THE PROBATION OF BLAIR.
Wallace Clausen's narrow escape from death and Joel's heroic rescue were
nine-day wonders in the little world of the academy and village. In
every room that night the incident was discussed from A to Z: Clausen's
foolhardiness, March's grit and courage, West's coolness, Cloud's
cowardice. And next morning at chapel when Joel, fearing to be late,
hurried in and down the side aisle to his seat, his appearance was the
signal for such an enthusiastic outburst of cheers and acclamations that
he stopped, looked about in bewilderment, and then slipped with crimson
cheeks into his seat, the very uncomfortable cynosure of all eyes.
Older boys, who were supposed to know, stoutly averred that such a
desecration of the sacred solitude of chapel had never before been heard
of, and "Peg-Leg," long since recovered from his contact with the bell
rope, shook his gray head doubtfully, and joined his feeble tones with
the cheers of the others. And then Professor Wheeler made his voice
heard, and commanded silence very sternly, yet with a lurking smile, and
silence was almost secured when, just as the door was being closed,
Outfield West slipped through, smiling, his handsome face flushed from
his tear across the yard. And again the applause burst forth, scarcely
less great in volume or enthusiasm, and West literally bolted back to
the door, found it closed, was met with a grinning shake of the head
from Duffy, looked wildly about for an avenue of escape, and finding
none, slunk to his seat at Joel's side, while the boys joined laughter
at his plight to their cheers for his courage.
"You promised not to tell!" hissed West with blazing cheek.
"I didn't, Out; not a word," whispered Joel.
Many eyes were still turned toward the door, but their owners were
doomed to disappointment, for Bartlett Cloud failed to appear at chapel
that morning, preferring to accept the penalty of absence rather than
face his fellow-pupils assembled there in a body. But he did not escape
public degradation; for, although he waited until the last moment to go
to breakfast, he found the hall filled, and so passed to his seat amid a
storm of hisses that plainly told the contempt in which his schoolmates
held him. And then, as though scorning to remain in his presence, the
place emptied as though by magic, and he was left with burning cheeks to
eat his breakfast in solitude.
Joel and Outfield were publicly thanked and commended by the principal,
and every master had a handshake and a kind and earnest word for them.
The boys learned that Clausen had taken a severe cold from his
immersion in the icy water, and had gone to the infirmary. Thither they
went and made inquiry. He would be up in a day or two, said Mrs.
Creelman; but they could not see him, since Professor Gibbs had charged
that the patient was not to be disturbed. And so, leaving word for him
when he should awake, Joel and West took themselves away, relieved at
not having to receive any more thanks just then.
But three days later Clausen left the infirmary fully recovered, and
Joel came face to face with him on the steps of Academy Building. A
number of fellows on their way to recitations stopped and watched the
meeting. Clausen colored painfully, appeared to hesitate for a moment,
and then went to Joel and held out his hand, which was taken and
gripped warmly.
"March, it's hard work thanking a fellow for saving your life, and--I
don't know how to do it very well. But I guess you'll understand
that--that--Oh, hang it, March! you know what I'd like to say. I'm more
grateful than I could tell you--ever. We haven't been friends, but it
was my fault, I know, and if you'll let me, I'd like to be--to know
you better."
"You're more than welcome, Clausen, for what I did. I'm awfully glad
West and I happened to be on hand. But there wasn't anything that you or
any fellow couldn't have done just as well, or better, because I came
plaguey near making a mess of it. Anyhow, it's well through with. As
for being friends, I'll be very glad to be, Clausen. And if you don't
mind climbing stairs, and have a chance, come up and see me this
evening. Will you?"
"Yes, thanks. Er--well, to-night, then." And Clausen strode off.
After supper West and Clausen came up to Joel's room, and the four boys
sat and discussed all the topics known to school. Richard Sproule was at
his best, and strove to do his share of the entertaining, succeeding
quite beyond Joel's expectations. When the conversation drew around to
the subject of the upsetting on the river, Clausen seemed willing enough
to tell his own experiences, but became silent when Cloud's name was
mentioned.
"I've changed my room, and haven't seen Cloud since to speak to," he
said. And so Cloud's name was omitted from discussion.
"I'm sorry," said Clausen, "that I made such a dunce of myself when you
were trying to get me out. I don't believe I knew what I was doing. I
don't remember it at all."
"I'm sure you didn't," answered Joel. "I guess a fellow just naturally
wouldn't, you know. But I was glad when you let go!"
"Yes, you must have been. The fellows all say you were terribly plucky
to keep at it the way you did. When they got you it was all they could
do to make you let go of me, they say."
"The queerest thing," said West, with a laugh, "was to see Post
standing on shore and trying to throw a line to you all. It never came
within twenty yards of you, but he kept on shouting: 'Catch hold--catch
hold, can't you? Why don't you catch hold, you stupid apes?'"
"And some one told me," said Sproule, "that Whipple took his shoes,
sweater, and breeches off, and swam out there with his nose-guard on."
"Used it for a life-preserver," suggested West.--"Did you get lectured,
Clausen?"
"Yes, he gave it to me hard; but he's a nice old duffer, after all. Said
I had had pretty near punishment enough. But I've got to keep in bounds
all term, and can't go on the river again until I learn how to swim."
"Shouldn't think you'd want to," answered Sproule.
"Are you still on probation, March?" asked Clausen.
"Yes, and it doesn't look as though I'd ever get off. If I could find
out who cut that rope I'd--I'd--"
"Well, I must be going back," exclaimed Clausen hurriedly. "I wish,
March, you'd come and see me some time. My room's 16 Warren. I'm in with
a junior by the name of Bowler. Know him?"
Joel didn't know the junior, but promised to call, and West and Clausen
said good-night and stumbled down the stairway together.
The next morning Joel dashed out from his history recitation plump into
Stephen Remsen, who was on his way to the office.
"Well, March, congratulations! I'm just back from a trip home and was
going to look you up this afternoon and shake hands with you. I'll do it
now. You're a modest-enough-looking hero, March."
"I don't feel like a hero, either," laughed Joel in an endeavor to
change the subject. "I'm just out from Greek history, and if I could
tell Mr. Oman what I think--"
"Yes? But tell me, how did you manage--But we'll talk about that some
other time. You're feeling all right after the wetting, are you?" And as
Joel answered yes, he continued: "Do you think you could go to work
again on the team if I could manage to get you off probation?"
"Try me!" cried Joel. "Do you think they'll let up on me?"
"I'm almost certain of it. I'm on my way now to see Professor Wheeler,
and I'll ask him about you. I have scarcely any doubt but that, after
your conduct the other day, he will consent to reinstate you, March, if
I ask him. And I shall be mighty glad to do so. To tell the truth, I'm
worried pretty badly about--well, never mind. Never cross a river until
you come to it."
"But, Mr. Remsen, sir," said Joel, "do you mean that he will let me play
just because--just on account of what happened the other day?"
"On account of that and because your general conduct has been of the
best; and also, because they have all along believed you innocent of the
charge, March. You know I told you that when Cloud and Clausen were
examined each swore that the other had not left the room that evening,
and accounted for each other's every moment all that day. But,
nevertheless, I am positive that Professor Wheeler took little stock in
their testimony. And as for Professor Durkee, why, he pooh-pooed the
whole thing. You seem to have made a conquest of Professor
Durkee, March."
"He was very kind," answered Joel thoughtfully. "I don't believe, Mr.
Remsen, that I want to be let off that way," he went on. "I'm no less
guilty of cutting the bell rope than I was before the accident on the
river. And until I can prove that I am not guilty, or until they let me
off of their own free wills, I'd rather stay on probation. But I'm very
much obliged to you, Mr. Remsen."
And to this resolve Joel adhered, despite all Remsen's powers of
persuasion. And finally that gentleman continued on his way to the
office, looking very worried.
The cause of his worry was known to the whole school two days later when
the news was circulated that Wesley Blair was on probation. And great
was the consternation. The football game with St. Eustace Academy was
fast approaching, and there was no time to train a satisfactory
substitute for Blair's position at full-back, even had one been in
reach. And Whipple as temporary captain was well enough, but Whipple as
captain during the big game was not to be thought of with equanimity.
The backs had already been weakened by the loss of Cloud, who, despite
his poor showing the first of the season, had it in him to put up a
rattling game. And now to lose Blair! What did the faculty mean? Did it
want Hillton to lose? But presently hope took the place of despair among
the pupils. He was going to coach up and pass a special exam the day
before the game. Professor Ludlow was to help him with his modern
languages and Remsen with his mathematics, while Digbee, that confirmed
old grind, had offered to coach him on Greek. And so it would be all
right, said the school; you couldn't down Blair; he'd pass when the
time came!
But Remsen--and Blair himself, had the truth been known--were not so
hopeful. And Remsen went to West and besought him to induce Joel to
allow him (Remsen) to ask for his reinstatement. And this West very
readily did, bringing to bear a whole host of arguments which slid off
from Joel like water from a duck's back. And Remsen groaned and shook
his head, but always presented a smiling, cheerful countenance in
public. Those were hard days for the first eleven. Despair and
discouragement threatened on all sides, and, as every thoughtful one
expected, there was such a slump in the practice as kept Remsen and
Whipple and poor Blair awake o' nights during the next week. But Whipple
toiled like a Trojan, and Remsen beamed contentment and scattered
tongue-lashings alternately; and Blair, ever armed with a text-book,
watched from the side-line whenever the chance offered.
Joel seldom went to the field those days. The sight of a canvas-clad
player made him ready to weep, and a soaring pigskin sent him wandering
away by himself along the river bluff in no enviable state of mind. But
one day he did find his way to the gridiron during practice, and he and
Blair sat side by side, or raced down the field, even with a runner, and
received much consolation in the sort of company that misery loves, and,
deep in discussion of the faults and virtues of the players, forgot
their troubles.
"Why, it wouldn't have mattered if you were playing, March," said Blair.
"For there's no harm in telling you now that we were depending on you
for half the punting. Remsen thinks you are fine and so do I. 'With
March to take half the punting off your hands,' said he one day, 'you'll
have plenty of time to run the team to the Queen's taste.' Why, we had
you running on the track there, so you would get your lungs filled out
and be able to run with the ball as well as kick it. If you were playing
we'd be all right. But as it is, there isn't a player there that can be
depended on to punt twenty yards if pushed. Some of 'em can't even catch
the ball if they happen to see the line breaking! St. Eustace is eight
pounds heavier in the line than we are, and three or four pounds heavier
back of it. So what will happen? Why, they'll get the ball and push us
right down the field with a lot of measly mass plays, and we won't be
able to kick and we won't be able to go through their line. And it's
dollars to doughnuts that we won't often get round their ends. It's a
hard outlook! Of course, if I can pass--" But there Blair stopped and
sighed dolefully. And Joel echoed the sigh.
The last few days before the event of the term came, and found the first
eleven in something approaching their old form. Blair continued to burn
the midnight oil and consume page after page of Greek and mathematics
and German, which, as he confided despondently to Digbee, he promptly
forgot the next moment. Remsen made up a certain amount of lost sleep,
and Whipple gained the confidence of the team. Joel studied hard, and
refound his old interest in lessons, and dreamed nightly of the Goodwin
scholarship. West, too, "put in some hard licks," as he phrased it, and
found himself climbing slowly up in the class scale. And so the day of
the game came round.
The night preceding it two things of interest happened: the eleven and
substitutes assembled in the gymnasium and listened to a talk by Remsen,
which was designed less for instruction than to take the boys' mind off
the morrow's game; and Wesley Blair took his examination in the four
neglected studies, and made very hard work of it, and finally crawled
off to a sleepless night, leaving the professors to make their
decision alone.
And as the chapel bell began to ring on Thanksgiving Day morning, Digbee
entered Blair's room, and finding that youth in a deep slumber, sighed,
wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, placed this in plain sight upon
the table, and tiptoed noiselessly out.
And the message read:
"We failed on the Greek. I'm sorrier than I can tell you.--Digbee."