AFTERMATH
The outcome of the game for several days cast a deep gloom over the
school. No one apparently had seen Chapin’s dastardly play, so that the
cause of the defeat was very generally ascribed to Tony’s fumbling. The
Boxford boys had driven off in great glee, Deal joining good-spiritedly
in their cheers; but the bells remained silent; the bon-fires were
not lighted, and the school settled down to a doleful Saturday night.
Little groups of boys gathered here and there after supper, and
discussed the incidents of the day. Sandy Maclaren and Stenton were
universally blamed for having risked the experiment of playing a green
boy in a big game, but with boys’ native generosity they showed no
animosity toward Deering. He had lost the game—the consciousness of
that, they realized, was bitter enough punishment for him. Even his own
form mates thought it natural that he should prefer to keep to himself
that evening, and showed little sympathy for Jimmie Lawrence’s anxiety
on his behalf. Jimmie had tried again and again to get into Tony’s
room, but could get no response to his repeated knockings.
Had he known all that was going on in Tony’s mind and heart, he would
have understood. For shut in his bedroom, flat upon his face on the
bed, Deering was struggling with the keenest temptation he had ever
faced. He realized acutely the opprobrium, the unjust opprobrium, that
he would meet with, perhaps not crediting his schoolmates for as much
generosity as they had; and though he would not have feared to face the
boys had the fault been his own, he could not trust himself yet to meet
them, see their disappointment in him, receive their tolerant sympathy,
when he knew that a word from him might free himself from ignominy and
cast the blame where it belonged. And as he lay there, great waves of
hate for Chapin swept over him. He clenched his fists and drove them
into the pillows, longing that his fingers were about Chapin’s throat
and that he might choke out of him a confession of his dastardly
betrayal. To his overwrought mind his future in the school looked dark
and unattractive. The two months that he had spent there had been so
bright and happy; he had made such warm friends and won for himself, it
seemed, such a promising place in the regard of the school; and now,
he felt, all must change, and his fool’s paradise go tumbling down. To
have been given his chance, and failed through the willful meanness of
another, and failing, to have cost his school the victory! For a moment
he felt that he would pack his trunk, go down and tell Stenton the
truth, and then take the first train out of Monday Port and leave the
school to settle the wrangle how it would.
And then he remembered his grandfather’s parting words, as the old
general had stood in the portico of the white-pillar’d house on the
far-away bayou, “Never repay a meanness by a meanness, my boy; and you
will make a good sort of Christian.” And now, would not telling, truth
though it were, be repaying a meanness by a meanness? Yes; but with the
acknowledgment, wrung from his conscience, he burst into tears, tears
of helpless disappointment and chagrin. Telling on another, especially
in his own defense, Tony had always instinctively felt the most
exquisite form of meanness.
After a time he slipped from the bed, and fell on his knees by the
bedside, obeying an unconscious need, in response to the suggestion of
an unbroken habit of putting his boyish trust in an unseen power that
knew and understood. “Oh, God,” he cried, “don’t let me be mean.” And
after a time, though as a matter of fact he prayed very little more
while he knelt there, he rose up, removed his soiled football clothes,
washed and dressed, and slipped out quietly upon the campus. He avoided
meeting the wandering boys, took himself to the beach, and with wind
whistling and waves roaring in his ears, in tune with his mood, he
walked the four miles out to the extreme point of Strathsey Neck. It
was a grim walk, but not an unhappy one, for he had won his battle and
had definitely made up his mind to be silent about the game as he had
been silent about the hazing.
* * * * *
But Tony was not the only person who had witnessed the game that day
and knew who in reality was responsible for the defeat. Mr. Morris,
who chanced to be standing on the side near the Boxford goal-line,
had seen with perfect distinctness all that took place during that
exciting moment of the game. And though several of the boys standing
near him had exclaimed, “It looks as if Chapin had knocked the ball
out of Deering’s arms himself,” with his accustomed reserve, he held
his peace and made no comment. The incredibility of such an act on
Chapin’s part had speedily driven from the boys’ minds the momentary
impression. Morris, observing at the time of the game that Reggie
Carroll was standing near him, had moved over to join him. But at that
instant time had been called, and immediately the field was a scene
of indescribable confusion. The house master pondered over the matter
during the evening, but could not make up his mind as to the proper
course of action.
Just before lights that night he strolled into Carroll’s and Deering’s
study, where he found Reggie as usual at his ease in a Morris chair
with a novel in his hands. Carroll affected French novels, largely
because he could plead the excuse when he was caught reading them that
it was for the sake of his languages.
“Come in, do, Mr. Morris,” exclaimed Carroll, with a trace less than
his wonted coolness. The master entered, closing the door behind him.
“Where is Deering?” he asked, as he seated himself on the couch, and
taking up a paper-cutter from the table, began to play with it.
“He has just come back from a long walk, and turned in, sir. Would you
like to speak with him?”
“No, no, thank you,” Morris answered. “But I will sit for a moment, if
you like, and talk with you. That was an unfortunate game to-day, was
it not?” And as Morris asked the question he looked at Reggie closely.
“Very,” the boy answered, laconically.
“Particularly for our friend Deering,” persisted the master.
“Yes, I wish they had not played him; it was a poor experiment.”
“Had you supposed him a careless player?”
Carroll looked up languidly, but there was a keen glance in his eyes,
and a note of significance in his voice, as he answered, “No, sir, I
don’t think him a careless player, Mr. Morris.”
“And yet he fumbled at a most inopportune time,” suggested Morris,
musingly.
Carroll flung his book a little impatiently on the table, and looked
the older man frankly in the eyes. “Mr. Morris,” he exclaimed, with
every trace of indifference gone, “I am going to tell you in strict
confidence what I know about the game. It is scarcely a decent thing
for me to tell it, but then I saw it.”
“Yes, yes,” Morris murmured, encouragingly.
“I saw Arthur Chapin knock the ball out of Tony’s arms just as they
crossed the line and the Boxford quarter tackled him. I believe he did
it on purpose. Now, I know,” he went on quickly, “that it is a terrible
accusation to make against a fellow even in confidence to you; but
that’s what happened, and I don’t know what I ought to do about it.
It’s incredible, but I saw it.” And springing from his chair, Reggie
began to pace excitedly up and down the room.
“Yes,” said Mr. Morris, quietly, “it is incredible, but I saw it too.”
“What!” exclaimed Reggie. “You saw it, Mr. Morris?”
“Yes, just as you describe it. It is due to the fact that I supposed
you also had seen it that I came in to talk it over with you to-night.
I am afraid Chapin is capable of that sort of thing.”
“Well, then——”—Reggie stopped—”Well, then,” he repeated, “I suppose
it is up to us to tell the Head.”
Morris appeared to be lost in thought. “Of course,” he said, after a
moment, “that is the right course to think of; but I am not sure, my
dear fellow, that I think it best for us to do that just yet. I want to
wait a bit, I think, and see what Deering might wish us to do. You can
be sure he knows it.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure he knows,—he couldn’t help knowing.”
“Well, personally I can’t see what good will come by going to the Head
right away. I am quite sure that if it is brought officially to Dr.
Forester’s notice that he will feel obliged to make it known to the
school, both as a punishment to Chapin and in justice to Deering.”
“But ought that not to be done?” asked Carroll.
“Well, in one sense, yes; but do you know, Reggie,—though it may seem
unwise in me, I have an extraordinary faith in Deering’s judgment about
this matter. I want to know how he takes it before we do anything.”
“I don’t think _he will_ want us to do anything. But, sir, think of
what his not telling will mean to him; think of the way the school will
treat him for a while!”
“Yes, but only for a while. There are possibilities in the situation,
Reginald, that I think we were wiser not to spoil by acting upon snap
judgments.”
Carroll reflected. “Right, O wise man!” he exclaimed in a moment.
“Shall we sound Tony, then?”
“Rather not, I should say. Let us see the line that Tony takes himself.
A few days will not make any difference, and we can set things
straight, you know.”
“But, Mr. Morris, the school is going to lose the credit of victory.”
“Ah! it must do that in any case. _One_ of our men fumbled, you know,
whether accidentally or not; it makes no difference in the result
of the game:—Boxford won. What’s really at stake, my boy, is the
character of those two fellows, and that’s everything—_everything_,
Reggie!”
“By Jove, Mr. Morris,” exclaimed the boy impetuously, “if anyone will
ever make me believe that, you and Deering will.” And he shook the
master’s hand more heartily than he had ever done before.
Deering appeared the next day at his usual place in school, and faced
the ordeal bravely enough. It was an ordeal despite a general effort
on the part of a majority of the boys to avoid discussion of the game
in his presence. Here and there, to be sure, he met with the veiled
glance of contempt or unfriendliness. Hardest of all, however, he found
it to receive Sandy Maclaren’s and Mr. Stenton’s kindly sympathy. The
Great Sandy, as the boys affectionately called him, from his pinnacle
as the Head of the School, was a hero to Tony. Sandy’s confidence and
friendliness had been one of the chief factors in what he regarded as
his success. The friendliness was still there, but Tony sadly feared
the confidence was shattered.
Stenton took him by the arm as the boys were pouring out of morning
Chapel the next day, where they had heard a sermon in which the Doctor
had obviously taken his illustrations from the defeat of the day
before. Stenton drew Tony along with him toward the Old School.
“I want to apologize to you, Deering,” he began, “for the way I spoke
to you yesterday afternoon. I was horribly upset by the unexpectedness
of things, and simply lost my temper. I know you did your best, and I
know too that no one is proof against accident in football or anything
else.”
Tony bit his lip and set his teeth. “Thanks, Mr. Stenton,” he said
briefly. “I appreciate your speaking to me in this way.”
“It was poor interference, anyway,” went on the master, “Chapin
might have saved the day if he had been a bit faster. He had no wind
yesterday.”
Tony kept silent, and there was an awkward pause in the conversation,
during which they came to the steps of the Old School. “Well,” said
Stenton, turning off, “I only wanted to tell you that I am sorry I
spoke irritably. I want you to have your chance next year again, and
show that you are the player I think you are.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Stenton,” said Tony again, and turned away.
That night after Chapel Tony had his first talk with Carroll since
the game. It was desultory enough, until Reggie spoke out frankly and
expressed his sympathy. Then Deering was immediately alert, his face
flushed quickly, and he spoke with rather a tone of irritation. “Don’t
let’s talk about the game, Reggie. It was a bad business, and I have
made up my mind that the less said about it the better. Matters can’t
be changed, and all I can hope to do is to make good next year. Stenton
has as much as promised that I shall have the chance. I want to forget
yesterday’s game as quickly as possible.”
“Right!” said Carroll. “I promise you, you shall hear no more of it
from me.”
A little later, after Tony had gone to bed, Carroll went in to see Mr.
Morris, and repeated the substance of this conversation.
“It’s as I thought,” he said in conclusion, “we shall hear no more of
it from Tony. Do you still think, sir, that we should hold our tongues?”
“For the present, yes,” answered Morris. “If you don’t mind, Reggie, I
want to manage this myself. In the course of time, I shall see Chapin,
if he takes no action to clear Deering. It will be infinitely better if
he confesses of his own accord. The truth will be known some time, and
in the meanwhile I don’t think Deering will really suffer in popular
estimation. The boys like him, and they will forgive what they think is
his carelessness. If the confession comes from Chapin both boys will
get some good out of it. I feel sure that the Doctor would approve of
this, though I feel equally sure that if the matter were brought to his
attention now he would feel obliged to act as Head Master at once.”
“Very good, sir: I shall say no more about it, until you give me
leave.”
Morris was right. Tony did not suffer very greatly, and in the course
of a few weeks the game was practically forgotten. Chapin certainly
showed no inclination to right the wrong he had done, and for the time
being, Morris was content to let matters drift.
Within a month the school broke up for the three weeks’ Christmas
recess. Tony did not make the long trip south for a visit home, but
instead went with Jimmie to the Lawrences’ country-place on Long
Island, where the boys spent a happy holiday, riding and shooting,
and being plied with good things by Jimmie’s indulgent parents. Tony
made a good impression on Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, and this visit to
his friend’s home, served to deepen and strengthen the happy intimacy
between the two boys. Early in January they were back at Deal for the
long winter term, which Tony was promised would be exceedingly dull.
He rather welcomed the relief from football practice, however, and
sensibly made up his mind to make the term count in his form work. For
so far, Tony’s reputation as a scholar had scarcely kept pace with his
popularity as a genial companion and a good athlete.