TEMPTER AND TEMPTED.
“What kind of an excuse are you going to make for being absent from
school?” asked Leon, as they were pulling homeward across the harbor
late that afternoon.
“I don’t know,” answered Don, shortly.
“You’ll have to tell something.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you do same as I do?”
“How is that?”
“Why, I just write an excuse for myself and take it to old Alden. He
never knows the difference.”
“I should think he could tell your writing.”
“Not much! I imitate the old gent’s writing, and I bet it would fool
the old gent himself. Then I put his name to it, and everything is all
slick.”
“I can’t do that,” said Don.
“I might do it for yer, if I had a sample of your old man’s penmanship.
It would be dead easy.”
“I wouldn’t like to do anything like that.”
“It’s a blamed sight better than being pulled over the coals for
playing hookey, I tell you. Tell you what, I’ll come round this evening
and whistle out back of your house, and you can let me in, same as you
did yesterday. Then, if you want me to, and you can find something
your governor has written, I’ll fix you up an excuse.”
“You needn’t bother yourself. I shan’t want anything of the kind.”
“All right,” grinned Leon; “just as you say, old man. But don’t give me
away, so your dad will report that you were out with me.”
“Don’t be afraid of that.”
Down past Duffy’s Nose they slipped, creeping along the shore toward
Nutt’s Wharf, the oars clanking in the rowlocks. Seeing no one in the
vicinity of the wharf, they pulled up to the steps and made the dory
fast.
“Bring the oars,” directed Leon, as, with the rifle buttoned under his
coat, he sprang out and started up the steps.
“Come back and get the oars, if you want them,” came sharply from Don.
“I’ve done the rowing, and now you may take care of the old oars, or
they’ll stay in the boat.”
Leon came back and took them as Scott passed them out, observing:
“You’re in a jolly good temper! Any one ’d never suspect you’d been
playing hookey and having a good time.”
“Well, I haven’t been having a good time,” muttered the doctor’s son,
as he followed his companion up the steps.
He did not wait for Leon, but at once set off toward home. As he
reached the corner of Academy street, he met Sterndale, who was coming
down from the football field.
“One moment, Scott,” said Dick, stopping him. “I want to know if you
mean to pony up for that football and those suits.”
“If I do,” flared Don, his face flaming red, “I hope I’ll be struck by
lightning!”
“You’d better,” threatened the captain, grimly, “if you don’t want me
to go to your father at once.”
“Go to him, and be hanged! You can’t make me pay for damage I didn’t
do, Sterndale, and I didn’t do that piece of dirty work.”
Dick’s eyes seemed trying to read his thoughts, as if they would probe
his very soul. With indignation, scorn and defiance in his look, Don
met his gaze squarely.
“All right, Scott,” said the big fellow, after a few moments. “I did
hope you would be reasonable, and you’ll have no one but yourself to
blame if your father learns everything.”
Not a word in return for these did Don deign to speak, but again went
onward toward home, leaving Sterndale staring after him in mingled
anger and perplexity.
It was not necessary for Don to make excuses for arriving home late,
as he was in time for supper. He found his father in a particularly
agreeable humor, and he was forced to simulate good nature himself,
although it was a difficult and repugnant task.
“Well, my boy,” said the doctor, sipping his tea, “how have things gone
with you to-day?”
“Pretty well,” was the somewhat hesitating answer.
“He had to stay behind at noon on account of his studies,” put in Don’s
aunt. “That’s what made dinner late. I’m afraid he’s studying too hard,
Lyman.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Dr. Scott. “He likes outdoor sports too well to let
study do him any damage. He’s one of the shining lights of the great
Rockspur football team, and I expect he’ll make a record to be proud of
when the eleven meets Highland.”
Don’s eyes were fastened on his plate, and he felt his face beginning
to burn.
“They do say that football is an awful game, Lyman,” anxiously said
Aunt Ella. “And I’ve read in the papers about how many players get hurt
at it every year. Now, if Don should be killed----”
“There is not much danger of that,” assured the doctor, still laughing.
“He is training regularly, and he will be in good condition for the
game. A boy who studies hard in school should be permitted to balance
it up by good, healthy sport out of school, and there is seldom any
danger that he will hurt himself.”
“But it was different when we were young--it was different then,”
sighed the good woman, pouring another cup of tea. “Times have changed,
Lyman.”
“I think so,” nodded Don’s father, “for the better. Don didn’t miss a
day at school last term, and, unless he is ill, I do not expect him
to miss a day this term. Now, a lad who sticks to his studies like
that deserves to be indulged in his ambitions for athletic games that
will build up his body and strengthen him physically. If I find an
opportunity, I shall attend the first football game in Rockspur, and so
encourage the eleven by my presence.”
Don was feeling decidedly mean and wretched when he left the table.
Once during the conversation he had sought to summon courage to confess
about remaining out of school that day, but the talk flowed on and his
resolution weakened. The opportunity passed; after that he could not
bring himself to bluntly declare the truth.
“Anyhow, he’ll find out about it soon enough,” thought the miserable
lad. “Sterndale will come round and give the whole thing away.”
But the evening passed on and Sterndale did not appear. In his room,
after darkness had fallen, Don tried to read; but he found Henty dull,
Optic tame, Alger insipid, and not even that master of all writers for
youth, Trowbridge, could hold his attention and chain his restless mind.
At last he heard a sound that caused him to start up. It was a soft,
peculiar whistle beneath his window, and he knew Bentley had arrived.
For some moments Don stood irresolute, then, as the whistle was
repeated, he slipped down the back stairs and admitted Leon to the
house.
“Well,” said the visitor, bringing out cigarettes the moment they were
in Don’s room and the door was closed, “you’re dead lucky, old man, and
don’t you forget it.”
“Lucky?” sneered the doctor’s son, derisively. “Well, I’d like to know
how! I think I’m just about the unluckiest fellow on the face of the
earth.”
“I don’t suppose you know anything about it,” said Leon, having struck
a match and lighted a cigarette, “but Sterndale’s wilted.”
“Wilted? In what way?”
“He’s backed down; he ain’t going to tackle your old man to make him
pay for the football and suits.”
“How do you know?” gasped Don, in astonishment.
“Got it straight from Chatterton. I can always pump him. He says
Sterndale talked it over with the fellows. Most of them wanted to carry
the thing through, but Dick said no, and he agreed to pay the damage
himself. You know, he always has his own way, and so that settled it.”
Don drew a deep breath and sat down, feeling that some of the load had
been lifted from his shoulders.
“Have a smoke,” invited Leon, grinning. “It will soothe you.”
Don took a cigarette and lighted it.
For a long time the boys sat and chatted in low tones. Don told how his
father fancied he was still on the eleven, and how he had failed to
confess about playing hookey.
“I don’t know how you’re going to keep the old man from finding out
you’re not on the eleven,” said Leon, “but he needn’t know that you
hooked away from school. All you have to do is to get me some paper and
a sample of his writing. I’ll fix it. Just let me show you what I can
do. You don’t have to carry the excuse if you don’t want to, you know.”
So Don went softly down the carpeted front stairs, discovered his
father was not in his office, slipped in and took an old letter and
some paper from the open desk, and scudded noiselessly back to the room
where his tempter was smoking his fifth cigarette.
“Well, this is all right,” chuckled Bentley, as he prepared to write
at Don’s desk. “You’ve brought some of the doctor’s letter paper, with
his name and office hours printed at the top. Why, with that, and this
letter to copy from, I can write an excuse that would fool the greatest
handwriting expert in the country. I’ll have to practice a little and
get on to the style of your dad’s chirography.”
The doctor’s son watched Leon imitating the formation of the letters
and the general style of Dr. Scott’s handwriting, and then, after a
while, saw the visitor slowly and carefully write out on one of the
sheets of letter paper an excuse for Don’s absence from school signing
it with the doctor’s name.
“There,” said the youthful rascal, surveying with great pride his
handiwork. “I rather think that will do. Bad headache, stomach out of
order, feverish symptoms, thought it best to let you remain away from
school. Isn’t that a bird, old man?”
“It’s very clever,” admitted Don, “but you had better take care what
you do in this line. Your skill in imitating the writing of other
persons may get you into trouble some day.”
“Get out! I’m not a fool! Take that to old Alden to-morrow, and he’ll
accept it without a word. That’ll keep your old gent from finding out
anything now, and something may prevent him from taking in any of the
games, so he won’t know you’re not on the eleven. It’s best not to hurt
his feelings by telling him everything. I reckon I’d better be skipping
out.”
When Leon was gone, Don picked up the forged excuse and looked it over
critically.
“It would fool me, that’s certain,” he muttered. “The imitation of
father’s writing is perfect. But I can’t carry this to Professor Alden.”
He took hold of it, as if intending to tear it up, but hesitated,
paused, wavered, then laid it down on the desk.
The following day, he took it to school and gave it to the professor.