THE INCRIMINATING LETTER.
At the next street corner Rod hesitated a moment; then, instead of
continuing toward his aunt’s house, he turned his steps in the opposite
direction and soon arrived at the home of Spotty Davis. He saw and
talked with Mr. Davis, who was over from the lower mill for the midday
meal.
“My boy?” said Davis. “Oh, he’s gone to Belford.”
“Gone?” exclaimed Rod, surprised.
“Yes,” nodded the man; “I let him have the fare, and he took the
mornin’ train.”
“When will he come back?”
“Dunno; mebbe he won’t come back. You see, he’s got some relatives over
there, and his cousin Jim said he could git him a job in a machine
shop. He ain’t never been much struck on work, but all of a sudden last
night he took a notion he’d like to try it, and he wouldn’t let up on
me till I give my consent. I guess mebbe ’twill do him good. He got
into some kind of a fuss with the perfesser at the academy and was sent
home. I cal’late he’s got about eddication enough, anyhow, for he never
was no hand to study.”
“Belford,” muttered Grant. “How far is that?”
“Oh, ’bout sixty mile or so. Why, what’s the matter?”
“I would like to see Spotty and have a talk with him.”
“Ho! Well, that would be a master long distance to travel jest for a
talk.”
“Spotty was sick yesterday morning when I called. He must have
recovered right suddenly.”
“Oh, I guess he wa’n’t very sick; he jest wanted to lay in bed, that
was all. I hope he’ll fall into good company in Belford, for the
fellers he’s took up with ’round here ain’t done him no good.”
Rod shrugged his shoulders with a wry smile, bade the man good day, and
turned away. So Spotty had left town suddenly and unexpectedly; this
act seemed to confirm Grant in his suspicions regarding the fellow.
“He stole two dollars of my money,” muttered Rod, as he walked
homeward, “and he stole my silk handkerchief also. It was Spotty who
shot Barker’s dog, and either he lost the handkerchief afterward or
became frightened and left it hanging on a bush in order to turn
suspicion from himself. I sure hate to think that last, even of Spotty;
but somehow I can’t help it, knowing he would reason it out that the
condition of affairs between Barker and myself and the possible finding
of the handkerchief would make it seem a sure thing that I did the
shooting.”
Neither Barker nor Grant appeared at school that afternoon, Berlin
remaining away because of his intense chagrin and shame, and Rod
feeling himself too disturbed to study or appear in recitations. The
boy from Texas knew his motives might be misconstrued, but he smiled
grimly over the thought that any one should fancy that fear had
anything to do with them.
School had closed for the day less than half an hour when Grant,
chancing to look out, saw the sturdy figure of Ben Stone hurrying up
the path toward Miss Kent’s house. The young Texan met Ben at the door.
“Come in,” he invited, and the invitation was readily accepted.
“You didn’t show up at the academy this afternoon,” said Ben when they
were in Grant’s room.
“No; I had a reason for staying away, but you can reckon on it that
I’ll be there to-morrow.”
“Something happened,” said Stone—“something I want to tell you about.”
“Go ahead; I’m listening.”
“Of course the fellows had lots to say about the way you did Barker up,
but I didn’t come to talk about that.”
“For which I’m plenty thankful.”
“Something happened that gave a setback to the fellows who thought it
was you that squealed about that hazing. Cooper, who is usually up to
something, brought two live mice in a trap. Prof. Richardson is as
scared of mice as any woman could be, and Chipper wanted to put them
into the professor’s desk. Piper, who always seems to have a key to fit
anything, had one that would unlock the desk. You know how Sleuth
prides himself on his keen and searching eyes. Well, in the desk he
discovered a letter that had been sent to the professor, and he
recognized the handwriting on it. Of course he didn’t have any right to
look at it, but he did just the same—he read it and kept it, too, to
show to the fellows. It stirred up something sure enough, for it told
all about that hazing and the breaking of the professor’s skeleton,
giving the names of every fellow who took part in that piece of
business. The writer of that letter reminded the professor of his
promise to protect any one who should tell him the truth.”
“What a sneaking piece of business to do!” exclaimed Rod.
“It certainly was,” nodded Ben, “and I’ll guarantee Prof. Richardson
regarded it in that light. Perhaps that’s one reason why he declined to
pull all those fellows over the coals. You see, he’d been forced to
jump on some that he plainly regards as his best scholars, and, as long
as you made no complaint, he let it pass by handing out that lecture
about hazing.”
“Which,” said Rod, “was sure enough straight dope. This hazing
business, when it’s carried too far, as it is right often, certainly is
all to the bad—as I have good reasons to know.”
“You haven’t asked who wrote that letter,” reminded Ben.
“I’m not right sure I want to know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I never could regard the squealer with an atom of respect. I
don’t quite understand why he wrote it, either.”
“You know the professor threatened to probe into the matter and do his
best to find out and punish the guilty parties.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I suppose the fellow who blowed was afraid some one else would
do the same thing, and simply tried to make himself immune from
punishment.”
“Likely that’s right.”
“Don’t you want to know who it was? It isn’t probable you can help
finding out, for all the fellows know now, and some of them have told
the sneak a few things.”
“I don’t opine,” laughed Rod, “they’ll break their necks hurrying to
tell me.”
“Oh, there’s been a decided change of opinion about you. If it wasn’t
for that dog-shooting affair, I believe you’d be surprised to find a
great many chaps ready to become friendly.”
“What do you think about that dog shooting, Stone?”
“I’m dead sure you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Thanks. But of late even you have apparently been influenced by the
rising tide of popular prejudice against one Rodney Grant.”
“No,” denied Ben—“no, indeed; but of late you have held yourself away
from everybody. Why, you scarcely spoke to me when we met.”
“Being plenty unpopular,” said Rod, “I allowed I wouldn’t involve you.
I was independent enough to believe I could paddle my own canoe. I’ve
observed that about nine times out of ten things work themselves out if
you let them alone. I’ll guarantee the truth concerning the shooting of
Barker’s hound will be known in time.”
“I hope so, Rod, as that would come pretty near putting you fully and
squarely right in Oakdale. Hunk Rollins’ letter has——”
“So it was Rollins,” said Rodney quietly. “Well, I can’t say that I’m
surprised.”
“Yes, it was Rollins,” answered Stone, “and he’s certainly queered
himself with everybody. He knows what the fellows think of him now, for
nearly all of them have taken pains to tell him.”
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