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Title: 'As Gold in the Furnace'
A College Story
Author: John E. Copus
Release Date: November 5, 2011 [EBook #37926]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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“AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE”
[Pg 1]
Books by the Same Author
Harry Russell; a Rockland College Boy. |
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Saint Cuthbert's. |
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Shadows Lifted. |
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Tom Losely: Boy. |
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The Making of Mortlake. |
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The Son of Siro. A Novel. Illustrated. |
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1.50 |
[Pg 2]
It was hard! It was a sore trial to give up
his dream of years!—Page 20.
[Pg 3]
“As Gold in the Furnace”
A COLLEGE STORY
(Sequel to “SHADOWS LIFTED”)
By Rev. JOHN E. COPUS, S.J.
Author of “Harry Russell,” “The Son of Siro,” etc.
New York, Cincinnati, Chicago
BENZIGER BROTHERS
PRINTERS TO THE | | | PUBLISHERS OF |
HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE | | | BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE |
1910
[Pg 4]
Copyright, 1910, by Benziger Brothers.
[Pg 5]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I |
PAGE |
Roy Surprises His Friends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
7 |
CHAPTER II |
|
The Motive . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
13 |
CHAPTER III |
|
The Conditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
19 |
CHAPTER IV |
|
Roy and Garrett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
25 |
CHAPTER V |
|
A Pitching Cage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
30 |
CHAPTER VI |
|
Advice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
38 |
CHAPTER VII |
|
The Little Sisters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
45 |
CHAPTER VIII |
|
Something Happens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
56 |
CHAPTER IX |
|
Who? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
64 |
CHAPTER X |
|
A Day's Adventure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
72 |
CHAPTER XI |
|
An Afternoon's Fun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
82 |
CHAPTER XII |
|
Reports . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
90 |
CHAPTER XIII |
|
What Henning Remembered . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
96 |
[Pg 6]
CHAPTER XIV |
|
Facing the Boys . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
104 |
CHAPTER XV |
|
Suspicions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
111 |
CHAPTER XVI |
|
Roy Makes a Move . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
119 |
CHAPTER XVII |
|
Garrett is Angry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
129 |
CHAPTER XVIII |
|
A Talk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
135 |
CHAPTER XIX |
|
The Unexpected . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
142 |
CHAPTER XX |
|
The Fairest Lily . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
149 |
CHAPTER XXI |
|
The Passing of Ethel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
157 |
CHAPTER XXII |
|
Roy and His Father . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
163 |
CHAPTER XXIII |
|
The Great Blow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
170 |
CHAPTER XXIV |
|
The Fallen Tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
177 |
CHAPTER XXV |
|
Surprises for Roy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
185 |
CHAPTER XXVI |
|
Stockley's Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
193 |
CHAPTER XXVII |
|
Stockley's Story (Continued). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
201 |
CHAPTER XXVIII |
|
The Unraveled Tangle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
206 |
[Pg 7]
“AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE”
CHAPTER I
Roy Surprises His Friends
“I TELL you what it is, gentlemen, once for all. I
can not go in for baseball next spring, nor even
for the few games we have still to play this
fall.”
Roy Henning was talking to a group of college
boys of the upper classes in St. Cuthbert's yard. It
was late September and still very warm. The little
gathering of friends found the shade of a large elm
tree in one corner of the yard very grateful. A
hearty burst of laughter followed Roy's announcement.
No one for an instant entertained the idea
that Henning was in earnest and meant what he
said. Was he not passionately fond of the game?
Had he not, before vacation, been the very best
player on the college diamond?
“Oh! of course not! of course not!” exclaimed
Jack Beecham, Roy's truest friend and constant
companion. “Of course not! You're no good anyway!
You couldn't be center-rush on the eleven if
you tried! You don't know a thing about baseball
either! Oh! no! And another team wouldn't do a
thing to us if you left the pitcher's box! Oh! no,
not at all!”
“Look here, Jack,” said Henning, “I'm in earnest.
I am not going to engage in sports at all this year.”[Pg 8]
“Not for the money, I know that. It has always
cost you a good penny. But let me assure you, you
dear old goose, that you can't come any sort of game
like that on us—not on me, at least. Let me tell
you, Roy boy, that you are most decidedly and most
strictly in it, and in it every time.”
“Look here, Jack, will you listen to reason——"
began Roy Henning.
“With pleasure, when I find evidence that you are
in possession of that valuable commodity.”
“But——”began Roy again.
“That's all right, old fellow. We know your
modesty, and all that. We're also under the impression
that you have recently developed a remarkable
penchant—that's the word, isn't it, boys—for
practical jokes. But this time be so condescending
as to remember that joke-day—April 1, you know—is
a long way off. See?”
“Yes, I see,” replied Henning, “but you fellows
will not, nor will you listen to reason. So it is
useless for me to talk.”
“That's precisely what we wish to do,” said Jack—laughing
Jack Beecham—who struck an attitude
and continued, “but you persist in talking anything
but reason. What an incontestably preposterous
thing for you to say that you are not going to play
ball. Is a fish going to swim?"
“Nonsense or not, boys, I have good reason for
saying what I have said. It's a fact. I am not
going to play.”
Roy Henning's clean-cut, handsome face was
flushed at the moment with vexation. His eyes
showed his annoyance, and his brows contracted in
displeasure. It was vexatious enough for him to
make—to be compelled to make—such an announcement
to his friends, but his chagrin was[Pg 9]
rendered four-fold by having his companions receive
his statement with incredulity. Not the least part
of his annoyance came from the fact that his own
particular friend should affect to believe that he was
perpetrating a practical joke, especially as he was
very much in earnest and the announcement had cost
him much effort to make.
When Roy Henning first came to St. Cuthbert's,
he was a narrow-chested, weakly boy of very quiet
manners and of a retiring disposition, as the readers
of the chronicles of St. Cuthbert boys may remember.
Month after month, however, saw him growing
stronger and taller and more robust, until now, in
his last year at college, he was one of the biggest
boys in the yard, with the strength of a giant, and,
as some who knew declared, the grip of a blacksmith.
The opportunities of acquiring brawn and muscle
he had not neglected, resulting in a proficiency in
running, jumping, swimming, and boating, and in
all the manly and invigorating exercises of school
life.
He was well aware how much the success of next
summer's baseball season really depended on him.
He knew, also, what the boys expected of him. They
all regarded it as a foregone conclusion that he would
again be the captain and the principal pitcher on
next season's team.
No one but himself knew what annoyance it had
been to him to make the statement which his hearers
had refused to accept otherwise than as the merest
joking. Yet he intended to give up sports for this
school year. Why? The reason for so doing, and
all the consequences that such a course of action
brought in its train, will constitute the following
narrative.
Roy's eyes, quick to sparkle in fun, quick to soften[Pg 10]
in sympathy, yet quicker to glitter with indignation
at any exhibition of smallness or meanness, just now
had a look in them other than was their wont. Their
owner was annoyed because the boys standing
around him seemed determined not to take him
seriously, and this annoyance could be seen. For
a moment he felt a strong throb of anger, such as
quickens the pulse, and the hasty word was on the
tip of his tongue, but he checked himself in time.
Why should he not be believed when he had made
a plain statement and had reiterated it? Yet there
was a smile as of incredulity on nearly all the faces
grouped around him.
The truth of the matter was that Jack Beecham
and his companions were hoping against hope. They
clearly saw Henning's annoyance, and several of
them had more than a suspicion that, after all, he
meant exactly what he had said. Beecham's
badinage was only a cover for his uneasiness.
A silence fell on the group, during which, to their
nimble imaginations, visions of future victories on
the diamond grew dim, for every boy there had the
most unlimited confidence in the proven prowess of
Henning to lead them to victory.
“But, Roy,” said Tom Shealey, a short, thick-set,
sturdy, whole-souled boy, who had a habit of calling
a spade a spade: “Give us your reason. You are
not sick?”
“No, not sick, certainly,” said Henning, smiling
at such an idea.
“What's your reason, then?—supposing you have
a reason and are not joking.”
“I'm not joking, Tom,” said Henning, “but I
can not give you my reason.”
“Guess he has none,” said Andrew Garrett, a
youth who affected a blue sweater instead of a coat[Pg 11]
and vest and whose face was not a healthy-looking
one. “Guess he has no reason. He's merely posing.”
The remark vexed Henning all the more that it
came from his own cousin, to whom in a difficult
situation he might have looked naturally for some
form of support.
“Stop that, Garrett,” said Tom Shealey, hotly.
“Do you wish to insult your own cousin? I'd rather
believe him than you—there! If Roy says he has
reasons for acting as he is doing and does not want
to give them to us, I believe he has them anyway.
I guess you don't know your own cousin as well
as we do.”
“Well, why doesn't he give his reasons for not
playing?” asked Garrett, sulkily.
“Because,” answered Henning, with no little
natural dignity, “I do not feel at liberty to do so.
If I did I would give them readily. Believe me,
boys, it is not by my own choice that I resign my
position on the baseball and football teams.”
“We believe you, Roy,” said Shealey. “Although
we regret your action, we believe you have good
reasons; don't we, Beecham?”
Jack Beecham nodded affirmatively. “Yes,” he
replied, after a moment's silence, “I joked at first
only because I thought Roy was joking. Sorry he
wasn't. Garrett, you had better believe what your
cousin says. He is not accustomed to lie into or
out of a thing.”
This remark was received by Garrett in silence.
With a look unpleasant enough to be considered a
leer on his face he walked away, but Shealey's
innuendo, as we shall see later, had more significance
for the one to whom it was directed than the rest
of the group realized. Were it not on account of
the relationship with Roy, the boys in general would[Pg 12]
have ignored Garrett. Winters and Hunter and
Stapleton and Clavering were gone from St. Cuthbert's,
having graduated the previous year. Henning
and Ambrose Bracebridge, Rob Jones and Tom
Shealey were taking their places, and among these
Henning was most popular.
In a few minutes Henning walked away, and his
friends began freely to discuss his decision, vaguely
guessing at the motive which prompted it, and
entirely unsuccessful in arriving at any solution of
the difficulty.
“Of course,” said Jack Beecham to Shealey, as
they strolled about the yard somewhat disconsolately,
"Henning must have some good reason for backing
out, but I am more sorry than I can say that he has
done so. I am afraid things are going to be mighty
unpleasant for him in consequence.”
“I, too, am afraid they will be.”
“Well, I'm going to stick to him, come what may.”
“Same here,” replied Shealey. “It won't be hard
to do that, because he is the soul of honor and a
royal good fellow. You might as soon expect anything
wrong with him as—as to see——”
“You at the head of your class in next examination,”
interrupted Jack.
“Thanks! Or to see you heading the philosophers.”
“Thanks, too.”[Pg 13]
CHAPTER II
The Motive
BEFORE proceeding to narrate the complications
which beset Roy Henning's path during his last
year at St. Cuthbert's, and the many curious
cross-purposes of which he may be said to have been
the victim, we shall endeavor to give some idea of
the motive which actuated him in retiring from the
arena of college sports.
It must be remembered that Roy Henning, in the
previous year, was a fast friend of Claude Winters,
Hunter, Selby, Clavering, and Stapleton. The companionship
of these boys had helped as much to form
his character as had the careful work of the professors.
Under his friends' influence he had gradually
lost much of his bashfulness. By the time
that Winters and his other friends had graduated,
he could conduct himself with an amount of ease
and composure. He no longer blushed and squirmed
immoderately, like a small boy, when addressed by
a stranger or by one in authority. He could now
speak to a Father or even the President without
wishing to fall through the floor. Roy was much
improved, yet the influence which his companions
of the previous year had exercised over him had
taken a somewhat peculiar turn.
As far as he knew, not one of his last year's
friends, now graduated and gone, had any aspirations
to study for the sacred ministry of the priesthood.
Their joyous piety, nevertheless, and their
cheerful goodness had been the means, entirely[Pg 14]
unknown to themselves, of making Henning entertain
a profound veneration for the ecclesiastical state.
From often contemplating how eminently suited,
both in talents and in virtue, were many of his
companions for this state, Roy had passed from
admiring them to the thought of the feasibility of
embracing that state himself. The more he thought
of this, and the more frequently he examined himself,
the more enamored of the lofty idea he became;
so that at the expiration of the previous year's term
he had fully made up his mind to enter the priesthood
should he secure the sanction of his spiritual
director.
Before he left college for vacation he had a long
interview with the white-haired, holy old chaplain,
from which he received great encouragement, but
was told to keep his intention a secret from all save
his parents. He took the admonition literally and
obeyed it exactly, so that he left St. Cuthbert's in
the previous June without his most intimate acquaintances
so much as dreaming that he entertained
such exalted ambitions and aspirations to a dignity
than which there is none greater on earth.
It was not remarkable that his companions should
never imagine such things of him. Was he not the
recognized leader of all sports and games? Who
had a merrier shout? No one's laugh rang more
musically across the playground. How should boys—mere
boys, after all—imagine that graver
thoughts and sublimer ambitions were coexistent
with merry pranks, resounding cheers, or harmless
escapades. Well, boys, college boys even, are gifted
with only a limited prescience, and none suspected the
great plan of life which was now continually in
Roy's mind.
He did not broach the subject to his father until[Pg 15]
the vacation months were drawing to a close, and
it was time to think about returning to St. Cuthbert's.
The Hennings spent the summer months in
the lake region. One beautiful calm, warm evening
in August, Mr. Henning was sitting on the broad
veranda of his cottage, watching in quiet content
the silver pathway which the full moon made across
the water, and marveling how the light made the
sails of the yachts appear now black, now silver as
the vessels tacked about. Roy, who for several days
had been watching his opportunity to have a private
talk with his father, saw that it had now come. He
took a seat near his father.
“Where are Mama and the children, Roy?”
“They are down on the beach, Father, throwing
sticks into the lake for Fido to swim after. The
dog is almost crazy with the delight of the game.”
“Why are you not down there too? You seem
to be moping lately, my boy. Is anything the matter?
Are you quite well?”
“Quite, thanks. I am not moping, but the fact
is, Father, I have something I wish to talk to you
about, and as the rest won't be back for some time,
perhaps this is a good opportunity to tell you what
I have to say.”
“Dear me! what a lot of mystery! Say on, son.
I am all attention. Let me see: how old are you?
Nineteen next month, eh? You'll be graduated next
year at St. Cuthbert's, will you not?”
“I hope so,” replied the boy modestly.
“That's right. Well, I suppose you want to talk
about the choice of a profession. It is quite time
you made a choice, you know.”
“That is precisely what I wish to speak about.”
“Ah! Well, go on. I am willing to listen to
your ideas, reserving, of course, the right of veto,
[Pg 16]Is it to be the law, or medicine, or the army?
Perhaps 'tis the navy? I have influence enough to
get you into Annapolis, if you wish to follow the
sea.”
“It is none of these you have mentioned, sir,” said
Roy, nervously, and the next moment he blurted out
awkwardly, “I want to enter the priesthood!”
“The priesthood,” said Henning senior, with
an intonation that expressed various emotions.
"H—um,” And he remained a long time silent.
The light from the sitting-room fell on Mr. Henning's
face. Roy watched the florid features of his
father. His closely-cropped white hair and side-whiskers
worn in the style once designated “mutton-chop,”
the short-trimmed mustache, and clean-shaven,
well-rounded chin, all showed distinctly in
the strong light of the reading lamp, which sent a
flood of light out across the veranda. Roy thought
that his father's face was unusually flushed. It
appeared almost purple in the artificial light, and the
son became anxious, momentarily fearing that the
suddenly communicated intelligence might have
caused a rush of blood to the head. The family
physician not long before had told Mrs. Henning
that her husband was quite liable to an attack of
apoplexy.
Roy could not guess what was passing within the
mind of his father, who remained silent a long time.
Nothing was heard except the nervous tapping of
Mr. Henning's eyeglasses on the arm of the rocker.
The boy knew that his father was irascible, and
he was more or less prepared for a storm. He waited
for what he thought several minutes—in reality
less than forty seconds—for his father to speak.
No sound was heard save the nervous tap-tap-tapping
on the arm of the chair. Roy twirled his[Pg 17]
cap and shifted his weight from one foot to another.
Then, as it often does, the unexpected occurred.
Mr. Henning arose from his chair, and without
noticing his son, or saying a word, retired into the
house, leaving the surprised boy on the porch.
The young man was perplexed at this turn of
affairs. Had his father flatly refused he could have
pleaded and coaxed. Had he stormed, the boy knew
enough of his parent to be aware that the end he
desired would most probably be attained—when
the storm blew over.
Roy left the porch in a dazed sort of way. He
had never seen his father act so peculiarly. Wanting
to be alone to think over the affair, he sauntered off
to a secluded part of the large lawn.
“Hi, Roy, is that you? Where have you been?
I have been searching for you everywhere. Put on
your dancing pumps and come over to our villa. We
are going to have a carpet dance. All the tables and
chairs have been put out on the lawn, and we are
going to have a jolly time. Come on.”
The speaker over the hedge was Andrew Garrett,
Roy's cousin, whose father had rented the adjoining
villa for the summer. Garrett was on the road,
seated in a stylish dogcart. He held a pair of white
ribbons over a mettlesome horse whose silverplated
harness ornaments shone brightly in the moonlight.
“You must make my excuses——”began Roy.
“Eh! what? Oh! come! that won't do. My
sisters have netted a lot of girls, many of whom are
already there, and the cry is 'still they come.' We
haven't enough partners for them. I am not slow
at this kind of affair, but, you know, a fellow can't
make himself ubiquitous. Run and put on your
dancing-shoes, and if you spoil them in the dew[Pg 18]
coming home, I'll buy you another pair to-morrow.”
“The puppy,” thought Roy, and the ugly word
was on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself
in time, and said:
“I am sorry indeed to disappoint you, but I have
more important things to think about to-night. I
really can not come. You must make my excuse to
auntie and your sisters.”
“Oh! hang it all, man; we haven't enough
dancers,”
“I am sorry, but to-night——”
“Sorry!——” We regret to say that Garrett
used an expression not at all becoming to the lips
of a Catholic young man.
“You won't come, then?”
“I can not, to-night.”
“You won't, you mean,”
“I did not say that.”
“But you mean it. Well, I can go up the road
and get the Meloche boys, and the Poultneys, and
others. Mark my words, Roy; I'll get even with
you for this. You'll be sorry for it yet. It's a mean
trick. Get up, Nance.”
And he gave the mare a vicious cut, which sent
her rearing and racing up the dusty country road,
giving the ill-tempered boy all he could do to prevent
the spirited animal from running away with him.
A week later, Roy Henning was surprised to learn
that Andrew Garrett was to be a student at St. Cuthbert's
the coming term. His first effort at “getting
even”with his cousin was attempted as we have seen
in the preceding chapter, when Henning made the
unwelcome announcement of his retirement from
college sports.[Pg 19]
CHAPTER III
The Conditions
THE following morning, Mr. Henning called Roy
to him soon after breakfast. When the two
had taken seats under a shady beech on the
lawn, Roy saw that his father appeared moody, and
as if suffering from a great disappointment.
“What is this I hear about your refusing to go
to your Aunt Garrett's last night?”
“I did not refuse to go and see Aunt Helen, sir.
Andrew wanted me to go and dance. I did not care
to dance. Nor could I have gone and retained my
self-respect.”
“Dear me! dear me! Are not your Aunt Helen's
children and their friends good enough associates
for you?”
“Quite good enough. But, sir, you mistake my
meaning. I had two reasons for refusing. I do
not care for dancing, and do not care to be made a
mere convenience of, nor do I wish to be patronized
by my cousin Garrett. My other reason was
that I was anxious and worried, having received no
word from you since I told you of my earnest desire
to study for the priesthood.”
“Ah! Yes, to be sure. You may think my abrupt
leaving you last night was a strange proceeding. It
was. I am sorry I vexed you. I want to be kind.”
“Thank you, Father; I am sure you do.”
Mr. Henning was not a demonstratively affectionate
man, and it must be charged to heredity that his[Pg 20]
own child possessed decidedly similar characteristics,
especially in all absence of demonstrativeness. Roy
loved his father deeply, but no terms of endearment
or outward show of affection, so far as the boy
could remember, had ever passed between them. If
Roy had only known he could have crept very close
to his father's heart this morning. If Roy could
have known just then, he would have seen his
father's heart sore and sensitive, trying to discipline
itself into renouncing its life-long ambition—that
of his son's advancement. He had so earnestly
wished the boy to adopt his own profession. Was
he not already getting along in years? Would not
a partner in his law practice become ere long an
imperative necessity?
He had too clear and too well-trained a mind not
to see the futility of attempting to thwart the boy's
inclinations. He was too sincere a Catholic of principle
and too well instructed in the obligations of his
faith to wish effectually to prevent or destroy a
vocation, and yet—oh, it was hard! It was a sore
trial to give up his dream of years!
“Thank you, Father; I am sure you wish to be
kind.”
Roy, seeing that his father had remained silent
an unusually long time, repeated his remark. The
elder man's lips twitched. The muscles of his cheeks
moved with the strong emotions he was experiencing.
“Oh, Roy, Roy! Think what it all means for me!
My shattered hopes for you! I know that as a
Catholic I dare not thwart you in following so high
a vocation, nor would I have it on my conscience
to do so. But all my shattered hopes of you! I
have wealth and position, but they are not everything.
I have looked forward to you as my prop[Pg 21]
and stay and my honor in my declining years. Must
you—must you leave us? Are you sure of this
call? Is it not a mere passing fancy, such as many
good and pure boys have? Are you sure that your
duty does not point to your family rather than to
the seminary? Are you sure, my lad?”
The old gentleman's words were almost passionate.
Young Henning was unwontedly affected. He
had never been placed in so peculiar a position. His
father evidently regarded him now, spoke to him,
even appealed to him, as to a man, with a man's
responsibilities. For a moment he was thrilled with
exquisite pleasure in being so treated, but he did not
waver in his purpose. He knew that he would
probably add to his father's regrets, yet he was
conscious that he could not hold out the faintest
hope that the parental wish, which appeared to run
contrary to what he now conceived to be his plain
duty, would be gratified.
“My dear father,” he said, “I am sorry to cause
you pain, but I believe I have this vocation and I
must, in conscience, follow it.”
There was a long pause.
“Well—what must be, must be, I suppose, but,
my child, have you well considered the step? Are
you willing to live on a meager pittance, as most
priests do? Are you willing to lead a life of
penurious denial and of study? Can you face the
ordeal of the confessional for hours at a time, listening
to tales of misery, wretchedness, and degradation?
Can you be strong with the strong, and not
too strong with the weak? Can you bear all this?
Are you sure of yourself?”
Now Roy Henning, during the previous year at
St. Cuthbert's had thought over the question of his
vocation time and time again, examining himself[Pg 22]
rigorously as to his fitness, and, as far as his experience
allowed, reviewing the life of the ordinary
parish priest. He saw clearly that no one embraced
the priestly life from a purely natural motive. Such
as did, he argued, must become failures, and unfit
for their state. He had, as every one who has a true
vocation, a higher motive than a merely natural one.
With him the supernatural was paramount, and in
its light all prosaic, squalid, unheroic circumstances
sank into insignificance. He, therefore, answered:
“Yes, sir, I have thought it all over. I firmly
believe I have a vocation, and after I graduate, I
think it will be my duty to enter a seminary with a
view to probing and testing it.”
“I will not thwart you, my boy; I dare not. But
do you think yourself worthy of so high a calling?”
“I do not, indeed, Father; but my confessor
encourages me to go on.”
Mr. Henning sighed on discovering that the
opinion of the boy's confessor was averse to his
wishes—sighed as if giving up his last hope of
being able to change his son's views. He then altered
his manner suddenly, as if ashamed of having displayed
emotion before any member of his family.
He was again the sharp, shrewd man of affairs.
“Very well, sir,” he said, with a crispness in his
voice which hitherto had been absent; “you take your
degree the coming year. After that you have my
permission to enter a seminary. I will be responsible
for your expenses until your ordination. As you
desire, however, to enter a hard and self-denying life
I consider it my duty to test you myself to some
extent during the coming school year.”
In the midst of the delight at his father's capitulation,
Roy looked up in surprise. He wondered
what was coming next.[Pg 23]
“You must apply yourself wholly and solely to
your studies. I shall allow you only twenty-five
dollars for your private expenses, and I desire and
insist that for the last year of your college life you
relinquish all sports of whatsoever kind.”
“Father,” cried the poor boy in dismay; and oh,
the heart-sinking that was expressed in that one
word!
“I mean precisely what I say,” persisted Mr.
Henning, almost relentlessly; “a priest's life is one
of constant self-sacrifice and denial. You can not
begin to practise those virtues too soon.”
“But, Father, I am captain of the ball nine, and
the football eleven, at college,” And there was a
world of appeal in the boy's voice.
“I am sorry, under the circumstances, to hear it.
Abstinence from baseball and football and boating
and all sorts of contests is the condition under which
I sanction your plans, which, pardon me if I say it,
I can not but consider chimerical. The test I have
selected will prove how right or wrong I am in my
opinion. You will take only enough exercise to
keep a sound mind in a sound body.”
Whether Roy Henning's father was acting judiciously
or otherwise, we will not undertake to say.
We merely give the facts. Mr. Henning was
desirous to see how his son would act under circumstances
which he readily admitted would be particularly
trying.
It is probable that many boys will be inclined to
think that Roy Henning was not in such a very sad
plight after all, and perhaps would be willing to
exchange places with him if their pocketbooks were
exchanged too. It is true that many a boy goes to
college with far less spending money than that which
was to be Roy's share for his graduating year. It[Pg 24]
must be understood, in order to make Roy's position
clear, that the boy was generous to a fault, and never
having stinted his expenditures at college, or been
stinted in the supply, he was looked to for pecuniary
assistance by all sorts of college associations whose
financial condition, as most collegians are aware, is
perennially in a state of collapse. He was one of
the most popular boys, because his purse was always
open.
His father had, indeed, arranged a severe test for
him. He little realized what the trials of a rich boy's
poverty were. Little did he imagine to what hours
of guiltless ignominy he was unwittingly condemning
his son. We must do the lawyer the justice to
say that had he imagined but one-tenth of the trials
which were to come upon his son by his restrictive
action, he would have been the last man to have
imposed the conditions.
Roy Henning accepted them unreservedly, and
the conversation at the beginning of the first chapter
shows us how fully and completely he intended to
obey his father's injunctions.[Pg 25]
CHAPTER IV
Roy and Garrett
HENNING was not overwhelmingly delighted when
he learned that Andrew Garrett was to accompany
him to St. Cuthbert's. He knew his
cousin's disposition fairly well and did not expect
to derive much pleasure from his presence at college,
although he was aware that the relationship would
occasion more or less close intimacy.
Never were two boys more dissimilar in character.
Henning had been molded at St. Cuthbert's for five
or six years. He had imbibed that spirit which is
found among the students of every well-conducted
Catholic college—that peculiar something which is
so difficult to define, but which is so palpable in its
effects, elevating and rendering the Catholic student
the comparatively superior being he is. Those who
have intelligently watched this college phenomenon
admit that the tone, or spirit, or influence, or whatever
it may be, is like nothing else on earth, so that
if nothing else were accomplished, this result gives
abundant reason for the existence of our Catholic
colleges. If one were asked to define the exact
process, to point out the various means employed,
in transforming a crude youth into the manly,
generous, self-possessed young man of high ideals
and noble purpose, it would be found a most difficult
thing to do.
Roy Henning was a fair example of what Catholic
training does for a well-disposed youth. He was
not perfect, as we shall probably see later on in our[Pg 26]
story; yet he had qualities that endeared him to all
who knew him. Hating any appearance of meanness,
he was ever the champion of the weak or the
oppressed, as many a boy who was not the “under-dog”
found to his cost. His cheerful, manly piety
made religion attractive. There was nothing
squeamish or mawkish about him. Everybody who
knew him would laugh at the idea that Henning and
effeminacy had the remotest connection. If the
truth were told of him at this time he was, owing to
his splendid health and sound physique, verging on
the opposite of effeminacy.
Under the tutelage of such boys as Hunter,
Claude Winters, Clavering, and others, he had
developed into a really fine athlete. The “muscles
of his brawny arms were”literally “strong as iron
bands,” and that one was certainly to be pitied who,
if under Roy's displeasure, came in close contact
with him.
Andrew Garrett was his cousin's antithesis. He
was about the same inches as Roy, who measured
five feet ten inches in his stocking feet, but beyond
this all resemblance ceased. Andrew was not an
athlete. He was of spare build, but did not look
healthy. His chest was narrow, his arms and legs
spindling and flabby. He had no muscle, because he
took little exercise, and was, consequently, frequently
bilious, which often resulted in his saying or doing
much meaner and pettier things than he intended.
It would be difficult to find two more dissimilar
characters than these two cousins.
In justice to Andrew Garrett it must be stated that
when he came with his cousin to St. Cuthbert's he
had not the slightest knowledge of the conditions
under which Roy was laboring. Owing to what he
had previously known of the state of Roy's purse[Pg 27]
both at home and during vacation time, he had not
the slightest suspicion that now his cousin's paternal
allowance had been inconveniently curtailed.
Whether he would have acted differently had he
known all the circumstances is a matter of conjecture.
Garrett was a factor in much of the annoyance
Roy Henning suffered during the year.
For several days after the arrival of Andrew
Garrett, Mr. Shalford, the prefect, watched him
closely. Being a cousin of Henning, the prefect
thought it was natural that he would associate with
the Henning-Bracebridge-Shealey-Beecham set, and
be one of those to whom no particular attention need
be given. He was not a little surprised to discover
that these boys had very little to do with him. There
was no overt act on their part by which Garrett
could be said to have been snubbed or “dropped,”
but the prefect saw that there seemed to be a tacit
understanding among these boys to let Garrett
severely alone. No one had any particular liking for
him, and it is quite probable that had he not been
Henning's cousin, he would have experienced several
times a very unpleasant quarter of an hour.
Roy Henning was now one of the leaders among
the forthcoming graduates. His influence was now
as great as Hunter's or Winter's had been in the
previous year, and his relationship with Garrett saved
that boy much annoyance, which, by his want of
tact and a lack of companionableness, he would have
brought upon himself.
“You do not seem to get along with the other
boys, Garrett,” said Mr. Shalford kindly, one day
not long after the conversation recorded in our first
chapter.
“I guess I can manage without them,” was the
ungracious reply.[Pg 28]
“I don't think you can, my boy,” said Mr. Shalford.
“Well, I do. I think I can manage my own
affairs.”
The prefect did not know whether this speech was
intended as a rebuff to his advances, but he took a
charitable view of it, and ascribed it to awkwardness,
rather than to intentional boorishness. He said:
“Let me tell you, Andrew, that you can do no
such thing.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Look here, my young man. You are forgetting
yourself. I do not know what sort of training you
received at home, but while you are here, you must
speak to your superiors with more respect. Prefects
and professors and the other officers of the college
are accustomed to be treated here with at least a
certain amount of deference.”
The boy winced under the allusion to his home
training. He prided himself upon being a gentleman,
and, indeed, his home life was all that was
delightful. As if he had read his thoughts, the
prefect said:
“Do you know the meaning of gentleman—a
gentle man? It is not necessarily an inherited quality
of birth. It is rather a question of manners, is it
not?”
Garrett hung his head. He knew that he had
been rude and uncouth.
“Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to be ungentlemanly.
But I do not like these boys here. They
don't seem to treat me squarely.”
“Why? What is wrong?”asked the prefect, now
satisfied.
“Oh! I don't exactly know. They all seem inclined
to let me alone. Nobody seems to want to
have anything to say to me.”[Pg 29]
“Perhaps that statement is not altogether exact.
Have you not annoyed or vexed several of them one
way or another? Think now of what you may have
done. If you want to get along with St. Cuthbert's
boys, you will have to act honorably and above board
in everything. Do not for a moment imagine that I
am accusing you of anything underhand or mean.
I am far from doing so. But boys are quick to discern
character—frequently quicker than men. It
is a species of intuition with them, and they are
rarely deceived. You have been here a month. Do
you know of any nicknames among the boys?”
“Yes, sir; several of them. There is Shanks, and
Owly, and Pinchey, or Pinchbeck, and a lot more
of them.”
“Just so. Now, do you not see that each of these
boys to whom a nickname sticks has just the characteristic
or foible the name indicates?”
“Yes, sir, that is true.”
“I am glad you recognize it. You have not as yet
developed or shown any particular trait which would
give the boys an opportunity of attaching any particular
name to you. I should advise you to watch
carefully, for, believe me, if they do give you a
name, it will not be a pleasant one, and probably it
will be one that will sting. At all events it will be
one that will show to you your foibles pretty clearly.
Watch yourself, therefore, and prevent it if you can.”
With this warning the prefect left the boy and
went to ring the great bell as first warning for
supper. Garrett remained in a “brown study” for
some time. Had he taken the prefect's advice he
might have saved himself many hours of subsequent
regret and remorse.[Pg 30]
CHAPTER V
A Pitching Cage
JACK BEECHAM and Tom Shealey were standing
at a window in their classroom one dark afternoon
in the late fall. They had their heads
together, for both were reading from the same
letter, which the former had just received. They
were evidently much interested in its contents, for
neither noticed the entrance of Rob Jones, nor were
they conscious of his presence until he, boylike, gave
them both simultaneously a thump on the back.
“You must be mightily interested, you two, not
to hear me come in,” said Jones.
“We felt your presence, Rob, quick enough,” said
Beecham.
“It was quite striking,” added Shealey.
“What's the news? It must be of tremendous
importance to cause such absorption.”
“It is important,” said Shealey. “Jack has just
received a nice letter from those nice fellows of
Blandyke College. They write elegantly—perfect
gentlemen.”
“What have they to say?”inquired Jones.
“It isn't a challenge for next spring, or anything
of that sort,” said Jack, “but a sort of recapitulation
of this year's games we played together, and a chat
over the prospects of next year. Listen to this: 'We
met with few defeats this summer, and I am instructed
by the nine to say that if we were to be
defeated—and we were once or twice, as you remember—we
preferred to have been defeated by[Pg 31]
no one but the St. Cuthbert's team, not only because
you, gentlemen, were considered worthy of our
steel, but also because every player on your team was
a gentleman whom it was a pleasure and an honor
to meet.'”
“Now isn't that nice,” exclaimed Beecham. “But
let us see what more he has to say. They are capital
fellows, these Blandykes,” and Jack read on: “'We
intend to meet you early next summer, if we can
arrange some games with you. We have great
pleasure in telling you that we intend to wipe out
all defeats of this season. With this in view, we
have, already, men daily in the pitching cage, and
our captain intends to keep his men in training all
the winter months.'”
“They must feel pretty sure of victory to tell us
all their plans,” remarked Beecham. “Pshaw! isn't
it a pity that Henning has gone back on us! I
wonder what we shall do without him,”
“I don't know. I can't imagine,” remarked Jones..
"Whatever we do, we must not be behind the Blandykes.
We, too, must get a cage and practice pitching
and catching. We can't afford to dim the glory
of last summer's record. You remember we won
two out of the three games we played with the Blandykes.
Next spring we must capture the three.”
“But we have no cage, and they are expensive
things,” observed Beecham.
“Pass round the hat,” remarked Shealey promptly;
"of course Roy will help us as usual. He is always
generous with his money; just the fellow who deserves
to have plenty of it.”
“Yes, that's true,” said Jones, “and I suppose his
cousin, young Garrett, has plenty of cash to spare
too, but I doubt whether he will be as generous as
Roy has always been. Thanksgiving day will be[Pg 32]
here in ten days, and we ought to have the pitching
cage ready when the football season closes.”
“What will Mr. Shalford say about it?” asked
Beecham.
“Oh! he will leave it all to us, that's sure; but we
may expect his one proviso which he is very strong
on, and that is, as you know, that we do not go into
debt.”
“Very good,” said Jack. “Then we had better
begin at once. Here comes Garrett. I'll try him
first.”
Beecham explained the project to Garrett, and
then asked him whether he would help them out.
His first words rang with a false note.
“Has my cousin given anything?”he asked.
“Not yet. We have not seen him yet. You are
the first that has been asked.”
“Very well. Put me down for five dollars.”
“Thanks; much obliged,” said Beecham, without
a particle of enthusiasm.
Strange to say, young Garrett did not feel satisfied.
He had at once conceived this an opportunity
to make himself popular by a liberal donation. The
gift, for a college student, was liberal enough; but
there was something in the merely civil “Thanks,”
from Beecham, which told him he had not succeeded,
at this time, in his purpose. He thought he detected
in the tone a covert sneer. But of this he was not
sure. He made another mistake.
“Let me know,” he said, “what my cousin subscribes,
and if he gives more than I have given, I
will increase mine.”
A second civil—but colder— “Thanks,” greeted
this speech, and Garrett walked away in no very
pleasant frame of mind. “Why is Roy so popular
and I a nonentity?” he asked himself, but it was to[Pg 33]
be a long time before he would learn the answer to
his own question.
Beecham and Shealey started at once on a subscription
tour. They caught Henning in the study-hall.
“Hello, Roy! We have come to bleed you, old
man. We are going to put up a pitcher's cage in
one end of the long playroom for winter practice.
How much shall we put you down for?”
Roy Henning blushed slightly and a look resembling
pain came over his face. His father's test was
beginning to operate. Roy, owing to his restricted
capital, had made a resolution to spend only two
dollars and a half each month. He made a rapid
calculation of the present month's necessary boyish
expenses, and he knew that he would have very little
to offer them. Before he could speak, however,
Beecham remarked:
“Say, Roy boy, we know you won't play next
spring; but we want you to be treasurer and secretary
of the club.”
“Yes, you are the man for the job,” said Shealey,
"none better. Won't you take it? You can do ten
times more with the boys than either Jack or myself.”
“I don't know——” hesitated Henning, for
several reasons.
“Oh, yes, you do, Roy,”urged Jack. “You are a
capital beggar, you know, and with your own big
donation at the head of the list you will be irresistible.”
“Call him a good solicitor,” laughed Shealey, “it's
more euphonious.”
“I think I can act as treasurer and secretary for
you, if the boys are willing. It is the least I can do
if I don't play.”[Pg 34]
“Of course it is. Thanks. That's good of you,"
said Beecham, and Shealey nodded approvingly.
“Now, Roy, how much shall I put you
down for before I hand over to you the subscription
list? Twenty is too much, I suppose,” said
Shealey.
Roy looked out of the window in a perplexed sort
of way. He had always been a liberal contributor.
What would his friends think of him now? The
paternal test was certainly a hard one in more ways
than one.
“I am afraid I shall disappoint you,” he said.
“In what?”asked Beecham. “In book-agent assurance?
Never fear. I am willing to certify that
beneath all your laughing good humor, you are
possessed of an unlimited amount of—of—well—to
put it without circumlocution—an unlimited
amount of cheek. No one can withstand your winning
smile and drawing manner. But what is your
own gift? Let us head the list with that. I must
tell you that your cousin Garrett has promised to
equal your subscription, so make it large, if you
please. He has already given——”
“How much?”asked Henning uneasily.
“Five dollars.”
“Oh,” said Henning, with something very like a
sob in his throat.
“Better make it twenty-five, Roy; you can spare
it, and it's practically giving an extra twenty which
comes out of the pocket of that beg—Oh! I beg
your pardon. I am constantly forgetting that he is
your cousin. I wish he wasn't.”
Beecham spoke the last sentence in blunt, boyish
fashion. Roy understood him, but just now he was
not inclined either to defend his cousin, or discuss
his friend's desires.[Pg 35]
“I am afraid I shall disappoint you this time,
boys,” said Roy.
“You never have yet,” remarked Shealey.
“But I shall this time, I am sure.”
“Well, let's see the amount of the disappointment,"
said Beecham laughingly.
Jack Beecham, of late, could not, as he himself
expressed it, “make out” his friend Roy. Several
times since the beginning of September he had surprises
from Henning. He was beginning to regard
him as an uncertain or even an unknown quantity.
Was his friend becoming miserly? This idea made
Jack Beecham laugh. Roy misanthropical! The
clever, bright, jolly Roy doing aught but loving all
mankind was absurd to think of, but yet—There
certainly had come over his bright, genial friend a
change which was puzzling. What could——
But his thoughts, as he stood expectantly, with
his pencil and notebook in hand, were interrupted by
what Roy said next:
“You may put me down for two dollars and fifty
cents.” Shealey only partly suppressed a giggle,
supposing that Roy, as usual, was hoaxing. Roy
saw the laugh and was deeply hurt.
“Phew,” began Jack Beecham, and he was about
to make a very straightforward remark when he
caught a side view of poor Roy's face, which was
suffused with the blushes of mortification. There
was a look of positive pain there.
Good, sensible Jack at once saw there was something
wrong somewhere. Hastily changing his
pencil from right hand to left, he took Roy's hand
and pressed it warmly, sympathetically. The action
told more than words could do. Beecham gave a
quick glance toward the door for Shealey, which
that individual understood and immediately departed.[Pg 36]
When they were alone Jack said:
“You are in trouble, Roy. Is there—is there
any financial difficulty at home?”
“None whatever, Jack; but I can't explain.”
There was another silent pressure of the hand.
“Nor will I ask you to do so. But there is something
wrong somewhere. Oh, Roy! If I could do—if
I could share—look here, Roy,” he at last
blurted out, boy-fashion, “look here. I intend to
give twenty dollars—let me put ten of it under your
name—do let me.”
“No, no, Jack," said Roy, after a few moments
of silence which his emotion compelled him to observe;
"no, you must not do that. I can't explain,
but come what may I want you not to misunderstand
me. Whatever you may hear or see I want you not
to lose faith in me," and Roy Henning held out his
hands to his friend, while there was a hungry,
eagerly hungry, look in his eyes.
There was, of course, no absolute reason why Roy
Henning could not have given his entire confidence
to his friend. His father had made no such restriction
in the test he had imposed. It was Roy's own
peculiar temperament which prevented him from
confiding in any one; in consequence his trials were
in reality much more severe than even his father
could have foreseen.
“Have faith in you! Believe in you! Well, I
should guess. I don't understand it all—your
refusing to play, and this—this small donation, and
everything; but, believe in you! Roy, I would as
soon cease to believe in myself.”
Roy's eyes were hot, and his lips were dry.
“Thanks, old man. I knew you would. I can't explain—yet.
But as long as you have confidence in
me I'll go through it all right. God bless you, Jack.”[Pg 37]
Young Beecham was more mystified than ever at
this exhibition of emotion, but he felt at the moment
something like the knight of old who sought quarrels
to vindicate the fair name of the lady of his heart.
To make the simile more in accordance with our own
more prosaic times, Jack Beecham became Henning's
champion, and went around for several days with a
metaphorical chip on his shoulder, daring any one
to come and knock it off. Of course, the chip
represented Roy Henning's actions and intentions.
After this interview, Roy looked a long time out
of the study-hall window.[Pg 38]
CHAPTER VI
Advice
WHETHER Roy Henning's small donation to the
boys' collection for the purchase of the
pitching cage for the winter practice was
the cause, or whether there was some other occult
reason, the subscriptions came in very slowly. Many
boys, seeing that Roy, usually the largest contributor
to all such schemes, had given so small an amount,
measured their own donations by his. The project,
consequently, dragged along very slowly. The
treasurer-secretary more than once called those interested
together, and proposed that they should give
up the plan.
To this neither Shealey, nor Beecham, nor Bracebridge
would listen. They were boys who, having
once taken a project in hand, were determined to
carry it through to success. Bracebridge encouraged
Henning to continue his work of soliciting, but the
latter found that he was working against some impalpable
obstacle to success, the nature of which he
could not divine.
The boys were as free and as genial with him as
ever. Every one appeared to like him as usual, yet
withal there was an intangible something in the
atmosphere, as it were, which appeared to militate
against his success. Roy often tried to discover the
cause. Was this silent but unmistakable change
toward him, which had lately come over most of the
boys, of his own causing? After much introspection
he could discover no reason for blaming himself.[Pg 39]
His retirement from the field of college sports had
been more than a nine-days' wonder. All his friends,
not understanding or guessing his motive, expostulated
with him, and time and again urged him to
reconsider his decision. He had remained firm.
His more immediate friends had long ago ceased
to make the matter a subject of conversation in his
presence, giving him credit for acting from right
intentions, although what these were, now near
Christmas, was as much a mystery to them as they
were on the September day on which he had announced
his withdrawal.
Others were not so considerate. With a savagery
often found among thoughtless but not necessarily
ill-intentioned boys, they frequently discussed his
"going back on his team,” as they expressed it, in
Roy's presence, with an almost brutal unreserve.
“If I could play ball as you do, Henning,” said a
coarse-grained youth named Stockley, one day, “I
would call myself a dog in the manger.”
“And why, please?”asked Henning, who was by
this time getting used to such talk from those whose
opinion he did not value.
“The old reason. A bird that can sing and won't
sing, ought to be made to sing. The honor of the
college is at stake.”
“Your motto has no application in this case,"
replied Henning. “If I do any injustice to any one
by not playing ball, then I ought to be the bird who
should be made to sing. But I think you will have
some difficulty in proving that I am acting against
justice. As to the honor of the college being at
stake, in that you know as well as I do, if you have
any sense at all, that you are talking sheer nonsense.”
“I don't know whether I am,” sneered Stockley.
"I am not the only one who thinks there is a nigger[Pg 40]
in the woodpile in this affair. Your cousin was
saying only this morning that he could tell the boys
something why you will not play ball that would
make things mighty ugly for you.”
“Now look here, Stockley,” said Henning warmly,
"you go and mind your own business and leave me
and Garrett alone or—or it will be decidedly unpleasant
for you.”
Stockley, coarse as he was, was observant. He
saw Henning's fist close tightly, and he observed the
muscles of his arm swell up for a minute. He discreetly
moved some paces away.
“When I want your advice upon my conduct,"
continued Henning, “I will ask it. Till then, mind
your own affairs, and keep your tongue from wagging
too freely about mine.”
The young fellow walked away, muttering some
unintelligible words between his teeth. Roy saw no
more of him for several days.
Henning entered the Philosophy classroom with a
flushed face and an unpleasant frown.
“What's up, Roy?” asked Ambrose Bracebridge,
seeing that his friend had been suffering some annoyance.
“Nothing, Brosie; only I have had to talk pretty
freely to one fellow who attempted the mentor
business over me.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Oh, no. I merely told him to mind his own
business; that's all.”
“Do you care to walk?”asked Bracebridge, who
saw Henning was very much annoyed.
“Yes, come along,” replied Henning.
They walked some time in the face of a cutting
wind, such as brings tears to the eyes. While facing
it conversation was impossible. Presently they came[Pg 41]
to the base of a wooded hill which afforded them
some shelter. Here they could talk at ease.
“How much money have you collected, Roy, for
the cage?”asked Ambrose as soon as both had
finished rubbing their chilled cheeks to bring back
the circulation.
“I have collected sixty-four dollars in cash, but
about eighty-seven has been subscribed. Why do
you ask?”
“Please do not think me impertinently curious if
I ask you where you keep it.”
“Certainly not. It is in the drawer of the table
in the dressing-room of the gymnasium. That room
just off the playroom. You know, Ambrose, that
is the place of meeting of all committees of the
various college associations. It's safe there; don't
you think so?”
“Yes—perhaps,” answered Bracebridge, with
evident hesitation. “I would rather you keep it there
than in your desk, or in your trunk.”
“Why? You appear uneasy. What's the matter?”
“It may be foolish of me, but, Roy, I can not help
thinking there is some ugly work being concocted.
No doubt you think I am fanciful, but I have accidentally
overheard here a word and there a word
which I do not like.”
“From whom?”
“I can not tell you from whom, because it is all too
vague, and if I mentioned any name I may be doing
an innocent boy a grave injustice. There is a good
deal of talk against you. Many silly fellows have
taken it as a personal affront that you refuse to
play ball.”
“Pshaw! I——”
“Wait, old fellow: of course that is all nonsense.
It is no one's business except your own, and their[Pg 42]
talking is not worth your consideration. Nevertheless
there are a few restless spirits here this year,
and it is my opinion they are only waiting their
chance to make trouble for you.”
“What would you advise me to do, Brosie?”
“Why not put all the money you have collected
into the hands of the college treasurer? He will take
care of it for you. It will be safer in the office vault
than in the committee room.”
“I think it would be the better plan, but really I
do not think there is any necessity for it. There is
no one here who would attempt a robbery.”
“Maybe there is not; but as I said, it is better to
be on the safe side.”
“All right. Much obliged. I guess I'll take your
advice. Jack Beecham, only yesterday, hinted something
similar to what you have just said about the
ugly spirit against me. I wonder why it should have
arisen, Ambrose, if it really does exist outside of
your imagination. I have done nothing small or
mean to any one. The head and front of my offending
seems to be that I have withdrawn from next
year's ball team. I happen to be a good player.
Personally I regret having to take the course, but
circumstances have occurred, which, in a way, compel
this action. I can not divulge my reasons for
so doing, even to my nearest friends—not even to
Jack or you, Ambrose.”
“Nor do we wish to know them,” replied Ambrose,
"it is quite sufficient for us to know that you
do not wish to give them. Both Beecham and
Shealey, and of course, myself, have every confidence
in you, and you may rely on our staunch support in
anything that may happen. By the way, how does
the prefect, Mr. Shalford, regard you?”
“I do not know exactly,” said Henning, cautiously.
[Pg 43]
“You see, he is a great enthusiast for sport and
games among us boys. I know I have vexed him by
my decision. More than once he asked me to retract
it. When I refused to do so, and told him I could
give him no reason, he seemed, or at least I fancied
he seemed, to be cool toward me.”
“Don't misjudge him, Roy,” said the other,
warmly. “It was only yesterday that he advocated
your cause to half a dozen pessimistic baseball malcontents.
He's all right. Before he had done with
these fellows, they held very different views concerning
you. Still, he has not influenced all in your
favor, for, as you know, not all will take a common-sense
view of things, nor listen to reason.”
Henning nodded assent.
“The fact is,” Ambrose continued, “the yard
seems to be dividing or divided into two camps.
One is pro-Henning, the other contra. Therefore,
and I know you will take what I say in the right
spirit, I want you to watch yourself and be quite
careful in what you say and do.”
“Do you think I shall be attacked?”
Ambrose glanced over the big form of his friend,
and laughed loudly.
“Not much. There is no one such a fool as to
invite corporal punishment. But there are a dozen
means of annoying and vexing without resorting to
the lowest means—physical force.”
“I am really very grateful, Ambrose, for the interest
you take in me. Be sure that, come what may,
you shall never be ashamed of having done so. It
seems to me that, without the slightest fault of my
own, I am placed in a most awkward position. Come
what may, I'll try to do nothing I should afterward
regret.”
“That's right. I know you will be careful.”[Pg 44]
The two shook hands with the warmth of confident
friendship, as they began to retrace their way
to the college.
On their way home they were joined by Garrett,
who still affected the sky-blue sweater, although he
now wore it under his coat. In the presence of
Garrett the two friends dropped the subject of their
confidences, and the conversation became general.[Pg 45]
CHAPTER VII
The Little Sisters
TIME crept slowly, as it is apt to do with boys at
school. To the St. Cuthbert boys it seemed
as if the year had leaden wings, but at length
the week before Christmas arrived. All were now
in expectation of coming events. If anticipation is
half the joy, then most of the boys were taking their
Christmas pleasures in advance.
Already the Christmas feeling was in the atmosphere.
In various out-of-the-way places were stored
bunches of holly and cedar and laurel. At all times
of the day when boys where free from lessons, some
one or other would be carrying strange wooden
devices from place to place. Now one would be
seen carrying to some out-of-the-way shed or unused
classroom, wooden stars or double triangles. Another
would partially and often unsuccessfully secrete
a knot of clothesline. There never was such a demand
for fine wire or binding twine.
All of which meant the mediate preparation for
decorating the chapel, study-hall, refectory, and even
to some extent, the gymnasium. It was a pretty
fiction among the boys that all the preparations had
to be done in secret. It was fiction only, for the real
fact was that, in both divisions, everybody was interested
and everybody knew exactly what everybody
else was doing.
None entered into the work of remotely preparing
for Christmas more heartily than Roy Henning and
his friends, Bracebridge, Shealey, and Beecham.
[Pg 46]There is a certain skill required in decorating. To
some this proficiency never comes. It is perhaps an
innate quality. It had never come to Roy Henning:
He was no decorator. He could neither make a
wreath of evergreens, nor cover a device with green
stuff creditably.
Owing to this defect of at least a certain kind of
artistic temperament, Henning was the subject of a
good amount of banter from his friends. He took
all their teasing good-naturedly, and admitted his
utter inability to make or cover designs.
“I have been thinking—ouch,” said Henning.
The last word was spontaneous. It came from
sudden pain, caused by the sharp point of a holly
leaf penetrating his finger, which member he immediately
applied to his mouth.
“By my halidom,” remarked Shealey, “'tis
strange,”
“Don't do it again,” laughed Bracebridge, “but
learn from experience what an awful and immediate
retribution follows upon such a crime. Hast lost
much blood in this encounter?”
“I think each of you fellows has a screw loose,"
retorted Roy, still sucking his wounded finger. “I
am sure Shealey is non compos mentis.”
“Sane enough to keep holly thorns out of our
fingers,” retorted Shealey.
“But, fellows, I really have an idea,” said Henning.
“Halt! Attention! Stand at ease! Dismiss company!"
shouted Beecham with mock gravity, and
then with a military salute, he said:
“Now, colonel, I am all attention. What is it?”
“It's this, boys. It wants but five days to Christmas.
Between now and the great day all our Christmas
boxes will have arrived.”[Pg 47]
“There's nothing very new in that idea,” answered
Jack Beecham. “History, just at this time of the
year, has the pleasantest way in the world of repeating
itself.”
“You'll be accused of having brains, Jack,” said
Henning, “if you keep on that way. If it is not too
great a waste of gray matter, or too violent a cerebration
for you, just try to listen to me for a
moment.”
Jack Beecham fell against the wall, and fanned
himself with his handkerchief.
“Poor fellow! Isn't it too bad! and so near the
holidays, too,” he said. “Does any one know when
the first symptoms appeared?”Jack turned to
Shealey and Bracebridge. “Hadn't we better call
an ambulance at once?”
“You'll need one if you don't stop your nonsense
and listen to me,” said Roy, and he doubled up his
great fist. His friends knew Roy's blows, although
given only in jest, and having no desire for sore
bones for Christmas, they were immediately all attention.
Henning laughingly relaxed his muscles
and allowed his hands to fall to his sides.
“I thought I could bring you fellows to reason,"
he remarked.
“We are all attention. Say on, say on,” they
shouted.
“My idea is this, then. When we get our Christmas
boxes, we shall each have much more than we
need. Now you know the Little Sisters of the Poor
maintain a large number of men and women in their
institution. Without any settled income, don't you
think it must often be a difficult matter for them to
secure enough for the old people to eat and drink?”
“Never thought anything about it. Guess it's true,
though; but how does that affect us?”[Pg 48]
“Just this way,” said Roy. “Let us ask every boy
to give something out of his abundance to provide
a feast for the old people.”
“Capital idea,” shouted Bracebridge. “I do not
believe there is a boy who would refuse.”
“I agree with you,” said Jack.
“But the difficulty is,” remarked Ambrose, “that
we can not feast old folk on cake and nuts and candy.
I suppose this is about all that comes in those boxes.”
“You mistake,” remarked Roy. “I am sure you
will find all sorts of cooked meats—turkeys,
chickens, geese, and an unlimited supply of canned
meats and delicacies.”
Bracebridge was surprised, but then he had not
much experience in college Christmas boxes. He
was inclined to be slightly incredulous. This was
Ambrose's second year at St. Cuthbert's. As he had
spent the previous Christmas at home, owing to the
fact that he lived but a few miles from the college,
he had not yet seen the college sights of Christmas
time.
Had he seen the hundreds of Christmas boxes
arrive a few days before the great feast; had he
learned that one of the smaller study-halls had to be
converted into a temporary boxroom for the holidays;
had he seen the contents of an average Christmas-box
from home, he would have been possessed
by no doubt as to the possibility of the boys, presuming
they were willing, to supply the inmates of the
home for the aged poor with as bounteous a dinner
as heart could desire.
The proposal appealed to the fancy of our friends.
They went at once to the President to obtain the
necessary permission.
“I give you leave willingly,” said the head of the
college, “and I am pleased to see my boys cultivating[Pg 49]
a spirit of charity and considerateness for others. It
will bring down God's blessing on you all.”
“Father, it wasn't our idea at all,” said Jack. “It
originated with——”
“We have another permission to ask, Father,"
interrupted Roy Henning.
“What next?”said the President, smiling.
“We would like to be allowed to go and serve the
dinner to the old people some day during the Christmas
week.”
“Dear me! What would three hundred and fifty
boys do there?”
“I don't mean everybody, Father.”
“Whom, then?”
“Just enough to serve all their tables.”
“How many inmates are there in the Home?"
asked the Father.
“About two hundred, I believe,” replied Beecham.
“Very well, Henning; you may select two dozen
boys to go with you.”
“Thank you, Father. When may the feast take
place?”
“Christmas day falls on Monday this year. Suppose
you arrange matters for Wednesday. But
Wednesday night there is to be the Seniors' play,
isn't there?”
“Yes, Father,” said Bracebridge, “but I do not
think that will interfere. We can have the last
rehearsal in the morning, if necessary, or we can be
back by three o'clock in the afternoon.”
“Very good,” said the genial President; “arrange
everything with your prefect; but remember the
matter drops unless the response is generous among
the students. It would not do to send half a feast.”
“There won't be any danger of that, Father,” said
Jack Beecham confidently.[Pg 50]
“Very well. God bless you for your charitable
intentions,” and they were dismissed.
Beecham was correct. The students, almost to a
man, became enthusiastic over the proposed feast.
Abundance of provisions from the boys' boxes was
donated. Every boy, instinct with the spirit of the
season, gave something and gave it willingly. Some
were offended because they were not allowed to give
as much as their generosity prompted. One or two
who were inadvertently neglected were very much
vexed over not being asked to give their share.
Many wondered why the beautiful idea had not
occurred to them before. Others were so certain in
advance of the success of the banquet that they
then and there proposed to make it an annual occurrence.
The little black wagon of the Sisters—and who
does not know those wagons! a familiar sight in
nearly every city in the Union—made several trips
to the college on the Wednesday of Christmas week.
Hitherto the boys had paid little attention to this
vehicle as it daily drove modestly to the door of the
kitchen. On this day it came triumphantly into the
boys' yard, amid the lusty cheers of the generous-hearted
lads. Even old “Mike,” the driver, noted
everywhere in town for his delicious brogue, was an
object of special interest.
Owing to the excitement of the occasion—the
boys afterward declared this most solemnly—the
driver performed the remarkable feat of making the
old gray mare, which had seen almost as many years
as her driver, canter, actually, positively canter, up
to the classroom door where the provisions were
stored. In the after-discussion of this startling event
authentic documents were called for, and as they
were not forthcoming the cantering incident remains[Pg 51]
an historic doubt until this day. This old gray mare
was known——
The boys would not let the two nuns load the
wagon. There were too many strong arms and
willing hands for that. At last all the boxes were
on the wagon, and old “Mike” mounted his chariot
once more. This was a slow operation, for the old
man's joints were stiff and he was no longer active.
When one of the boys put the lines into his knotted
rheumatic fingers, he broke through his usual taciturnity
and said:
“You are good boys: good boys. God bless yees
all.”
“Three cheers for Mike,” shouted a lively
youngster in the crowd. The signal was taken up,
and it is safe to say that the old man never received
such an ovation before in all his life.
As the leather curtain fell the cheering boys caught
a last glimpse of the faces of two smiling Sisters,
jubilant over the fact that they were carrying home
an unwonted treasure for their old people. When
the wagon had driven clear of the mob of good-natured
boys, Jack Beecham ran alongside, and lifting
the flap said to the Sisters:
“Twenty of us are coming by eleven o'clock to-morrow.
So you are to do no work. We are going
to set the tables and serve the old people. Please tell
the Mother-Superior that she and the Sisters are to
stand by and give the orders, and we will do the rest.”
And the feast itself! What a revelation the inside
of the convent was to these gay, careless, happy boys.
The sight of so much pain and suffering and
dependence and resignation was to them a revelation
indeed.
To Ambrose Bracebridge, who eagerly accepted
the invitation to don an apron and turn waiter for[Pg 52]
the occasion, the scene was one of absorbing interest.
It will be remembered by those who have read the
second book of the series of three which deal with
the fortunes of the St. Cuthbert's students, that at
this time Ambrose was a convert to Catholicism of
about six months' standing, and consequently had
seen little or nothing of the workings of the vast
fields of practical charity within the Catholic Church.
The immense Catholic charities of almost every
imaginable kind which dot the land are so familiar
to ordinary Catholics that they scarcely cause comment
or notice. To Ambrose Bracebridge all was
new and wonderful. As a waiter on the old people
he did not prove a success. He did not do much
serving, but spent most of his time watching the old
people feasting, and the good Sisters looking after
their comfort.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said the chaplain of
the institution as he came up to Ambrose.
“I was thinking, Father,” said Ambrose, amid the
rattle of knives and forks, “what a wonderful charity
this is.”
“Yes? What impresses you most deeply?”
“The retiring modesty of the Sisters, I think, and
the wonderful way they have of managing these old
people.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, I am impressed with the docility and evident
gratitude these old people show toward the Sisters.
How is the institution supported, Father?”
“By the charity of all classes. Have you not often
seen the Sisters' modest wagon on the streets? It
seems to me that this one charity has touched the
tender spot in the heart of the American people.
Did you ever know a merchant, or a hotel manager,
Catholic or non-Catholic, to refuse the Sisters?”[Pg 53]
“Never,” replied the boy.
“Yet, after all, this is Catholic charity working in
only one direction. Did you ever realize what the
Catholic Church is doing for the State in this
country? It seems to me that the State would be
simply overwhelmed if all the Catholic orphanages,
asylums, hospitals, academies, protectories, deaf-mute
institutes, and, above all, the vast system of
parochial schools, which make, literally, a network
of Catholic charity over the land—if, I say, all
these were closed and the State had to do the
work.”
“Some, of pessimistic view,” continued the chaplain,
who was evidently quite optimistic in his own
views, “are always grumbling over the fact that many
non-Catholic institutions of learning are so richly
endowed, and that Catholics of the country are doing
nothing for education. I believe there never was a
greater mistake. It is true that, as yet, there are
few large Catholic endowments. They will come in
time. The money paid by Catholics in the interest
of Catholic education—and, mind you, at the same
time they are paying their pro rata share of taxes for
the support of all secular institutions, including the
public schools—the money paid by Catholics, I say,
throughout the country, makes a magnificent showing
when compared to the few highly endowed
secular universities.”
“Is not this a rather optimistic view, Father?"
asked Bracebridge.
“I do not think so,” was the reply. “Ponder over
it, and you will see that what I say is correct.”
“Here, you lazy rascal—oh! excuse me, Father—here,
Ambrose, you lazy rascal, get some of that
cranberry sauce from that table. You would not
earn your salt as a waiter, Brosie,” and Roy Hen[Pg 54]ning,
red-faced and excitedly busy, laughingly
pushed Ambrose in the direction of the sideboard.
Thus the talk with the chaplain was abruptly
broken off. Nevertheless, Bracebridge had received
much food for thought for future days. He pondered
to good effect, and the result was that his graduation
speech at the end of that year was on “Catholicity,
a State Aid,” which was subsequently the cause of
much comment.
One event occurred during the old folks' dinner
which was of great interest to some of our friends.
Roy Henning, during the latter part of the feast,
when the demand for the services of the voluntary
waiters was not so urgent, frequently passed a few
words with the chaplain who had acted as a sort of
honorary general superintendent of the banquet.
On one of these occasions Jack Beecham happened
to be passing with a plate of fruit for the table in
one direction, and Bracebridge was carrying something
in the opposite. Both were near enough to
inadvertently hear portions of what appeared to the
priest to be a very interesting revelation. Both boys
heard the end of a sentence:
“Seminary! You?”
“Yes, Father, please God.”
“When?”
“Next year.”
“For this diocese?”
“No, my own.”
“Ah! I am sorry.”
Bracebridge and Beecham exchanged glances as
they passed each other. What a revelation was here
for both in regard to Henning's conduct. Did not
this explain a thousand things?
As soon as the services of the two amateur waiters
could be dispensed with, they came together in one[Pg 55]
corner of the room, and while wiping their fingers
on the aprons the thoughtful Sisters had provided
for them, they eagerly discussed their accidental discovery,
but in a rather curious fashion.
“Please, Brosie, give me a good kick,” said Jack.
“Why?” asked his companion.
“Just to think, numskulls that we are, that we
never thought just this about dear old Roy.”
“I do not see how we could. Roy never gave us
the slightest hint.”
“No, but if we were not such ninnies—Oh! I
say, Ambrose, do you think it is true?”
“No doubt of it. 'Seminary—next year—his
own diocese' tells the tale most conclusively for me.”
“I'm so glad! If any one of us fellows is worthy
of being a priest, it surely is Roy.”
“Amen. But why has he kept it such a secret?
Now all his actions are clear to me, although I confess
I think some of them are mistaken or ill-advised.”
“I won't admit that until I know more,” remarked
loyal Jack.
“That's right, too. But knowing what we now
know, we can make things much pleasanter for Roy
than they have been so far this year.”
“Yes; if only for that I am glad we were involuntary
eavesdroppers.”[Pg 56]
CHAPTER VIII
Something Happens
THE charitable boys returned from the Little
Sisters early in the afternoon, aglow with the
warmth of their own good deeds, in time to
take a rest and an early supper, and put themselves
in good condition for the play that evening. It was
the Seniors' night, and they were to present “Richelieu”
for the first time at St. Cuthbert's in years. The
last performance of that great play, ten years ago,
had been a brilliant success. The present generation
of student actors were nervously anxious to equal,
and, if such a thing were possible, to excel the reputation
of the bygone players.
To make the situation more critical, several of the
old boys who had taken part in the play at its former
presentation had been invited to witness its reproduction.
Six or seven, stirred by the memories of
old times, had accepted the invitation. They were
the welcome guests of the college for Christmas
week. It can, then, be well understood that this play
was to be the great event of the holidays.
The afternoon passed quickly and already the
college theater was lighted. Already the boys had
more or less noisily scrambled to secure the best
positions. Suddenly the footlights shot up, sending
a thrill of expectancy through the audience. Amid
a rather unmeaning applause, for as yet it was certainly
unearned, the orchestra took their places.
Before the curtain, much expectancy; behind it a
much larger amount of suppressed excitement.[Pg 57]
Some of the actors were busy scanning over their
lines for the last time, and with regretful haste, sorry
now that they had not taken more to heart the advice
of the trainer and committed them to memory better.
Others were thronging around the busy make-up
man, getting into his way, and—as always happens—upsetting
the spirit-gum used to fasten on artificial
mustaches and beards.
Roy Henning, in the scarlet robe and white fur
tippet of Richelieu, nervously tugged at a blue silk
ribbon which was around his neck, and patiently
waited his turn for his make-up.
Shealey was De Mauprat and looked well in a
black velvet suit. Ambrose Bracebridge had a
decidedly comical appearance in a Capuchin's brown
habit and cord, with fleshlings and sandals, as the
monk, Joseph. Ernest Winters, who this year had
been promoted to the large yard, was to impersonate
Richelieu's page, François, and certainly his brother
Claude would have been proud of him could he have
seen at this moment how fine he looked in his handsome
doublet and trunks.
The play had been slightly modified to allow of
its presentation by college students. The Julie de
Mortemar had been for this occasion metamorphosed
in Julius de Mortemar, and was consequently nephew
instead of niece of the great cardinal. The adaptation
of the lines had been cleverly done, so the
transposition of this character did not greatly injure
the play.
Behind the curtain the actors could hear faintly
the squeakings and tunings of the orchestra violins.
Presently the first overture began, and the actors
knew their time had come. The manager, with a
commendable horror of delays and stage waits, and
knowing that anything of that kind would ruin the[Pg 58]
very best production, had everything arranged for
the opening scene when the music ceased.
The manager's little bell rings once, twice, and up
rises the curtain on the drinking scene in Marion de
Lorme's house. The great play of the year had
begun. Is it not strange that so many really good
plays open with a drinking or carousing scene? At
best, there is nothing elevating in them, and it takes
the finest kind of professionalism to make them even
tolerable. The St. Cuthbert's college boys were not
professionals. The consequence was that the first
scene went but slowly.
It was not until Henning, magnificently costumed
as Richelieu, entered, in the second scene, that any
of the players appeared at their ease. The round of
applause which greeted his entrance with Joseph
seemed to steady the actors and give them confidence.
There now occurred a strange thing during this
scene, which led to much talk and fruitless speculation
for many subsequent days. Henning made a
good entrance. He began his lines in a rich baritone:
Richelieu—"And so you think this new conspiracy
The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox?—
Fox!—Well, I like the nickname! What did Plutarch
Say of the Greek Lysander?”
Joseph—"I forget.”
Richelieu—"That where the lion's skin fell short he eked it
Out with the fox's. A great statesman, Joseph,
That same Lysander.”
Just as Henning had finished the rendering of the
sentence, “That where the lion's skin fell short he
eked it out with the fox's,” there was heard from the
far right-hand corner of the hall a loud, distinct
sound—one word. Clear and resonant, every one
in the hall and the actors on the stage heard it distinctly.
As nearly as letters will represent the sound[Pg 59]
it was “UGH,” The intonation of the one syllable
was such as to convey without doubt to the hearers
that the perpetrator regarded the words of the cardinal
as practically applicable to the actor himself.
Many heads were momentarily turned in the
direction whence the sound had come. Henning himself
gave a rapid glance to the corner of the hall.
As he did so, he saw his cousin Garrett drop his head
and look fixedly at the floor.
Boys at a Christmas play do not usually fix their
gaze on the floor. Henning felt that, for some
reason or other, his cousin had made the interruption.
For what purpose? Roy could not imagine. That
it was Garrett there was no shadow of a doubt, for
the actor plainly recognized the blue sweater his
cousin wore constantly. Perhaps after all this time,
thought Roy, his cousin was now trying to “get
even” with him, as he had promised, for refusing to
accompany Garrett to that carpet dance during the
summer. Roy loyally put this thought out of his
mind, but in doing this he was more mystified than
ever, as it left him without a motive which could
explain the curious action.
Fortunately for the success of the play the intended
interruption, and probably intended insult, did not
sufficiently distract Henning to the extent of spoiling
the scene. There was a pause but for a moment.
"A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander,"
he repeated, and thus recovering himself, the play
went on without further interruption to a most successful
finish.
The next day the attempted spoiling of the scene
was the general subject of conversation. Many boys
were uncertain who made the attempt. Henning did
not refer to the matter when Garrett approached
him. He accepted the many congratulations without[Pg 60]
evidence of either pleasure or displeasure, merely
politely bowing. He appeared indifferent to praise
or blame from his cousin. When, however, among
his own special coterie of friends he was by no means
passive.
After breakfast the Philosophers met in their own
classroom, which, as we have before stated, was a
sort of clubroom for them. Everybody crowded
around Roy. Some shook his hand vigorously,
others patted him patronizingly on the shoulders,
assuring him that he was “the stuff” without deigning
to explain their use of that word; others, in their
enthusiasm, thumped him on the back, and Ernest
Winters, who because he had taken part in the play,
had been allowed to come up to the classroom,
presented him, amid the profoundest salaams, with
a bouquet of paper flowers surrounded by cabbage
leaves which he had purloined from the kitchen.
“Ye done rale good, an' this is fer yees,” said the
young rascal.
“He did that,” said Jack Beecham, and turning to
Roy he continued: “If I knew who it was who tried
to rattle you, I would——”
“What?”asked Roy.
“I would—would punch his head,” replied Jack,
and manner, look, and gesture showed how pugilistic
were his inclinations at that moment.
“Who was it, Roy?”he continued, “I wasn't on
the stage just at that time, you know.”
“I do not know,” replied Henning slowly.
“Mental reservation,” said Bracebridge laughing.
“I do not know,” repeated Roy, and his friends
could get no more out of him.
“By the way,” said George McLeod, “are you
going to finish taking the subscriptions for the
pitcher's cage to-day, Roy?”[Pg 61]
“Yes,” answered Roy. “The boys seem to have
plenty of money now, and we want only about
twenty-six dollars more.”
“That's splendid,” said George, “we must have
that cage ready by the time classes begin again after
the Christmas holidays.”
“That reminds me,” said Henning, aside to Ambrose
Bracebridge, “that I forgot to take that money
out of the table-drawer and place it with the
treasurer. I intended to do it every day for several
days past, but every time I put more money in I
forget all about it.”
A shade of vexation passed over Bracebridge's
bright features. He said:
“I am sorry you forgot. It would be much safer
with the treasurer of the college. But I suppose it's
all right, anyway.”
“I have seven dollars in my pocket now belonging
to the fund. Let us go over to the playroom, boys,
and I will unlock the drawer and take the money to
the treasurer for safe-keeping.”
The group of boys left the classroom and went
diagonally across the yard to the playroom, which
was situated under a large study-hall, and was a
half-basement room.
There were about two dozen boys in the playroom
when our friends entered it. As Roy passed up the
long room, first one and then another complimented
the Richelieu of the previous evening on his fine
acting. Roy's cheeks flushed with pleasure. There
was some of that semiconscious gentleness of perfect
success about him. He was experiencing some of
the pleasantest moments he had ever spent at St.
Cuthbert's.
Jack Beecham took the key from Roy and unlocked
the door of the sports-committee room. The[Pg 62]
group that had recently left the classroom entered,
those in the playroom paying little attention to them.
Boys were accustomed to see various groups enter
the small room for the purpose of discussing various
sporting events and conditions of the college games.
“How much have you collected, Roy?”asked Tom
Shealey.
“About seventy-two dollars—seventy-nine with
this in my pocket. Wait; we'll see in a minute.”
He felt in his pocket for a small bunch of keys,
but could not find them.
“There! I have left my keys in my desk. Wait a
moment, boys, and I'll be back,” and he started for
the classroom.
“What a dastardly thing that attempt last night
was,” said one of the company.
“I guess Roy knows who it was well enough,"
remarked Tom Shealey, “but cousin or no cousin,
if he did such a thing to me, I would have to get a
very satisfactory explanation, or by the nine gods
he would pay dearly for it.”
“But Henning is too generous to take any further
notice of it,” said a boy named White, “but I
wonder whether Mr. Shalford will move in the
matter at all.”
“Haven't the least idea,” said Shealey. “I do not
see what he could do exactly. It seems to me it
were better to let the matter drop, and I am sure that
is Roy's wish too. Treat it with the silent contempt
it deserves.”
Which speech shows that Shealey was not always
consistent.
Ambrose agreed with him, although at the time
he was furiously angry. As Joseph in the play he
was close to Richelieu, and beneath the disguising
grease-paint on Henning's face he saw the hot[Pg 63]
flushes of passion rise, for a moment. Ambrose
thought that Roy was going to address the interrupter,
but he saw him check himself in time to save
a scene that would indeed have been memorable.
“Go on, Roy,” Ambrose had whispered. “A great
statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander.”
Henning took the cue from Ambrose, and although
trembling with suppressed indignation his friend
knew the play was saved.
“Where on earth is that Roy all this time?”asked
Beecham.
Just at that moment that young man reappeared,
red, and out of breath.
“Oh! I say, fellows, forgive me for keeping you
waiting so long, but Mr. Shalford caught me in the
yard, and—and, really, he was very complimentary.”
“Is he going to find out who attempted the interruption
last night?”asked young McLeod.
“Not if I can help it, George,” replied Roy.[Pg 64]
CHAPTER IX
Who?
“HAVE you your keys, Roy?” asked Bracebridge.
“Yes, here they are.”
Henning moved to the end of the table where
the drawer was, and picked out the key which was
to unlock the table drawer.
By this time all were engaged in a general discussion
as to the kind of pitcher's cage which should
be procured.
“I can not make up my mind,” said Roy, as he
inserted the key into the lock, “whether to recommend
the committee to get a wire backstop, or a
canvas one.”He had now opened the drawer and
was feeling mechanically for his subscription book.
“I think a canvas one will be better because it
will not be so hard on the balls, and be less noisy,
too. Why! where is my book—Ah! here it is.”
He drew out from the drawer the book containing
the list of donors. In the back of the book Henning
had made a rough sketch of what he supposed was
wanted as a pitcher's cage. He showed it to the
boys.
“Who's the artist?”asked Jack.
“Your humble servant,” replied Roy.
“H'm! Perspective all out. It looks two miles
long. I guess the grease-paint man of last night
could do better than that.”
“That's what you say, Jack,” answered Roy good-naturedly;
"I would like to see you do as well, anyway.”[Pg 65]
Jack Beecham was not in earnest. Henning had
caught him winking to the others while decrying
his work.
“Well,” continued Roy, as he put his hand again
into the drawer, “I would not ask Mr. John Beauchamps—to
draw—for me—a—a barn door—Great
heavens! Where's that money! I can't feel
it anywhere in the drawer,”
All this time Henning's forearm was in the drawer
and his fingers were nervously searching for the
bag.
“Give yourself more room. Open the drawer
wider, you goose,” said Beecham.
Henning pushed back his chair so suddenly that
it fell. He pulled out the drawer to its full length.
Then taking out the contents of the drawer he put
them excitedly on the table. There was a large
leather blotter, with pouches, a pad of athletic club
letterheads, a lot of spoiled half sheets of foolscap,
about a quire of clean paper, and a few small miscellaneous
articles.
“Did you have the money in a purse?”asked
Bracebridge, who could not keep his anxiety out of
his voice.
“No; it was in one if those yellow bank canvas
bags.”
“Look again through the pile of papers and be
sure it is not there.”
They all searched. The money was gone.
Those who saw Henning at that moment pitied
him from the bottom of their hearts. For a few
seconds he stood as one dazed. When he realized
the force of the catastrophe which had happened to
him he turned ghastly pale. His lips became livid.
Around them were distinct white lines.
For a moment the six boys stood in perfect[Pg 66]
silence. Ambrose Bracebridge seemed afraid to look
at his friend.
Henning stood as one dazed, not at present seeming
to realize all of the untoward thing that had
happened to him. It seemed to him as if he were
under water and could not breathe. He panted for
breath. A moment or two later a reaction set in
and the blood rushed to his head, making his sight
waver and his temples throb, and reddening his face
to crimson. He felt as if he were falling forward,
yet he remained motionless.
“Fetch Mr. Shalford, Ernest, but tell him nothing.
Say we want him at once,” whispered Bracebridge
to young Winters. The boy slipped out noiselessly
and it is doubtful if any one except the last speaker
noticed or knew of his departure. In half a minute
Mr. Shalford came in. As he pushed the door open
he saw the standing group, and began to laugh.
“High tragics, eh? Are you all posing for a
tableau? Where's the camera? What! What on
earth is the matter with you boys? Speak some of
you; what has happened?”
They certainly did look a lot of frightened boys.
Suddenly Roy regained the power of speech. With
a full realization of his own predicament he threw
up his hands in a despairing attitude.
“Oh, oh, oh! I shall be branded as a thief,”
Then he dropped on his knees and buried his face
in his arms on the table.
“That's quite dramat——”again began Mr. Shalford,
but suddenly checked himself. He now saw
there was something woefully wrong.
A moment before Roy Henning had a strong inclination
to burst out laughing at his ridiculous
position, but his self-control was too great to permit
him to give way to the nervous hilarity of misfor[Pg 67]tune.
Just as Mr. Shalford entered the room the
thought flashed across his mind of the consequences
at home for him. What would his stern father say!
Then a momentary thought of his mother's grief—and
he gave way.
Who can blame him? Roy was as yet only a boy,
after all. At present he lacked the stability and poise
of later years. Fifteen or twenty years later he
would have borne the crash of a financial misfortune
with a certain kind of equanimity. But he was
young yet, living in boy-world, with all a boy's
thoughts and feelings. And he wept. Do not blame
him. It is more than probable that under the same
circumstances you and I, and a hundred others, if
we ever had a spark of boy nature, or boy feeling
about us, would have done the same, and not thought
it derogatory either.
Mr. Shalford, putting his hand on Roy's shoulder
in a kindly way, said:
“What is wrong, Roy? What has happened?
Your friends do not want to see you in this way.”
The poor boy raised his head from his arm.
“It's gone. The money's gone. My character is
ruined,”
“That is not so, my boy. Be sensible. No one
in his senses will ever accuse you. How much was
taken?”
“All, sir, except seven dollars in my pocket.”
“But how much?”
“Seventy-two dollars.”
“Dear me! dear me! Seventy-two dollars! Why
did you keep so large a sum in a place like this,
Roy?”
“If I had a particle of common-sense I would have
taken Bracebridge's advice long ago. He recommended
putting it away safely two weeks ago, but
[Pg 68]I forgot to do it. What a fool I was—fool! fool,”
“Don't say that, my boy. Come, cheer up. There
is not a shadow of moral wrong for you in the whole
affair. It's a misfortune for you, truly. You can
bear that bravely. We may catch the thief yet.”
“Yes; but, sir, I shall be suspected. Many fellows
will point the finger at me. Oh!—oh! I think I
had better go home and give up all my plans.”
Give up all his plans! In the bitterness of his heart
he thought that all was ruined, that the secret hopes
of a vocation were now irretrievably lost, character
gone, opportunities wasted. Well, Roy Henning was
not the first and will not be the last of those who,
when sudden misfortune comes, grow exceedingly
pessimistic and want to give up. This was the first
great grief of Roy's life. All the petty annoyances
he had suffered from Garrett and his undesirable
clique sank into insignificance in the face of this
overwhelming calamity. Oh, why had he not
followed Bracebridge's advice, and, days ago, put
the money out of his own keeping!
“Yes,” he said again, “I think I had better
leave——”
“No, no, no, no, Roy,” came the chorus from his
friends.
“If you do so, now, Roy,” said Mr. Shalford, who
motioned silence to the others, “you make the mistake
of your life. You give your enemies—I mean
those ill-disposed toward you, if there are any—a
free field, and unlimited opportunities to vilify you.
You can not, you must not go.”
“But I must.”
“No, no, you must not, Roy.”
“But I must, sir. Oh, I can't stand it,”
“Well, if you must, think over your friends' sorrow
at such a course.”[Pg 69]
“Sir?”asked the bewildered boy, not at all understanding.
“I say, think of our sorrow, your friend's sorrow
at such a step. And, Roy, think of your mother's
sorrow! A son with a blighted name! Don't you
see that by running away now you make a tacit confession
of some guilt? No, you must not go,”
Long ago Mr. Shalford had surmised what were
Henning's intentions and aspirations for a future
career. He saw this affair would be an occasion of
trying the very soul of the boy before him, and that
it would either make or break him. He thought, and
correctly, that he knew the character of the youth
now in such deep trouble, and he was anxious that
he should make no false step. He looked Roy
straight in the eye, and said seriously:
“Definitely, you must not go,” and then, as calmly
as he had spoken before, he made use of a somewhat
enigmatic expression: “Eagles live on mountain
heights where storms are strongest.”
A quick glance from Henning told the prefect that
the boy understood him, and the saying also told the
boy that the prefect had divined his intention accurately.
Mr. Shalford had thought the words and
the glance would be understood by himself and Henning
only. In this he was mistaken. Two boys,
who had overheard Roy's words to the chaplain at
the Little Sisters, understood perfectly.
“Very well, sir. I stay,” said Roy.
“That is right; that is sensible,” said Mr. Shalford,
but in a moment Henning burst out, with an
agony in his voice that was piteous:
“Oh, the shame of being suspected! What shall
I do! What shall I do,”
“Let me think what is best to do,” said Mr. Shalford,
who walked up and down the room once or[Pg 70]
twice. He realized that it was a critical moment in
Henning's life, and he wanted to gain a little time.
He decided that it was wisest to get Henning away
from the scene of his misfortune at least for a few
hours.
“What you will do now is this, all of you. You—Henning,
Bracebridge, Beecham, and Shealey, will
go out at once for a long tramp, buy your dinners
somewhere, and do not come home till dark. Have
you plenty of money?”
“Yes, sir; yes, sir, lots of it,” answered the delighted
three who were not in trouble.
“I don't think——”began the despondent Henning.
“That's right; just now do not think,” said the
energetic prefect. “It will do no good. Walk and
talk instead. Come home tired out, all of you.”
Three out of the group were enthusiastic over the
plan. But there were two other very long faces just
then. George McLeod and Ernest Winters were not
included in the generous proposal.
“I say, Mr. Shalford, may not the kids come,
too?”asked Tom Shealey.
“The kids! Whom do you mean?”and the prefect
turned and saw two very disconsolate faces. He
thought for a moment.
“Let—me—see. Records clear, Ernest? George?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the two, their hopes rising.
“How were your notes in the Christmas competitions?”
“Pretty good, sir, eighty-two,” answered Ernest.
“Fine, sir, mine were eighty-nine,” answered
McLeod for himself.
In the meantime Mr. Shalford had caught Henning's
eye. By a slight raising of his eyelids he
wordlessly inquired if the company of these smaller[Pg 71]
boys would be acceptable. Roy answered by an
almost imperceptible affirmative movement of the
head.
“Very well, then,” the prefect said, “I suppose
you both may go, too, but it's only another weakness
on my part, letting small boys out all day. You big
boys must take care of them.”
“Whoop,” shouted Ernest vociferously, and even
the disconsolate Henning smiled at Ernest's resemblance
in voice and manner to Claude, his brother,
especially under stress of any pleasurable excitement.
“Of course I will set about investigating this
money matter at once,” resumed Mr. Shalford, “and
you six here had better keep the whole matter a
secret, at least for a time.”
This injunction was useless. The prefect, this
time, had reckoned without his host. At his own
exclamation of surprise at the discovery of the theft,
several boys who were in the large playroom,
crowded around the door, unobserved by the prefect,
whose back was toward them. Already the fact was
known in the yard to some extent. Already had
little excited groups begun to discuss the startling
event.[Pg 72]
CHAPTER X
A Day's Adventure
MR. SHALFORD at once told the President of the
theft, and what he had arranged for Henning.
The head of the college agreed with the prefect
in thinking that a day's outing for Roy would
be the best distraction he could get. A change of
scenery and of faces would be beneficial, and prevent
the unfortunate boy's mind from dwelling too morbidly
on his misfortune while the event was still
fresh.
“Why, why, why! What's this? Boys out of
bounds? Where are you going? Dear me, dear
me,”
The President, with a merry twinkle in his eyes,
shook his gray locks, and a long finger, at the six
boys whom he purposely met on the snow-covered
lawn in front of the college.
“Where are you going?”he asked again.
“We hardly know yet, Father,” said Jack
Beecham. “We have only a few minutes ago obtained
permission from Mr. Shalford for a day
off.”
“A day off! and what do you expect to do with
it?”
“Take a good tramp, buy our dinners at a farmhouse,
and have a good time, Father.”
“H—hm! Have a good time, eh? Well, that's
right. You can all be trusted. Hope you will enjoy
yourselves. Wait. Where are your skates? If I
were you I would take them with me. In your[Pg 73]
journeying you may come across a frozen pond,
and then you would regret being without them.”
“That's a good idea, Father. We will go back and
get them,” said Jack.
“Do, and meet me here before you start.”
The boys turned back into the yard, and the
President went to his office. A few minutes later he
met the boys. He was carrying a good sized
parcel.
“Were you not some of the charitable boys who,
out of their abundance, provided the old folks with
a feast yesterday?”
Not one of those engaged in that enterprise answered,
but Ernest Winters said:
“Yes, Father, these four big fellows were some
of them and I think they are all a set of mean
fellows.”
The four, and the President, too, looked surprised.
“Why do you think that, my child?”he asked.
“Because they didn't give any of us smaller boys
a chance to give anything toward the feast.”
The four big “mean” fellows burst into a laugh.
“Never mind, Ernie, this time,” said Jack
Beecham, “we had too much anyway. You shall
have a chance for the next spread.”
The President smiled at Ernest's vehemence, and
at the nature of his charge.
“On your way,” he said to Henning, “I want you
to call at the Little Sisters and give them this
package. I learned last night that although your
dinner there was a great success yesterday, still there
are many poor creatures, both men and women, who
are in the infirmaries and could not attend. Here
are a couple of boxes of cigars for these old men,
and two boxes of candy for the old women.”
The boys were delighted to be given such a[Pg 74]
mission. A bright smile of welcome spread over the
features of the Sister who answered the door, when
she saw these college boys again.
“Come into the parlor, young gentlemen, and I
will call Mother.”
The Superioress soon came. She was profuse in
her thanks for what the students had done that week
for her charges.
“May God bless you all,” she said. “Our old
people, since yesterday's dinner, have done nothing
but talk about the kindness of the young gentlemen
in remembering them. Many extravagantly funny,
and some really comical things were said in your
praise,” and the nun's eyes twinkled and a smile
stole around the corners of her mouth at the remembrance
of many a quaint bit of Irish humor from
the old men.
“Oh, tell us some of the things, Mother,” said the
impetuous young Winters.
“I am unable to reproduce any of it. I should
only spoil it if I were to attempt it. You must come
and hear them yourselves some day.”
Henning then told her their mission.
“Please convey my thanks to the President. All
of you must visit the infirmaries and distribute the
gifts.”
Whether this is what the President intended—we
are inclined to think it is—that visit was the
very best thing that could have happened to Henning
in his present frame of mind. There is nothing like
witnessing the sorrow and misery of others to make
us think less of our own. For the first time in his
life Henning was face to face and in close touch with
pain and suffering and disease and all the calamities
of impoverished old age. What was a misfortune
like his to that of being doubled and rendered help[Pg 75]less
by rheumatism? Here one was totally blind,
but marvelously patient. There another whose distorted
hands rendered her powerless to help herself.
Another had to be lifted and tended and fed as a
little child in the helplessness of old age and years
of sickness. Yet all, under the fostering charity of
the nuns, were clean, docile, grateful, and as cheerful
as their condition would permit. Yes, the visit
was very beneficial to Henning.
It is true that Roy's greatest distress was, after all,
in the anticipation of what was to come. He knew
there were many who were by no means kindly disposed
toward him. Would these set afloat rumors
and reports? Would they attempt to blacken his
character? He greatly feared they would.
The chagrin caused by having lost the money
entrusted to him through want of a little prudential
forethought, or through mere forgetfulness of what
he had the intention of doing, was bad enough. The
imputations and the innuendos he dreaded far more.
He realized that life could be made very bitter for
him. But after all, what was all he might have to
suffer, even granting the gloomiest view of the
future to be the actual one, in comparison to the
chronic and hopeless pains of these poor people in
the Sisters' infirmaries?
He left the convent in a much more cheerful frame
of mind than he had experienced since the discovery
of the theft. His companions gladly saw the change.
They did their utmost during the long tramp over
the hills, by quip and prank and song and jest, to
make the time pass pleasantly.
It was a splendid day for a winter's walk. It is
true there was no sun, but neither was there a breath
of cold air stirring. There was an even gray sky,
a motionless atmosphere, and just sufficient snow[Pg 76]
to accentuate the beauties of a winter landscape, but
not enough to envelop everything in an indiscriminating
white pall. It was an ideal winter day in
which to be outdoors.
The fresh snow that had fallen during the night
and early morning remained on the trees, loading
down every branch and twig. The well-known
bridle-path through the woods, along which the boys
passed merrily, had a double carpet, the upper one
of snow, and beneath that a spreading of dry autumn
leaves.
The great charm of a windless snow-covered
forest is the absolute silence that prevails. Nothing
was heard by the travelers save the distant occasional
bark of a shepherd-dog, or a far-off train whistle,
sounding like a dismal appeal for help, and subconsciously
regarded by the hearers as an irreverent
intrusion upon the silence of the solitude. Once in
a while from an overweighted bough the soft snow
would fall, but with a muffled sound as if fearful of
breaking nature's sabbath calm.
As the boys traveled merrily on, here and there
they saw the “vestigia” of birds or rabbits, and once
they discovered what they supposed to be deer tracks
in the snow. Descending to a pretty hollow they saw
a scene which delighted them immensely. In the
bottom of the hollow, which in the summer time was
a beautiful glade in the forest, there was standing
out alone with a clear space around it, a magnificent
snow-laden spruce tree. Each graceful downward
curve of the limbs sustained its load of pure white
snow. The symmetry of the forest king was unmarred,
but appeared glorified by its covering of
whiteness.
The six were enraptured. They gazed long at
the beautiful sight and would have delayed much[Pg 77]
longer had not Jack Beecham, who had assumed a
temporary leadership of the excursion, warned them
of the unwisdom of staying too long in one place.
A little farther along they saw an ideal winter
scene. A large, comfortable farmhouse, with all the
sheds and barns of a well-kept farm, lay at their feet
under a mantle of white. From the broad chimney
arose a straight column of blue smoke, telling of
warmth within. In the barnyard were several head
of comfortable looking sheep and fat cattle were
contentedly ruminating in the shelter of a huge straw
stack. One of the inmates of this cosy looking farmhouse
had, probably unconsciously, added the last
touch to complete the artistic effect of this scene of
gray and white. In the door yard on a clothesline
were three or four brilliantly red woolen shirts which
heightened by contrast the more somber colors of
the scene.
“That's our Mecca if the fates be propitious,” said
Tom Shealey, as the boys were viewing the scene
here described from an elevated point at least a mile
away.
“It is a comfortable looking house and doubtless
has a well-stocked larder. I wonder if the Dowsibel
of the Kitchen could be induced to turn a spit for us.”
“'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,” observed
Beecham, “for already I believe I could eat
a couple of sheep and a Michaelmas goose.”
The boys had already walked a good seven miles.
All were beginning to feel tired and to realize the
necessity of a good meal.
“Suppose we can not be entertained there?”suggested
Ernest Winters.
“Then we shall have to tramp on till we find a
place where we can be—perhaps ten miles more,"
said Roy Henning teasingly.[Pg 78]
“O—oh,” groaned Ernest. Roy laughed.
“Well, do not despair, little one. Nine miles from
here I know of a wayside hostelry where we may
perhaps get some year old crackers and eggs, with
an apology for coffee, and have the privilege of paying
Delmonico prices.”
“Oh, oh! Nine miles—oh! Sixteen miles and
crackers! Oh,” groaned Winters again. All burst
out laughing at the comical look of despair Ernest's
face had assumed.
“Look here, Ernie,” said Roy again,“if it comes
to the worst we can eat our shoes and our skate
straps, and our gloves for dessert.”
During their chatter they had continued their walk
down the hillside toward the comfortable-looking
farm. When about half way down the road they
saw a jolly looking, red-faced man—in the clear
atmosphere they could easily distinguish his red face—come
out of the farmhouse, take his stand on the
stoop or veranda, shade his eyes with his hand, and
look a long time at the approaching boys.
“We shall know our fate in a few minutes,” said
Jack Beecham in a tragic whisper to Ernest. “If
we are not welcome he will set his savage dogs on
us as soon as we get near enough, and then we shall
be hungry orphans out in the cold world, sure
enough.”
But no such catastrophe occurred. After gazing
a few minutes the man went into the house and
closed the door. The boys opened the yard gate
with trepidation, fearful of the onslaught of some
vicious watchdog, and more afraid than they would
have been owing to the rascal Jack's ominous forecast
of the possibilities. To their great relief no
canine enemy appeared.
All they saw pleased them. There was an air of[Pg 79]
prosperous, generous plenty everywhere. The hay-mows
were bursting with sweet-smelling hay. The
wheat barn was congested with unthreshed grain.
The cows, pigs, and sheep were fat, and evidently
well cared for. Repose was everywhere. In such
a place as this, thought Roy, life must be well worth
the living.
“Cave canem,” whispered Bracebridge, as he
espied the watchdog lying on the porch of the house.
This old Roman warning, “Beware of the dog” was,
on this occasion, unnecessary, for when the animal
saw the visitors he merely wagged his tail and did
not take the trouble to stir. He seemed too fat and
too contented with life to care about molesting a
mere parcel of college boys, and his instinct told him
they did not belong to the genus tramp.
As they reached the porch of the house the good-natured
looking man who had watched them coming
down the hillside opened the door. The boys noticed
that he had put on his coat to welcome them. While
making his observations he had been in his shirt-sleeves.
“Welcome, young gentlemen. Come right in by
the fire,” was his hearty greeting. “Mother, Mother!
Here are some young gentlemen from Cuthberton,”
he called to some one in the large living-room.
A kind, motherly woman appeared in the doorway.
She was clad in a warm homemade linsey dress,
with a white handkerchief over her shoulders, and
white muslin cuffs to match. A black lace coif
surmounted her snow-white hair. The boys saw a
very smiling, kindly face in the doorway greeting
them.
“Welcome, welcome, my dears. You are welcome.
But, please, scrape the snow off your shoes before
you come in. I am very particular about that, am[Pg 80]
I not, Roland?”and she glanced affectionately at
the big man beside her.
“Yes, yes, indeed she is,” he remarked humorously.
"Would you believe it, gentlemen, she leads
me an awful life about my dirty boots—awful—awful,”
“Roland,” said the elderly lady, “how you do
talk,”
The husband gave a sly, comical wink to the boys,
who immediately understood the nature of the
amicable bantering which they soon found was going
on constantly between these two.
“Take off your overcoats, my dears, and come up
to the fire. You must be cold. There's no wind,
but it's near zero. And did ye walk all the way, from
St. Cuthbert's College? You must all be tired.”
She saw at once they were college boys.
“Did ye now! Well now! well! well! My! but
that's a long way to walk. Roland, go ye and get
another hickory back log, and start a good blaze.
Now sit ye there and warm yourselves. I'll be back
in a minute or two,” and the kindly woman put down
her knitting and bustled out of the room.
“This is fine,” said Tom Shealey. “We are in
luck for sure.”
“I wonder where she has gone,” ventured Ernest
Winters, in a whisper.
“Gone? Um! um! don't you know, youngster?"
said Jack Beecham, with a shrug, and a stage
whisper. He was a terrible tease. “Better keep
your eyes on your skates and overcoat, Ernest. Of
course she has gone to gather all the hired men on
the farm who will soon be here to drive us off the
premises. The ogre of this castle won't stand for
any such invasion as ours. You can see it in her
eye.”[Pg 81]
But Ernest was not to be caught a second time.
“You can't fool me this time, mister. I think—but
hush! here she comes.”
She came. With her came two of her maids bearing
with them eatables—sweet homemade bread,
apparently created to make a hungry schoolboy's
mouth water, delicious pats of golden butter, red
cheese, and an enormous pitcher of new milk—what
a lunch for hungry boys!
“I am very glad you came,” again remarked the
dear old lady. “To-day I give the farmhands and
the dairy maids a sort of Christmas-week feast. It
is a holiday in this house to-day. We don't have
dinner to-day until after two o'clock, and as that is
late and you must be hungry with your long walk
already—- my! it's nigh onto eight miles to the big
school, isn't it—you had just better take a snack
before dinner-time. Come, sit up to the table, my
dears; that is if you are warmed enough.”
The young fellows did not need a second invitation.
Hunger is a good sauce. Growing boys
are always hungry and the sweet, wholesome farmhouse
fare was extremely enticing. Such butter!
No oleomargarine there. Were it not, as mentioned
before, that boys have a perpetual appetite, I am
afraid that the amount of bread, cheese, butter, and
milk disposed of would have seriously interfered
with the enjoyment of the forthcoming dinner. At
all events it wanted considerably over two hours to
dinner-time.[Pg 82]
CHAPTER XI
An Afternoon's Fun
IF the writer of these veracious chronicles knows
anything about boys—and he has been accused
of having that knowledge—he is sure that his
boy readers, and his girl readers, too, for that matter,
will expect an account of that famous farmhouse
dinner. Well, we can not delay the story by merely
describing what people eat; yet it was a gorgeous
feast for our friends. The enjoyment was greatly
enhanced by the complete unexpectedness of it all.
Not the least part of this enjoyment was the hearty,
extraordinary welcome given to a troop of boys who
had never been to the house before and were entire
strangers to the good people who entertained them
so royally.
A few minutes after two o'clock the farmer took
from a shelf in the common living-room a large
seashell and went to the porch and sounded it lustily,
much to the astonishment of George McLeod, who
had never seen a shell put to such a use before.
“How did you do it?”he asked.
“Just blew into it. Try it yourself,” said the
farmer. McLeod tried and tried again, but could
not produce a sound.
“What is it for?”he inquired.
“To call the hands to dinner. We have no bells
or whistles out here in the country, so we use a horn,
or a big shell, which is the next best thing, and I
believe it sounds farther. On a still day I have
heard this shell five miles away.”[Pg 83]
“Come, boys; wash for dinner,” called the
motherly housekeeper. They were not allowed in
the kitchen while the maids were dishing the dinner.
They were taken to a side porch and there shown a
rain-barrel and several tin pans and soap. A large
round towel hung on a nail close by. The boys
enjoyed this primitive method of performing their
ablutions.
The dinner was a surprise even to those boys who
were not unused to occasional big dinners at home.
George McLeod said that never in his life had he
seen so large a turkey, but it was found none too
large after it had passed the guests and traveled to
the end of the table. And the stuffed ham! And the
mince pies, and tarts, and rosy apples and nuts, and
that old-fashioned plum pudding! Well, we must
stop: it is not fair.
There were two wings in the rear of the house
which the boys had not noticed when descending the
hill in front of the dwelling. To one of these all
the maids of the large household retired after dinner,
and the farmhands went to the other, where they
spent the rest of the afternoon in smoking and enjoyment
until it was time to feed and water the
stock, milk the cows, and do the other necessary
daily farm chores.
Roy Henning and his companions, after the dinner,
were invited to sit around the blazing yule log.
The old lady sat in the center of the group in an
old-fashioned armchair whose back reached some
twelve inches above her head, and which had large,
broad, comfortable arms. It was well padded and
comfortable, and was covered with a serviceable
chintz of a soft green color. She sat in the midst of
her guests, before the blazing logs, a very picture of
content and matronly dignity. Her husband sat next[Pg 84]
to her, and their guests were arranged on either side.
With fine tact she drew out each boy and made
him appear at his best. Although, owing to the
generous welcome given them, all reserve and bashfulness
had vanished long before the dinner, yet the
coziness of a winter afternoon indoors made them
chatty and even confidential. They told her of the
play the night before and of its success. They found
interested listeners in host and hostess.
“I should so like to have been there,” said the old
lady. “I am so fond of good dramatic productions.
Providing the tone is correct there is no more elevating
form of amusement than the drama.”
“Hold on there, mother,” said the husband, “grand
opera is finer. In that we get all that dramatic
presentation gives, with the addition of excellent
music.”
“You know, my dears,” said Mrs. Thorncroft, for
that was the old lady's name, “my husband is an
enthusiast in matters musical.”
“So is Ernie Winters,” said his friend George
McLeod.
“Is that so?” said Mr. Thorncroft, enthusiastically.
"Is that so? Well, well! Now I wonder, mother,
whether these young gentlemen could not sing some
songs for us. Wouldn't that be fine, eh?”
“Jack Beecham can sing, ma'am,” said George
again.
“Oh! you keep quiet, youngster,” said Jack.
“I won't. He sings first rate, sir.”
“Capital! Anybody else?”
“Yes,” said Beecham, “George McLeod there,
who is so fond of getting other people into difficulty,
can sing, too.”
McLeod shook his fist at Jack. But it was well
known that he had a good voice.[Pg 85]
Then, to the infinite delight of the musical farmer,
songs and glees and madrigals and rounds were
sung. It was an impromptu concert, but of no mean
order, for the lads were well trained and had a good
stock of songs. They wished, properly, to make a
return in some way for the kindly treatment they
had received and were still receiving. “Holy Night"
was given, and “Good King Wenceslaus,” and “God
Rest You, Merry Gentlemen," “Angels We Have
Seen and Heard,” and many others. Then followed
the college songs, and the concert was closed with
the old favorite of St. Cuthbert's, the “O Sanctissima.”
When the singing had ceased there was a momentary
silence, during which the six boys exchanged
signals and glances. Suddenly there were two very
startled people in the company around the ingle
nook. The old lady half arose from her chair in
consternation and amazement. Her husband stared
in wonder when he heard such a vociferous and unexpected
sound. Had the boys gone crazy? Certainly
the old people, kind and hospitable as they
were, for at least one minute thought so. Such an
unearthly noise! It resembled nothing so much as
a wild Indian warcry.
After all it was only the college yell.
In the school days of Mr. and Mrs. Thorncroft no
such thing had ever been dreamed of. Living now
in seclusion out in the country amid plenty and a
certain rustic refinement, this elderly couple had
never heard that modern accomplishment of a
college man—the yell. It may be exhilarating to
the college man; its use may be within the modern
bounds of propriety, and it may, among the coteries
of the more advanced, be considered the correct
thing; but it is certain that the old lady, who had[Pg 86]
been educated in a French convent in her youth,
hearing the yell for the first time did not think so.
Her unformulated idea, judging from her looks, was
that it was an indication of atavism—a going back,
in one particular—to man's former state of
savagery.
The boys were amused at her surprise. She then
saw that it was something done for her entertainment.
They evidently thought it was something
very fine. These lads lacked, just now, what one
may call perspective. They lacked the proper appreciation
of the correctness, or fitness, of things.
They knew the college yell was the most enthusing
thing on earth to them when used on the campus in
a grand rush to victory, but they did not think, or
realize, that the same yell given in a small room
might be startling and even offensive to an elderly
lady.
“You must excuse me now, boys, for a little
while,said the farmer. “I must go and look after
my men. I will be back soon. Mother"—he always
called his wife by that name—"are all the
walnuts gone?”
“No. Dear me! I never thought about them. I
will get some.”
She returned with a large dish of walnut and
hickory nuts. In lieu of the usual table nut-crackers
she brought a flat stone and two hammers. While
the boys were busy cracking and eating nuts she
said:
“You do not know, my children, what an unexpected
pleasure your visit has been to me. Would
you like to know the reason? Very well, I will
tell you,she seated herself comfortably again in her
green chintz-covered chair.
“I love boys because somewhere in the world there[Pg 87]
are wandering two of my own dear children. Both
left home when they were about the age of you four
big boys, and I love to remember them as such even
now. They were fine lads, with rosy healthy cheeks,
and they were good. You lads with your bright
eyes and clear skins, and good pure faces make me
see my own two darlings once again. Do I long to
see them? Ah, yes. Oh, how much, how much!—once
again before I die. But I am not grieving
about them. No. Every night I commend them to
the keeping of our blessed Mother, and I feel that
wherever they may be a mother's prayers for them
must be heard. I am sure that Our Lady is taking
care of them.”
“Why did they leave home?”asked Henning sympathetically.
“Ah! the wanderlust. The desire to see the world.
But you boys must come and see me again and I
will tell you the story. There is no time now, as I
see my husband coming from the cattle-shed.”
“Mother,” said the cheery voice of Roland Thorncroft
a moment later, as he opened the door, “would
not these young gentlemen like a good skate on the
meadow pond? It has been swept by the wind, and
is capital ice.”
Jack Beecham looked at his watch. It was already
four o'clock.
“We are thankful,” he said, “but I am afraid we
must do without that pleasure. It is quite time we
started for home.”
Husband looked at wife. She nodded, and then
he nodded. Something was settled between them.
“Don't you like skating, boys? I thought you did,
seeing each had a pair of skates along.”
“Very much, sir,” said Tom Shealey, “but we must
be starting now.”[Pg 88]
“Come along, then. Bring your skates. There is
no wind and it is not nearly as cold as it was this
morning. You will not want your top-coats.”
The boys looked puzzled. The host saw the look
of mystification on their faces. He burst into a
merry laugh.
“You simple children,” he said, as soon as he
could. “Do you think that after being our guests
all day, and singing for us as you have done, we are
going to let you walk home! No, no. You just get
your skates and come along with me. I'll show you
the finest piece of ice in the country. You can skate
there for an hour or an hour and a half. By that
time coffee will be ready, eh, mammy? And a
bobsleigh. We are going to have just the finest,
most musical sleighride this evening you ever
saw, or heard. You had better come along, mother,
too.”
“Really, I have half a mind to.”
“Do, do, do, Mrs. Thorncroft; do, do,” chorused
the boys.
“I will see by the time you return for supper.”
When the time came for starting, however, she
decided to stay at home. She had prepared a lunch
for the journey, for there was no time now for a
formal supper. After each boy had taken a bowl of
steaming coffee, she bade them adieu. Such handshakings!
Such good-byes! The jolly lads subdued
their merriment momentarily when she kissed each
one a farewell on the brow. It was a beautiful
moment in each one's life and was never forgotten
by any of them.
They had a glorious ride in the moonlight and
the frost. And so it happened that six merry boys
came joyously into the college yard at about seven
o'clock, happy, tired, excited, and chattering like[Pg 89]
magpies about the unexpected good time they had
enjoyed.
“I am glad the plan worked,” said Mr. Shalford
to himself. The boys never learned that the dinner
at Thorncroft's was a prearranged affair. As soon
as he had decided to send Henning and his companions
out for a day's change, the prefect had told
one of the farmhands to get a fast horse and arrange
with the Thorncrofts for the boys' entertainment.
He had suggested to Tom Shealey and Jack Beecham
the best route to take without arousing their suspicions,
and everything had happened just as he had
planned. Some men are positively ingenious in their
charity.[Pg 90]
CHAPTER XII
Reports
PERHAPS it was not the wisest course to have pursued,
after all, on the part of the prefect, to
have allowed all the boys who were present
at the discovery of the theft to be absent for the
whole day. Twelve hours was ample time for a
number of rumors to be born, grow strong, and
become, in the minds of some, established facts.
There were, unfortunately, all too many willing to
believe, not maliciously but thoughtlessly, the wildest
and most absurd report. A few were anxious to
find something more than a mere misfortune in that
which had befallen the treasurer. These did not
hesitate to sit in judgment on their fellows, to discuss
and impute intentions which with knowledge
any less than omniscient they could not possibly
possess.
Almost as soon as the discovery had been made,
the news spread like wildfire through the yard. Excited
boys gathered in groups and discussed the
situation. It was certainly the biggest sensation St.
Cuthbert's had witnessed in many a day—more
exciting than the Deming affair. The rumors were
legion and as contradictory as numerous.
“Hi! Jones; have you heard the news?”asked
Smithers, about half an hour after the discovery.
“No. What?”asked Rob.
“Haven't heard of the robbery?”
“No. What robbery? No one has stolen our
costumes, have they?”[Pg 91]
Rob Jones was full of the play of the night before,
and just at this moment he considered the costumes,
if not the most valuable, at least the most attractive
things for a thief to make away with.
“Costumes! Not much! It's cash. Hard-earned
cash; at least cash subscribed by other people. The
delectable and very pious Henning has managed to
lose seventy-two dollars which the boys had already
subscribed for the cage.”
“Managed to lose! I don't understand. Speak
plainer.”
“I mean, then, that Roy has lost that money and
the report is that he was robbed of it.”
“You miserable cur,” said Rob Jones.
In a flash he saw Smithers' motive. There had
evidently been a robbery. No matter how, or when,
or where, without knowledge of any of the details
whatever, Rob Jones was as sure as he was sure of
his own existence that Roy, big, generous, noble-hearted
Roy, was guiltless of the least shadow of
complicity. As soon as he realized that Smithers,
in the mere telling of the event, was so coloring the
facts by innuendo and sneer that Roy's name would
probably suffer, Jones became furiously angry.
“You miserable cur,” he repeated, and made a
spring for the other's throat. Luckily the high collar
he wore saved Smithers to some extent, or he might
carry to this day some ugly marks. Jones fairly
shook him, as a mastiff would shake a whelp.
“You cur! Is this the way you would blacken
one's reputation! I tell you Roy is innocent, and
you shall apologize to him for your dastardly insinuations.
Come with me, come with me, I say,” and
he began to drag the now frightened boy across the
yard to where he thought Henning was. Smithers,
trembling, began to say something, but it was un[Pg 92]intelligible,
which is very likely to be the case when
another has a strong hold on the speaker's throat.
“Hold on there, Jones. You can't find Henning.
He's gone out. I saw him and several others leave
about half an hour ago,” said John Stockley. A
crowd had now gathered about the two.
“A fight! a fight,” was the word that ran around
the yard.
Rob Jones relaxed his hold, but did not release
the boy. Holding his fist close to his captive's face
he said:
“Now take it back, or I'll thrash you till you can't
see.”
“Wha—what did I say?”asked Smithers.
“You know very well what you said. You said
that the delectable and pious Henning had managed
to lose seventy-two dollars of the boys' money.
That's a lie. Take it back, or I'll——”
“It isn't a lie,” whimpered the choking Smithers.
"Didn't he have charge of the money? And hasn't
it been stolen?”
“But did he, as you say, manage to have it stolen?
That is, is he implicated in the theft, as you imply,
or is he not? Speak out, man, if you have a spark
of honor in you. Speak out, or I'll thrash you if I
have to leave here to-morrow.”
Generous Rob! There were few boys at the college
at this time who knew that this same Rob Jones once
played the rôle which Smithers was so unsuccessfully
attempting. He had repented of that long ago, but
never had there come a time, for which he had often
wished, when he could safeguard another's reputation,
as a species of reparation for the damaging
of Howard Hunter's in the long ago.
Irrespective of the idea that actuated him, Jones
was quite convinced, even without knowing the[Pg 93]
simplest details, that Roy Henning must be free from
all moral blame. Roy Henning was a boy whom
Jones honored and loved. All these circumstances
must be considered when we pass judgment on the
vehement burst of passion which put young Smithers
in danger of strangulation. He muttered some kind
of apology to the absent Roy, and Jones with a
positive grunt of disgust flung the frightened boy
as far as he could send him. He stumbled along for
several paces before regaining a steady footing.
Mumbling something inaudibly, he slunk away, but
more than one of the students saw an ugly, ominous
look on his face as he went.
“I hear all sorts of reports,” said Stockley; “tell
us the true story, somebody.”
There was no lack of talkers, and almost as many
theories. Few versions of the affair agreed in substantials.
In the course of the morning all sorts of
foolish rumors were flying around. One was, that
Roy Henning had been caught in the act of pocketing
the money and had been instantly expelled. In
confirmation of this, the question was asked: “Where
is he? No one has seen him since the discovery!"
Another busy rumor had it that six boys were implicated
and had been summarily dismissed.
“Did not the President see six boys off the
premises this morning?”was advanced as a reason
for this wild guess. Robert Jones, the absent boy's
champion, happened to hear this last stupid remark.
“You set of babbling geese! You lot of old
women! Here you go and jabber away people's
reputations as easily as—Oh! you make me sick!
Look here, you fellows, those six boys, and Henning
among them, are out for a day's holiday. I say the
President would rather send home six dozen dull-heads
such as you fellows, than these six. They[Pg 94]
have been given a privilege that you ninnies would
never get if you were here fifty years. Mark my
words! To-morrow morning I shall call upon some
of you brainless gossips—some of you silly babblers—to
repeat before them what you have the impudence
to say behind their backs.”
In this manner Rob Jones did much to keep down
the public excitement, and to reduce all stupid talk
to a minimum. Mr. Shalford, also, had put something
of a quietus on many senseless and ugly
remarks which some malicious or thoughtless boys
had set afloat. While admitting that the loss of the
money was to be deplored, he did all in his power
to exonerate Henning.
“Although the loss is severe,” he said, “yet after
all no one individually suffers much. It is true that,
probably, we shall not be able this winter to purchase
the much-wished-for cage. Well, we have never had
one yet, and we can wait a little longer. The whole
affair might have worn a much worse aspect than it
does. Suppose it had been one of our own boys that
had been guilty! I shudder to think of such a thing!
Now do not spread idle and useless conjectures as
facts. We shall endeavor strenuously to discover
the thief, and until he is discovered it were better to
make no rash surmises. Especially must we refrain
from accusing any one of the crime until we have
positive proof of his guilt, and until he is discovered
it were better and safer to make no surmises. Some
very stupid rumors have already reached me. Pray
do not lose all credit for common-sense. Let every
boy act with moderation and justice. No one has a
right to constitute himself a judge of his fellows.
If any well-grounded suspicious circumstance comes
to light, I am the one to be consulted and no other.”
With such sensible remarks, and Rob Jones' gen[Pg 95]erous
defense of his absent friend, much of the excitement
had died down before the return of the six
excursionists.
When they arrived, wrapped in buffalo robes and
hoarse from singing on the way, all the boys had
assembled in the college theater to hear a burnt-cork
minstrel entertainment and to listen to the orchestra.
Supper was prepared for them in the infirmary, and
they were told that they might occupy beds there
"for one night only”if they wished to avail themselves
of that privilege.
Thus it happened that Roy Henning and his
friends met none of the boys that night. They had
no opportunity of judging the public pulse until the
next morning. Tired as Henning was from the
exercise and the strain and excitement of the day,
he could not sleep. After tossing from one side to
the other for an hour he got up, and, throwing a
blanket around him, sat at the window and began to
do the worst possible thing under the circumstances.
He began to think and brood.[Pg 96]
CHAPTER XIII
What Henning Remembered
THERE was much in Roy Henning's disposition
to make him a creature of temperament. Had
he not been so strong and muscular one would
sometimes be inclined to imagine that he was
possessed of the peculiarly feminine accomplishment,
yclept “nerves.” For the least reason, and sometimes
apparently for none, he was all exhilaration
and enthusiasm. On such occasions everything was
the brightest of bright rose-color, and the failure of
a project in hand was not even to be dreamed of.
Should anything go ever momentarily wrong in a
pet scheme, he became the veriest pessimist. All
would go wrong; all the world was conspiring
against him. If it rained at such times, even nature
herself was in league against him.
While he was to a large extent a creature of temperament,
it must not be supposed that he had not
a high appreciation of manly qualities. None, perhaps,
at St. Cuthbert's, certainly none of his day,
had loftier ideals. With these and with his splendid
physique he represented as fair a type of Catholic
early manhood as could be found.
Henning had one peculiar trait, and to this may
be traced much of the trial and vexation to which
he had already been subjected, and much of which
was to fall to him for the remainder of his time at
St. Cuthbert's. He remained too much self-centered.
This was frequently an occasion of trouble to him.
An instance: it will be remembered that he was told[Pg 97]
by his director not to tell any one save his parents of
his intention of entering the ecclesiastical state. He
took this advice as absolute, and on it molded his
conduct, with what inconvenience to himself we have
already seen.
It is not to be wondered at, then, that he kept his
thoughts and his fears and troubles arising from the
loss of the money to himself. All that day, except
that first burst of grief, he made no outward manifestation
of what he was feeling or suffering. Of
course he was thus depriving himself of the sympathy
and help which his friends were only too ready
to offer. Actuated by the highest of supernatural
motives, he nevertheless deprived himself in his
difficulties of the guidance and assistance of a faithful
friend. Roy had yet to learn that troubles told
into sympathizing ears are more than half healed.
Small wonder then, with this habit of reserve, if the
circumstances in which he found himself on this
holiday night of Christmas week paved the way for
a very gloomy meditation.
He recalled his early school-days. Why had he
been so unlike other boys at school and at college?
They were always full of self-assertiveness and self-reliance;
he had always been timid and retiring.
Perhaps it was the reflection of that timidity he had
always felt in the presence of his father. Had his
college life been a happy one? Unfortunately, for
the most part, no. Not until last year—one year
out of seven—when he had the company and full
sympathy of such noble characters as Howard Hunter,
Claude Winters, Harry Selby, Frank Stapleton,
and others. With such characters as those he could
not help being happy. But all these had gone;
passed out of his life. Oh, if some of them were
here now to help and show him what to do![Pg 98]
Those dear boys! And oh, that visit to Rosecroft,
and that nearly fatal accident when he so narrowly
escaped being struck by the chute boat! There was
this consolation, that if the clouds thickened around
him he would get Ambrose Bracebridge to take him
over to Rosecroft Manor. There was Mrs. Bracebridge
there, who would understand him and who
could always help and direct and encourage him.
Thinking of her, Roy became more cheerful. I
have said that he was a creature of temperament.
Here it served him in good turn. He began to take
a brighter view of the trials he knew awaited him
on the morrow. Was he not entirely innocent? Who
would dare to impugn his character? He would face
all bravely, explain how he discovered the theft, and
blame himself publicly for his imprudence in keeping
so much money locked in a common table drawer.
Then who would dare to say a word against his integrity!
All would pass over soon. He would write
a full account to his father, who would doubtless
make good the loss.
“By the way,” he suddenly thought, half aloud,
"am I responsible? Must I make restitution of the
lost money?”This was a puzzling question which he
could not decide. He determined to consult his
spiritual director the first thing in the morning. But
wouldn't he like to catch the thief!
This last thought led him to a mental survey of all
persons who might possibly be guilty. To his credit,
he spurned the idea that any one of the college boys
could be the culprit. No St. Cuthbert boy could do
such a thing, and if by chance it should happen to be
a student, were they not all Catholic boys? Would
not the first confession the thief made result in a
full restitution of the ill-gotten goods? He had little
hope that any such thing would occur, but he had[Pg 99]
not the slightest idea that any college student would
prove to be the delinquent.
He endeavored to imagine a way the theft could
have been accomplished. It must have been committed
between seven o'clock on Wednesday night
and six on Thursday morning, when the boys rose.
It could not have been done later than a minute or
two after six, because it was the custom of a number
of boys who were in training to use the playroom as
a kind of indoor running-track immediately upon
rising and before they took their shower bath.
He remembered that the door of the committee-room
had been locked by himself in the evening just
before the play began. It is true that the only window
of this room was not fastened, but there were
iron bars on the outside. He remembered now that
one of these bars—they were half above ground
and half in a window well which was covered by an
iron grating, that one of these bars was loose, for
he now recalled the fact that yesterday he had seen
a boy move one of them with his foot as he stood
on the grating. Could the thief have gone through
the window?
Henning suddenly clutched his chair in the
greatest excitement. There had flashed into his
memory an incident which he had witnessed the
night before, but which until this very moment had
not come to his memory.
He remembered now that after the play last night
he stood at the Philosophy classroom window, and
across the yard he had seen a boy crouching down
at these very bars. He had paid little attention at
the time, as his mind was full of the Richelieu he had
just played. The electric light in the yard was so
located that it put the boy, the window, and one third
of the sidewalk in deep shade. The other part of[Pg 100]
the sidewalk was very bright. He now remembered
that when he first saw the boy he was in a crouching
position. He had not paid much attention, and other
things occupying his mind, he soon forgot all about
it. What was that other thought? Ah! now he
remembered. It was that wretched attempt to spoil
the second scene of the play. He now recalled that
for some time he forgot all about the boy at the
grating but when he did think of him again he remembered
seeing the boy as if he were just rising
from his knees, which, as he stood, he brushed with
his hand. At the time the boy received very little
attention from Roy, who now remembered having
vaguely wondered why any one was out in the yard
when all, except the players, were in the chapel at
evening prayers. Chapel bell had sounded immediately
after the play, so the actors could not divest
themselves of paint and disguises in time to attend.
Who could that boy have been? Last night Henning
was not interested enough to find out. To-night
he would give a great deal to know. He remembered
now that the person, whoever he was, wore a black
soft felt hat, which was pulled down well over his
eyes and hid a great portion of his face. A soft felt
hat would not identify any one. There were dozens
of them in the yard. Oh, if he could only remember
how the boy was dressed!
“Great heavens,” he ejaculated aloud in sudden,
intense excitement.
He arose and clutched the blanket around him and
folded his hands across his breast. His face was very
white. He trembled. He began to pace the floor,
muttering as one demented, or at least as one under
the strongest stress of excitement. Great beads of
perspiration stood out on his forehead. At one time[Pg 101]
he thought he was going to faint. He had made a
discovery, and the discovery sickened him.
The boy he saw at the window grating had worn
a blue sweater!
“No, no, no, no,” said Roy to himself many times.
"I can't—I won't believe it. I must be mistaken.
It can not be he! No, no! Yet no one else has a
sweater of that color,”
By this time he had left his room and was excitedly
pacing up and down the lengthy corridor.
Luckily he was barefooted, or he would have disturbed
everybody. The more he thought over his
discovery the more he became convinced of the
identity of the burglar. His conviction and wretchedness
grew in proportion.
“It can not be! It can not be! Impossible! Impossible!"
he muttered, as he strode up and down.
"Andrew is mean in many things, but not a common
felon! It can not, can not be true,” and he was
hoping against hope for his family's sake.
Henning was never so excited in his life. For a
long time he walked up and down on the cocoa-matting.
His blanket trailing behind him, often
caught the leaden binding of one of the strips of
matting. This would be raised about a foot and fall
with a bang; his excitement prevented him from
noticing the noise he was making.
Not so the old infirmarian, whose room was at
the end of the corridor. Peering out, he at first
thought he saw a ghost. But ghosts do not trip on
cocoa-matting. He followed the disturber of his
repose. Henning, still under pressure of strong excitement,
walked the whole length of the corridor.
He turned suddenly to encounter the angry infirmarian.
“Oh, it's Henning! What are you doing at this[Pg 102]
unearthly hour of the night, disturbing my sleep?"
said the old man in an unusually sharp tone for him,
for he was generally mild and kindly. The official
at first thought it was an ordinary case of somnambulism,
but he soon found Henning to be very wide-awake.
“I've found it—the secret. I've got it,” exclaimed
Roy in excitement.
“I guess you have—bad,” said the old man with
grim humor. “Well, if you boys will fill yourselves
up with rich plum-pudding and cake in the daytime,
you must expect to suffer at night. There now, get
back into bed, and don't disturb the whole house with
your nonsense.”
“Oh, if I were only sure, I would settle the whole
thing to-morrow,” muttered Roy. It is doubtful if,
in his excited condition, he had seen the infirmarian
at all.
“I'll settle you in the morning if you don't get
back to bed at once. Get now.”
But Roy did not move. He had lapsed into a
thoughtful mood. He stood, with his chin on his
hand, motionless.
“Do you hear me, boy? It's time to stop this
Indian ghost-dance business. There's no sense in
breaking an old man's rest. Get to bed.”
The infirmarian was fully persuaded that the
whole affair was only a practical joke, such as even
sick boys, or those, at least, who sometimes get
passed into the infirmary on the plea of sickness, are
not always above playing. Seeing that Henning did
not move or pay any attention to his words, the infirmarian
took hold of his shoulders and gave him
a vigorous shaking. This operation had the effect
of bringing the distracted boy down to the knowledge
of mundane things at once.[Pg 103]
“Eh! oh, ah,” he said in a bewildered, sheepish
way. “I've made—a horrible—discovery,”
“You'll make another very unpleasant one in the
morning if you don't get into bed at once. Don't
cause any more disturbance.”
Without another word Henning went back to his
room, and softly closed the door. He did not get
into bed, but continued his ruminations.
“Andrew! Andrew,” he moaned, “I did not think
it would come to this,”
He dropped his head on the window-sill and
thought for a long, long time. It was in some
degree a contest between self-interest and family
pride. It was a long struggle, and the result of these
cogitations he announced to himself as he threw the
blanket from his shoulders across the bed. They
were comprised in two short sentences:
“I must keep silence! I will keep silence,”
The decision may have been fanciful, or it may
have been heroic. We shall see later. It led him
into complications, the nature of which he little
dreamed.[Pg 104]
CHAPTER XIV
Facing the Boys
WHEN Roy Henning entered the college chapel
at half-past six to attend Mass, his movements
from the time he appeared at the door
until he had taken his seat were watched by many
scores of pairs of curious eyes. To even the small
boys, who came near the big fellows only in the
chapel, Roy was an object of deep interest, for by
some means the reports and rumors of the big yard
had seeped through to the small division, and the
most wonderfully distorted stories had been circulated.
Henning had been attacked, fought desperately,
conquered and bound, three men single-handed.
He had been captured and carried away by burglars
(wasn't he absent all day?) to their cave, and gained
his liberty by the most daring feats of skill and
bravery! Young imaginations are active, and young
tongues more so.
The Philosophers—Henning's class—occupied
the front benches in the chapel. When Bracebridge
and Henning came in they had as yet met no boys
since the public knowledge of the discovery of the
robbery. Roy was in some peculiar way quite conscious
that his advance along the aisle was causing
quite a commotion, although its manifestation was
decorous on the part of the boys, owing to the place
in which they were gathered, and to their reverence
for its divine Guest.
Rob Jones occupied the outer seat of the bench.
As the two friends were passing him he turned his[Pg 105]
knees aside for them to do so and took Roy's hand
and gave it a warm squeeze. The pressure was
gratefully returned. Roy took heart. Much
strengthened by this show of sympathy, he determined
to meet all inquiries after breakfast and
give all the information he possessed to any one who
should ask.
His regret over the loss was as poignant as when
it was first discovered, but in some way he now felt
that he could face all the boys and answer all their
questions. He could not have done this the day
before. Perhaps Jones' unspoken sympathy had
given him courage.
As he expected, a large group gathered around
him after breakfast.
“How did it all happen?”asked John Stockley,
anxious to learn the particulars down to the minutest
detail.
Henning gave them all the information he possessed.
When the discussion had died down a little,
he said: “As far as I can see, the thief must have
entered through the window.”
“From the yard side, or the garden side?”
“There is but one window, if you remember, in
the committee-room, and that is on the yard side.
All the windows on the garden side are in the playroom
outside the committee-room.”
“That's true, come to think of it,” said Stockley;
"but could not the thief have gone in by the playroom
by way of the partition door?”
“I do not think so,” answered Roy, “because, you
know the door has a Yale lock, and I am the only
one who has a key to it, except Mr. Shalford.”
“It is not likely that he robbed the drawer,” said
Stockley with a laugh. “We are all very sorry for
you and you have our sympathy.”[Pg 106]
Stockley looked around, and the others in the
group nodded in affirmation.
“Thanks. You are very kind. You can not regret
this occurrence more than I do, especially since I
failed to take Bracebridge's advice to put the money
in a safer place.”
“It's lucky that a fellow like you lost that money,
and not a poor beggar like me,” remarked Smithers,
who was standing on the outer edge of the gathering.
Henning looked sharply at the speaker:
“Why?”he asked.
“Simply because a fellow like you who always has
plenty of money will find no difficulty in replacing
that which is gone. Such a thing would be impossible
for impecunious me,” and the speaker turned
his empty trousers' pockets inside out, and spun
around on his heel. A few laughed, but the majority
were silent, not liking the clownish exhibition of
bad taste.
Henning was, naturally under the circumstances,
in a nervous condition. He at once suspected that
this Smithers was merely the spokesman of many
others, and that he was expressing their sentiments
as to what his line of action should be. Whether
he acted judiciously or not in this immature stage of
developments, we leave to subsequent events to determine.
He replied, and rather warmly, too:
“I don't know so much about that, Smithers. It
may turn out to be the misfortune of all, at least of
all who contributed. I really do not remember
whether you gave anything or not. I shall certainly
not make up the loss unless the President fully convinces
me that I am under obligation to do so. I am
going to see him now. Even should he decide against
me I do not know whether I shall be able to replace
the money.”[Pg 107]
A faint murmur of surprise and dissatisfaction,
Henning was convinced, ran through the increasing
group, as he, in company with Bracebridge, moved
away toward the President's office.
The two walked slowly away from the crowd of
boys. Bracebridge appeared to be thinking deeply.
He had something to say, but hesitated to say it.
Ambrose, with the instincts of a born gentleman,
was always extremely careful of the feelings of
others.
“Roy,”
“Yes.”
“You said just now to that cad of a fellow that
you did not know——”
“Whether I should be able to repay the money.
Yes. What of it?”
“That is a startling statement——”
“Not so very. But in the first place I am not at
all sure that I shall be held responsible. Look here,
Brose——”
They stopped at the foot of the steps leading to
the President's room.
“Look here. Supposing there had been a fire, and
the money had been burned. I should not have been
told to restore it, should I?”
“I do not know that you would be held.”
“Now if one undertakes to hold money temporarily
for others, and takes ordinary precautions for
safe-keeping, do you think he would be held responsible
for it if it were stolen?”
“But the safer plan would have been——”
“Am I held to take the safer plan? Of course, I
regret that I did not take the safer plan, as you suggested,
but am I held to have taken the safer plan?
Wasn't the ordinary precaution sufficient? The door
of that room was locked, the drawer of the table was[Pg 108]
locked, and it was not generally known that I kept
the money there at all.”
“You seem to make out a good case for yourself,"
said Bracebridge laughing, “but we will let the President
decide the case. It is too hard for us. But I
did not intend to talk about that.”
“What then, old fellow?”
“You told Smithers, for the benefit of the whole
yard I take it, that you did not know whether you
would be able to pay back the money. Now I
thought——”
But he stopped awkwardly upon seeing the deep
blushes suffuse Henning's brow. What had he said?
Were these blushes of shame or vexation? What
could possibly be the matter?
“I—I—thought—that—I thought——”he
stammered, at a loss how to proceed.
“Go on, old man. I know that whatever you
would say, you do not intend to wound me.”
“Thank you, Roy. That's perfectly true. But perhaps
I should not have broached the subject at all.”
“Go on; go on.”
“Well, if you insist. I thought that you always
had plenty of money. From what you say it seems
that this is not the case. Now if—if you will allow
me—if I might—if you would not be offended—if—oh!
you understand me, Roy,” he blurted out
at last. “I want to help you pay it back.”
Henning did not speak: indeed he could not have
done so just at that moment. There was a very big
lump in his throat. He hemmed and coughed once
or twice, but that only made it worse. Bracebridge
saw his friend's embarrassment, but did not speak.
He took Roy's hand.
“I understand—true friend,” said Roy, huskily,
"but I can not explain.”[Pg 109]png—-\D.F Pg110 png—-\D.F Pg110
He was silent for some time. He then said, partly
to himself and partly aloud—"but I can. Why
should I not do so? He is true and loyal. My
father put no conditions of secrecy on me, or on his
strange action. Ambrose?”
“Well?”
“Will you listen to me?”
“Of course I'll listen to you.”
“Thank you. In order that you may know why
I believe I shall not be able to pay back that money,
I must first tell you of a peculiar thing my father has
thought fit to impose upon me.”
“Go ahead then, but since confidences are in order,
let me tell you one first, which will make your story
easier to tell, more probably. Next year you are
going to study for the priesthood,”
“How on earth did you learn that?”
“At the Little Sisters' dinner. I was an unintentional
eavesdropper, and I heard you say to the
chaplain, as I was passing with some dish or something,
these words—'for my own diocese: next
year.' Let me congratulate you, Roy, on your
choice. I have always thought ever since I first
knew you that you were worthy of that high calling.”
“You do surprise me, indeed,” said Roy, “but your
knowledge does not make my story the easier to tell.”
Roy Henning then told Ambrose of his desire to
enter the seminary, of his broaching the subject to
his father during the last vacation, and of the strange
test to which his father had thought fit to subject
him.
“Now, Ambrose,” he said, when he had finished
his narration, “you may understand my conduct in
refusing to play ball this year, on account of which
so many of the boys seemed so disappointed. I have
met with so many annoyances since last September[Pg 110]
that more than once before this loss of yesterday I
had all but determined to leave old St. Cuthbert's,
and be quit of it all. I would have done so if it had
not been for you and Jack and Tom.”
“I am sincerely glad you did not.”
“Well, I do not know whether I am. But let me
go back to my subject. You see, that with my
father's present peculiar view of things, it is by no
means certain that he will make good this loss, and
if he refuses I shall be in a bad pickle.”
“Oh, Roy,” said Bracebridge, with a vehemence
that was almost passion, “let me do it. Let me do it
for you. You know my father. You know that he
has every confidence in me; he is not a crank,
and——”
“Stop, Ambrose,” said Roy, “I can not allow you,
even by implication, to speak disrespectfully of my
father. That I do not understand his motives is true.
That it is mighty hard on me is equally true, but he
is my father.”
“There,” said the other in dismay. “I am always
putting my foot into it. Forgive me. I didn't mean
anything; indeed I did not. Oh! Roy, you know
what I mean. Let me help you out of this. It's as
easy as A-B-C, you know. No one need know.
Pshaw! one would be a poor friend, if, when quite
able, he should hang back.”
“Thanks, dear old fellow. Many thanks. We will
see. We will see. If it comes to the worst, I won't
hesitate to talk to you again about this. In the
meantime we will drop it for the present.”
With this Ambrose had to be content. The two
friends then rapped at the President's door.[Pg 111]
CHAPTER XV
Suspicions
UPON the whole, Roy Henning was well pleased
with the manner in which the boys had received
him. Over-sensitive as he was, he had expected
that they would either accuse him of complicity,
or openly blame him for the loss of the
money. Taken altogether, they behaved remarkably
well. The majority had real sympathy for him in
the awkward position in which he found himself.
With a fine regard for his feelings, no one, after
Roy's first announcement of his probable incapacity
to refund, mentioned openly to him the question of
restitution. Everybody understood that the President
had arrived at some decision on this point, but
all were in the dark as to its nature.
The days passed into weeks. Every effort was
made to trace the thief, but without success. It
became finally the general conclusion that some outsider,
in no way connected with the college, was the
culprit, and that he had gotten off safely with his
booty. But in the many impromptu committees, organized
in moments of unusual zeal for the purpose
of “doing something,” the unanswerable difficulty
always arose—"How could a stranger know there
was money in that particular room of the dozens in
the college?”
The pitcher's cage was not purchased that winter.
It was noticed by the boys that Andrew Garrett, as
far as they could observe, never once spoke to his
cousin about the loss. Roy, owing to the result of[Pg 112]
the thoughts of the sleepless night he had spent in the
infirmary, imagined that Garrett had good reasons
for keeping clear of him.
He was keenly alive to Garrett's every action, resulting
from what he believed to be well-grounded
suspicions. He did not fail to notice one peculiarity
on the part of his cousin. Very soon after the
robbery Garrett discarded the sky-blue sweater which
had made him so conspicuous a figure in the yard
ever since September. Roy confessed to himself
that he was unable to attach any importance to this.
The theft had been too genuine a sensation at the
college for all discussion to die out soon. In the
course of time the whole yard appeared to be divided
into two factions or parties. One side was loyal and
strenuous in upholding Henning, claiming him to be
beyond reproach and spotless in his integrity. As
may be surmised, the leaders of this party were Jack
Beecham, Tom Shealey, Ambrose Bracebridge, and
Rob Jones, the first defender of Roy in his absence.
These companions knew Henning well. They called
him “Don Quixote.”They teased him often, yet
they knew that he was the soul of honor. Any one
of these would as soon suspect himself as cast suspicion
on Roy.
The existence of this party was the outgrowth of
a popular indignation against a few boys who had,
in discussing the robbery, persistently left the impression
that they considered that there was an unsatisfactory
mystery about it.
Out of kindness to Roy, little—scarcely anything—of
what his friends heard in the yard reached his
ears. When he did not happen to be present his
friends were by no means backward in denouncing
the opposition.
Henning asked no questions, even of his friends,
[Pg 113]yet by a kind of unconscious assimilation he became
aware of the strong sentiment against him, and of
the strong resentment of those opposed to him.
These things he learned more by averted glances and
partially concealed avoidances than by overt act or
speech. He never mentioned this to his friends, who
thought he did not observe it. No one had ever told
him of Jones' catlike spring at the throat of
Smithers, yet Roy learned of it in some way, and
while he was filled with gratitude toward Jones it
only tended to confirm his own opinion that there
was a large party antagonistic to him.
There was now only a mere speaking acquaintance
between Henning and Garrett, which, as cousins,
they could not avoid. They observed the merest
civilities.
About the middle of February Henning and his
friends were surprised to note that Garrett was
spending money very freely. He had always
availed himself of every little luxury that could be
purchased within the college bounds, but now it
seemed that he was more lavish than ever. Spring
was approaching. Garrett purchased two or three
baseball bats, a fine shield, mask, catcher's glove,
and a number of the best baseballs. He evidently
paid the highest prices, for upon inquiry it was
found he had had no communication with the prefect,
or with the sports' committee who usually secured
some discount for cash. Clothes, shoes, hats, and
ties were also lavishly purchased. What could it all
mean? To add to the mystery Stockley and that boy
Smithers, who had turned his pockets inside out in
proof of his impecuniosity, were also spending considerable
money, although a much less amount than
Garrett.
All this, of course, strengthened Roy's suspicions.[Pg 114]
Where did he get all the money? And why was he
making such a lavish display? Roy was, nevertheless,
puzzled by the evident fact that while all noticed
Garrett's free purchasing, no one appeared to suspect
him of any connection with the lost funds.
Henning could not in conscience mention his
suspicions to any one. If any one would but broach
the subject, then he would talk and take advice on
what was the best line of action to pursue. His
common-sense told him that to accuse his cousin
publicly on his mere suspicion would be worse than
useless.
To add to the complications of the situation, within
a week or two of Garrett's expenditures Roy himself
began to spend money freely. Where it came
from was a mystery which was not cleared up for
many a day. He expended quite a sum on books,
baseball goods, shoes, etc.
It is quite certain that Henning did not realize
how large the majority was who were in opposition
to him. Had he done so he would have acted with
more discretion, for the time was critical for him.
Even some of his best friends were sorely put to it
to account for his outlay. More than one of his
staunchest supporters began to waver in their allegiance.
No one doubted his integrity, but some
were not pleased with his want of prudence. Before
closing this narrative we shall explain where this
money came from, why Roy bought the particular
goods he did, and why he bought them at this particular
time.
“I wonder how it is,” said Smithers, “that Henning
has so much money to spend just now.”
“Don't know I'm sure, but I suppose it is all
right,” replied Stockley.
“But isn't it strange that he who has been so close[Pg 115]
all the year should change and be lavish so suddenly?”
“Oh, come off! that's an innuendo! Give the
fellow a show. You are hinting that it is the subscription
money he is now spending, and that, consequently,
he was the thief.”
“Oh, say, don't put it that strong,” said Smithers
uneasily.
“But that's what you mean, all the same. I don't
like him, but to do him justice, I don't think—I'm
sure—he had any hand in getting away with that
money.”
“Why?”
“Oh, because—because I don't believe he had,
that's all.”
“But that's no proof.”
“Didn't say it was. I said it was my belief.”
Just at that moment Bracebridge and Garrett
joined the speakers.
“Look here, Bracebridge,” said Smithers, “Stockley
says that he doesn't believe that Henning had
anything to do with taking that money.”
“I'm sick of all this talk,” said Ambrose angrily;
"just as if any one who knew Henning at all could
entertain such a thought for a moment,”
“But why is he spending so much just now?”insinuated
Smithers.
“I don't know, and I don't care. It's none of our
business anyway.”
But he did care. He was very uneasy. He remembered
what Roy had told him of his home affairs.
He was sorely puzzled, yet his loyalty did not waver.
“For my part,” said Garrett, “although Henning
is my relative and I am therefore naturally concerned
in all that he does, I can not help thinking that his
action is a little unfortunate.”[Pg 116]
“For your part,” retorted Ambrose, “and for your
own credit, you had better say as little as you can.”
“For my part I shall say what I choose, and to
whom I choose.”
“Then do not choose to say it to me, for I won't
hear it,” and Ambrose walked away, very angry.
“Humph! the great mogul is getting quite huffy,"
remarked Smithers. “Well, never mind, Garrett, for
although Henning is your cousin you are not to
blame if he falls under suspicion.”
In his heart Garrett knew Henning was innocent.
But he did not like him. He was jealous of him.
He saw in him qualities of mind and heart which he
knew he himself did not possess, and, as is the case
with all small natures, he was jealous. He had
neither the wish nor the courage to state his belief
in Roy's innocence.
On the other hand Garrett despised Smithers. The
boy was poor. Every one knew that. But poverty
is no disgrace, and never at St. Cuthbert's has it
been a subject of reproach. There are some natures
which become vicious because of their poverty.
Smithers was one of these. He was one of those
who, in season and out of season, was forever reiterating
what he called his suspicions. This was
the more base, because, had there been any foundation
for them, gratitude should have compelled him
to remain silent. On more than one—on many
an occasion—Henning had quietly and unostentatiously
helped this boy out of little financial difficulties,
such as paying his library fees and fines, securing for
him tennis shoes, and little things of that kind.
Garrett had just heard all this for the first time,
and the better side of his nature at that moment,
notwithstanding his strange remark to Bracebridge,
was in the ascendant. Secretly he was ashamed of[Pg 117]
his comradeship with Smithers, who was perhaps
one of the most undesirable boys at St. Cuthbert's.
“Shock”Smithers—so named on account of the
permanently untidy condition of his hair—was,
therefore, very much surprised indeed at what he
next heard from Garrett.
“Of course,” Garrett began, “as you speak with so
much certainty about my cousin, you have positive
proof of his guilt?”
Smithers began to laugh. He thought that a good
joke.
“I see no laughing matter. I ask you a plain
question. You have proof of Henning's guilt—which
for some reason you are withholding?”
“Not—not exactly proof, you know, but, eh—but
you know, eh—you know as well as I do how
suspicion points to him.”
“Then you make all this to-do on mere suspicion?”
“Of course. We have nothing more than suspicions,
have we?”
“Yes, certainly. You must have more than suspicion
when you state publicly that Roy deserves to
be in State's prison.”
“I—I did not say that. I—”
“Yes, you did. I heard you myself, and on that
I largely based my own judgment. Don't lie.”
“I did not say that definitely, you know. I said
that if what is said about him is true he ought to be
there, Andy.”
“You are a liar! I myself heard you say it, and
what is more, I have only just now heard how Roy
has been treating you ever since September, giving
you books, money, and buying things for you.
You're a skunk! that's what you are.”
Garrett walked away. Smithers was left in no
enviable frame of mind. The principal part of his[Pg 118]
chagrin arose, not from the fact that he had been
mean and cowardly, but that it had been discovered
that he had received assistance from any one, and
especially from Roy Henning.[Pg 119]
CHAPTER XVI
Roy Makes a Move
ROY HENNING gave much anxious consideration
to the ugly tangle in which he found himself
involved. He sincerely, but unavailingly,
regretted that he had allowed himself to become the
treasurer. Perhaps, he thought, if he had followed
the letter of his father's wishes this unfortunate
business would never have happened.
The more he thought over what he remembered
to have seen on the night of the play the more convinced
he became of the guilt of one who would be
the very last he could wish to be implicated.
At times he doubted and wavered in his convictions.
Was he absolutely sure that it was his
cousin whom he had seen that night? Could it not
have been some one else? There was no one else
in the yard who wore a blue sweater. He was
sure he had seen this on the boy who had
entered the window. Yet was he absolutely sure
that it was Andrew? When he put this question
to himself and demanded an answer, he always gave
it unhesitatingly in the affirmative. Yet, strange to
say, at other times he doubted the accuracy of his
conclusions. Might he not be mistaken after all?
There was a possibility. The figure was in the glare
of the arc light so short a time, and in the shadow
so much longer. Was it not possible that he was
mistaken after all?
The size of the boy certainly corresponded with
his cousin's build and height, but, after all, most[Pg 120]
boys of about the same age resemble each other in
build. Oh, if it had not been for that soft hat pulled
down over the face! Could he have obtained but
one glance at the face in the strong electric light
there would be no hesitating. But this the thief took
precautions against. The leaf of the hat was drawn
well over the nose, making it impossible to see the
face.
There was no question about the blue sweater
being there. The short black coat which Garrett
usually wore over the sweater was there too. Was
there a sufficient motive on the part of Andrew to
commit such a crime? On this point the boy was
much puzzled. Garrett, he knew, had plenty of
money. There could be no pecuniary inducement to
commit the crime. Ha, perhaps there was an inducement
after all. Before Christmas had it not been an
open secret that several boys had lost heavily—heavily
for boys at school—on some foolish betting?
Mr. Shalford had heard of this foolishness,
found out a few of the bets, and forced the winners
to return the money. He had broken up, apparently,
the habit which periodically becomes a temporary
mania with a certain class of boys. Perhaps Garrett
had lost a bet and wanted money!
Henning could not believe that any personal pique
against himself would be a sufficient inducement for
his cousin to go to such lengths to gratify it. Felony
is high payment for the gratification of spite. That
threat of “getting even,” which Garrett had used
against him last summer, Roy believed to be the expression
of a momentary vexation. It is certain he
did not connect it with anything so serious as this
robbery. Long ago he had forgotten it, and he
supposed Andrew had done so too.
What then, supposing it were he who had com[Pg 121]mitted
the crime, could have been Garrett's motive?
Roy could not fathom the difficulty. He had to
leave it unsolved. He saw there was no proportion
between Garrett's little pique and the enormity of
this deed, which would forever brand the perpetrator
as belonging to the criminal class. Surely Andrew
had more sense than to do such a thing; and yet!
“Why, oh! why did I,” said Roy to himself, “go
mooning about and looking out of that window after
the play that night! Why didn't I go to bed at
once, like the rest? Then I would never have been
haunted with this memory. I am going to get this
thing settled, and that soon. I'll see Garrett privately
if I can, publicly if I must. I will make him
exonerate me from all suspicion. I can not imagine
how any suspicion became attached to me. He would
hardly dare to set it afloat. This thing has to come
to an end, and that at once.”
These tormenting thoughts came to his mind one
Sunday afternoon in early spring. Everything out of
doors spoke of joy and cheerfulness. The trees had
burst their buds, and the winter bareness of landscape
had been once more turned into a thing of beauty.
No trees were as yet in full leaf, but there was a
delicate pale-green tracery on bough and twig, a
sign of life and luxurious beauty later on, and full
of the beauty of promise now. Beneath the feet the
young grass was rich and soft, while here and there
were seen the first white flowers in the vocal hedgerows.
Full of thoughts by no means attuned to the happy
season, or in keeping with the loveliness of the day,
Roy started out to find his cousin. He was just in
the mood to “have it out” with him. He had worked
himself up to a pitch of resolution, in which was
blended no little anger at the injustice of his position.
[Pg 122]He was determined to have the wretched affair
settled at once and forever. He was morally certain
that no one save himself knew of his cousin's supposed
delinquency, because, he argued and probably
correctly, if any one else had known it, it would
have been divulged long ago.
Searching the yard, study-hall, and gymnasium,
as well as the large reading-room and playroom, he
could find no trace of Garrett.
“He is out walking, I suppose. Oh, well! I'll
catch him before supper and see what he has to say
for himself.”
Henning did not care to have his friends, Jack and
Ambrose, with him just now. He wanted to be alone
to think over the situation. With this object in view
he went toward the college walk, a beautiful winding
path, overshadowed by fine old elms, beeches, and
oaks. Here and there along this half-mile of
graveled way rustic seats had been placed for the
convenience of the students. The path was irregularly
circular. In the center the ground was much
lower and was thickly covered with fine trees, whose
tops in many instances barely reached the level of
the footpath. On the outer side of the walk the
ground rose and the slope was covered with noble
forest trees.
The softness of the spring verdure, the sweet
caress of the warm air, the repose of this charming
spot, and its complete sequestration from the perennial
noise and bustle of the yards and ballfields,
tended to soothe the irritated feelings of our friend.
He went to the farthest limit of the walk without
meeting a single friend. There he sat down on a
bench to rest. In a few minutes he heard approaching
footsteps on the gravel. Determined to let the
intruder upon his thoughts pass on unnoticed, he[Pg 123]
did not raise his head from his hands as the walker
approached.
“Good afternoon, Roy.”
Henning looked up and saw—Garrett. He was
surprised by the way his cousin addressed him, for,
never since the first week of the school-year had the
cousins used any other form of address than their
surnames.
“Oh! Good afternoon.”
“Fine weather for early spring.”
“Yes.”
Roy saw that, by his manner, Garrett had something
to say, but he wanted just then to have the
saying. At all events he was determined to say the
first word of consequence.
“I wonder you are willing to talk with me—are
not afraid of being seen talking with me.”
“I don't see why you should——”
Henning interrupted. He was quite ill-tempered
this afternoon, and this was quite unusual with him.
“No, you don't see why,” he said. “You haven't
been the cause of my being suspected of that
wretched thieving, have you! You are not hand and
glove with those fellows who would stop at nothing
if they could injure me.”
“I must admit,” said the other, “I have heard a
great deal some of them say.”
“And of course believe it all, or pretend to.”
“Pretend to! What do you mean?”
“I mean that before them you pretended to believe
me guilty. Knowing what you know, it must have
been all a pretence.”
“Knowing what I know! What do you mean?”
“You know very well, indeed, what I mean.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do; you are only pretending now. Your
[Pg 124]action now is of a piece with your whole conduct
ever since December 28, when the money was taken.”
“Roy Henning! what on earth do you mean? You
are either crazy, or laboring under some great mistake.”
Garrett saw with alarm the trend of Henning's
remarks. Was his cousin going to charge him with
the theft? He was very well aware that Roy's
charge, if he should make one, would receive much
more credence in the yard than would any counter-charge
against Roy. He became quite alarmed, for
he was quick enough to see some very unpleasant
consequences. His look of alarm tended to confirm
Roy in his suspicions.
“No wonder you look frightened, cousin—dear
cousin—loving cousin,” said Henning sarcastically.
He had a long time suffered greatly from innuendo
and unfriendliness, but we must do Roy the justice
to say that such a manner of speech was uncommon
with him. Just at this moment he was nervous and
over-irritable and had not complete control of himself
or of his words.
“No wonder you look frightened,” he continued,
"now that the tables are beginning to turn. I have
borne suspicion and averted looks from the boys long
enough. You have to bring about a change. You
can do it.”
“And how, pray?”Garrett was getting angry.
“You know how very well. One word from you
would clear me. And—you—have—got—to
say it,”
“It seems to me that you are taking leave of your
senses. How on earth will one word of mine clear
you? The only way that could be done, it seems to
me, would be to incriminate myself, and as to that—no,
I thank you.”[Pg 125]
“I care not one red cent whether you incriminate
yourself or not. You must clear me—do you
hear?”
“I would like to know how, and, moreover, I
would like to see you make me.”
“I can not—that is, I will not make you—but
not for your own sake.”
Henning remembered the promise he had made
to himself of silence on the night he had spent in the
infirmary. On the other hand Garrett was becoming
very much afraid of his cousin. He had never seen
him so excited or determined before. What did Roy
know? What could he tell to harm him? He knew
that his record with the faculty, and with the boys
too, was not an enviable one. Whatever Roy would
do he would undoubtedly be believed, and he realized
that he would have hard work to disprove any
allegations Roy might make.
“You speak correctly when you say you can not,"
Andrew retorted.
“I do not! I can make you if I will. For other
reasons I do not wish it. You must do it without
compulsion.”
“Do what?”
“Clear me. Clear me of all suspicion.”
“It seems to me that in the present state of the
boys' minds that would be impossible. In saying
what I have said about you, Roy, I have only followed
the lead of others. Things have been hinted
so often that at last I began to believe some of them—at
least partly believe them.”
“You coward,” said Henning, now thoroughly
angry. Both boys rose from the bench simultaneously
and faced each other. By a singular chance
each had his hands in his pockets. It appeared for
an instant that they were coming to blows. So[Pg 126]
strained was the situation, that if either had at that
moment taken his hand from his pocket it would
have been a signal for a fight. Henning's face was
white with anger. Garrett's was red with apprehension
and vexation.
“You are a coward,” repeated Henning; “you
know a great deal about this affair.”
Garrett thought best to deny all knowledge.
“I do not.”
“Indeed! and I suppose you know nothing of the
loosened bars of the window of the committee-room?”
“No.”
“I thought not. And I suppose you know nothing
of the boy who was seen to have gone through that
window on the night of the play?”
“No.”
“Oh, no! Of course not. I suppose, too, there
are half a dozen boys who sport sky-blue sweaters
to make themselves conspicuous.”
Henning waited a moment and Garrett said:
“It is no one's concern but my own what I wear.”
“Well, my dear, affectionate cousin, that blue
sweater was seen—seen, mind—that night to go
through that window and come out again.”
Garrett started violently. Henning took the
motion for an admission of guilt, but Garrett had
no intention of making such acknowledgment. Indeed
he became as angry as Henning was.
“Whether I am guilty or not, a question I absolutely
decline to discuss, do you think, you jackanapes,
that I would admit it to you? Not if I know
myself. Do you think I am going to swallow whole
a story like that? You must think I am dreadfully
green, or dreadfully afraid of you. If you have
evidence, bring it forward. That you can, and will
[Pg 127]not, is to me, permit me to say, all buncombe. Bah!
You weary me! Do what you can and what you
dare,”
Snapping his fingers with a show of righteous indignation,
Garrett walked away. If the boy were
guilty, if it were he who was seen to enter the room
through that window on the night of the theft, he
now acquitted himself of a splendid piece of acting.
If he were innocent, then his indignation were
natural. Henning would then have to acknowledge
that he had done him a gross injustice. But Roy
was firmly convinced that his cousin had brazened
the thing out. He regretted that he had let him
know that he would not compel him to make an
acknowledgment of his guilt. Roy had never expected
that he would do so. All he required from
his cousin was that he would speak in his favor and
make an effort to turn the tide of opinion, trusting
in his friends for the rest.
When Andrew Garrett moved away Roy's first
impulse was to follow him and compel a confession.
Suddenly the thought came to him that perhaps he
had blundered. Under the new and annoying impression
he stood motionless until Garrett had disappeared
along the winding walk. Once more, as
his anger left him, he sat down and, head in hands,
meditated on the ugly position in which he found
himself, made worse than before if he had blundered.
He began now to have doubts regarding the
identity of the thief. Was it not just possible that
some other person possessed a blue sweater as well
as his cousin? Could he have been mistaken, after
all? The window from which he saw the thief was
a hundred yards away. Could he, after all, positively
identify a person at that distance at night? Was he
not too much excited after the successful Richelieu[Pg 128]
performance to be in a condition to be certain? He
had taken only a casual glance at the figure, and it
was more than twenty-four hours afterward that he
had remembered the boy wore the fatal blue sweater,
which he now began to realize was the one and only
means of identifying his cousin. Garrett must have
some good grounds for his steady and persistent
denials; yet that he should deny was not surprising
to Roy for he knew his cousin fairly well.
The young man would have remained long in his
unpleasant and disturbing meditations had he not
heard some one approaching, and singing some ridiculous
parody which had recently “caught” the yard,
having been cleverly introduced into a recent debate
on the relative importance of the Hibernians and the
Anglo-Saxons in this country. It ran:
“There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was beany and chill—
Ere the ship that had brought him had passed out of hearin',
He was Alderman Mike, introducing a bill.”
It was Jack Beecham's happy voice, and his merry
laugh echoed through the trees. At that moment, as
he turned a bend in the walk, he caught sight of
Roy.
“Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his
home,” he shouted. “Come on, Roy; Tom Shealey
and myself are going for a good long tramp in the
woods. Why, man, you look as doleful as a November
day. What's up? Come on; a good walk
will drive the blues away.”
The two friends took Henning for a good long
tramp, which is the most satisfactory curative
process for driving away depression of spirits, settling
one's nerves, and banishing ill-temper.[Pg 129]
CHAPTER XVII
Garrett is Angry
WHEN Andrew left his cousin on the college
walk he was in a very angry mood. He
was quite sure that Henning did not know
whether he was guilty or not, and he was satisfied
that he had so guarded his words in his unexpected
interview that Roy would not be able to take anything
he had said as an admission of guilt. As soon
as he discovered the drift of his cousin's remarks he
made up his mind that he would not be betrayed
into any speech that afterward might be used against
him.
He had actually started out, as Henning had done,
to find his cousin to talk with him. It will be remembered
that he had used a very conciliatory tone,
and spoke to his relative by his Christian name. He
was acting at the moment under one of the few good
impulses that came to him at that period of his life.
But all this was most unfortunately frustrated by
Henning's miserable ill-humor of the moment.
Returning to the yard after this stormy interview,
he met the two boys, who, unfortunately, exercised
the worst influence over him of any boys in the
school, Smithers and Stockley. Nothing could have
been more inopportune than their presence just when
he was sore in spirit and angry. He was sore and
more or less ashamed at the part he had played in
regard to his cousin's reputation. He was not always
without touches of compunction on this subject. He
was angry, too, because of the recent interview. He[Pg 130]
knew that on account of this very anger he would
very likely do more injury to Henning. His mind
was in that state that made it ripe for any mischief
these two worthies might suggest.
“We have been looking for you, Garrett. Where
have you been?”said Smithers.
“Along the walk.”
“Some one in the yard said you had gone hobnobbing
with your respectable relative,” remarked
Stockley.
“I was talking with him for a while, but not hobnobbing,
as you call it.”
“What had he to say?”asked Smithers. There
was an ugly, vindictive leer on Smithers' face which
Garrett never liked and which in his better moments
he detested. He really despised him, and all his life
he had never associated with this class of boy. Not
being in very good humor, he said:
“He had no compliments for you, at any rate.”
“Didn't expect he had. It's not very likely that
one hanging over a precipice with regard to his
reputation, as he is, would have any compliments
for any one. But what did he say, anyway?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Garrett. “I find that
he is more fully aware of the suspicions against him
than I imagined. He is pretty sore under them, I
can tell you.”
Smithers' eyes glittered with satisfaction. By a
strange perversion he was pleased that Henning was
suffering. Why? The answer is difficult. Because,
perhaps, Henning had done him many a good turn.
In time of necessity he was glad enough to receive
assistance. When better times came for him, he
promptly forgot. He lacked gratitude. He was
only one more exemplification of the old adage: “If
you want to lose a friend, lend him money, and if[Pg 131]
you want to gain an enemy put some one under great
obligations to you.”
“Sore, is he? I can make him sorer still. Have
you heard what has been found?”asked Smithers,
looking first at Stockley and then at Garrett.
Had the latter been a little more observant he
would have noticed Smithers' eyelids twitch in an
unmistakably nervous way, and his fingers open and
close spasmodically.
“No, I have not. Not the stolen money, I suppose,"
laughed Garrett mirthlessly.
“Not much,” said Smithers, “that's not likely to
be found. I guess that's gone for good.”
“What then?”
“A piece of writing,”
“Whose?”
“Henning's.”
“Of what nature? What has it to do with the
suspicion in the yard?”
“It has a good deal to do with it.”
“Well, out with it, if you have anything to tell.
I'm tired of this dallying. What's up?”
Garrett, still out of temper, was quite testy. It
can be seen that he had very little respect for these
boys. He made no pretense of choosing his words
with them.
Smithers, nothing daunted by the surly manner in
which he had been addressed, after more or less
fumbling, drew from the inside pocket of his coat a
crumpled sheet of letter-paper. It bore the college
printed address on the top, and was dated December
23.
“Whose writing is that, do you think?”asked
Smithers.
“I don't know. Let me look at it. Yes, I do
though! It's my cousin's! What does he say?”[Pg 132]
He straightened out the creases and read the letter
hurriedly.
“Phew! by all that's great, this is a stunner,” said
Garrett.
The other two boys exchanged glances of satisfaction.
Smithers' eyelids twitched more than ever.
“Where did you get this from?”
“No matter where it came from,” answered
Stockley; “it's just what we want to settle this
business. It has been hanging fire long enough. It
ought to be settled for everybody's sake. I think
this will do it.”
Garrett did not like his cousin, and hitherto had
not been above doing him a bad turn occasionally.
He was recognized, more or less, as the mouthpiece
of those opposed to Roy. To do Andrew justice it
must be admitted that he never quite realized what
injury he was doing his cousin. A full realization of
the injustice of his course was not to come to him for
a long time, but now, since this interview, he was
very uneasy. If Henning was determined to act on
the offensive, he must prepare to defend himself.
Here was a piece of paper, luckily thrown in his
way, with which he could divert suspicion from himself
should his cousin be goaded into retaliating. He
knew enough of Roy's character to realize that he
would have his hands full, if that individual decided
to take the initiative in the tangle.
But what of the “find” of Smithers? What important
piece of information did it contain which
was evidently so detrimental to Henning as to draw
the sudden exclamation of surprise from Garrett's
lips? It was not a complete letter, but merely a
first draft. It ran as follows: “My dear friend.”
The word “friend” had been marked through and
"chum”inserted instead.[Pg 133]
“Your letter rec'd last Monday. Sorry to say that
... have no money now ... so can't possibly do the
thing you wish ... awfully sorry ... feel like stealing
the money rather than letting this thing go undone.
However, wait till the end of Christmas week.
It won't be too late then. Something's going to
happen before that! Then we can go into partnership—at
least for the merit of the thing. Keep
everything dark. Don't say a single word to anybody
about it. Mind now, chum, everything must
be kept a secret, or—smash. Yours, Roy H.”
The missive, or first copy of one, looked mysterious
enough. To these boys into whose possession
it had by some means fallen, it had a decidedly dark-lantern
appearance. To their minds, in view of what
had happened near the end of the Christmas week,
the words seemed to have a peculiarly sinister meaning
in proportion to each one's prejudice.
Was the sketch of the proposed letter genuine?
There was no doubt as to that in Garrett's mind.
Everybody knew Henning's writing. Without hesitation
Garrett pronounced it genuine.
But what could the letter mean? Had his cousin
deliberately planned the robbery? Smithers believed,
or said he believed, this to be the case. Garrett knew
better. In spite of this letter he knew that was too
absurd a notion to entertain. He was, nevertheless,
shrewd enough to see the value of this crumpled
note as a weapon of defense for himself.
He deliberately put it into his pocket.
“Hold on there, Garrett,” exclaimed Smithers,
"that note belongs to me.”
“Excuse me,” replied Andrew, “but I believe it
belongs strictly to Roy Henning.”
“No, it doesn't. It's my property. I risked—I
mean I discovered it, and it's mine.”[Pg 134]
“I beg your pardon, but for the present you may
consider it my property. There may be further risk,
you know, for you. It will be quite safe, I assure
you, in my keeping.”
“Well, I'll be hanged,” exclaimed the dismayed
Smithers.
“Shouldn't wonder in the least—some day,"
replied Garret imperturbably.
“But it's mine,”
“Beg to differ with you. It never was yours. It
is mine now, at least for a time. I haven't decided
yet what to do with it—whether to tear it up, or
restore it to its rightful owner.”
He intended to do neither one nor the other. He
had formed his plan, but he had not the slightest
intention of taking either Stockley or Smithers into
his confidence. The latter was very angry at the
loss of the letter, but he knew very well that he could
not get it back until Garrett pleased to return it.
His ill humor was not lessened when Garrett said as
he walked away:
“By the way, I should recommend you to say
nothing about this so-called 'find' of yours, you
fellows, for I am strongly under the impression that
it is bogus, and besides, it might be difficult to convince
people you came by it honestly.”
Smithers' eyelids exhibited that nervous twitching
more rapidly than ever.[Pg 135]
CHAPTER XVIII
A Talk
SHEALEY and Beecham captured Roy Henning and
took him for a long stroll through the woods
that Sunday afternoon. He, in the keen enjoyment
of witnessing nature once again awake from its
long winter slumber, for a time forgot his annoyances,
and was the merriest of the three. The time
passed as only a bright holiday can pass with the
light-hearted.
Now there was a hunt for the nimble squirrel,
which always got safely away. Anon there was a
plunge into the thickest coppice for spring flowers.
From these dense undergrowths the three more than
once emerged minus the treasures they sought, and
plus a number of scratches on hands and face, and
with not a little damage to Sunday suits. In the
sunny spots they found the first delicate fern fronds.
In one particularly romantic spot they found a number
of beautiful fungi. Jack Beecham dexterously
made a little birch-bark box, which he filled with soft
green moss, carefully placing his treasures therein.
In their journey they were lucky enough to come
across some morels, and one or two of those
vegetable curiosities, the earth-star. With these
boys a ramble into the country was much more than
so many steps taken to a certain spot, and so many
back again. Their studies had sharpened their
powers of outdoor observation, so that a walk was
an intellectual exercise as well as a physical one.
Many times during that afternoon Roy recalled[Pg 136]
the interview with his cousin a few minutes before
starting, but with a certain determination he put the
matter from his mind for the present, intent on
giving himself entirely to the enjoyment of the
beauties of nature on an ideal spring day, and to the
pleasant companionship of two very delightful fellow-students.
For a time he forgot all about Garrett.
When the journey was near its end; when the
tired and healthy, hungry three were once more
nearing the college grounds, the thoughts of what
he had said and done with regard to his cousin, and
that same cousin's noncommittal responses, once
more filled Roy's mind and made him thoughtful and
reserved again.
“There you are,” scolded Jack Beecham; “I do
declare, Roy, you ought to live in the woods altogether.
As soon as you come near home you at once
put on a long face, turn down the corners of your
mouth, and look as sour as—as vinegar and water.”
“Yes,” added Tom Shealey, “I'm going to call
you in future Old Glum—that's the only name that
suits you now. What on earth is the use of being
so sober and somber about things?”
“Just at present,” answered Roy, “I do not think
I have anything to make me unusually cheerful;
nothing certainly that would make me dance and
sing with joy.”
“Afraid of your semi-annual exam?”asked
Beecham.
“No. That examination does not bother me. The
Little Go, as our English cousins call it, will, I believe,
be somewhat of a picnic for me.”
“That's what you think,” said Jack, “but we don't
all think that way, do we, Tom?”
“Indeed, no,” answered Tom Shealey grimly.
The half-yearly had certain terrors for poor Tom.
[Pg 137]He had not shone with particular brilliancy in the
examination in minor logic. He assured his friends
that the examiners were unanimous that he had not
shown any remarkable scintillations of genius in his
mathematical trial, and the least said about the
opinion entertained of him by his professor in geology
and astronomy, the better for Tom's reputation
as a hard student.
“Well, then, Roy,” asked Beecham, “if you are not
afraid of the semi, why do you look so gloomy?”
“I wish most heartily, Jack, that something would
turn up to settle that wretched robbery business. At
all events, one great load is off my mind. Yesterday
I received a letter from my father. I think I have
already told you that he is a pretty stern man. Well,
he's all right. He wrote that he had the fullest confidence
in me in this money business.”
“Whoopla,” shouted Shealey, “good for the old
gentleman. Whoop! Don't you know, old fellow,
I was terribly afraid for you from that quarter. He's
a brick,”
“He tells me that every effort should be made
to discover the culprit. He even said he was willing
to bear a good share of the expense of securing a
detective and so forth, considering that his son was
the one who had the management of the funds.”
“What's the matter with Henning père?”shouted
Shealey the irrepressible.
“Wait, Tom. He wrote more. He is willing to
send me a check for the seventy-two dollars, if by
paying it back into the fund I do not compromise
myself.”
“How? What does he mean?”asked Beecham.
“This way, I suppose. If I pay it back I shall be
considered by some to have—to speak plainly—to
have taken it myself, or to have had some knowledge[Pg 138]
of the guilty party, and, consequently, to have connived
at it.”
“Does any living soul in his sound senses, you
Don Quixote,” exclaimed Beecham, with an earnestness
curiously resembling anger, “for an infinitesimal
moment imagine you knew anything of it,”
The generous tone of voice, the absolute confidence
it displayed, was grateful and soothing to the
worried boy. His suspicions of his own cousin, which
were not dissipated by that afternoon's encounter,
was the difficulty with him now. The letter of his
father said: “to have any knowledge of the guilty
party.”Of course, conniving was out of the
question. But Garrett! What to think of that which
he saw on the night of the play! Could he have
been mistaken? Oh, if Garrett that afternoon had
only openly denied all knowledge of it, how happy
Roy would be now! Under his present knowledge,
however, he felt he could not accept the money from
his father. Under a full conviction of his cousin's
guilt he had made that strange promise of silence,
and this he was determined to keep, let come what
might. Thus his quandary, which arose on his part
from a certain sense of honor, for he would not act
upon a mere suspicion, and he also earnestly desired
to save a relative the shame of being accused.
“No, I really believe,” said Henning, in answer to
Beecham's indignant question, “I really believe that
even those boys who profess to suspect me do not
believe what they say. I do not believe there is a
boy in the yard, nor a single member of the faculty,
who has the least real suspicion that I know anything
about the theft.”
“I guess not,” said Jack, and then added, “well,
then, it's settled, isn't it?”
“Unfortunately, no. There is something in this[Pg 139]
affair, which, until the robber is caught and the whole
question disposed of forever, I can not mention; yet
it is important enough for me to be prevented in
honor from writing for that money.”
Jack Beecham and Tom Shealey looked at each
other in blank surprise. They then indulged in a
long stare—not a mere look or glance, but a long,
open stare—at Roy. Under the two pairs of very
wide-open eyes he remained as inscrutable as a
sphinx. There was not a movement of eyes or lips
which could give them the slightest clue by which
they might arrive at some understanding of the
strange announcement.
“You don't mean to say,” said Shealey, with eyes
still wide open, “that, after all, you are in some
way impli— oh! hang it all, I'm talking nonsense
now,”
Roy Henning burst out laughing. Notwithstanding
his worry he enjoyed his friends' bewilderment.
“I guess you are,” he said.
“Look here, Mr. Roy Aloysius Henning,” said
Jack Beecham, “I consider you the most inexplicable,
inexorable, incomprehensible creature on the face of
the footstool. Now look here! No humbug, you
know—we, your friends, I, Tom, and Brose, for
here he comes—demand from you an explanation
right here and now. You must tell us the whole
affair.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No. I can not do it.”
“If you don't do it, I'll——”Jack stopped dismayed.
He saw that Roy was firm. “I'll fling some
more big names at you.”
“Can't help it, Jackie. I guess I can stand 'em.”
“But this thing's got to be straightened out,” [Pg 140]
“If so, it has to be done without my taking any
part in the straightening—see?”
“But, man alive! You are the most interested!
If you know anything of importance, why not inform
your friends, and let us ferret out the truth or
falsity of your surmises?”
“No. It can not be done. If I am to be exonerated
from these very unjust and, I confess, very
annoying aspersions, it must be done gratuitously
and of the free will of the person or persons
malignant enough to start the rumors. Do you not
see, my friends, that if you began to move in order
to exonerate me, everybody would consider you as
acting as my agents and under my direction——”
“Quixotic nonsense——”began Beecham.
“Wait, Jack. This is the penalty you pay for your
friendship. I will tell you this much, in gratitude
for your interest and loyalty. I have made a solemn
pledge to keep absolutely silent with respect to any
suspicions I may have until the whole is settled and
cleared up.”
“But you in the meantime are suffering,” said
Jack.
“Can't help it. Better suffer than be unjust.
Better bear a little, than perhaps do another an
almost irreparable injury.”
His friends began to have some glimmerings of
the reasons why he would not move or be moved.
All of them were aware of his delicacy of conscience.
They knew of his high sense of honor, of
his exactitude, which amounted in their eyes to
scrupulosity. It was, therefore, with no small
amount of admiration, which, however, they disguised
under much banter and teasing, that they
acquiesced in Henning's view of his own conduct in
the matter.[Pg 141]
“Roy, you're a chump,” said Shealey.
“Yes, and a gump,” added Jack Beecham.
“And my quota of abuse is,” said Bracebridge,
who by this time understood the drift of the talk, “is
that you are a—what shall I say—oh! yes—that
you are a frump, whatever that is; it rhymes anyway.”
Roy bowed low, as if receiving compliments and
bouquets. When he left to go to his classroom to
write to his father, Jack Beecham said:
“That fellow is a second Bayard—sans reproche.”
“So say all who know him,” added Shealey, and
Ambrose said: “Amen.”[Pg 142]
CHAPTER XIX
The Unexpected
IT WAS remarkable, and even surprised Garrett himself,
that Smithers and Stockley made no capital
out of their knowledge of the existence of what
appeared to be an incriminating document. The
sketch of the letter which they had shown with such
assurance to Garrett, and which that individual, with
an assumption of superiority that had completely
cowed the two, had coolly kept in his possession, did
have something of a suspicious appearance.
Why did Garrett retain it? Was it a last card
held in reserve to play against his cousin's hand?
Did he believe the letter to be genuine? Finally,
after all, did he wish to spare his cousin?
At this time this last consideration had no weight
with him. He had various reasons for acting as he
had done. One strong one was that he proposed to
hold all the threads of the plot in his own hands and
manipulate them to his own advantage. He was by
no means sure how this evidence of Roy's supposed
complicity would be received by the boys. He felt
sure that many would pooh-pooh such a document
as worthless. He did not desire to prove nothing by
overstepping the mark in attempting to prove too
much.
Suspicious as the letter looked objectively, Garrett
was not so stupid as not to know there must be some
very good explanation of the words; although unsupported
by an explanation they certainly did appear
to incriminate the writer, in view of all that
had happened since they were penned.[Pg 143]
Smithers saw plainly enough that without the
letter being produced (confound that Garrett's impudence!)
his words would have no weight. This
young man was quite well aware that he bore a very
odorous—in fact a malodorous—reputation among
even his friends. Many knew of his despicable ingratitude
toward Roy Henning.
Stockley had a plan of his own which he told to
neither Smithers nor Garrett, and had adopted a
Fabian policy. Thus it happened that Roy Henning
was spared the knowledge that one of these boys
had in his possession a copy or draft of a letter of
his, which he could, had he so wished, use against
him and thus cause him more annoyance.
Meanwhile time flew on. The warm weather had
come. It was now very pleasant to be out of doors,
and, of course, the great question now occupying all
interest was that of the prospects of the ball team.
It was found to the general satisfaction that there
was very good material after all, in spite of the lack
of the winter practice.
Harry Gill, a fast friend of Henning, and a great
supporter of Rob Jones, was chosen captain and
manager. He was a popular boy who could write a
pleasing challenge and gain and retain the good will
of those teams who even refused to play St. Cuthbert's.
To the surprise of all he secured a game
with the celebrated Blandyke team, to be played on
the home grounds. This was delightful news for
the yard, the more so because it was so unexpected.
The Blandykes had assured the St. Cuthbert's boys
early in the spring, that they had played them for the
last time, not because of any disagreement or because
they had been beaten previously, but because their
faculty had ruled against the long travel. Yet here
was Gill, at the very opening of the season, securing[Pg 144]
the first great game without hitch or flaw, and on
the home grounds.
The boys were jubilant. Their satisfaction was
increased when they learned that Gill, by his irresistible
charm of manner, had induced Henning to
practice with the team. He could not get Roy to
promise to play in the match game, but to have him
in the practice games was something. Every one admitted
that Roy was an exceptionally fine player.
Much of the beginning of the undercurrent of talk
against him in the previous fall was, it will be remembered,
owing to his refusal to have any more to
do with sports, and especially with baseball.
How could he now reconcile himself to his father's
positive injunction to engage in no sports and yet
play practice games? Roy had thought the matter
over and had come to a decision.
His father had told him there were to be no sports.
This he adhered to scrupulously. His father had
said there was to be enough exercise only by which
to keep a sound mind in a sound body. Now to
him, as to many another healthy, hearty boy, after
the long dormant months of winter, there was need
of good outdoor exercise. Where could one find it
better than in the great game? But was not this
sport, in the understanding of his father? Roy
thought it was not, that is, practice games were not.
With match games it was different. He reasoned
that his father knew that he was athletic, that wheeling
could not always suffice, and that long walks
were a mere winter expedient. He therefore arrived
at the eminently satisfactory conclusion that his
father did not intend, when he told him to keep a
sound mind in a sound body, that he should be altogether
excluded from the game which, above all
others, was best able to secure that end. Casuists[Pg 145]
may argue pro and con on the soundness of Roy's
conclusion if they will. We leave it to them.
It is well known that there is nothing in a college
so well adapted to the breaking up of animosities and
of undesirable alliances and dangerous particular
friendships which lead to no good, as baseball.
The adage, “birds of a feather flock together,” is
particularly true of boys at school during the winter
season. Crowded together in a certain circumscribed
space of one or two or three halls, according
to the excellence of the college equipment, the very
best boys are often forced to form acquaintances
with those with whom they would otherwise not
closely associate.
This had been particularly the case this year at
St. Cuthbert's, owing to the diversity of opinion as
to the question of the identity of the undiscovered
thief. As we know, many boys were inclined to
suspect Roy Henning. Among these were some of
the best ball-players. Now Harry Gill, captain and
manager, was substitute pitcher. Stockley was a
splendid first baseman, and could pitch well.
Smithers, too, although not liked generally by the
boys, was too fine a player to be ignored. Beecham,
of course, was on the team, as was Bracebridge.
Garrett, so the boys declared, “would have eaten his
hat”to have been selected for a place on the first
nine. Gill, however, appointed strictly according to
merit, and Andrew rose no higher than substitute for
third baseman. That, however, was something in a
place like St. Cuthbert's, because the substitutes,
beside traveling with the team, were always the opposing
team in practice games, and during the spring
and early summer saw a deal of fine work.
It is an axiom that in order to play good ball, all
differences of opinion must be dropped. No team[Pg 146]
could be enthusiastic for victory with three or four
currents of self-interest or animosity thwarting and
dampening all efforts and rendering harmonious and
united action impossible.
All disagreements had been dropped, or at least
hidden away. All were enthusiastic. When Gill
announced to the team that Roy Henning had consented
to play at all practice games, the percentage
of enthusiasm, if it could be measured in that way,
rose very high. Now all bickerings and animosities
seemed to be forgotten, and they actually were for
a time. As far as team work went, there was one
heart and one soul. The prospects were indeed
bright.
What a splendid player Roy was! He stood there
in the pitcher's box, a picture of fine young manhood.
His long brown hair blowing over his forehead appeared
to get into his eyes at every move. With a
graceful leonine backward movement of the head he
would toss the hair out of his way. He was never
excited. He always had his wits about him. In a
critical moment he could be relied upon. He had
the habit of keeping a piece of chewing gum in his
mouth. To the uninitiated it appeared the most important
part of the game for him to keep his jaws
in steady, slow motion. Some said it kept him from
becoming excited—that the attention required to
keep up the regular, slow motion of his molars prevented
any other kind of distraction. Be this as it
may, he never showed excitement, but was always
calm and cool, and not unfrequently at critical
moments exasperatingly slow.
And then what an arm he had, and what movement!
He seemed merely to put his hand forward
and the ball went high, or low, or wherever he
willed. He was a great acquisition to the team. The[Pg 147]
baseball enthusiasts, which is equivalent to saying all
the boys, certainly had some excuse for chagrin
when, without explanation, he retired from the game
the year before.
Who does not love the sight of ball players on the
diamond, especially in the early summer! The bright
uniforms, the brighter faces flushed with the joy of
living and of anticipation! Then the merry shout
and laugh! How it makes the blood tingle, and
sends the spirit of youth once more through one's
veins!
In the last practice game before the match with
the Blandykes the boys in their uniforms, white shirts
and blue pants, stockings, and caps, presented a picturesque
scene. The kindly sun, as yet not too hot,
flushed their cheeks, while the liquid blue above and
the fresh tender grass beneath their feet lent additional
zest to their enjoyment. It was the first
important practice game the boys had played.
When at length it came to an end all the players
clustered around Roy Henning at the home plate,
congratulating him on his pitching. Jack Beecham
and Ambrose stood a little apart, watching the group.
“Isn't it a pity, Brose, that Roy won't play against
the Blandykes next Tuesday,” remarked Jack.
“Indeed it is—a thousand pities. But you may
be sure he knows what he is doing.”
“Guess he does. But there's a particularly sable
individual in the woodpile somewhere! I wonder
what it all means?”
“Many beside you have wondered,” responded
Bracebridge.
“Oh, he must play next week—must, must, we
can't do without him! He must play, and that's all
there is about it.”
“I am afraid he won't though. Hello, what's up?
[Pg 148]Look, here comes Mr. Shalford. How serious he
looks,”
The two boys touched their hats as the prefect
approached.
“Have you seen Henning, boys? Ah, there he is,”
The prefect went to the group surrounding their
ideal pitcher. They were using all the art persuasive
they could command to extort a promise from him
to play in the forthcoming match game. It is hard to
say how much longer he would have had to withstand
their importunities, had they not suddenly
ceased upon catching sight of Mr. Shalford.
“Henning, I want you.”
Roy disengaged himself from the crowd.
“Here's a telegram for you. The President told
me to give it to you at once, and you are to go to
him immediately.”
Outside of strictly business circles, the arrival of
a telegram has always its preliminary terrors. The
yellow missive may contain such startling news! The
message which Roy's father had sent him was startling
enough. It read:
“Ethel is believed to be dying. Come at once.
G. H.”
Roy went over to where Beecham and Bracebridge
were standing. Without a word he placed the telegram
in Ambrose's hand. After reading it the
three friends at once moved toward the college. The
crowd of boys, lately so loud and clamorous, were
silent now, in the presence of some unknown
calamity.
Roy walked on as if stunned, for a little while
scarcely knowing where he was going. Jack and
Ambrose, after one sympathetic pressure of his
hand, walked with him in silent sympathy.[Pg 149]
CHAPTER XX
The Fairest Lily
THE President was waiting for Henning in his
office. The two friends left Roy at the door,
and quietly stole out of the corridor into the
sunshine, where with subdued voices they discussed
the misfortune which was overshadowing their
friend.
“I never knew a boy to meet with so many misfortunes
in one year as Roy has done,” said Beecham.
“It is hard,” replied Bracebridge, “but God
knows best. I sometimes think he is being tried, as
gold is tried in the furnace, for some great purpose.”
Beecham was silent. Such thoughts were just a
little above Jack's ordinary plane of thinking. Bracebridge
continued:
“What do you say if, during his absence, we make
a grand effort to find the thief? What a glorious
thing it would be if he could come back cleared of
all suspicion,”
Beecham was never patient when the words “suspicion”
and “Henning” were mentioned in the same
connection. This time he said something quite
rough, and, to tell the truth, quite unlike himself.
Ambrose looked up in surprise.
“You must excuse me. I lose all patience in this
affair.”
“All right, old fellow. We will make a big effort,
eh?”
“You may bet your last little round red cent we
will.”[Pg 150]
Henning reappeared. He had but little time to
spare if he would catch the six o'clock train. By
traveling all night he would reach home by seven
o'clock in the morning. Hurriedly changing his
clothes, he shook hands with the two and was driven
to the depot. Both promised to write as soon as
there was anything important to write about.
While Roy Henning is traveling homeward as
fast as a night express can take him, we will explain
the reason why the telegram had been sent. This
can not be done better than by going to the Henning
home, and there tracing the course of events.
“I think it's real mean to rain like this,” said
Tommy Henning, early in the morning of the day
on which Roy, his big brother, had received the
alarming telegram. Tommy let his picture book
drop to the floor, and swung his fat little legs backward
and forward. Soon tiring of this, he flattened
his nose against the window pane of the drawing-room
where the two children had been trying to
amuse themselves.
“What's mean, Tommy?”asked his sister, Ethel.
“Oh, things,” and with this broad generalization
he continued to exercise his legs. “What's the use
if it's going to rain all the time?”
“But it isn't going to rain all day. It will clear
up before long, see if it doesn't.”
Tommy was a real boy and, like his big brother,
hated above all things to be obliged to remain indoors.
It had been raining for twenty-four hours,
and he longed to get outside in the free, fresh air,
being particularly anxious just now to take Ethel
for a ride in the boat on the big pond below the
orchard.
Tommy was sturdy, but his sister was a frail girl,[Pg 151]
of shy and nervous disposition. Her chief characteristic
was her passionate love for her brother Tom,
who did not show much appreciation of her affection,
because he did not realize its depth. He loved his
sister, but in a somewhat boisterous manner. Not
unfrequently he showed his affection in a way that
was rather painful than otherwise to the delicate
child. This was because he did not think. He did
not intend to be rough, yet he secretly thought that
it was a hardship that she was not a boy, for then
he could have “lots more fun.” They got along well
together, however, and loved each other very dearly.
True to Ethel's prediction, it soon ceased raining,
the clouds breaking and rolling away in great
masses. Tom's vivacity returned with the sunshine.
“Ma! ma! may we go down to the pond now, and
get some of those lilies?”begged Tommy, as he
rushed into his mother's room.
“I am afraid not for the present, my son,” replied
his mother, “at least Ethel can not go. It is a little
chilly after the rain, and besides, the boat will be
full of water.”
Ethel did not really care about going just then,
but seeing how anxious her brother was to enjoy the
ride and get the beautiful flowers, the first lilies of
the summer, she also pleaded for permission. At
length under the combined pleading of the two,
Mrs. Henning consented.
“Now, Tommy,” she said, “if I let you go, you
must promise me not to go near the mill-race.”
“All right, Ma; there's lots of room without going
near there,” and the handsome little fellow scampered
off in high glee, with the full intention of
keeping his promise.
The injunction was not an unnecessary one. The
mill-race was a dangerous spot. At the sluice there[Pg 152]
was a considerable current of water which would
take a boat caught in it over the bank and dangerously
dash it into deep water, if it escaped being
broken to pieces on some large boulders which had
formerly been a part of the masonry of an old mill.
The pond was noted in the neighborhood for the
profusion and beauty of its water-lilies. The children
found no greater delight in the summer than in
gathering them and adorning their pretty suburban
home with them.
The boy found there was not much water in the
boat. With Ethel's assistance he bailed it out and
they were soon among the water-lilies. They formed
a pretty picture—these two children, Tom in his
white flannel shirt adorned with a pretty pink tie, a
special Christmas gift of Ethel; she in her pink dress
and white sunbonnet, her lap almost covered with
luxuriant flowers.
“That's enough, Tom; plenty for to-day,” said
Ethel.
“All right. Now for a good row around the pond
while you cut the stalks.”
Tommy had a good voice, and as he rowed he
began to sing:
“See our oars with feathered spray
Sparkle in the beam of day,
As along the lake we glide
Swiftly o'er the silent tide.”
The pond was large enough to afford the boy a
good pull with the oars. He enjoyed it immensely.
The boat had glided from shore to shore several
times, when Master Tommy Henning began to look
for fresh excitement. Stealthily he began to pull
stronger on one oar than on the other, and so
gradually to near the mill-race.[Pg 153]
“Oh, Tom! Tommy! look, look, we are getting
near the dam,” shouted Ethel, very much frightened.
“That's nothing. There's no danger here,” said
the boy. He made a turn, then came nearer than
before to the dangerous spot.
“I'm so frightened! Tom, please, Tom, don't go
so near,” pleaded Ethel.
“That's because you are a girl. If you were a boy
you wouldn't be frightened a little bit.”
He rowed away for a little space, and soon in a
spirit of pure bravado he pulled nearer a few feet.
Ethel began screaming with fright.
“That's just like girls. They always scream at
something or other,” said the ungallant Tommy.
Ethel was very much frightened. She trembled
violently, but Tom affected not to see. With another
stroke he went still nearer to the mill-race. At this
Ethel gave a prolonged, agonizing shriek of fear,
which made even her madcap brother feel a little
uncomfortable, although he still persisted in teasing
her, for he knew his strength and as yet had the boat
under complete control.
“I'm going nearer yet, Sis,” he said to the greatly
frightened little girl, and began to turn the prow of
the boat a little.
She began one more wild shriek of terror, but
stopped suddenly. She could scream no more. The
horror of her perilous position rendered her mute.
She could do nothing but shiver and tremble violently.
Her eyes were wide and staring.
“What do you stop screaming for? You ain't out
of danger yet. Girls always scream longer than that
in one breath.”
There was no reply. Tom looked around to see
his sister burst into a very torrent of tears. This
was too much for the boy.[Pg 154]
“Oh, come, Ethel. I was only fooling. Don't
cry. There's no danger. See,”
He headed the boat in the opposite direction and
began to row away from the dangerous locality.
Ethel continued to sob convulsively, unable to
restrain herself. She had been thoroughly frightened,
and now she could not speak. Her eyes were staring
wildly; the blue veins on her forehead stood out
rigidly. She seemed choking as if half stifled with
the horror she had felt. Tom was now heartily
ashamed of himself, and heartily wished he had not
disobeyed.
“Stop crying, Ethie, and I'll give you my new box
of paints,” said he anxiously.
The magnitude of the inducement was the measure
of Tom's anxiety. But with even this tempting offer
of his greatest wealth, she could not refrain from
weeping and sobbing.
“I never thought you would take on so, or I never
would go near the old thing. I just did it for fun,"
urged the boy persistently. All his coaxing was of
no avail and he became alarmed at her hysterical
sobbing. To add to his confusion, as he neared the
boat-landing he saw his mother standing on the bank.
She had heard the screaming, and rushed down to
the pond, fearing some accident had happened.
“What have you been doing to your sister?”she
asked sternly.
“I thought I would scare her a little bit—only a
little, though; that's all, Mama.”
“And you went near the dam?”
“Not very close—true if I did. There was no
danger.”
Ethel's pale face and hysterical weeping told how
near he had been.
“Go to the house, sir, and stay there for the rest[Pg 155]
of the day,” said his mother, in a tone Tommy knew
from experience was not to be disobeyed.
This was a great punishment for Tommy, for, of
all things, he loved to be out of doors in the free air
of heaven. There was, however, a certain manliness
about the little fellow, so he went to his punishment
without a word. He could not understand why his
sister had screamed so much, and more especially
why she did not now stop crying.
Ethel did not easily recover from her fright. Her
mother brought her to the house and laid her on a
cushioned lounge, where she remained all the afternoon
completely prostrated. Tommy was told to
stay in the same room, which he did more or less
sulkily. He thought his punishment excessive, and
he showed his resentment to his sister by being a
little bit cross to her. Early in the afternoon he
worked himself into the belief that he was actually
the injured one. All this was a proceeding most unusual
with Tommy.
The little girl lay on the lounge quite weakened
and very sick from her adventure. She did not move,
but lay still and quiet, with an occasional hard sob,
resembling the last muttering of a storm in the distance.
Toward four o'clock of that long afternoon
she said faintly to her brother:
“Tommy, I am so thirsty; will you get me a
drink?”
Now Master Tom was still quite ill-tempered and,
contrary to his usual custom, very much disinclined
to oblige her. Seeing a glass of water on the table,
he handed it to her, saying:
“Here's some. Drink this.”
She touched her feverish lips to it and said: “It's
quite warm. It has been here all day. Mama
brought it in this morning for the canary.”[Pg 156]
“Well, it's good water, anyhow,” said Master
Tommy, and he went back to his seat and sulked.
She sighed and closed her eyes without allaying
her thirst. Presently Mrs. Henning came into the
room, and saw, with alarm, that Ethel was in a high
fever. She telephoned at once for the family physician,
who was in his office when the message came.
When he came he looked very grave, and declared
that the child would not live more than twenty-four
hours. The physician knew Ethel's constitution well.
She had grown up an extremely delicate child. He
gave no hope of her recovery. He declared the
attack had been brought on by some unwonted
exertion beyond her strength, or by some extraordinary
strain caused by great fear or overwhelming
grief. When told of what had occurred on the pond
he shook his head ominously, and frankly told the
mother to expect the worst, recommending, as a
conscientious physician, that a priest be called without
delay.[Pg 157]
CHAPTER XXI
The Passing of Ethel
AS SOON as Tommy realized that Ethel was really
sick there came a revulsion of feeling such as
all generous natures are subject to. He was
no longer angry or sulky. He racked his brains to
discover means by which he could make amends for
his unkindness of the afternoon.
Tommy had one great treasure which no one was
allowed to touch. This was a precious silver mug,
a birthday present. He never used it except on
some very extraordinary occasion. It was rarely
taken from his mother's china-closet, where it occupied
a place of honor. Now he thought of this
mug, but first he took a pitcher out to the pump and
used the handle vigorously until his arms ached. He
then went to the cupboard and took out his great
treasure, carrying it and the pitcher to where Ethel
was lying.
“Sissie dear,” he said softly, “I'm awful sorry
I've been mean to you 's afternoon. I didn't know
you were sick, sure. If I had known that I'd got
you a barrelful of water, sure I would.”
Ethel opened her eyes with a pleasant smile. She
knew that Tommy loved her. He was trying to
make amends. That was enough to make her happy.
“Here, Ethel, dear. I've brought you the coldest
water I could get from the well, and here's my silver
cup to drink it out of.”
The little sufferer was now too far gone to care
for water. Wishing to respond to her brother's[Pg 158]
kindness she took the mug and put it to her lips, as
if drinking a long draught. But Tommy saw she
was not drinking.
“Why, Ethel, you only make believe! Don't be
afraid to drink. I'll keep on carrying in pitchers all
night if you want 'em. 'Taint no trouble at all
for me.”
Ethel saw his generosity of purpose and smiled
again.
“Drink some more, Ethel. It's good.”She could
not resist such importunity, and she drank some of
the water, more than she needed, in order to please
him.
Tommy exaggerated his fault in his own eyes.
Now, in order to make amends, he strove urgently
to make his sister drink, coaxing her at least every
ten minutes to do so, until at last she was fain to
tell him it was impossible for her to take any more.
If he could not make her drink, he could, nevertheless,
keep the water cool, so he changed it at least
every fifteen minutes. Who shall say but what the
angels carried these crude acts of reparation to the
Mercy Seat, and brought back blessings for sorrowful
Tommy?
Ethel realized that she was very ill. The doctor's
grave face confirmed her worst fears. She did not
fear to die. Had she not gone to confession every
week for a year past, and although the pure little
child knew it not, the good priest knew full well
that for weeks together he scarcely found matter for
absolution. She did not want to die, not yet at
least, if it were the will of God, until she had made
her First Communion. Her pure soul had not yet
been strengthened by the Bread of Angels. How
ardently for months she had longed for the day of
her First Communion, and now it seemed so hard to[Pg 159]
die before that great event. Would not the sweet
Jesus spare her at least until she could receive Him!
Long and earnestly, on her couch of suffering, she
prayed that she might receive this supreme happiness.
She knew that she was dying. The frightful
pain in her back told her, as she lay there in such
helplessness, that her weakness could not long battle
against so sudden and so violent an attack. But oh,
to be deprived of the great privilege!
“Lord, I am not worthy! Lord, I am not worthy
that Thou shouldst come to me! Come, oh, come,
my Lord Jesus,” she repeated again and again,
between her acts of contrition.
It was in this hour of supreme suspense and
anxiety of her parents that Ethel's beautiful character
shone forth. Patient, humble, thankful for the
least kindness shown, or office performed for her,
she fairly broke the heart of father and mother, who
now realized, more completely than ever, what a
beautiful treasure they were losing.
The priest was grieved to see this stricken one of
his flock. Ethel's eyes brightened when she saw
him. He heard the child's last confession and administered
Extreme Unction. Long the confession
lasted—those guileless self-accusations of an almost
guiltless soul. When the family were re-admitted
they saw that both priest and penitent had been
weeping.
“Has the poor child told you her greatest desire,
Father?”asked the grieving mother.
“Yes. I have no hesitation in giving her Holy
Communion. She was sufficiently prepared a year
ago. If you will make the proper preparations I
will bring the Holy Sacrament and administer First
Communion.”
Not until Tommy saw the priest visit the house,[Pg 160]
and learned that his sister had been anointed did he
realize that she was dangerously ill. When the priest
left, he rushed to the couch, and kneeling, took
Ethel's hand and covered it with tears and kisses,
crying passionately with heartrending sobs:
“Ethel, Ethel, Ethel! don't die, don't die yet! Ask
God and His Mother to make you well again. You
know they will if you ask them.”His cry was an
unconscious tribute to his sister's goodness.
Ethel waited with joy and calmness the approach
of her Lord. Very soon the priest, bearing the
Sacred Host, arrived and the whole household
assembled to honor the divine Visitor, and to pray
for the departing soul.
Notwithstanding her intense pain, Ethel appeared
to be in a transport of joy. Her calm, waxlike face
was faintly flushed at the fulfilment of her ardent
longings. As she lay making fervent acts of love
and thanksgiving, she resembled an angel rather
than a child of human clay. So thought her spiritual
director as he gave her the last absolution and blessing
and began to recite the prayers for the dying.
Tommy's grief became deeper and more demonstrative.
His mother gently drew him into the next
room, telling him it was for Ethel's good, as he was
disturbing her recollection and happiness. With this
assurance he became content, although he sobbed as
if his heart would break.
Silently, and in helpless, though resigned, anguish
the father and mother watched through the long
night the flickering spark of life fade and expire.
More than once during these long hours they believed
the beautiful soul had flown to God, its
Maker. Hoping against hope, they earnestly desired
that she might last until Roy should reach home at
seven, but about three the end came.[Pg 161]
“Fetch the boy,” said the father, in a whisper.
Mrs. Henning softly left the room. She found
Tommy, his face all tear-stained, asleep on the mat
just outside the door. Gently waking him, she told
him to come to Ethel. The boy, alert in a moment
at the sound of her name, came slowly into the room.
Neither father nor mother spoke, but the latter led
him to the couch where lay the lifeless form of his
sister still holding the crucifix in her hand. Her
pure soul had flown.
Seeing that she had passed away, the boy bent
down and kissed her white forehead and her lips.
His mother involuntarily moved a step nearer, intending
to catch and console him in his first wild
burst of grief. To her surprise the boy neither wept
nor spoke. He took one long look at the placid face
of his dead sister, and turned away, going out into
the open air of the warm night. By the first gray
streaks of dawn he wandered through the garden
path down to the pond. There lay the boat as he
had left it, half drawn up on the shore, and there,
withered, lay the lilies she had gathered. The boy
remembered how she had used all her little strength
to pull up one large bud. She had, at length, laughingly
succeeded, dropping it into the boat and letting
the long stalk hang in the water.
As the gloaming of the sad day of the funeral
drew on Tommy took his beads from his pocket.
Then came the realization that he was alone to say
them.
“Ethel! Ethel,” he cried, and the floodgates of his
tears were open. Big, strong Roy caught him up
in his arms as he would a baby. There Tommy,
resting his tired little head on his big brother's
breast, wept unrestrainedly.
On the day of the passing of Ethel Roy pondered[Pg 162]
long about sending a message to his friends at St.
Cuthbert's. He could not decide to whom to send
it. Bracebridge, Beecham, Shealey, Gill, and Jones,
all were thought of, but he remained undecided.
While thinking over this, his aunt, Andrew Garrett's
mother, entered the room. Roy loved this good and
beautiful woman almost as much as he loved his own
mother, whom she was supporting and comforting
in her sudden affliction.
“I am glad you received my telegram in time,"
she said. “You will be just now such a support and
comfort to your mother and father, Roy, in their
sorrow.”She kissed him on the forehead.
“When the sickness came to Ethel,” she continued,
"they were both too distracted by grief to think of
sending for you, so I wired in your father's name.”
Roy made up his mind about his message. He
filled out a blank:
“Dear Andrew: Ethel passed away at three.
Pray and get prayers for her. I know you will.
Roy.”
For many a long day after, Roy Henning had
reason to bless the influence which prompted him to
send this message to his cousin, rather than to any
one else. The message had the effect of working a
wonderful change in Andrew Garrett, so that when
Roy next saw him, he scarcely recognized him.
Many strange things will happen before Roy again
sees his cousin.[Pg 163]
CHAPTER XXII
Roy and His Father
WHEN, in four or five days, the grief in the
household had subsided sufficiently to lose
some of its poignancy, Mr. Henning called
his son to his study for the purpose of having a long
talk with him concerning his prospects and the
affairs at St. Cuthbert's. He was still under the
impression that the extraordinary test to which he
had submitted his son was a wise one.
The two sat opposite each other in large, leather-covered
reading-chairs in a very wealthy man's
private “den.” Roy waited respectfully for his
father to begin. Full of the thoughts of Ethel, he
began to speak of his recent loss.
“So the poor child is gone, gone! I never thought
she would last very long; she was too frail and
delicate. If she had grown up I am sure she would
have become a nun. Ah, that reminds me! Do
you still hold to the notion you mentioned to me
last summer?”
“Of the priesthood? Most assuredly, sir.”
“Humph,”
The white whiskers looked whiter as the florid
face became more florid.
“H—um! So! I thought then that it was a mere
passing fancy of yours, and that it would soon go.
As you have asked for no more money than the small—yes,
very small—allowance I settled on, I began
to think—yes, I began to believe, that you had
more of the Henning family spirit—yes, more of[Pg 164]
the real family spirit—than at first I gave you credit
for. So far, so good. So you are determined, if
possible, to become a priest?”
“Yes, sir,” said the young man firmly.
“Now tell me, my boy, how you have passed
through the tests I set.”
Roy was silent. He thought of the many times
he had experienced more or less bitterly rebellious
thoughts against these tests.
“Don't be afraid, Roy. Speak plainly. Have you
failed?”
“No, father,” he answered emphatically; “I have
not.”
“That is good. I am very glad to hear that.”
“I confess that it was very hard. Frequently I
felt like writing to you about the prohibition of
sports and of my—my shortness of cash.”
“So most of your troubles came from lack of
cash, eh?”
“Oh, no! Really the greatest test of obedience I
have ever had was to follow your instruction strictly
when you declared that I should engage in no sports
except enough to keep a sound mind in a sound
body.”
“Yes, I remember to have said that.”
“That, sir, was a hard blow to me. All the unpleasantness
of the year has arisen from trying to
be faithful to your command.”
“How so? Explain.”
“As you know, I am an enthusiastic and pretty
good ball-player.”
“Yes, I have heard enough about that to be well
acquainted with the fact.”
“And I am a good all-round athlete as well. As a
consequence, I stood high in the councils of the
college athletic circles. When I announced my in[Pg 165]tention
of retiring from the football eleven, and the
baseball nine there was a good deal of disagreeable
talk. I must confess, father, this was the hardest
thing I ever had to do in my whole life.”
“So?”
“Yes, and the worst of it was I was made
miserable by insinuations and innuendos that I had
betrayed the college teams. I was disloyal. I was
acting out of pique or spite. This was all very hard
to bear because I was actuated by the very best intentions.
I wanted to prove to you that I was a
dutiful and obedient son.”
“I never doubted that, my boy, never for a
moment doubted that,”
“I thank you, sir.”
“Poor lad! all this is too bad; but tell me about
the robbery. By the way, you never sent for that
check; but tell me all about it, that is, as far as it
concerns yourself.”
“I will, sir. Not being allowed to engage in any
sports by your orders, I did not see why I could not
make myself useful in some other way. Late in the
fall there was much talk about the following season's
games. In order to keep the team in practice it was
decided to take up a collection among the boys and
purchase a pitcher's cage, to be placed in the play-room,
where indoor practice could be had all the
winter. The boys appointed me solicitor and
treasurer. I kept the money in the table-drawer in
the committee-room off the playroom. From that
drawer the money was stolen. What made my
chagrin the deeper was that I had been warned by
a close friend to place the money with the college
treasurer for safer keeping. This I intended to do,
but during the Christmas holidays it escaped my
memory.”[Pg 166]
“I do not see why you could not have written for
that check. As far as I can see there is nothing in
all this story to prevent you from replacing the
money. Surely you and your cousin Andrew did
everything in your power to trace the thief and get
the money back?”
Here was a critical moment for Roy. Blood is
thicker than water with the father as well as the son.
Mr. Henning never dreamed but that Andrew would
make this a family affair and exert himself with his
cousin to recover the stolen money. It was a temptation
for Roy. Should he expose Andrew's conduct?
Should he permit his father to know that he
had a nephew who was selfish and cowardly and
mean, and not above trading upon another's reputation?
Roy had to think rapidly in making up his
mind what to do. His father's keen eyes were upon
him. The old gentleman was awaiting an answer.
Roy's good angel prevailed. The boy replied:
“Everything, I believe, was done that could be
done to detect the thieves by myself and my friends,
but without success. Had we found the thief and
discovered that the money had been disposed of
beyond recovery I should then have written gladly
to you to replace it, after your generous offer.”
“That's right; that's right.”
“But,” continued Roy with some hesitation, which
his father did not fail to notice, “affairs turned out
so differently from what I expected. Whether from
natural causes, or from design, I do not know, but
there were two or three opinions soon prevalent
about the robbery, and there was one party who—who
gave it out that they—they suspected me.”
“Suspected you,” almost shouted the lawyer.
"The scoundrels! Who were they, Roy; who were
they?”[Pg 167]
“Some whose names are not worth mentioning,
and whose reputations are still worse.”
“Dear me, dear me! The rascals, to suspect my
son,” fumed the old man. He walked excitedly up
and down the room. By some occult process he
connected these suspicions with his son's stringency
of cash, and blamed himself in proportion to his
indignation.
“My boy, my boy! this is all too bad, too bad!
If I had allowed you your regular amount all this
would not have happened. Such a thing could not
then have happened.”
“I do not see that, father, unless by having plenty
of money as usual I should not have undertaken the
treasurership. I do not see how this consequence
flows from the premises. Indeed I think it more
than likely had matters been normal with me I
should have been treasurer just the same.”
“Well, we must rectify all this. You want to go
back to St. Cuthbert's, or do you wish to stay
away?”
“I want to go back, sir, of course, and graduate.
And please, father,” said Roy right loyally, “please
do not think these few boys represent St. Cuthbert's.
There are not a finer set of fellows in the world.
These I spoke of are the exceptions.”
This remark thoroughly pleased the father who
was himself an alumnus of old St. Cuthbert's.
“And besides,” continued the young man, “I want
to go back and live down the ugly rumor—for that
is all it is—and make somebody eat his words. I
know, I feel certain it will come out all right.
Matters always do. I want to be there. If I were
to stay away now, would it not be, at least for some,
a sort of tacit acknowledgment, or at least it might
be so construed by some unfriendly to me, who might[Pg 168]
say I knew more than I chose to tell and so kept
away as soon as I had a chance to do so?”
“You are right, my boy; you are right. Go back
and fight it down. Suspected of dishonesty! A
Henning, too, preposterous! Yes, yes, you must go
back, boy. You must go back.”
“I am glad you look at it in that light, sir. I
think it the best thing to do.”
Mr. Henning drew from his pocket a bunch of
keys. Opening his desk he took out a roll of bills.
“You must consider your test, your trial, as over.
It is over as far as I am concerned, and I am more
than satisfied with you. You are free now to take
up what sports you like, and spend, in moderation,
what money you like, and in fact I leave your course
of action entirely to yourself. I am sure I need have
no fear for your prudence. Here, take this; you
will need it.”
Mr. Henning handed over to his son a fair-sized
roll of bills. How much he gave we will not state,
but leave the amount to the imagination of the
reader, merely remarking that Mr. Henning was a
very rich man, did few things by halves, and, at the
moment, was actuated by the most generous impulse.
In giving Roy the money, he remarked: “Give your
cousin Andrew twenty-five dollars, with my regards.
I suppose schoolboys are never very flush at this
time of the year. I never was.”
While Roy, with a bounding heart, was thanking
his father, a loud ring of the door bell disturbed the
quiet of the house. In a moment one of the servants
brought in a telegram.
“For Master Roy, sir,” she said.
With a bow and a “Permit me” to his father, Roy
opened the envelope and read:[Pg 169]
“Come at once. Great news! St. C. 8. B. 3.
Ambrose.”
The mystified boy showed the telegram to his
father.
“Perhaps the first part refers to the robbery. You
had better go. Can you bid your mother and aunt
farewell and be ready at the depot by 7.30?”
“Yes, quite easily.”
“Very good. The carriage will be ready for you
to catch the 7.30 train.”[Pg 170]
CHAPTER XXIII
The Great Blow
NOTWITHSTANDING the death of his little sister,
Roy left home with a lightened heart, owing
to the more perfect and decidedly pleasanter
understanding with his father. Had he not full permission
to play ball, or do anything else he chose!
If the reader thinks this was a small reason for being
light-hearted, then it is safe to say that same reader
never was a boy. Every real boy knows what that
permission meant. Roy, as we know, was conscientious.
We know the struggle he went through.
We know some of the unpleasant consequences
which followed from conscientiously carrying out
his father's wishes. Just in proportion as the
restriction had been bitter, this freedom now was
sweet. He was a strong, healthy, vigorous boy, all
his life used to outdoor exercise, delighting in all
manly sports. Now he was free again! Free to
enjoy it all! The promised delights appeared all
the more entrancing from his long abstention from
them. Would he not surprise the boys! No, he
would give the credit, all of it, to Harry Gill. He
would make it appear that the manager's diplomacy
had been irresistible. Gill should have an extra
feather in his cap!
And Garrett! What a pity he was developing
such undesirable traits of character! Could he not
be weaned in some way from those companions with
whom at present he seemed so infatuated? Roy was
convinced that he was not really a bad fellow at[Pg 171]
heart. How could he be with such a mother as
Aunt Helen? Was there ever a finer, more lovable
woman, except his own mother? Her gentle touch,
her womanly way, her wise and soothing words!
What a treasure Andrew had, did he but realize it!
No, he could not be really bad with her influence,
and the memory of her, and her prayers for him!
These were some of the thoughts which passed
through Roy's mind as the train sped along in the
darkness. Then he remembered Bracebridge's telegram.
He took it out of his pocket and read it
again. He puzzled again over those words “Come
at once.”What could they mean? Had the thief
been discovered?
His heart gave a great leap at the thought. But
what if, after all, his suspicions had been well
founded! What if the thief should prove to be
Andrew Garrett! The thought made him sick at
heart; and yet—and yet! oh, he must be mistaken
in that surmise! Ambrose would not have wired
him to come at once had the guilt been traced to
Garrett. He would certainly have been in no hurry
to bring him back to so unpleasant a state of affairs.
In that supposition it would have been “great news"
indeed, but most disastrous news. No, it must be
some one else, if the message meant what he hoped
it did mean.
“And so the first great match has come off victoriously,"
he said to himself. “Good! good,”
He fell into a train of pleasant thoughts during
which he looked so bright and so happy that an old
lady on the opposite seat, who had watched him for
some time, smiled kindly at him. Roy returned the
smile. She was quite advanced in years and evidently
traveled but rarely. She liked the look of the
bright, handsome face before her, whose youthful[Pg 172]
sparkling eyes spoke goodness and enthusiasm, and
whose clear skin at this moment showed a decided
flush of joy.
“Are you going home?”she ventured timidly.
“No, ma'am. I'm leaving home.”
She looked puzzled. It was contrary to her experience
to see children so happy on leaving home.
Roy enjoyed her puzzled look for a minute, and then
explained:
“I am not going home, but I have just left the
best father and mother in the world, and am now
going back to school to join the best and truest
friends a fellow could find anywhere on this round
earth.”
“Is that so! I am glad to hear it. If they are all
like you they must be good boys.”
Roy actually blushed. Just then the conductor
called the old lady's station. As she arose and with
the assistance of Roy gathered her traveling impedimenta,
she said:
“Keep that bright smile, my dear, and remember
that no one can keep so bright a face unless he keeps
a bright soul within. I am an old woman, and I
know what I say.”
Now while Roy retires to his sleeper to get as
much rest as is possible on the rail, we will hurry
forward and learn why he was wired to come at
once, and find out what has been happening during
the last few days at St. Cuthbert's.
The Blandyke team arrived before noon on the
day Ambrose had sent the message to his friend.
Their manager told Gill that the condition of their
coming was that they returned on the 3.50 train of
that afternoon. The game, consequently, began at
one o'clock. It was over by three, with the result
already known.[Pg 173]
The day had been extremely hot, with not a breath
of air stirring. The atmosphere was stifling. All
nature seemed to be in a dead calm. Even the dogs
sought shady spots and lay still and panted. The
afternoon seemed more oppressive than an August
day, because so early in the summer every one was
unaccustomed to the great heat.
As the game was finished by three o'clock on a
recreation day, there were three vacant hours before
supper time. Owing to the unusual sultriness few
cared to tramp over the hills, or along the lower
road of the valley. A few, however, started out,
either to walk, or hunt black squirrels on the higher,
wooded grounds in the rear of the college.
About four a slight breeze began to blow from
the southwest, cooling the atmosphere very considerably.
“Ah, that's fine,” said Jack Beecham, as he faced
the breeze and filled his lungs with the cooler air.
"That's fine! My, but it was hot! Never knew it
so hot in May before in my life. Oh, look, Ambrose,"
and he pointed to the direction from which
the breeze was coming, “look at that queer-shaped
cloud,”
Bracebridge looked toward the southwest. Dark,
coppery clouds were forming and rapidly approaching.
The temperature dropped suddenly many
degrees. The cooler breeze became stronger and
soon it was a wind. Before many minutes elapsed
it was a very high wind in which it was difficult to
stand steadily.
Suddenly a brilliant flash of lightning leaped from
the now leaden sky. The boys could hear the electric
discharge snap and crackle against the sides of the
buildings. It was followed almost instantly by a
deafening crash of thunder, tropical in its intensity.
[Pg 174]Down came the rain, not in drops, but apparently in
sheets of water. Flash followed flash, peal succeeded
peal, and the wind grew more furious every
moment.
Bracebridge, Shealey, Beecham, and Harry Gill
watched the terrific war from the Philosophy classroom
window.
Ever and anon the downpour would cease, but
the wind did not abate. At intervals could be seen
the havoc the wind was doing. The air was thick
with leaves and twigs and straw. In the lowlands
the boys saw the rail fences carried away like
matches and deposited over the fields. An old
wooden windmill tower was toppled over. Boards
and shingles and slates were flying everywhere.
All knew that such violent warfare must be brief.
Already in the west there was a streak of light
beneath the clouds. Before the storm had spent its
fury the watchers at the window were to witness
a remarkable sight.
Behind the college there was, as has often been
remarked, thickly wooded high ground. The boys
at the window were watching the hillside path, which
every now and then was obscured by the rain. Suddenly
a forked bolt struck the largest tree on the
hillside, and hurled to the ground across the
college walk at least one-third of it. The boys looked
at each other in a frightened way. In the mind of
each was: “What if the college had been struck,”
When the deafening thunder-crash had passed,
Bracebridge, for the sake of saying something, remarked:
“It's lucky that none of us were out in such a
storm.”
“We would have been nicely drenched, eh?”said
Tom Shealey.[Pg 175]
“No one of common-sense would be out,” said
Beecham; “all would run to shelter somewhere.”
“But some may have been too far away to reach
it. You know how sudden the storm was,” observed
Bracebridge.
“What on earth is that?”suddenly exclaimed Tom
Shealey, as he pointed to something or some one
crossing the yard. After the last thunder-crash the
rain had ceased suddenly. The wind dropped, and
the storm, furious while it lasted, spent itself. The
boys threw open the classroom window to get a
better view of the yard. Some one had entered from
the field gate nearest the woods. He was drenched;
his hat was gone; his hair dishevelled. He was white
and frightened. Although his clothes clung to his
skin he was making violent, meaningless gestures as
he ran, and appeared to be gibbering or muttering
something as if in that stage of fright which borders
on imbecility.
“It is Smithers,” shouted Shealey. “Let's go and
see what's up. Hurry,”
“What's up, Smithers? What's happened?”asked
Shealey, a moment later, hatless and breathless.
The frightened boy had a scared, wild look. He
muttered something quite unintelligible. His lips
were dry and white.
“Now be calm. Tell us quietly what has happened,"
said Bracebridge.
Smithers again gibbered something. The listeners
could make nothing of it. They began to think the
boy had lost his reason.
“—prefect—dead—struck—innocent,” were
some of the words caught by the listening boys.
“Good gracious,” exclaimed Beecham, “the prefect
is dead, struck by lightning, up on the hill walk.
Is that it, Smithers?”[Pg 176]
The one appealed to, not fully comprehending the
question, and half beside himself, nodded assent.
“Gill, quick, go at once to the President. Then
take care of this fellow. Send a priest as soon as
you can up the hill. Jack and Tom, you come with
me.”
Ambrose naturally assumed the leadership in the
emergency. The three ran along the walk and up
the hillside path as fast as their legs could carry them.[Pg 177]
CHAPTER XXIV
The Fallen Tree
HAVING seen from the classroom a large part of
the great oak fall when the bolt came, the
three boys supposed that was the spot where
the tragedy must have taken place. They noticed
the havoc the storm had wrought. Many large limbs
of trees were scattered across their path. In several
places the walk was washed out, leaving large gullies.
On the thickly wooded hillside the damage was the
greatest.
Arriving at the oak tree they were at a loss. They
saw no sign of any human being. They picked up
Smithers' plaid cloth cap which he had lost in his
wild flight homeward. Beecham began to beat it
against a young sapling to rid it of some of the mud.
“We must go farther yet. This is not the place,"
said Ambrose.
Fully one-third of the great oak tree had been
riven from the trunk. It lay across their path, necessitating
a detour amid the still dripping underbrush
to pass it. The oak was in the full of its early
summer foliage, forming an impenetrable green wall
across the hillside path.
As they were threading their way through the
thick low growth on the upper side, Jack Beecham
glanced into the dense mass of fallen foliage. His
eyes were caught by something black beneath the
green. Thinking it was perhaps an old log, blown
there by the storm before the lightning damaged the
oak, he was about to pass on, but gave a second look.
[Pg 178]The black thing under the leaves was surely not a
bough! Again he peered into the tree-top.
“Great heavens! there he is under that oak,” he
said.
The three pushing aside the boughs saw the
bleeding, white face of some one who was apparently
dead.
“Poor Mr. Shalford,” exclaimed Shealey.
“Nonsense! Don't you see that's not Mr. Shalford
at all. It's one of the boys. Who can it be?”
They all looked again into the leaves, and were
satisfied that it was not their prefect.
“Who is it?”asked Shealey.
“I believe it is—it is Stockley,” said Bracebridge.
“You don't say,” exclaimed Shealey, “at all
events we must get him out of that tangle, dead or
alive.”
“I don't believe that oak killed him, anyway,"
remarked Jack Beecham.
“Why?”asked Ambrose, in a whisper, for in the
presence of death they were awed.
“Look here,” said Beecham, “no big limb has
reached him. These twigs and leaves would give
one a sharp switch when falling, and probably knock
him down, but they are too small to break any
bones.”
“Maybe that's true. Well, we shall soon find out,"
said Ambrose. “Now, boys, how are we to get him
clear of that tree-top?”
They procured a strong stick, and while two lifted
as many of the small boughs as they could, Bracebridge
pushed the pole over the prostrate body. He
then raised his end, the other being on the ground
on the other side of the body. The two other boys
took hold of Stockley's shoulders and successfully
drew him from under the tree, as, fortunately, he[Pg 179]
had not been caught by any of the larger limbs.
Gently as possible they drew him out from under the
mass of foliage, but gentle as they were, they
necessarily used some force. To their surprise—and
satisfaction—they heard him groan. He was
not dead after all, but undoubtedly badly hurt.
No sooner had Stockley been extricated than Mr.
Shalford appeared. The boys who were bending
over the prostrate body looked up.
“Oh, sir,” said Ambrose, “we thought it was
you,” and he pointed to Stockley. There was love in
the tone, making Mr. Shalford treasure the simple
words for many a day.
“Why?”
“That stupid Smithers said so. I think he was
too frightened to know what he was saying.”
The moving of Stockley restored him to a state of
semi-consciousness, in which he talked incoherently.
One arm hung loosely, evidently broken above the
elbow. When touched in the ribs the suffering boy
groaned aloud, so that it was quite probable that
some were fractured. There was a cut on the forehead,
and another on the lower lip. The injuries, as
far as could be then learned, while serious, were not
necessarily fatal.
A priest from the college having arrived, the rest
withdrew some paces while the minister of God tried
to elicit some act of conscious sorrow for sin. It
seemed to the boys that he succeeded, for from the
distance they saw him raise his hand and make the
sign of the cross as in sacramental absolution.
“I do not think he will die,” said the priest as the
others drew near. “See there, that is what must
have done the mischief. He was caught up here in
the wind-storm, and one of those dead limbs struck
him. You say you found him beneath the tops of[Pg 180]
the fallen oak. Those twigs could not have inflicted
these injuries.”
Intermittently Stockley muttered incoherent words.
Bracebridge and Beecham knelt on either side of
him, nervously anxious to catch every sound. Unknown
to each other, both had simultaneously formed
a strange suspicion. Once both distinctly heard the
words: “Clear—Henning.” What could that
mean? They caught the word “letter,” but to neither
did this convey intelligence, because neither knew of
the existence of the copy or draft of that letter which
Roy Henning had written to some unknown friend.
They heard other disconnected words, for instance,
"sweater,” and “Garrett,” but these words had no
meaning for them. They did not, for all that, lose
a single word, but stored up everything in their
memories, being sure that something would come of
it in good time.
Harry Gill and others arrived with a wire mattress,
the best temporary substitute for a stretcher.
There was no lack of willing hands to convey the
injured boy down the hill to the infirmary.
Gill's report of Smithers' frantic words spread
like wildfire in the yard. Most of the boys believed
the kindly prefect had been killed by a falling tree.
Few had seen him after the report began, because
he had at once started for the walk.
Notwithstanding the appalling nature of the accident,
when the boys saw Mr. Shalford return safe
and sound they could scarce refrain from giving a
hearty cheer. One began to wave his hat and was
on the point of opening his mouth. Mr. Shalford
was immensely surprised at such a strange proceeding
at such a solemn moment, never for a moment
dreaming it was all for him. He stopped all noise
with an imperative “Hush,” [Pg 181]
All the boys clustered around the infirmary steps
awaiting the reappearance of the prefect. In about
half an hour he came. He told the boys the extent
of Stockley's injuries, and said that it was the physician's
opinion that none of the wounds were likely
to prove fatal.
“Hurrah for Mr. Shalford,” shouted George
McLeod.
“McLeod, are you taking leave of your senses?
If you don't be quiet I'll send you back to Mr. Silverton
to the division yard.”
But the boys took up McLeod's lead and gave
three cheers for the prefect.
“And what on earth is that for?”he asked.
“Why, sir, don't you know? Smithers said you
were killed,”
“Smithers was too excited to know what he was
saying.”
“But you are not killed—that's the point. Hurrah!"
In spite of himself the prefect was again
cheered. Do what he would, put his fingers to his
lips, point to the infirmary, wave down the noise
with his hand, he could not stop the boys giving one
more shout for his safety.
When Bracebridge and Beecham were again alone
in their room, the former said:
“What do you make of it all?”
“I think it is very important.”
“I think so too.”
“You heard all he said?”
“Every word.”
“I am not sure,” said Jack, “but I believe there is
a rift in the cloud for dear old Roy. Fancy, Brose!
suppose this wounded boy should know all about the
robbery,”
“And we could make him tell,” added Bracebridge.[Pg 182]
“I tell you what I think,” continued Jack, “it is
my conviction that he not only knows all about the
thieving, but that he——”
“Oh, don't say that,” urged Ambrose. “I know
what you think. I believe I think the same, but
don't like to give it expression.”
“I don't mind doing so if it will lead to the clearing
of Henning.”
“I wish I knew what he meant—what was on his
mind when he mentioned Garrett and his sweater!
And what could he mean by repeating frequently,
'letter, letter, Garrett.' It's all a mystery to me as
yet. I do wish Roy was here. Maybe he knows
what the words mean. Perhaps Roy could get
Stockley to tell who the thief was, that is, supposing
he really knows.”
“It seems clear to me,” said Beecham, “that Stockley
knows something. But who can say what that
something is? Say! Suppose you telegraph for
Henning. Give him to-day's score, too. He'll want
to know that.”
“That's a great idea. I'll do it,” said Ambrose.
“All right. Do it at once, so that he may get the
message in time to start to-night and be here early
to-morrow morning, should he consider the affair
important enough.”
Thus the telegraphic message was sent to Roy
Henning.
When Smithers had recovered from his fright
sufficiently to be able to talk sensibly, Beecham and
Shealey plied him with questions about the accident.
He said, substantially:
“We were at the other end of the forest path
when the storm came up—Stockley and I. We
took shelter in the cave for some time until the water
began to flow in from above and drove us out. Then[Pg 183]
we made for home. It was very dangerous. Sticks
and limbs were flying in all directions. We had
passed the big oak by about thirty feet when Stockley
was struck by a piece of a branch about four feet
long and as thick as your arm. It hit him on the
arm and on the chest or side. He fell with a scream.
At that moment there came a brilliant flash, and a
bolt of lightning struck quite close to us, blinding
me for a few seconds. I was about ten feet ahead
of Stockley when it came. I was so frightened I
thought I would go crazy. When I could see again
I saw the oak tree falling right where he was lying.
I never was so frightened in my life. Then I ran
home, believing he was killed. I don't remember
how I got down the hill, or what I said after.”
“Will you answer me one question, Smithers?"
asked Beecham.
“If I can, yes. What is it?”
“When the accident happened were you two talking
about Henning and the robbery last Christmas?”
“Yes,” he answered, “we were. I'm sorry now I
had anything to do with it.”
“With what?”asked Beecham with a nervous
start. Foolish fellow. He was not cool enough.
The other fellow took immediate alarm.
“Oh, nothing,” and he refused to say anything
more, and walked away.
“That was too bad,” said Beecham to himself, very
much chagrined. “If I had been a little more diplomatic
I might have wormed out of him all he knew
of the matter.”
Now Jack was indeed sorely puzzled. Did
Smithers mean that he was sorry that he had talked
to Stockley about it, or did he mean that he was
now, under the influence of a great fright, sorry
that he had participated in the robbery?[Pg 184]
Beecham sat a long time on a bench tilted against
the wall, disconsolate and severely bringing himself
to task.
“Here am I,” he said, “with conceit enough to
imagine I have brains enough to become a lawyer,
and at the very first opportunity for an important
cross-questioning I make a decided goose of myself.
Pshaw! I wish some one would kick me! I deserve
it,”
When Beecham found Bracebridge and told him
what he had done, the latter laughingly admitted the
sentence which Jack had passed upon himself ought
to be immediately executed, and volunteered to be
the executioner.
“You did make a mess, of it, certainly. There's
no telling what the boy knows—much more than
he will ever reveal, I'm thinking. We can now only
wait for Roy. He wired that he would be here to-morrow
morning.”
“'Rah for Roy! He's the one we want,” shouted
Jack with renewed enthusiasm.[Pg 185]
CHAPTER XXV
Surprises for Roy
HENNING arrived at the Cuthberton depot at
seven in the morning. In stepping from the
sleeper he was surprised to see Ambrose
Bracebridge awaiting him.
“Welcome back, old fellow, to St. Cuthbert's,"
said Ambrose. “I was very sorry to hear of your
loss. May she rest in peace,” and the gentlemanly
boy raised his hat reverently.
“Thank you,” said Roy, warmly shaking hands,
"thanks. It was very sudden. Poor little Ethel
died a saint if ever there was one.”
“I have not forgotten you in your absence. I
have the promise of five Masses for her from the
Fathers. I felt sure that would be pleasing to you.”
“Thanks, indeed,” He was touched by his friend's
thoughtfulness, and the remembrance of Ethel
brought a big lump into his throat, and for a moment
there was a catching of the breath. “Excuse me,
Ambrose. Your kindness—our sudden loss—my
heart is wrenched—her—she—oh! you know
how it is,”
“Yes, yes, I know——”
“And I have come back,” said Roy, certainly irrelevantly,
"I have come back under the most favorable
conditions with respect to my father.”
“Yes?”answered Ambrose, quite ignorant of what
the conditions might be. Roy saw that for all their
talks, Bracebridge remembered nothing of the previous
relations between himself and his father. He
saw by his questioning “yes,” and by his eyes, which[Pg 186]
were nothing less than interrogation points, that his
friend was curious to learn more, although he
delicately refrained from asking.
“It's a long story, Brosie, old man. I can't tell it
to you now on the platform here. I'll tell you some
time to-day—after we have had breakfast. I am
as hungry as a wolf. Let's go to a hotel and get
breakfast.”
“No, the college carriage is outside waiting for
you, and breakfast for four is to be ready by the time
we get back.”
“For four?”
“Why, yes. Didn't I tell you that Harry Gill and
Jack are waiting outside in the carriage? The ticket
man at the gate wouldn't let them in. I was the
least suspicious-looking of the three, I suppose.”
“Let's be off, then,” said Roy.
Both made a grab simultaneously at Roy's suitcase.
“No, you don't.”
“Yes, I do,” answered Ambrose, keeping hold of
it. They both tugged for a moment or two, much to
the amusement of two ladies in an opposite train
who burst out into merry laughter at the friendly
contest.
Warm greetings awaited Roy in the carriage.
After the welcoming was over, and the delicate condolences
tendered, Roy leaned over to Gill's ear and
whispered something. Whatever the whispering
was about it ended by Roy putting his finger over his
lips as an admonition to remain silent.
The information conveyed to Gill must have been
of a startling nature for he immediately proceeded
to behave as if he were suffering from a fit. He
threw up his heels into Bracebridge's lap, clutched
the carriage strap with one hand and Beecham's[Pg 187]
coat collar by the other, and began to scream at the
top of his voice. Roy held his sides at the other's
antics. Ambrose guessed the cause of Gill's jubilation,
but Jack Beecham was quite in the dark.
“Here! take this maniac off, or I'll soon be a
physical wreck,” he shouted.
“By the way, Ambrose,” asked Henning, “what
is the great news you wired you had for me? But
first how did the great game come off?”
Then all three in their enthusiasm began to talk
at once and independently of each other. Each
described what he considered the beauties and fine
points of the game.
In the midst of this jumble of words, from which
Roy managed to pick out a deal of information about
the game, the carriage drove into the college
grounds.
The prefect at once hurried the four into the infirmary
building where a somewhat elaborate breakfast
had been prepared for them.
“Get along, boys. Clear out now. These boys
are hungry. You can see Roy after breakfast.
There is plenty of time to hear all the news, if he
has any to tell. Now, John, let no boy into the infirmary
this morning without my permission.”
“All right, Mr. Shalford. I'll keep them out, sure
enough,” answered the kind old fellow who attended
to the wants of the sick. This time he was as good
as his word, for as soon as the four were fairly
inside he shut the door and locked it.
During the breakfast—such a breakfast the infirmarian
explained he had to get up once in a while
to keep his hand in for convalescents who had to be
coaxed to eat to get strong, an explanation readily
admitted by the four—Henning's three friends told
him of the wind-storm and of the accident to Stock[Pg 188]ley.
They told him how through Smithers' incoherence
of speech they had first believed that Mr.
Shalford had been crushed by the falling oak; how
Stockley had been found beneath the branches, and,
finally, how when he had returned to semi-consciousness
he had uttered some very strange words which
might mean nothing at all or a great deal for Henning.
Roy, as he gradually learned the full particulars
became very much interested and finally intensely
excited. Was he going to have the wretched
affair of the robbery cleared up at last? Did this
boy know who the thief was? Could he point him
out? Would he do so? And what if, after all, his
suspicions about his own cousin should prove correct!
While he was thus pondering, and listening to his
friends' suggestions and information, Mr. Shalford
came in.
“Henning,” he said, “you may be surprised that
I did not let Garrett go to the depot to meet you.
The fact is, these rascals here begged so hard that
I could not find the heart to refuse them, and you
know that the old-fashioned carriage will only hold
four. To make amends I will send Garrett to you
at once. He has asked several times to be allowed
to come in, but I refused until you had finished your
breakfast.”
A minute later Andrew Garrett entered, holding
out his hand in sympathy to Roy, as he walked across
the room. There was a wonderful change in the
boy. He looked better than he had looked for
months. The blotches and disfiguring pimples had
disappeared. Healthy food, regular meals, and being
much out of doors had effected that. But there
was a change of countenance as well as of face.
There was a look of candor not usually seen there of
late. The eyes were steady and had lost much of[Pg 189]
their restlessness. There was at this moment a gratifying
air about Garrett which plainly indicated that
he wanted to repair any injustice and wrong which
he had formerly done to his cousin.
Henning was very much puzzled at the change,
which was more apparent to him than to the others
who witnessed the meeting.
“Poor little cousin Ethel. Oh, Roy, I'm so sorry.
She was such a charming child,”
Roy looked at him in surprise. Could this be the
boy who had done him so much injury and had kept
the secret all these months? What to make of the
tone, the evident look of candor, the change in Garrett,
Roy did not know. Sensible fellow as he was,
he made the most of it, judging that if the present
meeting were merely a piece of good acting on Andrew's
part, he would sooner or later find out the
true state of affairs. So he offered his hand to Garrett
and it was pressed with genuine sympathy.
“And how does Aunty bear the shock?”
Roy told him.
“And mother? Did you see my mother?”
“I did, Andrew, and she grieves quite as much as
my mother and father. She sends her love, and
Papa sends this with his kindest regards to his
nephew.”
Roy gave the sealed envelope, containing the elder
Henning's present. Garrett did not open it at once.
He said:
“I have several things I wish to say to you when
we are alone. Of course you have heard by this
time all about the accident to Stockley?”
He then whispered to Roy:
“There's more behind this than you think. Get
rid of these fellows for a little while. I have a lot
to say to you.”[Pg 190]
“I can not just now,” Roy whispered back. “You
see they are in a way my guests for the present. To
send them away would not only offend, but it would
be very unkind.”
“Very well then; as soon as you can be alone in
the yard this morning?”
“All right.”
Garrett then joined in the general conversation
around the breakfast table. Roy was much puzzled.
He could not understand Andrew at all. Never
during the whole time that Garrett had been with
him at St. Cuthbert's had he acted in so cousinly a
manner. Roy wondered whether the change had
been brought about by Ethel's death. Yet unless
Andrew was playing a much deeper game than his
cousin gave him credit for being able to play, his
advances—for they were in Roy's estimation distinct
advances—were genuine. He gave up the
problem as too hard of solution—and waited.
His cogitations were soon cut short. The physician
came down stairs from his morning visit to
the injured boy.
“No, I do not think the boy will die,” they heard
him remark to the infirmarian, “I am sure he will
not, although he thinks he is going to. He'll be all
right in a few weeks. What? I told you last night—two
ribs and his arm.”
“Can he see any one?”asked the infirmarian.
“He had better be kept quiet for a few days. By
the way, he said something about wanting to see a
Troy, or a Joy, or some such name—and some one
else. Who was it, Denning, Heming, Henning—some
such name.”
“It's all one person, doctor. It's Roy Henning
he wants to see. May he see him?”
“Yes, I think it would be better to let him see this[Pg 191]
boy as soon as he wishes. There appears to be something
important that he has to say which he wants
to get off his mind. Yes, let him see this boy—a
chum of his, I suppose. Perhaps it will do him good.
Can not do any harm.”
“A chum of his! Ugh,” said Roy, sotto voce.
There was really so comical a look of disgust on his
face that the other boys, who were watching him
closely, burst out laughing. The infirmarian came
in:
“The doctor says ye can see the one with a broken
arm, though what he do be wantin' ye for, I dunno.
It's sorry I am to be hearing ye lost your sister,
Master Roy, an' sure the Lord'll be having mercy
on her.”
“Thank you very much, for your kind wishes.”
His friends now left him, wishing him all sorts of
success in the interview. He thanked them, but did
not go upstairs. Instead, he went to the window and
looked out as if expecting some one. Some time
later his friends were surprised to see him still standing
there. Mr. Shalford thought that by this time
the interview must be nearly over. He, too, was
surprised to see Henning gazing out of the breakfast-room
window. The prefect went over to him.
“Why are you not talking with Stockley?”he
asked rather sharply.
“For two reasons, sir. I am a little nervous at
present. You know how much depends for me on
what that boy will say. I want to be cool, so I am
waiting a little while. Secondly, I do not intend to
go there alone.”
“Not go alone! Why! What do you mean? Are
you afraid?”
“No, sir. But if this fellow should, and somehow
I think he can, say something to exculpate me, what[Pg 192]
good would his statement, or perhaps admission, be
to me without witnesses? I should be just where I
was before.”
“You are right. You should have witnesses.
Whom do you want?”
“Ambrose and Jack and Rob Jones, if you like,
sir.”
“No; two are enough. I will send Bracebridge
and Beecham to you at once.”[Pg 193]
CHAPTER XXVI
Stockley's Story
WHEN our unfortunate treasurer of the pitching
cage fund entered the sickroom he was
scarcely prepared for what he found there.
The room, to his imagination, resembled an
emergency hospital. The air was impregnated with
the odors of arnica, and iodine and ether—decidedly
sickly smells to one coming in suddenly and not
accustomed to them.
On the table near the bed where Stockley was
lying were a number of bottles, gauze, and sponges
and the remains of a light breakfast. The boy was
propped up with pillows, his broken arm in splints
resting on one, while another was gently pressed
against his fractured ribs.
Stockley was not an ill-featured boy. It is true
that he had somewhat neglected his personal appearance
of late, but there was nothing about him that
was really repulsive, and now after his alcohol bath
and with his hair well brushed from his forehead he
appeared quite presentable. He had a fine mouth
and his eyes were large and clear. His forehead was
high and intelligent, and notwithstanding his faults
one could not fail to recognize a sort of innate nobility
in him, and Roy discovered something more
than even this as he watched him. He saw on his
face a softened, chastened look. His countenance
showed that softening effect which appears in so[Pg 194]
peculiar yet unmistakable a way immediately after
receiving one of the sacraments of the Church. His
look was subdued and yet exalted. There was a
species of radiance on the face which Roy felt he
could not define, but yet was quite discernible. There
was also a change of manner of speech. Stockley
had been very close to the gates of death and that
tremendous fact had changed his views, and the
sacrament of Penance had the effect of softening his
hitherto somewhat hard exterior conduct and manner
and he was even now under the apprehension that it
was quite doubtful whether he would recover from
his injuries, although the physician had told him
that unless most unexpected complications ensued
there was no danger. He was nevertheless quite
frightened, and was now very serious. It must not
be understood, however, that the story he told was
due to his fright, for he had quite a different motive
in relating what he did.
Roy saw the change in the boy, yet he could not
help but regard him with disfavor, although he determined
to be perfectly just to him. He was
anxious, also, to keep his wits about him in order to
lose nothing of what might be said. In justice to
himself he meant to get the whole story, although in
his heart of hearts he had the sickening dread that
this boy lying wounded and bruised before him
would confirm his worst fears concerning his cousin
Garrett.
Henning realized that the present moment was a
critical one in his life; that now, or perhaps never,
would all suspicion be removed. He felt that if this
interview should result in nothing not already known,
and he remain under the unjust and cruel suspicion,
it would compel him to reconsider seriously his purpose
of entering the seminary. Was there not also a[Pg 195]
possibility that the bishop would reject him—would
be compelled to reject him—upon learning that his
character for honesty was impugned?
All this and much more he saw as he stood by the
bedside of the injured boy, waiting for him to speak.
While waiting he offered a fervent prayer to the
Sacred Heart for direction for himself, and that if it
were in Stockley's power to do so, he might clear up
everything.
To see Henning at this moment one would never
imagine that he was very much excited. His two
friends thought he was taking the matter very coolly.
He stood at the bedside with his hands in the side
pockets of his trousers, and with as much apparent
nonchalance as if he were watching a ball-game.
Perceiving that Stockley would not, or at least did
not begin the conversation, he remarked:
“I am sorry that you have met with so serious and
so terrible an accident.”
There was no reply. Stockley put out his uninjured
hand, but Roy did not take it. He felt that
there was something in the character of the boy lying
before him that was entirely antagonistic to his own
character and disposition. They were the opposites
of each other in almost everything. The one was
animated with noble and generous impulses, with
exalted ideals of life and duty and goodness. The
other, as far as Roy had known him, was the antithesis
of all this. Seeing that Stockley did not
speak, he again made an attempt to open the conversation.
“The infirmarian tells me that you wish to say
something to me.”
“Yes,” said the other in a low voice. He was
really suffering a great deal of pain. “Yes, won't
you all take chairs? Sit down, all of you.”[Pg 196]
“Thanks, I prefer to stand,” said Roy, but the
other two found seats.
“But it is rather a long story I have determined
to tell. It will take some time.”
Roy sat down.
“That's right. It makes it easier for me to say
what I am going to tell.”
Henning nodded his head, without venturing a
reply.
“You seem rather sour with me.”
“No. Excuse me if I appear so. I am anxious to
hear what you have to say.”
“By the way, where is Smithers? Why hasn't he
been up here to see me? Where is he?”
“I know nothing about him. You know I have
only arrived from home this morning. As yet I have
no news of the yard.”
“Well, he might have come, seeing how thick we
have been. But there! I'm not going to say anything
about him, or about anybody but myself.”
Roy nodded his head in approbation.
“Ah! that suits you. You pious fellows are so
particular about what is said about one's neighbor.
I must be careful. You are right, of course, and
besides I received a pretty close call, up there on the
hillside, so I am going to try to undo some of the
harm I have done. The chaplain has urged me, too.”
“Yes, be careful, please. But what is your story?”
“I was brought up,” he began in a low voice, “in a
strange, unwholesome way. I suppose heredity, or
at least environment, must have something to do
with my tendencies and disposition. The only piece
of good fortune I have had was in being sent to St.
Cuthbert's, but, now when it is too late, I see how I
have missed my chances here. Ever since I can
remember, my father has been a heavy drinker and[Pg 197]
our home has been one of squalid discomfort, and I
became more or less soured with everything and
everybody and found myself doing many a mean
thing. Do you know who it was who put the suspicion
of theft on you? Three of us worked that, or
strictly speaking, two; It was I and Smithers, and
occasionally—once in a great while—your cousin
Garrett.”
“So I have thought all along; in fact I knew it,”
said Henning, “but why on earth did you do such a
thing? Do you not know how much I have suffered
from this? And you must know how terribly hard
this was to bear.”
“I know very well. Why did we do it? I, for
one, was thoroughly envious of your popularity. I
was angry, as a good many others were, at your
refusal to play baseball or football. I did not, and
to tell you the truth, do not like you, and I wanted
to do something to vex you. Of course I see these
things now in a different light after confession. You
know I have been to confession, don't you.”
“I suspected as much. I am glad of that. So
you started the cowardly rumor against my honesty
all the time knowing I was innocent.”
Henning was determined to be diplomatic, so the
question was not put as in anger, or with any apparent
excitement or resentment, but rather as if he
were helping the boy make a full confession by suggesting
to him facts known to both.
“Yes, I acted this way knowing you to be innocent,"
answered Stockley.
“Did you realize that you might have ruined me
for life?”
“To be honest, I never dreamed of such a result.
It was done simply to annoy you, and for no other
reason, on my part.”[Pg 198]
“Did you suggest this to Garrett or he to you?"
asked Roy.
“To do him justice, I must say that we, Smithers
and I, suggested it to him. We had a hard job to
bring him over, in fact he never did really come
over. He would never let the letter be circulated.”
“Letter! What letter? What do you mean?”
“Don't you know? That was my biggest card and
it fell flat. Don't know? Oh, well, if you don't
know about the letter, you must ask your cousin.
He wouldn't give it up. I guess he's got it yet.”
Roy was much mystified. He could not imagine
what the letter could be, or what bearing it had on
the case.
“Stockley, you have told us some things of importance.
Now will you not go farther? You know
I am innocent of the robbery, and of any possible
connection with it?”
“No doubt about that,” said the other.
“Now to make your story complete, and of immense
value to me, will you not reiterate your statement
before Bracebridge and Beecham here that you
know me to be innocent of all the charges which
have been circulated about me in the yard?”
“Why, yes. I repeat emphatically that you are
guiltless of them all.”
“Thanks! thanks! You are sure of what you say?”
“Quite sure. You are scot-free.”
“Thanks again. Now, Stockley, as you are quite
sure, do you not see the only way in which you can
convince others that you are correct is to admit you
know the thief?”
The boy on the bed laughed.
“Well, Henning, I suppose you think you have
caught me nicely. You think I have either said too
much or too little. If I had not been to confession
[Pg 199]I should not have allowed you to drive me into this
corner, but I did not intend to stop at this. Yes, I
will tell you the name of the thief.”
“Who is he?”asked Roy, as calmly as he could,
although he felt himself half choking with suppressed
excitement.
“I must continue my story. When I have done
you will know. What time is it?”
“Twenty minutes to ten,” answered Roy.
“You've got it yet,” said the boy, pointing his
finger at Roy's watch, which he still held in his hand.
“What? The watch? Oh! yes.”It was a rather
small gold hunting-case watch.
“That watch was the cause of the robbery,” said
Stockley dramatically. Henning clicked the watch
shut with a start, and put it back in his pocket.
“This watch the cause of the robbery! What on
earth are you talking about? Your senses must be
leaving you——”
“Just wait. You'll soon see I'm not wandering.
Why should there be such an unequal distribution of
wealth, and of the good things of the world? Why
can you have all that heart can desire, and why must
I get along with a mere pittance, just enough to
make me wince under my own indigence? Look at
my father and yours; my home and your home.
Your father is a wealthy and honored lawyer with
a home like a palace; mine, as I said before, one of
squalid discomfort. My father gave me five dollars
to get through the school year with, yours probably
gave you a hundred.”
Henning began to pity the boy. Laying his hand
gently on Stockley he said:
“Hold on. I begin to catch your view, but you
are getting on too fast. I am going to tell you something
which I have never breathed to a living soul.
[Pg 200]Do you know how much money I had to spend this
year?”
“As I said,” replied the other, “about a hundred,
or perhaps much more.”
“You are mistaken. I had just twenty-five dollars—not
one cent more—and you see that's a very
small amount for me, because I am supposed—just
as you suppose now—to have plenty.”
“Oh! Come off! You gave Smithers nearly ten,”
“I know it, and it left me fifteen.”
Jack and Ambrose were never so surprised in their
lives—and felt like cheering. Stockley remained
silent. This was a revelation to him. He had supposed
that a rich man's son, because he was a rich
man's son, always had all the money he wanted. He
was sharp enough to realize Roy's position during
the year.
“My, that must have been hard on you,”
“It was hard,” replied Roy.
Another long pause. The injured boy was thinking
new thoughts.[Pg 201]
CHAPTER XXVII
Stockley's Story (Continued)
“I'VE been thinking,” said Stockley, at length breaking
the silence. “I've been thinking that if I
had known last Christmas what you have told
me now things might have happened very differently.
I guess I am not the only fellow who has seen hard
lines here. Yes, things would have been different.”
“How so?”asked Henning.
“It's this way. I told you that it was your gold
watch that was the cause—or the occasion—of all
the trouble that came to you. It happened this way.
For some time before Christmas I envied you, your
good clothes, this gold watch, and—and your popularity.
Along by Christmas my father neglected
me. He sent me no money, which he might easily
have done had he given me one thought. The more
nearly broke I was at holiday time the deeper my
envy. I knew, for I watched you closely, that you
were collecting a pretty sum for the cage. I saw
where you kept the money. The idea of securing a
gold watch for myself took strong hold upon me. It
did not take long or many attempts to loosen one of
the outside window bars. Then on the Richelieu
night when everybody was full of thoughts of the
play, when the prefects were hurrying the boys to
bed, I entered through the window and secured the
money.”
“And it wasn't—it wasn't—”Roy choked up.
“Who? It wasn't anybody but myself. Smithers
had no hand in it then.”[Pg 202]
Roy Henning's heart gave a great bound of relief.
It was not his cousin, after all. Thank God, thank
God! The family honor was saved! How glad he
was now of his silence! Was ever silence so golden?
What irretrievable damage a hasty word could have
done. The thief known, on his own confession, and
before witnesses. His cousin exonerated! Thank
God, thank God! Of course Roy was curious now
to know all the details and it was with the utmost
difficulty that he restrained his excitement sufficiently
to be able to speak in a natural tone.
“How did you manage to do it?”
“Umph! This information which you have been
seeking for the last five months does not seem to
affect you much.”
“With that we can deal later. Now I am curious
to know how you did it. Please tell me.”
“As you take the matter so coolly, I will. I laid
my plans well. I determined, if caught in lifting
the grating, to be hunting for a ball, which I had
previously dropped down there. I watched my time.
I made the entry while the boys were in the chapel
at night prayers. I settled with myself that if I
were caught coming out, to bring the money to you
to prove to you how foolish you were to leave it in
a common table drawer. In the dark it took only
a minute to lift the grating. You know that it is
thick iron with small holes. Three boys did actually
walk over the grating that night while I was crouching
beneath it with the money in my pocket.”
Henning startled both Stockley and his companions
by saying, dramatically:
“I saw you that night there.”
“What, you saw me! Oh, I say, that's a likely
story—and didn't say a word all this time,”
“I can prove it.”[Pg 203]
“How?”
“Why did you wear Garrett's blue sweater?”
“Guess you did see me then, for I wore it. I
wanted a disguise. If any one saw me near that
window with Garrett's sweater on they would take
me for him, provided I hid my face well—which I
did. No one would suspect Garrett of thieving.”
Again Henning was thankful that he had kept his
resolution of silence. It was not for Garrett's sake
he had made it. Why it was made, and kept in the
face of such suspicious circumstances, the reader will
learn ere long.
“Did you purchase the gold watch you wanted
with your—your ill-gotten gains?”
“I did not. I was afraid to do so. I saw at once
if I did I should compromise myself. I saw that
I should have to tell where I got the money for such
a purpose. Everybody, and especially the faculty,
knew that I did not have overmuch pocket-money.
My common-sense, after all, told me I could not use
the money here. So I made myself a felon for
nothing. What is left—most of it—is now with
the President.”
Stockley paused a minute, and then continued:
“Don't think this is an easy task for me, boys. I
promised the chaplain to straighten things out, and
as you had to have the essentials, you might as well
have the details also. I shall never face the boys
again, for as soon as I can be moved I am to be sent
home. Anyway, Henning, I like the way you
received the story.”
“I am very thankful to you that you make it so
clear and circumstantial.”
“You remember in the early spring there was a
good deal of money spent by the boys. If I remember
rightly you yourself bought a number of books,[Pg 204]
bats, balls, and shoes. Well, at that time I ventured
to spend some, but I was horribly suspicious all the
time. Somehow I imagined that every dollar I spent
was marked in some invisible way and would be
traced back to me. No, I tell you that has done me
no good, given me not one moment of satisfaction,
and has only added an extra burden to my conscience.”
“Did Smithers have a hand in this thievery?"
asked Roy.
“Leave others out. You said that to me just now,
and now you are trying to get some one else incriminated.”
“No, I am not. I am merely acting in self-defense.
You have cleared me of all suspicion. I must, if he
was implicated in this wretched affair, have him
clear me also.”
“You need not bother about Smithers,” said
Bracebridge; “that charming and courageous individual
departed for unknown pastures between two
suns. You will see him no more. The boys say he
is daffy on account of the storm. Let it go at that,
Roy.”
Henning was surprised at this news, but not altogether
pleased. Matters had thus far gone so
propitiously that he wanted every knot in the tangle
straightened out.
“That's all right, Roy,” said Bracebridge. “There
will be no more trouble from that quarter.”He then
turned to Stockley, saying:
“I must say that we are obliged to you for your
candor. It is rather a manly acknowledgment after
all.”
“You see, I went to confession last night,
and——”
“I understand. You are properly trying to undo[Pg 205]
the wrong you have done. You will never be able
to undo the mental torture you have inflicted on
Henning all these months.”
“I never shall. I am sorry for all that now, and
I ask your pardon, Henning.”
The three boys were discovering that there was
something manly in Stockley after all.
“That's all right,” said Roy heartily. “It's all
over now. Try and keep straight for the future.”
“Now,” said Bracebridge, “there is only one thing
more to be done. Of course you will sign a paper
exonerating Henning from all possible implication,
now you have acknowledged your own guilt. Our
word as witnesses would be sufficient, but it would
come with better grace from you, don't you think
so?”
“There's not much gracefulness in the whole
wretched business, I'm thinking, but I'll sign.”
That afternoon, with the permission of the prefect,
there was posted on the bulletin board a notice which
created more intense excitement than anything since
the loss of the money during the Christmas holidays.
It ran as follows:
“This is to certify that I, of my own free will
and without coercion, admit that I stole the
seventy-two dollars last Christmas week, and
that no one now at the college had the least
thing to do with planning or carrying out the
theft except myself.”
“John Stockley.”
[Pg 206]
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Unraveled Tangle
UNPLEASANT as the interview had been to Roy,
he no sooner left the sickroom than he found
his spirits rise with a great bound. At last!
At last he was cleared! Now the way was smoothed
for him. All aspersions on his character would be
scattered like the morning mist before the sun, as
soon as the contents of the precious paper were made
known.
The three boys left the infirmary at about half
an hour after eleven o'clock. In a quarter of an
hour classes would be dismissed for the day, it being
a customary half-holiday.
Jack Beecham was eager to post the notice on the
bulletin board at once. They took the wiser and
safer course. They decided to see the prefect first,
as nothing appeared on the board without his sanction,
and when it did it was regarded as official.
“Come in,” they heard him call in response to their
rap at the door.
“Great news, Mr. Shalford,” shouted Jack
Beecham before he entered the room. “Everything's
settled. Roy's all right now. The head of the clique
has done it this time—in black and white, too; see,
sir.”
Mr. Shalford arose, smiling, and extended his
hand to Henning.
“I am very glad. It has been an ugly business. It
has caused no end of anxiety. The rumors and
charges were always so intangible that I never could
trace one to its source. But let me see the paper.”[Pg 207]
This boys' true friend gave a low whistle as he
read Stockley's acknowledgment.
“So you are cleared, Henning; and the thief is
known? That's capital. Poor boy! Isn't it too
bad, boys, to find a student—one of us—a thief, a
burglar, a felon! Oh, the pity of it! Well, pray for
him, boys, pray for him. Leave this note with me,
Henning. I'll see that it does its work. Congratulations,
all of you. Whatever you have, Roy, you
have some loyal friends. Congratulations, congratulations,
all of you,”
The note was immediately posted. Then the excitement
began, at first among half-a-dozen around
the board, then among other groups, and in a very
short time throughout the college. George McLeod
and Ernest Winters simply went wild, and in less
than an hour they could scarcely speak at all, so
hoarse were they from shouting.
Where was Henning? A rush was made to the
Philosophy classroom. He was not there. Perhaps
he was with the rector or the prefect of studies. Both
these places were invaded by excited boys, but Roy
was not forthcoming.
Just as the big bell rang for dinner, George
McLeod made a rush for the chapel, sure that he
would find his friend there. And there he did find
the three, Jack, Ambrose, and Roy, pouring out their
thanksgiving with grateful hearts for the happy turn
events had taken.
“Come, Roy; it's dinner. The big bell has rung;
come on.”
Roy did not move, nor did his companions. He
evidently intended to avoid the crowd, waiting until
they should all be at dinner, knowing that in the
refectory they would have to remain quiet.
This time he miscalculated entirely. No sooner[Pg 208]
did he make his appearance than the whole of the
students of the senior refectory rose to their feet and
gave three hearty cheers for Roy Henning. The
prefect made no attempt to stop the demonstration,
while Ernest Winters, out in the middle of the room,
was fairly dancing with joy and excitement.
At a given signal from Mr. Shalford all cheering
ceased. Every one resumed his seat—except
Ernest, who danced on in his glee, to the intense
amusement of all, and to his own utter confusion
when he discovered that he was the only boy now
making any noise in the refectory.
Before the laugh at his expense had subsided the
prefect whispered to Roy:
“Shall I give talking at table in honor of the
event?”
“To-morrow, please, sir,” replied Roy, “now I
want to think a little.”
Mr. Shalford gave a look and a nod to the reader,
and the meal, save for the reader's voice, was finished
in silence.
If the boys were not allowed to talk for a little
while, there was no lack of signs and signals. Harry
Gill was frantic to signal across the room his congratulations,
and had a fit of coughing for trying to
eat his dinner and at the same time send a series of
telegraphic messages to Roy.
Henning was pleased to see that Andrew Garrett
was quite demonstrative of good will. Andrew, for
a long time tried to catch his cousin's eye. When
he did so, he dropped his knife and fork and imitated
a handshaking. Roy did the same to his cousin, and
was repaid by seeing a look of intense pleasure
spread over Andrew's face.
Of course all these signs and signals and other
unusual occurrences were breaches of discipline[Pg 209]
which, at any other time would not have gone unchecked
and unpunished. But Mr. Shalford knew
exactly “how it was.”He had been a real boy himself
once, and knew exactly when not to see too
much. He believed in the scriptural motto, “Be not
over just.”
And after dinner! What a scene the yard
presented for a few minutes! The delighted boys
shook Roy's hand until his arm fairly ached. His
arm ached because he allowed it to be shaken by
others, instead of himself shaking every hand extended.
In this business he was unexperienced.
In the midst of the enthusiasm, which resembled
that which follows an important and successful baseball
game, only more intense, Harry Gill jumped
upon a long bench by the wall and shouted:
“Listen, gentlemen. I have good news for you.
Hi, there! listen. Listen there, boys, listen, listen!
Roy Henning has promised to pitch for the rest of
the year! Did—you—hear that—boys?”
Roy suddenly remembered that he had intended to
give Gill the credit for this. He jumped on the
bench in a second. Raising his hand, the hero of
the hour obtained silence in a much shorter time than
Gill had done.
“If I pitch for the rest of the year,” he said, “it
is all Gill's fault. I simply could not resist his importunities.
Oh, he's a sly one,”
“It isn't,” said Gill laughing.
“It is.”
“It is not.”
“It is.”
Then there was a cheer which could be heard
down at Cuthberton.
After a time Roy, Jack, Ambrose, and Rob Jones
extricated themselves from the throng of happy boys,[Pg 210]
and with Gill and Andrew Garrett repaired to the
Philosophy classroom, or Hilson's parlor, as it was
called, which the other members of the class considerately
left at their disposal for the time being.
“Oh, what a day we're having,” sighed Jack
Beecham as he sank into a chair.
“Glorious, isn't it?”said the jubilant Bracebridge.
“And now that we are alone,” began Andrew Garrett,
"that is, among special friends, I want to say
something.”
All were silent in an instant. Gill, who did not
appear to have realized the previous strained relations
between the two cousins began to say something
funny, but he was checked by an unmistakably
significant glance from Ambrose, who had become
quite serious, for he rather expected a scene, if not
an explosion. Shealey, who had come in, was too
full of fun and nonsense to imagine that anybody
just now could be serious, but when he saw the
nervous look on Ambrose's face, and the evident
nervousness of Garrett, he, too, realized that it was
time to suspend bantering.
All the friends were standing in a group around
Henning, laughing and chattering as only boys
thoroughly happy can laugh and chatter, when Garrett
began to speak. At the sound of his voice, they
all, with Roy in the center, turned and faced Garrett
as he stood two or three feet away.
“I want to say something,” Garrett began again,
"and I think it only fair, Roy, to say it before these
others, as well as to you.”
Henning bowed slightly, having only a faint idea
of what was coming. At present he was too pleased
to know that Garrett was not implicated and that the
family name was untarnished.
“I want to say that I consider myself to have been[Pg 211]
a pretty mean and small sort of a fellow in this
whole business.”
“Oh! Don't——”began Roy in protest.
“Wait a minute, Roy. This is the task I have set
myself, for it seems to me the only possible way in
which I can make reparation. I want to say that I
had a good deal to do with those rumors. I got in,
somehow, with a crowd of boys I ought to have been
ashamed to associate with. How it all happened I
don't exactly know. Things went from bad to worse
with me, and pretty far, too. It seems a dream to
me now. About a week ago suddenly I began to
realize my position. How this realization came about
I don't know. It must have been dear little Ethel's
prayers for me, but I began to think of my position,
think of what I was doing, and, yes, to think of the
sin of it all. You were away, Roy, and when I remembered
your trouble and grief at home, and when,
finally, your brotherly telegram came, I began to be
thoroughly ashamed of myself. So now all I can
do is to ask your pardon, and the pardon of all these,
your loyal and staunch friends.”
As he listened to this manly avowal, there arose in
Roy Henning's breast an admiration for his cousin's
moral courage. The other auditors were deeply impressed.
They waited with curiosity to see what
Roy would do. And he? He did precisely what
might be expected of him. Without saying a word,
he stepped forward, took Garrett's hand and shook
it warmly. Then:
“It's all over, old man. Let bygones be bygones.
I forgive everything and forget.”
“Thanks, very much. I do not deserve this, but
you shall see I shall deserve it.”
There was a world of pathos and earnestness in
Andrew's voice at that moment.
[Pg 212]
The rest of the gathering of friends extended their
hands, and Andrew shook hands all around.
“Now,” said Roy, “will you permit me to ask a
few questions, to clear up some obscure points in
my mind?”
“Certainly; anything,” said Andrew, with alacrity.
“How did that wretched Stockley come to wear
your blue sweater? He tells me he did, and, besides,
I saw him get down below that grating that night
and I thought it was you.”
“Thought it was me,” said Garrett in the greatest
amazement. “You thought it was I, and all this
time you thought I was the thief, and yet stood all
I said against you, and never said a word! Oh,
Roy! No wonder on that Sunday afternoon you insisted
on my clearing you,”
Andrew Garrett appeared to be fairly overcome by
his cousin's generosity.
“Why, oh, why didn't I know all this before?
How differently I would have acted. Believe me, it
is only this very day I learned that the thief wore my
sweater that night. Before going to bed on the night
of the play I hung my sweater on a peg in the study-hall.
The next morning I saw that it had been used
by some one, for there were dirt stains on it and
some rust marks from contact with rusty iron. I
determined not to wear it after that. I had no idea
the thief had used it, though.”
“Thanks,” said Roy. “Now one more question,
Andrew.”
“Fire away.”
“This morning Stockley said something about a
letter which you knew something of—one in some
way connected with me. Can you tell me anything
about it?”
Now it so happened that the affair of the letter[Pg 213]
was the only incident in the untoward conduct of
Garrett for many months past in which he could take
any kind of satisfaction. It will be remembered that
he had refused to allow Stockley and Smithers to
circulate it among the boys. He had retained it
ever since.
“That's easy enough,” he answered, as he drew
the crumpled letter from his pocket.
“But I have to ask you a question now, for the
wording of the letter certainly looks compromising
enough. Listen to this, gentlemen.”Andrew read
the scrap of paper to the astonished listeners.
“Dec. 23rd. My dear chum: Your letter
received last Monday. Sorry to say that"—"here's
a blank,” said Garrett, and then continued,
"have no money just now, so can not do the thing
you wish. Awfully sorry. Feel like stealing the
money rather than letting this thing go undone.
However, wait till the end of Christmas week.
Something's going to turn up before that—then
we can go into partnership in this, at least for the
merit—keep everything dark. Don't say a word
to anybody about it. Mind, now, chum, everything
must be kept secret or—smash! Yours,
Roy H.”
When Garrett began to read the note, Henning
looked puzzled. After a time he seemed to remember
all about it, and then he—blushed.
“Oh! that's——”but he stopped suddenly. He
was going to make a revelation of some kind, and
suddenly thought better of it. He blushed profusely—like
a girl. He was awkward. For a moment
he appeared embarrassed in no slight degree. Twice
he was going to say something; twice he changed
his mind.
His friends were very much puzzled. Was there[Pg 214]
a shade of truth in some of the charges made against
Roy after all? Had their idol fallen? Was he, after
all, not to be their hero? Was he a lesser character
than all along they had judged him?
Roy saw these fleeting fancies on their wavering
faces, all except Ambrose's. He never doubted, nor
did he show the least sign of wavering. Roy saw
wonder and incipient doubt elsewhere, at which he
blushed the more furiously.
The situation was certainly dramatic. A climax
had come to-day. Was there, after all, to be an
anticlimax? Was the idol to be shattered at the
very last moment?
“What does it all mean, Roy?”asked Garrett.
“I would rather not say,” was the reply.
“You had better, Roy,” said Bracebridge, in confidential
tones.
Still blushing, Roy said:
“I say, you fellows, you don't mean to say there
is anything crooked in this, do you?”
“No,” replied Andrew Garrett, “but an enemy of
yours could make mighty good capital out of it all
the same. Tell us what it means, Roy.”
“If you must know, then, it's merely this,” answered
Roy, a little angrily, not exactly with his
friends, but more at the exigencies of the situation.
"There is a poor—quite poor—student in a seminary
who is and has been a great friend of mine, in
fact pretty much of a hero, as you would say if you
knew his story. He had the greatest longing to get
home last Christmas to see his widowed mother after
years of absence. He could not afford it, and, like
a real friend, asked me to assist him. Unfortunately
my funds were very low—too low to help him. I
expected that my mother would send me her usual
Christmas present. I found out that she was willing[Pg 215]
to do so, and I wrote to her to send most of it to
my friend instead. There's your great mystery! I
was short of funds because my father cut down my
allowance this year.”
“So that's the reason you were so close this year?"
asked Andrew.
“What?”
“Because your father cut down, and yet, by Jove!
you were willing to send what you did get to some
one else. Well, I call that noble, indeed I do. Oh,
I wish I had known all this before! If I had but
known! If I had——”
“Say, you fellows, haven't you done catechising
me?”said Roy Henning, attempting to divert their
attention from himself.
“If you please, cousin, one more question,” said
Andrew.
Roy made a wry face, and a mock gesture of impatience.
“You would try the patience of a saint,”
“May I?”
“Well, fire ahead.”
“You say that all along you thought I was the
thief?”
“I certainly did, Andrew,” answered Roy, serious
in a minute, “for no one but you here ever wore a
blue sweater.”
“Then why did you not, especially as I had acted
so meanly toward you—why did you not do or say
something that would point suspicion to me, or
openly make the charge?”
The question aroused considerable emotion in
Roy's breast. It showed itself in the workings of
the muscles of his cheeks. Taking Andrew Garrett
by the hand, he looked into his eyes.
“Shall I tell you, Andrew?”
[Pg 216]
“Yes, please do.”
“If I spoke or moved in this I knew it would break
your mother's heart.”
Andrew could stand no more. He broke down.
Boy as he was, with all a boy's natural distaste for
displaying emotion before others, he was not
ashamed to rest his head for a moment on his
cousin's shoulder and sob. The only words that fell
from his lips were:
“Noble Roy,”
Printed by Benziger Brothers, New York.
[Pg 217]
Benziger Brothers' New Plan for Disseminating Catholic Literature
A NEW PLAN FOR SECURING
Catholic Books on Easy Payments
Small Monthly Payments. Books Delivered Immediately.
All New Copyright Works by the Foremost Writers
PRINTED FROM NEW PLATES, ON GOOD PAPER, SUBSTANTIALLY
BOUND IN CLOTH
A MOST LIBERAL OFFER!
The following pages contain a list of the books in our Catholic Circulating
Library which can be had from us on the easy-payment plan.
Though the books are sold on easy payments, the prices are lower than
the regular advertised prices.
Any library advertised in these pages will be sent to you immediately on
receipt of $1.00.
CATHOLIC CIRCULATING LIBRARY
|
THE PLAN FOR FORMING
== READING CIRCLES ==
Dues only 10 Cents a Month.
A New Book Every Month
$12 Worth of Books to Read
|
Total Cost for a Year, $1.20
|
THIS EXPLAINS THE PLAN
You form a Reading Club, say of twelve members,
and order one of the Libraries from us.
Each member pays you ten cents a month, and
you remit us $1.00 a month, thus paying us for
the books.
On receipt of the first dollar we will send you
a complete library. You give each member a
book. After a month all the members return their
books to you and you give them another one. The
books are exchanged in this way every month till
the members have read the twelve volumes in the
Library. After the twelfth month the books may
be divided among the members (each getting one
book to keep) or the books may be given to your
Pastor for a parish library.
Then you can order from us a second library
on the same terms as above. In this way you can
keep up your Reading Circle from year to year
at a trifling cost.
On the following pages will be found a list of the
books in the different Libraries. They are
the best that can be had.
MAIL A DOLLAR BILL TO-DAY AND ANY
LIBRARY WILL BE FORWARDED AT ONCE
|
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THE OTHER PLAN
|
Or if, instead of
forming a Reading
Circle, you wish to
get a Library for
yourself or your
family, all you need
do is to remit a
dollar bill and any
Library will be forwarded
to you at
once. Then you
pay One Dollar a
month.
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BENZIGER BROTHERS
New York:
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Cincinnati:
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Chicago:
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36-38 Barclay Street.
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343 Main Street.
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211-213 Madison Street.
|
[Pg 218]
Dues, 10c.
|
Catholic Circulating Library
|
2 New Books
|
a Month
|
Every Month
|
JUVENILE BOOKS
20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young, by the Best Authors
Special net price, $10.00
You get the books at once, and have the use of them, while making easy
payments
Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page
Juvenile Library A
TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A START. By Rev. F.J. Finn, S.J.
"The best boy's book that ever came from the press.”
THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H.S. Spalding, S.J. “This
is a story full of go and adventure.”
HARRY RUSSELL, A ROCKLAND COLLEGE BOY. By Rev. J.E. Copus,
S.J. “Father Copus takes the college hero where Father Finn has left
him, through the years to graduation.”
CHARLIE CHITTYWICK. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. Father Bearne
shows a wonderful knowledge and fine appreciation of boy character.
There is no mark of mawkishness in the book.
NAN NOBODY. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Keeps one fascinated till the
last page is reached.”
LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. By Marion A. Taggart. “Will
help keep awake the strain of hero worship and ideal patriotism.”
THE GOLDEN LILY. By Katharine T. Hinkson. “Another proof of the
author's wonderful genius.”
THE MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A bright, sparkling
book.”
OLD CHARLMONT'S SEED-BED. By Sara T. Smith. “A delightful story
of Southern school life.”
THE MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE'S. By Marion J. Brunowe. “Plenty
of fun and frolic, with high moral principle.”
>BUNT AND BILL. By Clara Mulholland. “There are passages of true
pathos and humor in this pretty tale.”
THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. By Maurice F. Egan. “They are by no
means faultless young people and their hearts lie in the right places.”
PICKLE AND PEPPER. By Ella L. Dorsey. “This story is clever and
witty—there is not a dull page.”
A HOSTAGE OF WAR. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “A wide-awake story,
brimful of incident and easy humor.”
AN EVERY DAY GIRL. By Mary T. Crowley. “One of the few tales that
will appeal to the heart of every girl.”
AS TRUE AS GOLD. By Mary E. Mannix. “This book will make a name
for itself.”
AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By S.M. O'Malley. “The book is destined to
become a true friend of our boys.”
THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sure to stir
the blood of every real boy and to delight with its finer touches the heart
of every true girl.”
TWO LITTLE GIRLS. By Lillian Mack. “A real tale of real children.”
RIDINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. “His sympathy
with boyhood is so evident and his understanding so perfect.”
[Pg 219]
20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young
By the Best Catholic Writers
Special Net Price, $10.00
$1.00 down, $1.00 a month
Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages
Juvenile Library B
HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. By Rev. F.J. Finn, S.J. Profusely
illustrated. “A delightful story by Father Finn, which will be
popular with the girls as well as with the boys.”
THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H.S. Spalding, S.J.
"From the outset the reader's attention is captivated and never lags.”
SAINT CUTHBERT'S. By Rev. J.E. Copus, S.J. “A truly inspiring tale,
full of excitement.”
THE TAMING OF POLLY. By Ella Loraine Dorsey. “Polly with her
cool head, her pure heart and stern Western sense of justice.”
STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Takes hold of the
interest and of the heart and never lets go.”
JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By C. May. “Courage, truth, honest
dealing with friend and foe.”
A KLONDIKE PICNIC. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. “Alive with the charm
that belongs to childhood.”
A COLLEGE BOY. By Anthony Yorke. “Healthy, full of life, full of
incident.”
THE GREAT CAPTAIN. By Katharine T. Hinkson. “Makes the most
interesting and delightful reading.”
THE YOUNG COLOR GUARD. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “The attractiveness
of the tale is enhanced by the realness that pervades it.”
THE HALDEMAN CHILDREN. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full of people
entertaining, refined, and witty.”
PAULINE ARCHER. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sure to captivate the hearts
of all juvenile readers.”
THE ARMORER OF SOLINGEN. By W. Herchenbach. “Cannot fail to
inspire honest ambition.”
THE INUNDATION. By Canon Schmid. “Sure to please the young
readers for whom it is intended.”
THE BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By Marion A. Taggart. “Pleasing
and captivating to young people.”
DIMPLING'S SUCCESS. By Clara Mulholland. “Vivacious and natural
and cannot fail to be a favorite.”
BISTOURI. By A. Melandri. “How Bistouri traces out the plotters and
foils them makes interesting reading.”
FRED'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By Sara T. Smith. “The heroine wins her
way into the heart of every one.”
THE SEA-GULL'S ROCK. By J. Sandeau. “The intrepidity of the little
hero will appeal to every boy.”
JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First Series. A collection of twenty stories
by the foremost writers, with many full-page illustrations.
[Pg 220]
20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young
By the Best Catholic Writers
Special Net Price, $10.00
$1.00 down, $1.00 a month
Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages
Juvenile Library C
PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A BOY OF HIM. By Rev. F.J. Finn, S.J.
"The most successful Catholic juvenile published.”
THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. By Rev. H.S. Spalding, S.J.
"Father Spalding's descriptions equal those of Cooper.”
SHADOWS LIFTED. By Rev. J.E. Copus, S.J. “We know of no books
more delightful and interesting.”
HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY, AND OTHER STORIES. By
Maurice F. Egan. “A choice collection of stories by one of the most
popular writers.”
WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. By C. May. “Chapters of breathless
interest.”
MILLY AVELING. By Sara Trainer Smith. “The best story Sara Trainer
Smith has ever written.”
THE TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. By Mary T. Waggaman. “An excellent
girl's story.”
THE PLAYWATER PLOT. By Mary T. Waggaman. “How the plotters
are captured and the boy rescued makes a very interesting story.”
AN ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. By Gabriel Ferry.
PANCHO AND PANCHITA. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full of color and
warmth of life in old Mexico.”
RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “Many a boyish
heart will beat in envious admiration of little Tommy.”
BY BRANSCOME RIVER. By Marion A. Taggart. “A creditable book in
every way.”
THE QUEEN'S PAGE. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. “Will arouse the
young to interest in historical matters and is a good story well told.”
MARY TRACY'S FORTUNE. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sprightly, interesting
and well written.”
BOB-O'LINK. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Every boy and girl will be delighted
with Bob-o'Link.”
THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. By Marion A. Taggart. “There
is an exquisite charm in the telling.”
WRONGFULLY ACCUSED. By W. Herchenbach. “A simple tale, entertainingly
told.”
THE CANARY BIRD. By Canon Schmid. “The story is a fine one and
will be enjoyed by boys and girls.”
FIVE O'CLOCK STORIES. By S.H. C. J. “The children who are blessed
with such stories have much to be thankful for.”
JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second Series. A collection of twenty stories
by the foremost writers, with many full-page illustrations.
[Pg 221]
20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young
By the Best Catholic Writers
Special Net Price, $10.00
$1.00 down, $1.00 a month
Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages
Juvenile Library D
THE WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. “Here is a
story for boys that bids fair to equal any of Father Finn's successes.”
THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. By George Barton. There is a peculiar
charm about this novel that the discriminating reader will ascribe to the
author's own personality.
HARMONY FLATS. By C.S. Whitmore. The characters in this story are
all drawn true to life, and the incidents are exciting.
WAYWARD WINIFRED. By Anna T. Sadlier. A story for girls. Its
youthful readers will enjoy the vivid description, lively conversations, and
plenty of striking incidents, all winding up happily.
TOM LOSELY: BOY. By Rev. J.E. Copus, S.J. Illustrated. The writer
knows boys and boy nature, and small-boy nature too.
MORE FIVE O'CLOCK STORIES. By S.H. C.J. “The children who are
blessed with such stories have much to be thankful for.”
JACK O'LANTERN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This book is alive with interest.
It is full of life and incident.
THE BERKLEYS. By Emma Howard Wight. A truly inspiring tale, full
of excitement. There is not a dull page.
LITTLE MISSY. By Mary T. Waggaman. A charming story for children
which will be enjoyed by older folk as well.
TOM'S LUCK-POT. By Mary T. Waggaman. Full of fun and charming
incidents—a book that every boy should read.
CHILDREN OF CUPA. By Mary E. Mannix. One of the most thoroughly
unique and charming books that has found its way to the reviewing desk
in many a day.
FOR THE WHITE ROSE. By Katharine T. Hinkson. This book is something
more than a story; but, as a mere story, it is admirably well written.
THE DOLLAR HUNT. From the French by E.G. Martin. Those who wish
to get a fascinating tale should read this story.
THE VIOLIN MAKER. From the original of Otto v. Schaching, by Sara
Trainer Smith. There is much truth in this simple little story.
“JACK.”By S.H. C.J. As loving and lovable a little fellow as there is in
the world is “Jack,” the “pickle,” the “ragamuffin,” the defender of persecuted
kittens and personal principles.
A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. This is a beautiful
book, in full sympathy with and delicately expressive of the author's
creations.
DADDY DAN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This is a rattling good story for
boys.
THE BELL FOUNDRY. By Otto v. Schaching. So interesting that the
reader will find difficulty in tearing himself away.
TOORALLADDY. By Julia C. Walsh. An exciting story of the varied
fortunes of an orphan boy from abject poverty in a dismal cellar to success.
JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Third Series. A collection of twenty stories
by the foremost writers.
[Pg 222]
Dues, 10c.
|
Catholic Circulating Library
|
2 New Books
|
a Month
|
Every Month
|
NOVELS
12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors
Special Price, $12.00
You get the books at once, and have the use of them while making easy
payments
Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page
Library of Novels No. I
THE RULER OF THE KINGDOM. By Grace Keon. “Will charm any
reader.”
KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. By J. Harrison. “A real, true life
history, the kind one could live through and never read it for romance.”
IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. By Marion A. Taggart. Illustrated. “A
tale of the time of Henry V. of England, full of adventure and excitement.”
HEARTS OF GOLD. By I. Edhor. “It is a tale that will leave its reader
the better for knowing its heroine, her tenderness and her heart of gold.”
THE HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. By Countess Hahn-Hahn. “An exquisite
story of life and love, told in touchingly simple words.”
THE PILKINGTON HEIR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Skill and strength are
shown in this story. The plot is well constructed and the characters
vividly differentiated.”
THE OTHER MISS LISLE. A Catholic novel of South African life. By
M.C. Martin. A powerful story by a writer of distinct ability.
IDOLS; OR, THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D'ANTIN. By
Raoul de Navery. “The story is a remarkably clever one; it is well constructed
and evinces a master hand.”
THE SOGGARTH AROON. By Rev. Joseph Guinan, C.C. A capital Irish
story.
THE VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. By Maurice F. Egan. “This
is a novel of modern American life. The scene is laid in a pleasant colony
of cultivated people on the banks of the Hudson, not far from West Point.”
A WOMAN OF FORTUNE. By Christian Reid. “That great American
Catholic novel for which so much inquiry is made, a story true in its
picture of Americans at home and abroad.”
PASSING SHADOWS. By Anthony Yorke. “A thoroughly charming
story. It sparkles from first to last with interesting situations and
dialogues that are full of sentiment. There is not a slow page.”
[Pg 223]
12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors
Special Net Price, $12.00
$1.00 down, $1.00 a month
Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page.
Library of Novels No. II
THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT'S WAGER, and Other Stories. 30 stories by
30 of the foremost Catholic writers.
A DAUGHTER OF KINGS. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. “The book is
most enjoyable.”
THE WAY THAT LED BEYOND. By J. Harrison. “The story does not
drag, the plot is well worked out, and the interest endures to the very
last page.”
CORINNE'S VOW. By Mary T. Waggaman. With 16 full-page illustrations.
"There is genuine artistic merit in its plot and life-story. It is full of
vitality and action.”
THE FATAL BEACON. By F.v. Brackel. “The story is told well and
clearly, and has a certain charm that will be found interesting. The principal
characters are simple, good-hearted people, and the heroine's high
sense of courage impresses itself upon the reader as the tale proceeds.”
THE MONK'S PARDON: An Historical Romance of the Time of Philip IV.
of Spain. By Raoul de Navery. “A story full of stirring incidents and
written in a lively, attractive style.”
PERE MONNIER'S WARD. By Walter Lecky. “The characters are life-like
and there is a pathos in the checkered life of the heroine. Pere
Monnier is a memory that will linger.”
TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. By Anna T. Sadlier. “One of the
most thoroughly original and delightful romances ever evolved from the
pen of a Catholic writer.”
THE UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. By Marion A. Taggart. With four
full-page illustrations. “This story tells of the adventures of a young
American girl, who, in order to get possession of a fortune left her by an
uncle, whom she had never seen, goes to France.”
THAT MAN'S DAUGHTER. By Henry M. Ross. “A well-told story of
American life, the scene laid in Boston, New York and California. It is
very interesting.”
FABIOLA'S SISTER. (A companion volume to Cardinal Wiseman's “Fabiola”)
Adapted by A.C. Clarke. “A book to read—a worthy sequel
to that masterpiece, 'Fabiola.'”
THE OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE: A Novel. By A. de Lamothe. “A capital
novel with plenty of go in it.”
[Pg 224]
12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors
Special Net Price, $12.00
$1.00 down, $1.00 a month
Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page.
Library of Novels No. III
“NOT A JUDGMENT.”By Grace Keon. “Beyond doubt the best Catholic
novel of the year.”
THE RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A story of
stirring times in France, when the sturdy Vendeans rose in defence of
country and religion.”
HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. “So
dramatic and so intensely interesting that the reader, will find it difficult
to tear himself away from the story.”
OUT OF BONDAGE. By M. Holt. “Once his book becomes known it will
be read by a great many.”
MARCELLA GRACE. By Rosa Mulholland. Mr. Gladstone called this
novel a masterpiece.
THE CIRCUS-RIDER'S DAUGHTER. By F. v. Brackel. This work has
achieved a remarkable success for a Catholic novel, for in less than a year
three editions were printed.
CARROLL DARE. By Mary T. Waggaman. Illustrated. “A thrilling story,
with the dash of horses and the clash of swords on every side.”
DION AND THE SIBYLS. By Miles Keon. “Dion is as brilliantly, as
accurately and as elegantly classical, as scholarly in style and diction, as
fascinating in plot and as vivid in action as Ben Hur.”
HER BLIND FOLLY. By H. M. Ross. A clever story with an interesting
and well-managed plot and many striking situations.
MISS ERIN. By M. E. Francis. “A captivating tale of Irish life, redolent
of genuine Celtic wit, love and pathos.”
MR. BILLY BUTTONS. By Walter Lecky. “The figures who move in
rugged grandeur through these pages are as fresh and unspoiled in their
way as the good folk of Drumtochty.”
CONNOR D'ARCY'S STRUGGLES. By Mrs. W. M. Bertholds. “A story
of which the spirit is so fine and the Catholic characters so nobly conceived.”
[Pg 225]
Continuation Library
YOU SUBSCRIBE FOR FOUR NEW
NOVELS A YEAR, TO BE MAILED TO
YOU AS PUBLISHED, AND RECEIVE
BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE FREE.
Each year we publish four new novels by the best Catholic
authors. These novels are interesting beyond the
ordinary—not religious, but Catholic in tone and feeling.
They are issued in the best modern style.
We ask you to give us a standing order for these novels.
The price is $1.25, which will be charged as each volume is
issued, and the volume sent postage paid.
As a special inducement for giving us a standing order
for the novels, we shall include free a subscription to
Benziger's Magazine. Benziger's Magazine is recognized
as the best and handsomest Catholic periodical published,
and we are sure will be welcomed in every library. The
regular price of the Magazine is $2.00 a year.
Thus for $5.00 a year—paid $1.25 at a time—you will get
four good books and receive in addition a year's subscription
to Benziger's Magazine. The Magazine will be continued
from year to year, as long as the standing order for the
novels is in force, which will be till countermanded.
[Pg 226]
THE FAMOUS
ROUND TABLE SERIES
4 VOLUMES, $6.00
50 CENTS DOWN; 50 CENTS A MONTH
On payment of 50 cents you get the books and a free subscription to
Benziger's Magazine
The Greatest Stories by the foremost Catholic Writers in the World
With Portraits of the Authors, Sketches of their Lives, and a List of
their Works. Four exquisite volumes, containing the masterpieces of 36 of the
foremost writers of America, England, Ireland, Germany, and France. Each
story complete. Open any volume at random and you will find a great story
to entertain you.
SPECIAL OFFER
In order to place this fine collection of stories in every home, we make
the following special offer: Send us 50 cents and the four fine volumes will be
sent to you immediately. Then you pay 50 cents each month until $6.00 has
been paid.
LIBRARY OF
SHORT STORIES
BY A BRILLIANT ARRAY OF CATHOLIC AUTHORS
Original Stories by 33 Writers
Four Handsome Volumes and Benziger's Magazine for a Year at the
Special Price of $5.00
50 CENTS DOWN; 50 CENTS A MONTH
You get the books at once, and have the use of them while making easy
payments. Send us only 50 cents, and we will forward the books at once;
50 cents entitles you to immediate possession. No further payment need be
made for a month; afterwards you pay 50 cents a month.
STORIES BY
- Grace Keon
- Louisa Emily Dobrée
- Theo. Gift
- Margaret E. Jordan
- Agnes M. Rowe
- Julia C. Walsh
- Madge Mannix
- Leigh Gordon Giltner
- Eleanor C. Donnelly
- Teresa Stanton
- H. J. Carroll
- Anna T. Sadlier
- Mary E. Mannix
- Mary T. Waggaman
- Jerome Harte
- Mary G. Bonesteel
- Magdalen Rock
- Eugenie Uhlrich
- Alice Richardson
- Katharine Jenkins
- Mary Boyle O'Reilly
- Clara Mulholland
- Rev. T. J. Livingstone, S.J.
- Marion Ames Taggart
- Maurice Francis Egan
- Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
- Mrs. Francis Chadwick
- Catharine L. Meagher
- Anna Blanche McGill
- Mary Catherine Crowley
- Katherine Tynan-Hinkson
- Sallie Margaret O'Malley
- Emma Howard Wight
[Pg 227]
900 PAGES
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500 ILLUSTRATIONS
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A GREAT OFFER
THE LIFE OF OUR LORD
=====AND=====
SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST
AND OF HIS VIRGIN MOTHER MARY
FROM THE ORIGINAL OF
L. C. BUSINGER, LL.D.
BY
Rev. RICHARD BRENNAN, LL.D.
Quarto, half morocco, full gilt side, gilt edges, 900 pages,
500 illustrations in the text and 32 full-page
illustrations by
M. FEUERSTEIN
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This is not only a Life of Christ and of His Blessed
Mother, but also a carefully condensed history of God's
Church from Adam to the end of the world in type, prophecy
and fulfilment, it contains a popular dogmatic theology and
a real catechism of perseverance, filled with spiritual food
for the soul.[Pg 228]
The Best Stories and Articles
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Over 1000 Illustrations a Year
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BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE
The Popular Catholic Family Monthly
Recommended by 70 Archbishops and Bishops of the United States
SUBSCRIPTION, $2.00 A YEAR
What Benziger's Magazine gives its Readers:
Fifty complete stories by the best writers—equal to a book of 300
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Three complete novels of absorbing interest—equal to three books
selling at $1.25 each.
Over 1000 beautiful illustrations.
Twenty-five large reproductions of celebrated paintings.
Twenty articles—equal to a book of 150 pages—on travel and adventure;
on the manners, customs and home-life of peoples;
on the haunts and habits of animal life, etc.
Twenty articles—equal to a book of 150 pages—on our country:
historic events, times, places, important industries.
Twenty articles—equal to a book of 150 pages—on the fine arts:
celebrated artists and their paintings, sculpture, music, etc., and
nature studies.
Twelve pages of games and amusements for in and out of doors.
Fifty pages of fashions, fads and fancies, gathered at home and
abroad, helpful hints for home workers, household column,
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“Current Events,” the important happenings over the whole world,
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Prize competitions, in which valuable prizes are offered.
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End of Project Gutenberg's 'As Gold in the Furnace', by John E. Copus
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