STILL SILENT.
Osgood and Shultz arrived at the academy barely in time to escape tardy
marks. As they slid into their seats neither of them glanced toward
Piper, who had an eye turned upon them, and at intermission both seemed
anxious to keep away from him. Watching them, he saw Ned, seeking to
avoid general attention, pass a few low, hasty words with both Springer
and Cooper.
“That won’t do you a bit of good,” thought the determined boy. “If you
get the whole of the rest of the bunch to stick by you, I’ll give them
fair warning and speak up myself.”
Shultz evidently took pains not to be seen with any of the fellows who
had participated in the card game, but never for a moment during that
intermission did he give Piper an opportunity to address him when other
scholars were not close by. Fully aware that the fellow would refuse to
step aside with him, Piper made the request of Osgood.
“Well, you’ve had time,” said Billy, as they paused beneath one of the
trees near the academy. “What have you done? What are you going to do?”
“It will be all right,” assured Osgood suavely, “only just don’t push
the thing too hard; for if you do, Shultz may balk, and that would put
us all in a hole. You’ve got to think of some one besides yourself,
Piper.”
“I am; I’m thinking of Hooker.”
“I tell you it will be all right,” reiterated Ned. “Just give us a
little more time. Don’t do anything foolish.”
The bell struck, recalling them to the building, and, far from
satisfied, Billy returned to fix his mind as best he could upon his
studies.
Before dismissing school for the day, Professor Richardson stood beside
his desk and again pushed his spectacles upward on his forehead. His
thin cheeks were unnaturally flushed, and his voice had changed from
huskiness to a croaking sound, which seemed to indicate that the cold
had gripped him at his throat. Silence fell upon the room, for every one
seemed to know the topic upon which the principal was about to speak,
and more than one boy felt a shiver run through him.
“I regret,” began the professor, “that my talk of this morning had so
little effect. I’ve waited, vainly hoping that some one might come to me
with the truth concerning Roy Hooker. At noon I again saw Dr. Grindle,
and I’m glad to say that what he told me was almost an assurance that
Roy would fully recover, and that very soon. The unfortunate boy was
able to talk a little this forenoon, and although no one urged him, he
said enough to give an inkling of the cause of his trouble.”
For a moment he paused, his eyes seeming to rove from face to face
before him, and the shivering ones found it most difficult to meet his
look and appear interested without betraying guilt. How much had Hooker
told? That was the question that made every pulse throb, even while
their blood seemed to run chill.
“I spoke this morning of evil influences and bad associates,” continued
the principal. “There’s no need to repeat what I said. From Hooker’s
rambling words, it has become apparent that upon Saturday night he was
engaged in a game of cards—for money. In short, he was gambling. Where
and with whom, he did not state, and it was not thought best to worry
him in his present condition with too many questions. Of course he was
gaming with his usual companions, his so-called friends. That means
almost to a certainty that some who are now listening to my words were
with him. I will repeat my assertion that the names of his companions
must assuredly become known.
“What happened to him in that game may readily be surmised. There was a
quarrel. There were blows, and he was dreadfully injured. It will be a
merciful thing if his reason is not permanently affected. The actual
cause of the quarrel is yet a matter of surmisal, but whoever enters
into a gambling game invites disaster. Greed and triumph fills the heart
of the winner; bitterness and resentment fixes its hold upon the loser.
Suspicion is aroused. At the slightest happening which seems to confirm
suspicion there is an arousal of bad blood and a quarrel. We have here
an example of how serious such a quarrel may be, and it should be a
lesson to all of you—a lesson to be remembered always. It should teach
you to shun gambling as you would shun a contagious disease. It is a
disease that undermines the moral fiber and manhood of any one it
touches. Having been contaminated, there is only one remedy, one
cure:—good resolutions, the determination to shun this evil thing in
future, and the will-power to hold fast to that determination.
“A person who makes up his mind to do right in the future, and is
sincere about it, seldom hesitates to admit his errors or mistakes of
the past. There are always willing hands to help one who thus proves his
sincere change of heart. I hope before it is too late I may yet receive
the evidence that some of you are sincerely repentant and sincerely
determined henceforth to avoid such mistakes. You are dismissed.”
The old man puttered around, gathering up his books and papers and
locking his desk. When he was ready to leave he found himself alone in
the big room.
“Ah, well!” he muttered; “it’s hard for them. I’m afraid I haven’t
sufficient influence. I’m afraid I failed to make my words convincing.”
Outside, the members of the ball team had turned toward the nearby field
for practice, but they were not talking of baseball. The knowledge that
Roy Hooker had been engaged in a card game for money caused their
tongues to wag vigorously. Speculation was rife as to where the game had
taken place and who had been concerned in it. Several of them, while
pretending ignorance, knew very well indeed, and at least one who was
not in the secret was inclined to believe he could make a good guess at
the truth.
Jack Nelson had not forgotten that Roy Hooker was one of the trio in
Hyde’s livery stable, after the return from Wyndham, to whom Ned Osgood
had said that he would see them later. But, having nothing further on
which to base his surmisal, and never dreaming how much Billy Piper
knew, Nelson refrained from hints or accusations. Perhaps in this he was
supported by the belief that, taking into consideration the benching of
Osgood in Saturday’s game, it might seem that he had a pronounced animus
against the fellow were he to suggest that Ned knew more than he was
disposed to tell.
“As Prof said,” thought Nelson, “it’s bound to come out, and I won’t
make any blunder if I keep my mouth shut.”
One thing he did not understand was why Piper, knowing certain fellows
met regularly Saturday evenings in Osgood’s rooms, seemed to show so
little interest in the matter. It was wholly unlike Billy, who
heretofore had displayed the most eager disposition to probe anything
which bore on its face the tag of mystery. Even Piper’s protestation
that he was done with such things and would play the detective no more
did not seem to be an adequate excuse for his apathy.
“It’s all mighty queer,” decided Jack, as, taking little part in the
talk of the boys around him, he got into his uniform in the gymnasium.
“Osgood doesn’t seem at all worried, but his friend Shultz is altogether
too gay to be natural. It’s not like him. Well, if they’re concerned,
they’re in deep, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the nine lost a couple
of good players.”