AN IMPERTINENT PETITION.
Brightly was speechless.
He looked from one to the other of the persons present in unfeigned
astonishment. Beginning to recover his presence of mind, he took up the
papers and examined them. Surely enough, there was the erasure, and
there the substitution. The work had not been neatly done, either. The
original figures were still discernible.
He laid down the lists, more perplexed than ever. He was sure he had
not made the alterations himself, and he could not understand why any
one else should have made them,--especially why they should have been
made in his favor. Glancing around again on the occupants of the room,
he noticed that Colonel Silsbee and Finkelton were looking steadfastly
at him, but that Brede sat with his eyes turned away.
In the next moment the explanation was suggested to Brightly’s mind.
He knew that Brede had handled the reports that day; he knew that
Brede would go any length to injure him. The plot, its conception, its
object, its fulfilment, were as plain to him now as sunlight.
A sudden hatred flared up in his heart against the author of so
cowardly a scheme,--such a hatred as impels the hand of the assassin.
Hot words came to his lips; an indignant denial was on his tongue, a
passionate charging of malice and crime against his implacable enemy.
But in the midst of his wrath he took counsel of his judgment, and
checked the utterance. What would Brede care for his anger or his
arraignment? He would have anticipated that. He would only curl his
lips more scornfully than usual, and invite proof of the accusation.
That would not do.
Suddenly a new thought flashed into Brightly’s mind. It was the
conception of a scheme completely to checkmate his enemy,--a scheme
so bold and novel and unprincipled that it swept conscience like a
feather before it, and impetuously floated its lie to the lad’s lips.
For one moment he hesitated; then he placed his finger on the altered
list, and said: “These figures are correct. That is my true standing.”
[Illustration: “THESE FIGURES ARE CORRECT. THAT IS MY TRUE STANDING.”]
Brede turned in his chair and started to his feet, gazing upon the
speaker incredulously. The lie was so unexpected, so deliberate, so
audacious, that it staggered him.
“Why!” he exclaimed impulsively, “I--” Another word would have betrayed
him hopelessly. He saw his mistake in time, checked himself, and
dropped into his chair in red-faced confusion.
Colonel Silsbee waved his hand toward the door.
“That is all, Brightly,” he said. “The figures will stand as they are.
You are excused.”
Brightly bowed, left the office, and returned to his place in
the schoolroom. A few minutes later Brede came out also. His
countenance had greatly changed. Instead of the scornful smile of
self-satisfaction, his face bore marks of humiliation and of bitter
disappointment. He shot one angry glance at the enemy who had outwitted
him, and passed to his seat. But his books were nothing to him; he had
been baffled, crushed, out-Heroded. He smarted and writhed with a sense
of ignominious defeat.
The night passed and the morning came, and the days went by; but this
feeling remained with him,--he could not shake it off.
To know that his intended victim had been guilty of an offence so
enormous that its mere disclosure would bring down upon the offender
punishment and permanent disgrace, and yet to be powerless, to see
this unblushing liar go scot-free from the penalty of a crime which he
did not dare to bring to light, hurt him, galled him, exasperated him
almost beyond endurance.
It made him careless at drill, neglectful of his studies, violent in
temper. He spoke lightly of rules; he sought the society of boisterous
fellows; he fraternized with the ruder and disorderly element. His
demoralization was so marked and rapid that it became the talk of the
school.
He never spoke to Brightly; he tried to ignore him; but whenever these
two met in those days, whether in the drill-hall, the classroom, or the
corridor, each felt that the other knew to a certainty the guilt of
both.
And Brede, measuring his enemy’s feeling by his own, had no conception
of the true state of Brightly’s mind.
Had he known what this young fellow suffered, he might have asked no
greater revenge. The lie was scarcely cold on the lad’s lips before he
regretted having spoken it. Within ten minutes from the time he uttered
it he would have given much to be able to recall it; but that was
clearly impossible. He felt that it would only make the matter so much
the worse.
His exultation at Brede’s discomfiture was short-lived. After that
night it never gave him a moment’s pleasure. He sought to drown the
memory of it in idle thought, in boisterous fun, in hot discussion with
his fellows; but all expedients were vain. It was a veritable Banquo’s
ghost. He lost strength, hope, courage, ambition. Before the utterance
of that fatal falsehood he had not thought but that he should soon
regain his office, his honor, and his old position in the school. Now
he did not even wish to do so.
But of Brede he had scarcely a thought now, except the occasional
flashing up of that old hatred and disgust in his heart. They were
little more to each other than strangers.
Once they met and exchanged words. It was in the drill-hall, while
they were waiting for supper. There was a small boy at the school who
was called by his companions “Apache,” or, more briefly, “Patchy.” He
had come there from an army post in the far West, where his father,
a government officer, was stationed; and it had pleased his fellows
to pretend that they supposed him to belong to the Apache tribe of
Indians.
Brede was annoying this boy, who liked play well enough so long as it
was not too boisterous, but who felt that he was being handled a little
too roughly now, and who called, still half in fun, to Brightly, who
was passing at the time, to come to his aid.
Brede had not intended to hurt the lad, and would not have done so;
but this appeal to his enemy angered him, and he gave the child’s arm
a twist that caused the little fellow to cry out with a pain not now
assumed.
Brightly had stopped for a moment, uncertain whether to respond; but
when the cry came, he advanced a step toward the two, and said to
Brede, “Let the boy alone.”
The captain loosed his hold of Patchy, who immediately made his escape,
and thrusting his hands in his pockets, stared for a moment in feigned
contempt at his adversary.
“I don’t take orders from disgraced officers!” he said.
Brightly answered, trying to be calm, “A person who has been guilty of
forging records shouldn’t talk to others about disgrace.”
Brede’s face grew white with passion. “Nor do I take advice from common
and contemptible liars,” he responded scornfully.
It is uncertain what would have been said or done next, had not Harple
seized Brightly’s arm and hurried him away. He had chanced to notice
the two boys in conversation, had hurried across the hall in time to
hear the last words, and, acting on the urgent necessity of the moment,
now rescued his friend from further trouble by removing him from the
scene.
Harple had made it his business during these days to be with or near
his chum as much as possible. He felt somehow that Brightly was no
longer responsible for his own conduct, and that some one should be on
hand to keep him from bringing further disgrace upon himself. In this
case, at least, his vigilance had been amply rewarded. He shuddered to
think what the result would have been if the quarrel with Brede had
gone on.
But Harple suffered much by reason of his anxiety for his friend. It
pained him deeply to see Brightly sinking into such a deplorable state;
he was beginning to feel that he was powerless to save him. He had
exhausted his powers of logic, of entreaty, even of abuse. He could do
nothing now except to stand by and extend such aid and comfort as he
might. Brightly was still as friendly with him and apparently as fond
of him as of old; but he would not listen to reproof or advice.
Harple watched with alarm the demoralization also of Brede. He felt
and knew that there were strong and co-operating influences at work on
these two long-time rivals and enemies that were dragging them both,
surely and rapidly, to degradation; but what these influences were he
could not even guess.
Almost every movement made by either was an act of retrogression.
Perhaps the change was more marked in respect to the society they
chose than in any other way. Boys with whom Brightly had had nothing
in common in the better days, and whom Brede had utterly disdained,
appeared now to be the friends of both.
Colonel Silsbee’s hope that the deepening spring-time would put to
rest the spirit of unquietness and discontent among his boys was not
realized. There was neglect of lessons; there were breaches of military
discipline, infractions of academy rules, private quarrels, boisterous
conduct.
A half-dozen of the older boys had been discovered one day in a
secluded nook smoking cigars and pipes, and had been promptly
disciplined. There had been an incipient riot in the upper dormitory
at night after taps, the participants in which had been severely
punished. Half the school was on delinquency, and of half that number
the delinquency was perpetual.
The principal and teachers were quite at a loss what course to pursue.
One thing only seemed feasible, and that was to draw the lines with
still greater strictness, and to compel the utmost obedience by the
severest discipline.
Thus matters stood at the close of a beautiful May day. It was one of
those languid, luxuriant days on which every lover of Nature longs to
be in the woods and fields, breathing without stint air sweetened by
the touch of bursting buds and growing leaves and springing grass.
It was after supper and before the time for the evening session. The
boys were strolling about the grounds, playing quiet games, or lounging
on the lawn. A group of them, however, had gathered near the eastern
porch of the building, and were shouting and singing boisterously. Some
one had composed a few doggerel verses containing little of either
rhyme or metre, and had entitled them “The Noble Army of Delinquents.”
It was the chorus of this song that the members of the little group
were shouting out with rude vigor. They tired of this finally, and then
one, Fryant, spoke up.
“What we want and need, fellows,” he said, “is a holiday. It’s a shame
for Old Sil to put us on delinquency and keep us shut up here such a
day as this.”
“True enough!” responded Belcher. “Last year we had a holiday long
before this time. The old man’s trying to spite us because we happen
to belong to the noble army of delinquents. That’s what’s the matter
now, and I, for one, don’t propose--”
“Let’s petition him to go to-morrow,” broke in a third speaker. “The
woods are splendid now; Beach and Valentine were over the river
yesterday, and they said so.”
“Yes, let’s petition him!” exclaimed two or three at once.
Some one threw up his cap and cried out, “A holiday! holiday!”
In a moment others took up the cry, and sent it out through the
twilight. Boys, separately and in groups, came hurrying toward the
little party, attracted by the unusual sound. When they heard what the
proposition was, they were mostly in favor of it.
It had been the custom of Colonel Silsbee to give his boys a holiday
every spring. They usually went in a body to the groves across the
river, taking luncheon with them, and spending the day in rowing, in
athletic games, or in roaming about the woods.
Such a day could not fail to have charms for any boy; but for these
delinquent lads, who were not allowed to leave the grounds, save as
they were marched discreetly to church on Sunday mornings and evenings,
the very thought of pleasure like this was intoxicating.
The holiday idea was infectious; it spread like a swift contagion.
Everybody was shouting for it now.
Some one turned to Brightly, saying, “Here, Bright, you draw the
petition; you can do it.”
“Yes,” cried some one else, “let Bright draw it; he’s literary; he can
put it in better shape than any other fellow in school.”
Now Brightly was not averse to compliments; and in no way was his
vanity more easily flattered than by favorable comment on his literary
ability, which, indeed, was not slight.
Moreover, he felt a certain grim pleasure in the fact that although
he had been suspended and disgraced by the authorities, yet when
anything was to be done requiring peculiar mental skill and art, he was
unanimously selected by the boys of the school to do it. So, followed
by a score or more of them, he led the way to the vacant schoolroom,
intent on the accomplishment of their desires, thoughtless and careless
of what the result might be to himself.
Hastily scribbling what he considered a good form for a petition, he
read it to the boys.
“’Taint strong enough,” said one.
“We don’t want so much beggarly humility in it,” said another. “We’ve
got a right to a holiday, and we’d best let him know’t we know it.”
“Put it to him fair and square, Bright,” said Fryant. “There’s no use
mincing matters; he’s bearing down heavy on us, and we’ve got to meet
him on his own ground.”
Thus conjured, Brightly made another effort, this time apparently with
better success; for when he read what he had written, they all cried,
“Good! that’s good! now copy it!”
Six months before he would never have thought of writing such a paper
at the dictation of this lawless crowd; but now, with jealousy stinging
him, with conscience torturing him, with disgrace hanging over him,
he had only his self-respect to fall back upon,--and that, alas! was
already following in the wake of hope and ambition, both of which had
left him weeks ago.
When the petition was copied, it read as follows:--
TO COL. JONAS SILSBEE,
_Principal of Riverpark Academy_.
The petition of the undersigned cadets and students of
Riverpark respectfully represents:
That, whereas it has been the custom yearly to devote one day
of the spring season to a whole holiday for the entire school,
with games, lunches, etc., in the groves across the river, and
whereas the time has fully come when such holiday should be
enjoyed;
Now, therefore, we, the undersigned, designate to-morrow, the
tenth day of May, as the day of our choice for said holiday;
and we herewith make known our proposition for celebrating the
same, to the end that the proper arrangements may be duly made
and the programme carried out according to the usual custom.
(Signed) ______
At the moment when the paper was ready for signature, Brede entered the
room.
“Here!” cried a dozen boys at once. “Brede, captain! sign the petition!”
“What for?” asked Brede, surlily.
“A holiday! We’re going to have a holiday; sign the petish!”
The captain took the paper and read it.
“Haven’t you put it pretty strong?” he asked.
“It’s got to be strong,” was the reply, “or we won’t get the holiday.”
Plumpy, the fat boy, waddled hastily toward the group, crying out in
his falsetto voice: “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a mule!”
“Plumpy wants a mule!” shouted Patchy, hilariously. “What you want a
mule for, Plumpy?”
“To cross the raging Helles-py-ont and picnic in the groves of doodle
dell,” responded Plumpy, in mock heroics.
“Oh, shut up!” cried some one, but Plumpy continued: “Why, then,
without a mule, I’ll swim the raging flood me selluf to bask--”
“Oh, shut up! shut up!” sounded a chorus of voices. “Put him out! Sit
on him!”
This last suggestion was promptly acted on; a half-dozen lads pounced
on the unfortunate fat boy, dragged him to the floor, rolled him over
and over like a bulging barrel, and smothered his squeals by placing
their combined weight on his elastic body. But they did not hurt him.
Indeed, it seemed almost impossible by any course of treatment to give
Plumpy more than the suggestion of physical pain.
Brede was still scanning the petition.
“Oh, come, captain!” said some one at his elbow, “sign the petition. If
you don’t sign it we won’t stand a ghost of a show.”
“And if you do,” continued another, “we’ll have a dead sure thing.”
Brede’s vanity was flattered.
“Well, I don’t care,” he said sharply. “What’s the use? If a fellow
gets into trouble, all he’s got to do is to lie out of it, and
Silsbee’ll coddle him back to virtue. There’s no use trying to be
decent here any more. Where’s your pen?”
The pen was given to him, and he signed his name. His was the first
signature to the petition. Then Harple was sought; but he could not
be found, and there was no time to be lost, so others affixed their
signatures without regard to the order in which they came.
Brightly signed the paper, of course. He could do no less after having
drawn it. Not that he cared about the holiday; but he had become too
weak and indifferent to resist any pressure, or to count the cost of
any action.
The evening session interfered with a further circulation of the
petition; but before tattoo was sounded there was another opportunity
to sign it, and at reveille on the following morning it was again on
its rounds.
At inspection a committee of two was appointed to present it to the
principal. These two, Robinson and Miller, had been selected on
account of their popularity and their high standing; one of them,
indeed, was an honor-grade man.
They selected the time immediately after breakfast to approach Colonel
Silsbee with the petition. He was in his office, and they went there.
They were gone but a few moments. When they came out, they were
surrounded by a group of eager questioners.
“What did he say?” “Are we going?” “Did he read it?” They were all
asking at once.
“Keep still a minute,” said Robinson, “and I’ll tell you. He took the
paper and just glanced at it, and then he folded it up again. He said
he’d take the matter into consideration, and whatever he conceived to
be for the best interests of the school, that he’d do. He said he’d
let us know at the opening of the session. Now that’s as near as I can
remember it. Isn’t that about what he said, Miller?”
“Just about. It’s as close as you can get to it, anyway. I tell you
what, boys, he looked mighty favorable.”
“Do you think we’ll get it, honest?” asked an eager bystander.
“Yes,” replied Miller, “I do.”
“Hurrah for the holiday!” shouted an enthusiastic delinquent. “We’re
going to get the holiday! hurrah!”
The good news spread, and as it passed from lip to lip, the holiday
was spoken of as an assured fact. Indeed, many of the boys hastened to
their rooms to make preparations for going.
As the long file wound up into the schoolroom at the usual hour for the
morning session, the flow of good feeling was manifested by so much
good-natured mischief that the officers found it difficult to keep
order in the ranks.
The morning was beautiful. Nature was propitious; there was not a cloud
to be discovered either in the blue sky or on the bright hopes of the
students. Everybody was jubilant. Even Brightly had awakened to an
unusual degree of enthusiasm, and Brede was smiling and swaggering with
much of the old-time manner.
Colonel Silsbee entered the room, read the Scripture lesson as usual,
and offered the morning prayer. Then, seating himself again in his
chair, he looked down for a moment on the bright and expectant faces
before him. In that look, kindly but stern, his pupils discovered the
first cloud upon the horizon of their hopes.