MR. DALEY IS OUT
The reason for Steve's ill-temper was the receipt that morning of a
letter from his father. Mr. Edwards wrote that he had just been informed
by the principal that Steve's work was far from satisfactory. "He tells
me," wrote Mr. Edwards, "that your general attitude toward your studies
is careless and that in Latin especially you are not keeping up with
your class. Now I can't be worried by this sort of thing. I give you
fair warning that if you don't mend your ways you'll be taken out of
school and put to work here in the office, and there won't be any more
talk about college. If Mr. Fernald had said you were not able to do the
work, that would be another thing, but he distinctly accuses you of not
trying and not caring. I suppose the whole amount of the matter is that
you're paying too much attention to football. If I get another complaint
about you this year I shall write Mr. Fernald to forbid you to play
football or any other game until you show that you mean business. If
that doesn't bring you around I shall take you out of school. Fair
warning, Steve."
Steve knew his father well enough to be certain that he would do just as
he threatened, and the future looked particularly dark to him that day.
Of course, if he had plenty of time he could master his Latin--and his
Greek, which was troubling him less but was by no means a favourite
course--as well as any other study, he told himself. But there was so
much to be done! And try as he might, he could never seem to find time
enough for study. If he gave up football it would, perhaps, be easy
enough, but, he asked himself bitterly, what was the good of going to
school and doing nothing but study? What was the good of knowing how to
play football if he wasn't to have a chance to use his knowledge? It was
all the fault of the faculty. It tried to get too much work out of the
fellows in too short a time. But these reflections didn't help his case
any. It was up to him to make good with Latin. Otherwise his father
would write to Josh, as he threatened, and there'd be no more football.
If he could get through the next month, by which time the football
season would be at an end, it would be all right. After that he could
give more time to lessons. He might, too, he told himself, give up those
swimming lessons. But they came at an hour when it was terribly hard to
get a fellow's mind down to study. And, besides, he enjoyed those
lessons. The only thing to do was to stay at home in the evenings and
keep his nose in his books. Tom didn't have much trouble, he reflected,
and why should he? Sometimes he got thoroughly angry with Tom for the
ease with which that youth mastered lessons!
To make matters worse, just at that time, there was due the last of the
week an original composition in French, designed by Mr. Daley as a test
for the class. French did not bother Steve much, although this was
partly due to the fact that Mr. Daley had been very lenient with him,
knowing that he was having trouble in the classical courses. But writing
an original composition in French was a feat that filled Steve with
dismay. What the dickens was he to write about? Mr. Daley had announced
that the composition must contain not less than twelve hundred words.
That approximated six pages in a blue-book. Steve sighed, frowned, shook
his head and finally shrugged his shoulders. After all, there was no use
worrying about that yet. There still remained three days for the
composition, and the most important thing now was to make a showing in
Latin. French could wait. If he didn't find time for the
composition--well, Mr. Daley was easy! He'd get by somehow!
So Steve pegged away hard at his Latin for several days and made a very
good showing, and Mr. Simkins, who had been contemplating harsh
measures, took heart and hoped that further reports to the principal
would be unnecessary. But what with Latin and Greek and mathematics and
history and English, that French composition was still unwritten when
Thursday evening arrived. It had been a hard day on the gridiron and
Steve was pretty well fagged out when study hour came. He had told
himself for several days that at the last moment he would buckle down
and do that composition, but to-night, with a hard lesson in geometry
staring him in the face, the thing looked impossible. Across the study
table, Tom was diligently digging into Greek, his French composition
already finished and ready to be handed in on the morrow. Steve looked
over at him enviously and sighed. He hadn't an idea in his head for that
composition! After a while, when he had spoiled two good sheets of paper
with meaningless scrawls, he pushed back his chair. There was just one
course open. He would go down and tell Mr. Daley that he couldn't do it!
After all, "Horace" was a pretty reasonable sort of chap and would
probably give him another day or two. In any case, it was impossible to
do the thing to-night. He glanced at his watch and found that the time
was ten minutes to eight. Tom looked up inquiringly as Steve's chair
went back.
"I'm going down to see 'Horace,'" said Steve. "I can't do that French
composition, and I'm going to tell him so. If he doesn't like it, he may
do the other thing."
Tom made no reply, but he watched his chum thoughtfully until the door
had closed behind him. Then he dug frowningly for a moment with the nib
of a pen in the blotter and finally shook his head and went back to his
book.
When Steve was half-way between the stairwell and Mr. Daley's door, the
latter opened and Eric Sawyer came out. Steve was in no mood to-night to
pick a quarrel and he passed the older fellow with averted eyes, dimly
aware of the scowl that greeted him. When he knocked at the instructor's
door there was no reply and, after a moment, Steve turned the knob and
entered. At the outer door Eric had paused and looked back.
Mr. Daley's study was lighted but empty. Satisfying himself on the
latter point, Steve turned to go out. Then, reflecting that, since the
instructor had left the lights on, he was probably coming right back, he
decided to await him. He seated himself in a chair near the big
green-topped table. Almost under his hand lay a blue-book, and in idle
curiosity Steve leaned forward and looked at it. On the white label in
the upper left-hand corner he read: "French IV. Carl W. Upton. Original
composition." Steve viewed that blue-book frowningly, envying Upton
deeply. Upton, whom he knew by sight, was the sort of fellow who always
had his lessons and who was forever being held up by the instructor to
the rest of the course as a shining example of diligence. He roomed on
the floor above Steve. It was, Steve reflected, just like Upton to get
his composition done and hand it in in advance of the others. He
wondered what sort of stuff Upton had written, and lifted the blue-book
from the table.
"En Revanche!" he read as he turned to the first page. His lip curled.
That was a silly title. He dipped into the story. It was something about
a French soldier accused of cowardice by an officer. Steve, puzzling
through the first page, grudgingly acknowledged that Upton had written
pretty good stuff. But his interest soon waned, for some of the words
were beyond him, and he idly tossed the book back on the table. He
wished, though, that that was his composition and not Upton's. He
wondered if Mr. Daley had seen it. Somehow the position of the book, in
the geometrical centre of the big writing-pad, suggested that Upton had
found the instructor out and had left the book. If he had that book
upstairs it wouldn't be hard to copy the composition out in his own
hand-writing. It would be a whole lot like stealing, but----
Steve looked fascinatedly at the book for a minute. Then his hand went
out and he was once more turning the pages of neat, close writing. Of
course, he wouldn't really do a thing like that, but--well, it would
solve a mighty big problem! And what a hole that self-sufficient Upton
would be in! He couldn't prove that he had left the book in Mr. Daley's
study, at least not unless the instructor had seen it there; and somehow
Steve was pretty sure he hadn't. Of course a decent chap wouldn't do a
trick like that, only--well, it would certainly be easy enough!
Upstairs, Tom was still deep in his Greek, but he looked up as Steve
came in. "Find him?" he asked.
Steve shook his head. "No, he was out. I--I'll go down again." Instead
of reseating himself at the table, he fidgetted aimlessly about the
room, looked out the window, sat down on the seat, got up again, went to
the closet, returned to the table and stood looking down on Tom with a
frown. Tom closed his book with a sigh of relief and met his chum's
gaze.
"Going to tackle that composition now?" he asked encouragingly.
"I guess so," answered Steve carelessly. "Are you through?"
"Yes. I think I'll run over to Harry's a minute. I suppose you won't
come."
"Not likely, with this pesky thing to do." Steve sank into his chair,
picked up a pencil and drummed irritably on the table. "Maybe, though,"
he went on after a moment, "I'll get up early and do it. I don't feel
much like it to-night."
"Just the same," returned Tom as he picked up his cap, "I'd do it
to-night if I were you and get it over with."
"Oh, if you were me you'd had it done a week ago Tuesday," replied Steve
with vast sarcasm. "I guess I'll go along."
"How about your math?" asked Tom doubtfully.
Steve shrugged. "I'll get by," he answered. "Anyway, I don't intend to
stay cooped up here all the evening. I'll have a go at it when I get
back, maybe."
"We-ell." Tom looked as though he wanted to advise against that course,
but he didn't. Instead, "Do you mind waiting for me a minute?" he asked.
"I want to run down and ask Mr. Daley about something, if he's back. Do
you want to see him if he's there? I'll whistle up to you if you like."
Steve shook his head indifferently. "I'll see him when we come back," he
answered. "Hurry up."
Tom was back in two or three minutes. "Still out," he announced as he
put back on the table the French book he had taken with him. "He's
getting a bit dissipated, I'm afraid, staying out after eight!"
"There's a faculty meeting to-night, I think," responded Steve. "Are you
ready?"
He found his cap and followed Tom. In the corridor the latter glanced
back. "Better turn out the light," he said. "They've been after the
fellows lately about leaving it burning."
Grumblingly Steve stepped back and snapped the switch. "Who's monitor
here, anyhow?" he asked.
"Upton," answered Tom. "And they say he's right on his job, too."
"He would be," growled the other. "He's a regular teacher's pet." As
they went down the stairs Steve said: "I came across Eric Sawyer in the
hall when I went down to find 'Horace'."
"Really?" asked Tom. "Did he--say anything?"
"No. I didn't want any trouble with him to-night and so I made believe I
didn't see him."
"That's the stuff," Tom approved. "I guess if we leave him alone he
won't bother us."
"I'm likely to bother him before I get through with him," replied Steve
darkly as they left the building. "He can't shove me around as he did
and get away with it!"
"Oh, come, Steve!" expostulated Tom patiently. "You know very well you
shoved him first. What's the use of being sore about that?"
"He bumped into me," denied Steve. "I didn't shove."
"Well, you gave a mighty good imitation of it," replied Tom drily.
"Seems to me it was about an even thing, and I'd forget it, Steve."
"Maybe you would," muttered Steve, "but I don't intend to."