THE RESULT OF THE PROTEST
When Finch, for he was the eavesdropper, crawled out of the bushes
under the window of the Masters’ common-room, he darted quickly,
keeping within the shadow of the Old School wall, into a little
clump of trees beyond the terrace. He was stiff and sore from lying
motionless so long and had got thoroughly chilled from the dampness of
the ground. But his mind and soul were at fever heat.
He had heard almost all of the conversation in the room above him, and
he was overwhelmed by the course of events. He felt much as a general
must who receives the report of a spy informing him that the enemy have
augmented forces with which he cannot hope to cope. Finch felt that he
could not endure the situation another minute. It had seemed that he
must shriek out more than once as Mr. Roylston had so calmly, with such
deadly determination, built up his case against Deering. Finch felt his
hero and himself the victims of an ignoble conspiracy.
The boy had grown of late so accustomed to deceit, that for the time
being he absolutely forgot how contemptible his own action had been
and how it would appear to others, to Tony. He was an Ishmael, and
felt himself justified in raising his hands against every one because
all hands seemed raised against him. And his poor warped mind knew
of no weapons except deceit, trickery, eavesdropping, with which to
cope against the authority and success which were his enemies. But now
he was thinking of but one thing—the position he so eagerly coveted
for Tony was threatened, and, thanks to the efforts of his inveterate
enemy, was apt to be given to another.
After pausing for a moment or so in the clump of bushes, in which to
gather together his shivering body, he slipped off, entered the Old
School by a basement door, made a detour through the locker-rooms, and
emerged again in the north quadrangle. He dashed across the campus and
up the stairs of Standerland to the door of Number Five study, and
knocked boldly, almost without knowing what he was going to say to Tony.
Deering and Jimmie were within, with two or three other boys.
Finch gave a frightened glance about, but for once he overcame his
self-consciousness enough to whisper at Deering, “Come over to my room,
will you? I want to see you particularly for a few minutes.”
Tony went to the door. “What is it?” he began.
“Please come over,” Finch continued. “I have something important to
tell you.”
Once in his own little room, Jake turned a white excited face to Tony,
his shyness was gone, absorbed now by his passion of rage and anxiety.
“Well, what the deuce is up?” asked Tony, smiling a little at his
_protégé’s_ agitation.
“A lot. There’s just been a faculty meeting. I have heard all about
it—it doesn’t matter how—but all about it! and the Doctor put you up
for Head Prefect—and said all manner of fine things about you—all
the masters were there and they were all going to vote for you—when
Roylston—curse him!—got up and told about _The Spectacle_, and read
them that copy of it he stole from me, and when he got through he said
he’d give up his job here if you were made Head Prefect—and there was
a lot of gas—and the Doctor broke up the meeting—and said he’d talk
it over with Roylston. And then he went off. And I don’t know what’s
going to happen.”
“Here, here! what’s all this,” exclaimed Tony, as Finch paused for
breath. “You’re crazy, Jake. Somebody’s been telling you a fairy story
to get you excited.”
“No, I am not crazy,” Jake replied. “I tell you I know all about it.”
“Well, what the dickens is it? Say it over, will you?”
Finch repeated, this time more accurately, all that he had overheard.
“He’s trying to queer you,” he concluded, “that’s what! and he may do
it, if we don’t do something.”
“Jake, I say you are off your head. In the first place, I can’t imagine
the Gumshoe hating me quite hard enough for that, and, in the second,
I’m blamed sure the thing has got twisted in being reported to you.”
“It didn’t—I heard it—about it, I mean—I can’t tell you who told me.”
“Well, I don’t take much stock in it,” said Tony, turning as if to
leave. But Finch sprang forward, and put his hand on Tony’s arm.
“I take a lot of stock in it, I tell you. If you don’t do something,
you won’t get it.”
Tony wheeled around, his face blazing with sudden anger, “What do you
think I could do? Do you suppose I’d turn my hand to get the thing?
I’d cut it off first. I haven’t asked to be Head Prefect, and I don’t
intend to ask to be, you poor fool.”
Finch scarcely winced before Tony’s anger. And indeed it was gone as
quickly as it came, almost before Deering had finished speaking.
“Don’t you want the place?” Finch asked, with a kind of wail of
disappointment.
“Why, yes, of course, I _want_ it,” answered Tony, “but haven’t you
got sense enough to see, that it isn’t a thing a decent chap could
work for, much less ask for? Did you think I’d go over to the Doctor
and tell him that I think he had better appoint me and let the Gumshoe
go? I shouldn’t care very much if he did go, but,—who told you about
the meeting any way? I can’t see why you shouldn’t tell me. Was it a
fellow?”
“No—”
“A member of the faculty? not Bill? he wouldn’t tell a thing like that.”
“No—I dunno.”
“Yes, you do—did you promise——?”
“No—I—I—happened to hear some of the faculty talking.”
“Hear—where?”
“On the campus.”
“Overhear, you mean?”
“Yes, I s’pose so.”
“Where were the masters you heard talking?” Tony was putting his
questions now rapidly and with intention, for he had become suddenly
suspicious.
“In the common-room,” Finch answered, beginning to shake nervously
again.
“Where were you?”
“Outside.”
“How could you hear all that outside? By Jove, man, you were under the
window listening?” Tony’s voice took on a sharp note of contempt.
Finch shook like an aspen leaf.
“Answer me!” demanded Tony. “You weren’t _trying_ to hear, were you?”
No reply. Poor Jake moistened his dry lips.
“Pah!” exclaimed Deering. “So the fellows are right, are they? you are
a sneak?” He turned away in disgust, and started across the room. His
hand was on the knob of the door, when Finch threw himself in his way,
and grasped him tightly again by the arm.
“For God’s sake, Deering,” he cried in a queer cracked voice, “don’t
throw me over. You are the only friend I’ve got. Don’t throw me over. I
did it for your sake. God knows I did.”
Tony stopped. He was appalled and bewildered by the passion in poor
Finch’s voice and attitude. He turned back at last, and thrust Finch a
little roughly onto the couch. “Sit down there,” he said gruffly. “I
guess I’d better have it all out of you right now.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll tell you everything,” whimpered Finch. “Don’t throw me
over.”
[Illustration: TONY WAS PUTTING HIS QUESTIONS NOW RAPIDLY AND WITH
INTENTION FOR HE HAD BECOME SUSPICIOUS]
“Shut up, and stop blubbering like a kid. I won’t throw you over. But
just at present I’m mighty disgusted with you, I reckon you know.”
Finch drew his coat sleeve across his eyes, and caught a sob or so in
his throat. “I’ll tell you everything,” he said, with a sniffle, “just
wait a second.”
“All right. And mind you do tell everything, if you ever want me to
trust you an inch beyond my nose again,” answered Tony. He suspected
there was a good deal to tell; in the last few moments a multitude of
little incidents flashed into his mind; all were accounted for if Finch
_was_ a sneak.
“I know it was rotten, Deering,” began Finch, “but I couldn’t seem to
help it.”
“Now cut that sort of excuse out. Don’t try to defend it. Just tell the
truth, will you?”
“Well, I was sitting in the library reading, and the Doctor passed
through, and stopped a minute and spoke to me, and told me not to say
anything about the letter he wrote me last summer in which he had
mentioned you as the leader of the school. He said the appointment
wasn’t made yet.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s all, but I saw him go into the Masters’ room, and I
guessed they were going to have a meeting to discuss that very thing.
It flashed into my head that something was up; that something had gone
wrong about your getting it. I couldn’t help—I swear to you I couldn’t
help sneaking outside and trying to hear. The windows were up, and
I could hear almost everything that was said inside. As I said, the
Doctor——.”
“I don’t want to hear anything more about that,” interrupted Tony,
“I’m not an eavesdropper. I don’t give a continental darn what you
heard. If I don’t get it—all right. If Roylston’s queered me, that’s
his business, I guess. He may think he has a right to. Maybe he has.
But just at present, what I am trying to make you see is that what went
on in the faculty room isn’t your business nor my business, and that to
sneak and listen like that is low-down.”
Finch, poor chap, did not fully understand what Tony was driving at.
“All right, I guess it is,” he said, with a bewildered air, “but I
thought——”
“I don’t care what you thought,” said Tony. “Do you see that was the
act of a sneak? You called Roylston a sneak earlier this evening—well,
whether he ever did a sneaky thing or not, you have just done one, see?”
“Yes, I see, of course, I see; but——.”
“Well, if you see, all right. Now there’s something else I want to get
at. I want to know in what other ways you’ve been sneaky around school.
Did you tell the Head that you had already told me about this letter?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you?”
“No—not exactly—but I s’pose he thought I hadn’t from my manner.”
“I see. Well let’s settle one or two other things, Jake. Remember the
time that Kit Wilson kicked you out of his room last spring?”
“Yes.” Finch was whiter than ever.
“Well, was it true—no, I mean, was Kit right—did you go there to
rough-house his room that night?”
“Yes,” breathed Finch.
“Had you been rough-housing his room and desk before, as he thinks you
had?”
“Yes.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Tony. “And you lied to me! You let me quarrel
with Kit, just because I thought you were innocent and that he had been
hard on you and unfair! You let me lose one of my very best friends,
just because—by Jove, I don’t understand you. It’s too rotten bad.”
“For God’s sake, Deering,” whimpered Finch, “don’t throw me over!” and
then sat, biting the tips of his fingers.
Tony, wavering between anger, disgust and pity, could scarcely trust
himself to speak.
At last he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me the truth that night when I
asked you? Kit and I had already quarreled, but if I had known then
what you had done to him, we could——Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I was afraid you’d throw me over.”
Tony shuddered with an uncontrollable feeling of repulsion. “Why did
you want to play such low tricks on Kit?”
“I hated him.”
“Why? Because he opposed your getting into the Dealonian?”
“No, no, not that!” exclaimed Finch passionately. “I didn’t want to get
into the Dealonian.”
“Then, why?” Tony was nonplussed.
“Because he had broke with you.”
At last to his humiliation—it dawned on Tony, the depth, the tragedy,
of Finch’s affection; the complexity of his twisted, dwarfed nature;
and anger and contempt were swallowed up in pity. He stood for a long
time before the miserable lad without speaking.
“Well, Jake,” he said at length, “it is pretty bad—awful bad. I just
hate to think of it.”
“What can I do?” asked Finch piteously.
“I don’t know what you can do. I want to think it all out before I
talk with you any more. But if I were you I’d get down on my knees and
ask God to forgive me.” Tony again put his hand on the doorknob. “I am
going. I have got to think it out. I reckon you can see that you have
been the cause of a lot of trouble. Don’t worry about me, though. I
won’t throw you over in the way you think I might. But I can’t talk
about it any more now. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said Finch, with a gulp.
He sat for a long time on the edge of his couch with his face in his
hands, staring blankly in front of him. The world upon which his soul
looked out was as bare, as comfortless as his little room. He was
dumbly miserable. He knew he had hurt Deering, but just how, he could
not see. The fear that possessed him chiefly was that Deering would
throw him over. “And I did it because of him,” he would say now and
then between his clenched teeth. He could not understand Tony’s horror
of the deceit, he could not fathom his unwillingness to take advantage
of the information which he himself had risked so much to obtain. He
knew of course that he had done a wicked thing, but the wickedness
seemed almost justified because the temptation had been so strong. He
was sorriest about Wilson. As for the eavesdropping—when he thought
of that, he clenched his fists. If Roylston were successful! I may be
a sneak, he thought, but so is he. All was fair in war—and if Tony
didn’t get the Head Prefectship, whatever Tony might say or feel, war
it should be. “I’ll show him,” he muttered, conjuring up the vision of
Mr. Roylston reading _The Spectacle_ to his colleagues. “If he queers
Deering, I’ll get even with him whatever happens!”
When Tony returned to Number Five study he found that the boys had
left and that Jimmie had gone to bed. He undressed slowly, trying to
think out the situation. Of course, he had misjudged Finch almost from
the first, he realized that. The others were right. He was a difficult
case, too difficult for a place like Deal. He could not have believed,
had he not heard it from the boy’s own lips, that he could stoop to
such methods for revenge. But there it was! He had an actual situation
to deal with; a living soul, just so tempted, so weak, so corrupted
by misery, to help or hurt now by fresh judgments, which might be
right or wrong. That he had been too generous before toward Finch, was
no reason, however, with Tony, even for a moment, why he should be
ungenerous now. He must do his best. He hoped Finch would be willing
for him to talk it all over with Mr. Morris.
After a time, as he lay in bed, sleepless and still feverishly
thinking, his attention wandered from Finch to his own case, to the
facts, that, much as he wished to close his mind to them, were very
much there. It was hard to believe that Mr. Roylston was so bitterly
hostile, so absolutely unforgiving. His own conscience had long ceased
from troubling him about _The Spectacle_, and he wondered if the Head
could take Mr. Roylston’s point of view. He had forgiven himself in
that matter so completely, that he could hardly realize how it still
rankled with the offended master, how it might impress others. At last
he fell asleep, quite assured that things would right themselves and
confident that on the morrow he would learn that he had been appointed
Head Prefect.
He saw Finch in the morning on the way to Chapel, and tried to greet
him naturally. Finch seemed stolid, unresponsive, but not keenly
conscious, as Tony had supposed he would appear, of what had taken
place between them the night before.
Finch had spent a sleepless night. But now he had set his teeth and was
waiting. He was staking his all, as it were, on the Head proving _fair_
as he called it to himself. He was staking his reform, his remorse, his
repentance on the issue which, beyond his control now by fair means or
foul, depended on the Head.
The morning hymn was “I need Thee every hour,” and Finch joined in
it. He dumbly felt he was willing to bribe heaven to gain his end. He
looked about the Chapel, and noted that Mr. Roylston was not present,
and his heart leaped with the thought that the master had lost his
case, perhaps even, Finch passionately hoped, the Head had accepted
his resignation. He tried, but he could not listen to the reading of
the scriptures and the prayers. Then the Grace was said, and the boys
were settling back in their seats into attitudes of attention, for the
Doctor was still at the reading-desk as if he had something to say to
them.
“There is still”—the Doctor’s voice seemed to Finch to come from
a great distance—“there is still an important appointment to be
announced. The Head Prefect for the year will be——”
There was a slight disturbance in the back of the Chapel—some one had
dropped a hymn-book, and the Doctor paused, it seemed to Finch for an
intolerable age.
“Edward Austin Clavering of the Sixth Form.”
Immediately there was a little buzz; then the boys began pouring out of
the Chapel. Finch sat still. Outside he heard Doc Thorn calling for a
cheer for Clavering. At last, he pulled himself together and went out.
On the gravel walk boys were still congregated; he passed Tony who was
shaking hands at the moment with Ned Clavering. “I say, Jake; wait a
second!” Tony called, catching sight of him; but Finch, making no sign
that he had heard, bent his head and hurried on.
Jimmie Lawrence, however, was waiting for Tony until with good grace
he had finished his congratulations to Clavering. A good many, as they
poured out of the Chapel that morning, watched with curious interest
the meeting between the successful and the unsuccessful candidate. But
from Tony’s manner, the most critical could not have imagined a shade
of envy in his cordiality.
“It is a downright shame!” exclaimed Jimmie, when at last Tony joined
him. “It is an outrage. I can’t understand it—why—!”
“Careful, Jim, careful. Deuce take it, I do feel a bit sore, but then I
reckon Ned Clavering has as good a right to it as I have.”
“Perhaps he has, other things being equal; but they are not equal. You
were nominated, the school wanted you, everybody expected you would get
it: there is not a single reason why you shouldn’t have it.”
“Perhaps there is,” protested Tony. “We’ve all been in scrapes now and
then. We weren’t always the angels we are now, Jim.”
“Likely not, but I notice they didn’t hold up my ante-angelic days
against me. Why, you aren’t even a prefect, do you know it?”
“By Jove, I’m not, am I?” exclaimed Deering. That fact until then had
not occurred to him.
“There’s something fishy behind it, mark my words. I wish we could find
out what it is.”
“Perhaps we shall,” said Tony. “But anyhow, I’m not going into a grouch
over the affair.”
“Nobody wants you to, but I wish you would show a little more sense of
the rotten way you have been treated. By Jove, Tonio, I have it! it’s
the Gumshoe!”
Tony found no answer to this exclamation, but Jimmie, excited by his
theory, did not wait for one. “D’ye remember Reggie Carroll telling us
that the Gumshoe would get even?”
“When?”
“Why, after the show-up he got when you and Kit licked Ducky Thornton
and he took you two to the Head for breaking his gating. And also after
the time Gumshoe soured on you about the Soft-toed Sammy billet-doux.”
“Yes, I remember something of the sort. Perhaps he is responsible. But
anyway, kiddo, I’m dished, and that’s a fact.”
“Oh, that Kit was one of us now, boy; wouldn’t we get even?”
Tony sighed. “I reckon we would. But he isn’t!”
“No, worse luck! I wish——”
What Jimmie wished was left unsaid, for at that moment Doctor Forester
caught up with them, and called to Deering. “Will you please stop at
the Rectory, Anthony, for a few moments? I want a word with you.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Tony and waited for the Head, as Jimmie, with a
“So long,” hurried on to a first hour recitation.
The Doctor was very cordial in his manner to Tony, and waved him to a
comfortable chair in his study before he opened his conversation.
“I dare say,” he began, “that you, as were others, were somewhat
surprised to learn who is to be Head Prefect this year.”
Tony flushed and looked uncomfortable.
“I do not mean,” went on the Head quickly, “to suggest that you had no
occasion for surprise. It is an open secret, I fancy, that you were
slated for the position.”
“Of course,” said Tony, with some embarrassment, “I had some reason to
suppose that I was being considered.”
“More than that, I am frank to say,” continued the Doctor, “I had
quite determined on your appointment. I wish you to understand that I
changed my mind strictly with the understanding that the reasons for
the change should be thoroughly explained to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wish you to know that there is but one reason why I have not chosen
you for Head of the School. The mild or mischievous infractions of
discipline in your younger days, I do not take into account. You were
concerned, I have learned, in fact, you were the author of a squib in
which one of the senior masters was held up to ridicule.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now,” continued the Head, finding it a little hard to word his phrases
exactly, “I agree with Mr. Roylston, the master so caricatured, that
that was most reprehensible. I do not suppose you have any defense for
it.”
“None, sir. I can only say, while I now see how it was calculated to be
taken as an insult, I did it simply for fun.”
“Precisely. It was not a matter that I myself, taking all things into
consideration, should have regarded as a capital crime, but it has
caused deep offense to the master involved and he has not seen his way
to forgetting or perhaps even to forgiving it. In fact, because of it,
he has protested emphatically against your appointment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I repeat, I should myself have overlooked such an offense—I should
have accepted your apology in the spirit in which I think it was given.
But as Mr. Roylston is unwilling to do so, I do not feel that I should
be justified in overruling his protest. The same reason disqualified
you as a prefect.”
Tony was silent.
“I need not point out to you,” the Doctor continued, “that while I
believe Mr. Roylston is severe, that I do not think he is acting with
any conscious injustice.”
“No, sir. I recognize his right to protest against my appointment. I
have not complained of your decision, sir.”
“No, I know that you have not. I felt it due to you that you should
understand perfectly what interfered with your appointment. I know also
that I can count on you for as loyal help as though you were a prefect.”
“Thank you very much for what you have said to me, Doctor Forester. I
appreciate it. I am very sorry that I hurt Mr. Roylston in the way I
did. Of course—I don’t say this as a defense for writing what I did—I
did not mean it to come under his eyes. I apologized sincerely, and
though I know that Mr. Roylston did not believe in my sincerity, I can
see perhaps that it was difficult for him to do so. As for my being
loyal, I can’t see that this makes the slightest difference one way or
the other. I should like to have been Head Prefect, but I should never
have thought of being chosen except for my election as president of the
Dealonian and my nomination by last year’s prefects. I think Clavering
will make a fine Head of the School.”
“I trust,” said Doctor Forester, “that you will not bear ill-will
toward Mr. Roylston. He is acting from conscientious motives, I am
sure.”
“I shall try not to, sir.”
With that Tony rose, shook hands with the Head Master, and took his
leave.
Doctor Forester watched him as he walked across the campus, at a brisk
pace, head up, shoulders back. “There,” he said, turning to his wife
who had just slipped into the room, “there goes a rare boy, my dear. He
has made it harder for me to do my duty than any one I have ever known.”
“Tony Deering make it hard for anyone to do his duty! Why, my dear,
did you not appoint him Head Prefect? Every one wanted him; every one
expected that he would be.”
“All but one of us, dear, who had a strong, if not a fine reason,
for objecting to him; but I would rather not go into it, if you do
not mind. Mark my words, that boy now is the strongest boy in the
school—all the stronger for not having the position he ought to have.”
Mrs. Forester smiled. “That is a comfort, at least, to know. But I tell
you, Henry, if we women had the appointment to make, it would take more
than one strong reason to prevent our giving Tony Deering anything he
ought to have.”
“Well, it is fortunate then, my dear, that you women have other things
to do.”