily that night. Disturbing thoughts of what might lie in store for

him kept him wakeful, and when, long after eleven had struck, he fell

into slumber, equally disturbing visions haunted his sleep.

V

“You haven’t much to go on,” said Tracey the next morning. “You don’t

know whether the fellows stopped on this floor or went on to the third.

And as for the brown sweater, why, there are at least a hundred in

school. You might look for a sweater with a white tag on it, I suppose.

I don’t understand the tag business. Sweaters don’t have tags on them

except when you buy them, do they? Did it look like a new one?”

“I couldn’t tell,” replied Harry. “It was dark on the stairs and I only

saw the chap for a second.”

“Adams is a pig-headed old codger, anyway,” said Tracey disgustedly.

“You couldn’t convince him that you didn’t do it unless you had the

fellow who did do it and go and make an affidavit before a notary!

You’re up against it, chum, I guess. Perhaps, though, Dobs”――the

Principal was called Dobs for short――“will believe you. He isn’t a

bad sort, Dobs. Neither is Adams, for that matter, except that he’s as

stubborn as a mule and as full of dignity as a――a camel!” At any other

time Harry might have protested at the simile, but this morning he

was too down in the mouth to care. “I suppose,” went on Tracey, “that

Adams didn’t mind being hit with the apple much, but the fact that it

was rotten offended his blessed dignity. If you’d only chucked a green

apple――――”

“I tell you I didn’t!” cried Harry exasperatedly. “I don’t know

anything about it! I――――”

“I know! I meant to say it was a pity the fellow who did it didn’t

throw a green one,” answered Tracey soothingly. Harry grunted. After a

moment’s thought: “I suppose that even if you found out who the fellow

was,” continued Tracey, “it wouldn’t do you much good. I don’t suppose

he’d ’fess up to it.”

“He’d have to if I knew him,” replied the other grimly. “Why, confound

it, Tracey, if Dobs thinks I’m lying he will――will――――” Harry choked.

Tracey nodded sympathetically.

“Pro,” he answered. “I know. Off goes your head! No more football.

It’s――it’s a shame, old man!”

“And Adams will tell his story and I won’t have a show at all,” mourned

Harry. “If――if he says I can’t play any more I won’t stay here, Tracey!

I――I’ll leave!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, chum. After all, you know, things like this

are likely to happen to a fellow occasionally. And as for football,

why, there’s another year coming, and――――”

“You make me tired! Another year coming! Just when I’ve beaten Dyker

out for my position, and the St. Matthew’s game comes to-morrow! No,

sir, if he says I can’t play to-morrow I’ll quit, Tracey! It isn’t

fair! I didn’t do anything and they’ve no right to punish me for

something I didn’t do! You――you just wait and see!”

“You’ll think differently later, I guess,” said Tracey sympathetically.

He put an arm through Harry’s. “Come on and have some breakfast. You’ll

feel better after that.”

“I don’t want any breakfast,” sighed Harry. But he allowed the other

to draw him to the door and down the stairs and across to the

dining-room. And afterward, had he thought about it, he would have had

to confess that Tracey’s prediction had been a true one. For he did

feel better, a whole lot better, and even began to look forward to

his visit to the office with more assurance. After all, he had done

nothing, and Dobs would just have to believe him!

But, sad to state, Dobs didn’t, although I really think he wanted to

and tried his best to. Circumstantial evidence was overwhelmingly

against Harry and Mr. Adams had told his side of the story convincingly.

Moreover, Harry’s desire to shield the real perpetrators led to

complications. He owned to having seen three boys at the instructor’s

window and the Principal wanted to know directly why he had not stated

that number to Mr. Adams last night. Harry had difficulty in explaining

that satisfactorily, and, while it was a small matter, it caused the

Principal to entertain doubts of Harry’s candidness. In the end the

Principal, regretfully, as even Harry could see, gave the only verdict

possible: Guilty! Harry was sentenced to a month’s probation, which

meant many hardships of which but one affected him seriously. Boys on

probation were not allowed to represent the school on any athletic team.

“I’m very sorry, Danforth,” said the Principal gently. “Let this be a

lesson to you, my boy. Take your punishment like a man, and play the

game! Remember that it is adversity that is the real test of us all!”

Harry made no audible reply, but walked out of the office mutinous

and defiant. He would not stay there a single hour longer, he told

himself hotly. Everyone was unjust and unfair. He hated the whole

school and everyone and everything connected with it! He would go back

to his room, pack his bag and leave immediately! But the next moment

recollection of the folks at home, of what they would think of his

conduct, came to him. His parents wouldn’t understand, of course. They

might even――yes, he greatly feared they’d insist on his coming back!

Plainly, home was not the place to go to if――if he did shake the dust

of Barnstead from his shoes. And if he didn’t go home where was he

to go? He had a little money, about eight dollars, but that wouldn’t

last long; in fact, when he stopped to think about it, it wouldn’t

much more than take him home! And home――Harry shook his head and

sighed――home didn’t look very good to him. He could imagine just the

way his father would frown and click his lips impatiently. Mr. Danforth

had never played football, had hardly, in fact, even seen a game, and

Harry was pretty certain that he would never understand the motives

prompting his son to give up a school career in the middle of the first

term! And besides, he had, he reflected, grown rather fond of the

school and――and some of the fellows. And, after all, Dobs wasn’t really

a bad sort; and Dobs had told him to “play the game.” Running away

wouldn’t be playing the game, and so――so――well, he guessed he’d stay!

The Principal rendered his verdict just before ten o’clock. By eleven,

so quickly does news circulate at school, it was very generally known

that young Danforth was on probation for something he had done to

offend Old Adams. School sentiment was divided. Some fellows condemned

Harry unheard for risking his place on the team and thereby putting

the morrow’s game in jeopardy. Others, and these were mostly fellows

who had at some time or other run foul of Mr. Adams in study hall,

declared that the instructor was always looking for trouble and that

it was a fair wager that whatever Danforth had done he did not deserve

the punishment meted out to him. But of course it was to Coach Worden

and Captain Corson that the tidings brought the most dismay. To lose a

first-string halfback on the very eve of the Big Game was a misfortune

to try their patience and fortitude. But as there was no help for

it Mr. Worden promptly drew a line through Danforth and wrote Dyker

after it. And presently, having discussed and mourned the loss of the

left half to its heart’s content, the school at large accepted the

situation, perked up and again set its gaze confidently on the morrow.

The mass meeting that night was the biggest and most enthusiastic of

any. Coach Worden addressed the fellows, as did Captain Corson and

several members of the faculty. Neither Harry nor Tracey attended.

Harry for the reason that probation confined him to his room after

supper, and Tracey because he didn’t want to leave his chum to moon

there alone. But I fancy that these two boys were the only absent ones

that evening, and they were probably not greatly missed. Certainly the

two hundred and odd occupants of the hall managed to make plenty of

noise without them! After they had cheered and sung to their heart’s

content indoors they piled downstairs and out on to the campus and

began all over again. Tracey went to the window and watched them massed

in front of School Hall, but Harry remained at the table where, for

an hour past, he had been making a weak pretense of studying. It had

not been a very cheerful evening for Tracey, for Harry was far too

downhearted to be good company and conversation had languished early.

“There goes Mr. Warren after them,” announced Tracey with a chuckle.

“He will break that up quick time.”

“Hope he does,” grunted Harry. “How’s a fellow going to study with that

beastly noise going on?”

Tracey’s prediction proved correct. The cheers died suddenly away at

the instructor’s advent across the yard and the crowd broke into small

fragments and dissolved quietly. Yet not altogether quietly, either.

For presently, from the upper end of the campus, came one shrill and

defiant cheer:

“_Rah, rah, rah! Warren!_”