TOM’S TEMPTATION
“Are you really going to sell it, Frank?”
“Is this a fake?”
“What’s the upset price?”
“Honor bright, now! It isn’t a joke; is it?”
These were only a few of the questions that were put to the Big
Californian, as a crowd of boys filed into the gymnasium the next day
after the auction notice had been posted.
“Oh, it’s straight all right,” answered Frank. “The davenport, which
is as new as heart could wish, will be sold to the highest bidder.
We--er--that is I--bought it by mistake. We didn’t need it. Our old sofa
has been fixed up.”
“Oh, but I say Frank,” expostulated Tom, when he got a chance to speak
to his chum privately. “You could send this back to the store, and get
nearly all you paid for it. You won’t get half what it’s worth, at
auction.”
“I don’t give a hang. I’m going to sell it this way. It will be fun.
Besides, whatever is realized is going into the athletic fund, anyhow.
That’ll make bidding higher.”
“Maybe it will. But say, you must have struck it rich to blow in all
that cash.”
“Oh, not so much. I got the davenport at a bargain, anyhow, and I
thought it would be just the thing for our room. But I can see, now,
that it isn’t. Say, there’s a good crowd coming, all right.”
“There sure is. Have you got it here.”
“Yes, I saw Prexy, and explained how it was. He said I could auction it
off. Proc. Zane put up a stiff kick, though, but Moses overruled him,
and it’s going on. I guess the janitor has the old shebang on hand.”
“Yes, there it is,” answered Tom, as he and his friend entered the
gymnasium, and caught sight of the new davenport, supported on two
leathered-covered “horses.”
The crowd, laughing, talking, chaffing each other and the inseparables,
filed into the big room, until it scarce could hold any more. Frank took
his place in front of the piece of furniture, and soon the bidding was
under way.
It began low, but was spirited enough. Sid, Tom and Phil refrained from
raising the bids, but there was no lack of others. By small advances the
price crept up to seven dollars. There it hung for a while.
“Seven-fifty!” sung out Shambler.
“Seventy-five!” came from Joe Jackson.
“Eighty,” put in another voice, and Phil whispered to Tom:
“The Jersey twins are bidding against each other, and they don’t know
it. This is rich! Frank will get more than he paid if this keeps on!”
The bidding became more spirited, being confined chiefly to Shambler,
and the two twins, the latter, being in separate parts of the big
auditorium, not knowing that they were whip-sawing one another.
Finally, when the price reached fourteen dollars and thirty-five cents,
the davenport was knocked down to Shambler, who ordered the piece of
furniture taken to his room.
“It will do to stretch out on when I come in from a run,” he remarked to
some of his intimate friends. And, though Tom had no special interest in
what became of Frank’s “surprise,” as it had been dubbed, still the
pitcher felt himself wishing that someone else besides Shambler had
secured it.
The new student seemed to feel that the purchasing of the davenport from
one of the inseparables entitled him to a closer acquaintanceship with
them. For, a few days after the auction, he called at their room, and
made himself rather at home.
“Cosy place you’ve got here,” he remarked, blowing cigarette smoke about
in clouds. “Quite a collection of antiques.”
“Yes, we like old things best,” remarked Tom significantly, wondering
whether the lines about “old books, and old friends,” would recur to
Shambler. But it did not seem to.
“Well, it won’t be long before we have the Spring games,” went on the
visitor. “I’ll be glad of it, too, for I’m training hard, too hard, I
guess. I’m going to have a little recreation to-night. Some friends and
I are going in to town. Don’t some of you want to come along?”
None of the inseparables accepted the invitation.
“I’m taking chances, too,” went on Shambler. “I’ve been caught two or
three times, lately, and Zane warned me that the next time would mean
suspension. But I’ll chance it. A fellow has to have some fun. Any of
you smoke?” and he extended his box of cigarettes.
“It’s bad--when you’re in training,” remarked Phil. “Count us out.”
“You, too, Parsons?” asked Shambler. “Say, by the way,” he went on, “I
met a friend of yours the other night. Miss Tyler, of Fairview. At least
she said she knew you. Fine girl.”
“Yes,” half growled Tom, the blood flushing his face. “I’m going to see
if there’s any mail,” he added quickly, as he left the room.
“Anything wrong?” asked Shambler of the others. “Have I been poaching on
his preserves?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” replied Phil, with significant glances at his
chums.
“Not much!” exclaimed the visitor. “I have a notion he has a hasty
temper. But aren’t any of you coming to town for a lark?”
No one was, evidently, and Shambler soon took his leave. It was some
time before Tom returned, and he had no letters. His chums did not bring
up the subject of his going out.
Tom, in preparation for the examinations, had permission that night to
spend some time in the rooms of a senior who had volunteered to coach
him on some points wherein our hero was a bit behind in his class. The
senior’s room was in another dormitory from where Tom and his chums
roomed, being across the campus.
It was after midnight when the tall pitcher was on his way back to his
own particular part of the college, and, as he was about to open the
dormitory main door, with a pass key with which he had been provided, a
dark figure hurried up the steps from the shadow of a statue on the
campus, and stood at his side.
“I say!” came in a cautious whisper. “Let me in with you, will you? I
overstayed in town, and I don’t want to be caught.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, wondering for a moment who was speaking, and then
he recognized Shambler’s voice.
“It’s Parsons!” whispered the new student, evidently much relieved. “I’m
in luck! I’ve been waiting here half an hour hoping Zane’s light would
go out, and that I could bribe one of the janitors, or a monitor, to let
me in. But the old Proc. is staying up infernally late. But it’s all
right now. You have a key; haven’t you.”
“Yes,” answered Tom shortly, as he inserted it in the lock.
“Talk about luck!” exulted Shambler, as he slipped in ahead of Tom, who
stood back to let him pass in first. “It’s great, isn’t it?”
Tom did not answer. A wave of revulsion against this lad seemed to sweep
over him, and he recalled a certain day in the woods when he had seen
the fellow with Madge Tyler.
Shambler, not seeming to notice the grouchiness of his companion, passed
hurriedly along the dark corridor toward his room. Tom walked more
slowly, having made sure that the door was locked after him. He had not
gone half a dozen steps, before the door of the proctor’s office opened,
and Mr. Zane stepped out.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Parsons,” replied our hero. “I had permission. I was studying with
Morrison.”
“Oh, yes, I recollect. Who came in with you, Parsons?”
“In with me?” repeated Tom, for he had hoped that this question would
not be asked.
“Yes, I heard the footsteps of two, and you were the only one in this
dormitory who had permission to be out to-night. Who came in with you?”
“I--er--that is--I don’t wish to tell, Mr. Zane.”
“I demand to know,” said the proctor sternly. “You let someone in; did
you not?”
“Yes, sir, but----”
“And you won’t tell who it was?”
Tom hesitated for a moment, but it was only a moment. There came an
instant of temptation. He recalled what Shambler had said about the
probability of suspension if he was caught again.
“And it would be a good thing if he did go,” thought Tom bitterly. “Good
for Randall--good. But then the games! We need him!”
Then he knew that it was a selfish motive that was urging him to take
advantage of the chance thrown in his way.
“No! No! I--I can’t do it!” he cried within himself.
“Well,” asked the proctor sharply.
“I--I can’t tell you,” answered Tom simply.
“You mean you won’t?”
“If you prefer to put it that way--yes, sir.”
“Very well. I will see you in the morning,” and, turning on his heel,
the proctor went back into his office.