It was almost half-past nine when they got back to the room. An hour in the society of Roy and Harry had done wonders for Steve's spirits, and on the way upstairs he cheerfully announced that he intended to tackle that geometry before he went to bed. As Tom switched the light on, Steve's glance encountered a piece of paper on the floor. It had evidently been slipped in under the door.
"Who's this from?" he muttered as he bore it to the table. "Someone was too lazy to open the door and come in."
"What is it?" asked Tom, bending over Steve's shoulder.
"It's from that idiot Durkin," chuckled the latter. "'Got just what you fellows need. Shoe-blacking stand, two brushes, all complete. Cheap. Come and see it. P. Durkin.'"
"A shoe-blacking stand!" laughed Tom. "Say, he must have seen your shoes, Steve."
"Must have seen yours, you mean!" Steve crumpled the note up and dropped it in the basketunder the table. "I guess we don't want any more of Mr. Durkin's bargains."
"Still, this 'Morris' chair turned out pretty well," said Tom, settling himself in it with a book. "And perhaps if we had that thing you'd keep your shoes looking better."
"Well, there's one thing about my shoes," returned Steve good-naturedly, "and that is the heels are blacked. Which is more than you can say of yours, my smart young friend."
Tom was about to deny the imputation when footsteps sounded in the corridor and there came a knock on the door.
"Come in," said Tom very politely. That step could only be Mr. Daley's, he thought. And when the door opened he found his surmise correct. Mr. Daley looked more nervous and embarrassed than usual as he entered.
"Good-evening, boys," he said. "I—er—I wonder if I might speak to you just a moment, Edwards."
"Certainly, sir."
"I'll get out, Mr. Daley," said Tom, rising.
"Er—well, if you don't mind, Hall; just for a minute. Thank you so much."
Tom went out, closing the door behind him, and Mr. Daley cleared his throat.
"Will you sit down, sir?" asked Steve.
"Er—thanks, yes, just for a minute. I—er—I believe you called this evening when I was out, Edwards."
"Yes, sir, about eight."
"Yes, yes. Sorry I was not in. I wonder if—if you happened to see a blue-book on my table when you were there, Edwards."
"Yes, sir, there was one there," replied Steve after an instant's hesitation.
"Ah, then Upton was not mistaken. He says he left one. Unfortunately, I am not able to find it, Edwards. You—er—you don't happen to know where it is, Edwards?"
"I, sir!" Steve's tone was incredulous. "Why, no, Mr. Daley. It was on the table when I left, and——"
"Er—just a moment!" Mr. Daley held up a hand, smiling nervously. "I don't mean to suggest that you carried the book off intentionally, Edwards, but it occurred to me that possibly you might have—er—taken it up by mistake, absentmindedly, so to say, and—er—brought it up here with you."
"No, sir, I didn't." Steve looked at the instructor questioningly. "I don't see why you'd imagine that, sir, either."
"Er—well, I knew—that is, someone told me that you were in my room, Edwards, and I thought—that possibly—quite by accident—you had—er——"
"I was in your room, Mr. Daley, and I waited two or three minutes for you; maybe longer; and the blue-book was on the table when I went in and it was there when I came out."
"You—you had a blue-book in your hand, however, did you not, when you—er—left?"
"A blue-book? No, sir."
"Oh! That is strange, Edwards. You are certain you didn't take down a blue-book of your own and bring it back again?"
"Absolutely sure, sir."
"But—er—someone saw you leave my room, Edwards, with a blue-book in your hand."
Steve flushed and his voice held an angry tremor as he answered: "Someone was mistaken, Mr. Daley, whoever he was. Seems to me, sir, if the book is missing, you'd better ask that 'someone' about it."
"Um; yes; maybe." Mr. Daley blinked embarrassedly. "I—er—I thought that perhaps you had brought down your French composition and had possibly, in leaving, taken up Upton's book with your own by mistake. You—er—you're quite sure that didn't happen, Edwards?"
"I'm positive, because I haven't done my composition, sir."
"Haven't done it?"
"No, sir," replied Steve a trifle defiantly.
"But—er—it's pretty late, and you know they are to be handed in to-morrow, Edwards. You are having trouble with it?"
"I—I haven't started it yet. I—I just can't do it, Mr. Daley. I never could do original things like that. That's why I went down to see you. I wanted to ask if you'd let me have a couple more days for it. You see, sir, I've been having a pretty hard time with Latin, and—and there hasn't been any time for the composition, sir."
"I see." Mr. Daley viewed Steve dubiously. "I'm sorry, Edwards. I'm afraid you are not—er—trying very hard to accomplish your work these days."
"I am trying, sir, but—but the Latin—" Steve hesitated. "Mr. Simkins is awfully hard on me, Mr. Daley, and——"
"And I am not?" Mr. Daley smiled sadly. "And so you thought you'd trust to my—er—good-nature, eh? Really, Edwards, you are asking a good deal, you know. You've had nearlyten days for that composition; a scant twelve hundred words on any subject you liked; and it seems to me that if you had really wanted to do it you could have found the time. I don't want to be hard on you, but—er—I'm afraid I shall have to insist on your handing in that composition not later than to-morrow noon. I have been very lenient with you, Edwards, very. You—er—you must see that yourself. But—er—this sort of thing can't go on all the term. You really must get down to work."
"If I could have another day for it," begged Steve, "I could get it done, sir."
"You have had ten days already; to be exact, nine and a half, Edwards. I don't think I should make any exception in your case. I'm sorry."
Steve stared at his shoes, a somewhat mutinous expression on his face. After a moment, "It isn't fair to say I'm not trying," he broke out. "Iamtrying, but things are too hard here. They ask too much work of a fellow. Why, if I was to get B's in all my courses I'd have to study eight hours a day! A fellow wants to do something beside stick in his room and grind, Mr. Daley. He wants to get out and—and play sometimes. If you're on the football team you don't have anytime in the afternoons and then, when evening comes, you're tired and sleepy."
"But you have time between recitations in the morning, Edwards, to do some studying, do you not? Other boys manage to both work and play. Why can't you? Look at your room-mate. I believe that he is—er—on one of the football teams. He seems to get his lessons fairly well. I presume that he has written his composition?"
"Yes, sir."
"Of course. It is probably here somewhere." Mr. Daley's eyes inspected the pile of books at his elbow, and the corner of a blue-book met his gaze. "This is doubtless it." He drew it forth. "It doesn't look such a herculean task, Edwards. Here are seven pages, rather more than required, I'd say, and——"
Mr. Daley ceased abruptly, and, after a moment, Steve, who had been gloomily regarding the floor, looked across. The instructor was observing him strangely.
"Do you know whose book this is, Edwards?" he asked.
"I suppose it's Tom's. It isn't mine," he added moodily.
"It is Carl Upton's."
"Carl——" Steve stared bewilderedly.
"It seems that you must have—er—taken it after all, Edwards."
"But I didn't, sir! Tom will tell you that——"
He faltered, and a puzzled look came into his eyes as he regarded the book in the instructor's hand.
"Well, really, Edwards,"—Mr. Daley spoke lightly, but his countenance was grave—"you mustn't expect me to put it down to a miracle. If you didn't put the book here on your table, who did? Unless Hall knows something about it? Was he in my study this evening?"
There was a bare instant of hesitation. Then, "No, sir," replied Steve steadily.
"Er—you are sure? He might have called on me when you were out."
"We were together all the evening, Mr. Daley."
"Then——" The instructor cleared his throat nervously.
"I guess—I guess it's up to me, sir," said Steve.
Mr. Daley sighed. "I think it must be." There was silence for a moment. Then, "Why?" asked Mr. Daley gently.
"I don't know, sir."
"You couldn't have thought of—er—making unfair use of it?"
"I——" Steve hesitated again. Finally, "Perhaps I did for a moment. But—I shouldn't have, sir," he added earnestly.
"I hope not, Edwards. But—why did you take it? You—er—must have known that it would—er—be missed."
"I"—Steve seemed to be searching for an answer—"I just took it to—to get even with Upton."
"To get even with him? He has—er—done something, then, to—er—annoy you?"
"Yes, sir. That is, well—I don't like him."
Mr. Daley observed Steve dubiously. At last, "I wish I could believe that explanation, Edwards," he said. "As inexcusable as such—er—such an action would be, it would still be preferable to—to what I am forced to suspect. But the whole thing is beyond me." The instructor spread his hands in a gesture of despair. "I can't understand it, Edwards." After a minute, "It must have been an accident," continued Mr. Daley almost pleadingly. "You—er—you perhaps mistook the book for your own——"
"I didn't have any," muttered Steve.
"Well." Mr. Daley cleared his throat. "I—I must think it over. I—I scarcely know what to say, Edwards. I'm sorry, very sorry." Hearose and moved to the door. "Come and see me to-morrow noon, please. We—er—must talk this over again. Good-night, Edwards."
"Good-night, sir." Steve stood up until the door had closed and then sank back into his chair again, a very miserable look on his face.
"What a crazy place to hide it!" he murmured.
The door opened and Tom came in, Tom with an expression half troubled and half humorous. "What's up?" he asked in a low voice.
"Oh, nothing," replied Steve carelessly, avoiding Tom's eyes. "He jumped me because I hadn't done my comp. Says I must turn it in by noon to-morrow."
"Is that all?" Tom heaved a sigh of relief. "When he asked me to get out I thought it was something pretty serious."
"Isn't that old composition serious enough?" asked Steve with a laugh that didn't sound quite true.
"Yes, I suppose so. Look here, Steve, if you'll tackle it now, I'll help you all I can with it. It won't take long. What time is it?"
"Have you done yours?" asked Steve.
"Yes," replied the other unenthusiastically. "It's done, but—but I guess it's pretty rotten. If I get a C on it I'll be doing well. I thoughtmaybe I'd go over it again, but—I guess it'll have to do."
"Where is it?"
"Here somewhere." Tom searched at the far end of the table and drew a blue-book to light. "Want to see it?"
Steve took it and glanced over it, a puzzled frown on his forehead.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom. "Don't you like it? I guess it is pretty punk, though."
"It's all right, as far as I know," answered Steve, returning the book. "Only—I don't understand——"
"Don't understand what? Say, you're as mysterious as—as—Sherlock Holmes!"
"Nothing. By the way, a funny thing happened." Steve wandered toward the window, his back to Tom, "When I went down to find 'Horace' I picked up a blue-book that was on his table and brought it up here. It was Upton's. I—I hadn't any recollection of doing it, but he found it lying on the table. Of course I felt like a fool."
"Oh," said Tom after a moment. "That—that was funny. I didn't see you bring it in with you." There was a note of constraint in his voice that did not escape Steve.
"I don't remember bringing it in," he replied."I saw it on the table down there and—and looked at it, had it in my hand, but I don't remember bringing it up."
"Funny," said Tom lightly. "Did—did he say anything?"
"Oh, no. Of course I denied it at first, said I couldn't have taken it, but he said I must have, unless—unless you had. He asked if you were in his room and I said no."
"But I was!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't you remember? I went down just before we went out. But there wasn't any blue-book on his table then. At least, I didn't see any."
"Well, it doesn't matter. I told him you hadn't been there. I—I'd let him think so, anyway. There's no use having any more bother about the old thing."
"Well, but—you're sure he wasn't waxy? Of course I didn't take the book; you can prove that I didn't have it when I came back; but if he's acting ugly about it, why—I'll tell him I was in there too. He can lay it on me if he wants to. I—I think I'll tell him, Steve."
"You keep out of it," answered Steve roughly. "What's the use of having any more talk about it? He's got the book and there's no harm done."
Tom considered a moment. Then, "You're certain?" he asked.
"Certain of what?"
"That—that it's all right, that he doesn't blame you for it."
"Oh, he knows I did it, but he doesn't mind. What time is it?"
"A quarter past ten. What are you doing?"
Steve was ripping his bed to pieces. "I want a couple of blankets," he said. "Haven't we some thumb-tacks somewhere?"
"Table drawer," replied Tom. "What's the game?"
"I'm going to do that rotten composition." Steve climbed to a chair, and with the aid of push-pins draped one of the blankets over the door and transom. Then he pulled the window-shade close and hung the second blanket inside the casement. "There! Now if anyone sees a light in this room they'll have to have mighty good eyes. You tumble into bed, Tom, and try to imagine it's dark."
"Bed? Who wants to go to bed?" asked Tom, smothering a yawn. "I'm going to help you with it."
"No, you're not," replied Steve doggedly. "I'm going to do it and I'm going to do it all myself if it takes me until daylight. Now shut up."
At half-past ten the next morning Mr. Daley hurried into the class-room where French IV was already assembled, stumbled over the edge of the platform—the boys would have gasped with amazement had he neglected to do that—and took his seat. On one corner of the table in front of him was a pile of blue-books. He drew it toward him and ran a hand along the edges of the books.
"Has everyone handed in his composition?" he asked.
There was no reply and he seemed surprised. "I—er—I am to understand, then, that you have all turned your books in?"
Still no dissenting voice. Mr. Daley's gaze travelled over the class until it encountered Steve at the rear of the room. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, cleared his throat and finally pushed the pile of books aside.
"Very well," he said. "I shall mark thesethis evening. You will—er—kindly get them to-morrow. Now then, 'Le Siege de Paris'; we left off where, Upton?"
At a few minutes past twelve Steve knocked at Mr. Daley's door, and, obeying the invitation, entered. The instructor was seated at his desk, a litter of blue-books in front of him and a pipe in his mouth. The latter he laid aside as the boy appeared.
"You said you wanted to see me, sir," said Steve.
"Er—yes, Edwards. Sit down, please." The instructor took up his pipe again, hurriedly put it aside, seized a pencil and jotted nervously on the back of a book. Finally,
"I—er—find your composition here," he said. "When did you write it?"
"Between half-past ten last night and two o'clock this morning."
"Hm!" Mr. Daley swung around in his chair, viewed the oblong of landscape framed by the window for a moment and swung back again. There was a faint smile about his eyes. "Edwards, you—er—are a bit disconcerting. I presume you know that the rules require you to be in bed with lights out at ten-thirty?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hm! And you—er—deliberately transgressed that rule?"
"I didn't see anything else to do, Mr. Daley. You said I must turn that in by noon and there wouldn't have been time this morning to do it."
"Logically reasoned, my boy, but——" The instructor shook his head. "You mustn't expect me to compliment you on your performance, Edwards. To perform one duty by neglecting another is hardly—er—commendable. If it were not that you had transgressed a rule of the school, Edwards, I might compliment you quite highly. Your composition—I—er—I've been glancing through it—is really very good. I don't mean that you have not made mistakes of grammar, for you have, lots of them, but—er—you have written a well-constructed and—er—well-expressed narrative. What I—er—especially like about it is the subject. You have written of something you know about, something close at home, so to say. I—er—I am not much of a swimmer myself, but I presume that the instructions you have laid down here are—er—quite correct. In fact, Edwards, I'll even go so far as to say that I fancy one might take this composition of yours and—er—really learn something about swimming. And—er—ifyou have ever tried to learn anything of the sort—golf, rowing, tennis—from a hand-book you will realise that that is high praise."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"I had decided to mark your composition with a B, Edwards. Perhaps the many mistakes in grammar would ordinarily indicate a C, perhaps even a C minus, but the—er—other merits of the exercise are so pronounced that, on the whole, I think it deserves a B."
"Thank you, sir."
"Er—just a moment." The instructor held up a hand. "I said that I had decided to give you a B, Edwards. That, however, was before I had learned when this was written. I shall now give it a D minus. You—er—you understand why, Edwards?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm sorry, but I—er—must take into consideration the facts in the case. And those facts are that you neglected your work until the last moment and then disobeyed one of the well-known rules of the school in order to perform it. There is one other thing I might do. I might credit you with a B on your exercise and report you to the Office for disobeying the rules. But—er—I think, on the whole, that the first method is themore satisfactory. You understand, of course, that anything under a C in this test is equivalent to failure?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hm; exactly. Therefore, Edwards, you will be required to make up nearly a month's work in French. I shall have to ask you to prove to me that you are in line with the rest of the class. But you will have a full week to do this and I—er—I suspect that you will not find it very difficult." Mr. Daley took up a blue pencil and marked a large "D—" on the corner of the blue-book. "You might as well take this now, Edwards. Bring me another composition not later than a week from to-day, please." The instructor fluttered the leaves of a memorandum-pad and made a note opposite a future date. "I have not corrected it, but, as you have it to do over, that is not necessary."
Mr. Daley leaned back in his chair and gazed for a minute at the table. Then,
"There is one other thing, Edwards," he said hesitantly. "About last night, you know; the—er—the misappropriation of Upton's blue-book. Have you—er—thought that over?"
"I suppose so, sir."
"Hm! I should like to ask you one questionand receive an absolutely truthful reply, Edwards."
"Yes, sir."
"When you took that book to your room did you intend to—er—make a wrong use of it?"
"No, sir. I saw the book on your table, Mr. Daley, and—and it did occur to me that it would be easy to copy it out in my own writing and—and turn it in as my work, sir. I read a little of it and put it back on the table. But I don't at all remember seeing it again after that, sir, and that's the truth. I haven't the slightest recollection of having it in my hand when I left this room or of putting it on the table upstairs. And—and I'd like you to believe me, sir."
"I want to, Edwards, I want to," replied Mr. Daley eagerly. "And—er—to-day your story sounds much more plausible. I can imagine that, with the thought of your own composition in mind and doubtless worrying you, you might easily have—er—absentmindedly picked that book from the table here when you went out and taken it to your room without being conscious of the act. I believe that to be quite possible, Edwards, and I am going to think it happened just that way. I have never observed any signs of—er—dishonesty in you, my boy, and I don't think you are a liar.We will consider that matter closed and we will both forget all about it."
"Thank you, sir," replied Steve gratefully.
"But, Edwards, this seems to me a good time to tell you that—er—that your attitude toward—er—your work and toward those in authority has not been satisfactory. You have—er—impressed me as a boy with, to use a vulgar expression, a grouch. Now, get that out of your system, Edwards. No one is trying to impose on you. Your work is no harder than the next fellow's. What you lack is, I presume, application. I—er—I don't deny that possibly you are pressed for time when it comes to studying, but that is your fault. Your football work is exacting, for one thing, although there are plenty of fellows—I could name twenty or thirty with whom I come in contact—who manage to play football and maintain an excellent class standing at the same time. So, Edwards, the fault lies somewhere with you,inyou, doubtless. Now, what do you think it is?"
"I don't know, Mr. Daley." Steve shook his head hopelessly. "I want to do what's right, sir, but—but somehow I can't seem to."
"When you study do you put your mind on it, or do you find yourself thinking of other things, football, for instance?"
"I guess I think of other things a good deal," replied Steve.
"Football?"
"I guess so; football and—and swimming and—lots of things, sir."
"There's a time for football and a time for study, Edwards. You will have to first of all—er—leave football behind you when you come off the field. Swimming, the same way. It won't work. I've seen it tried too often, Edwards. You—er—you wouldn't want to have to give up football, I suppose?"
"No, sir!" Steve looked up in alarm.
"But it might come to that, my boy. You're here to learn, you know, and we would not be treating your parents fairly—or you either—if we allowed you to waste your time. Football is an excellent sport; one of the best, I think; but it's only a sport, not a—er—profession, you know. All the knowledge of football in the world isn't going to help you when you leave here and try to enter college. By the way, I presume you intend to go to college, Edwards?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then keep that in mind. Remember that you're getting yourself ready for it. Perhaps that will make your work seem better worthdoing. How are you getting on with your Latin?"
"Very well, sir, just now."
"Better see that 'just now' becomes 'all the time,' Edwards. Why, look here! You can do the work set you and play football or baseball or anything else if you'll make up your mind to it. You're a bright, normal fellow, with the average amount of brains. Systematise, Edwards! Arrange your day right. Mark down so many hours for recitations, so many hours for study, so many hours for play, and stick to your schedule. You'll find after awhile that it comes easy. You'll find that you—er—you'll miss studying when anything keeps you from it. When you go out of here I want you to do that very thing, my boy. I want you to go right up to your room, take a sheet of paper and make out a daily schedule. And when you've got it done put it somewhere where you'll see it. And stick to it! Will you?"
"Yes, sir; that is, I—I'll do my best."
"Good!" Mr. Daley held out a hand, smiling. "Shake hands on it, Edwards. You may not believe it, but half of—er—doing a thing consists of making up your mind to it! Well, that's all, I think. Er—you'd better look me up this eveningand we'll settle about that French. Good-bye. Hope I haven't made you late for dinner."
Steve drew a deep breath outside the door, puckered his lips and whistled softly, but it was a thoughtful whistle; as thoughtful as it was tuneless, and it lasted him all the way upstairs and into his room. Tom had gone, evidently having wearied of waiting for his friend to accompany him to dinner. Steve's own appetite was calling pretty loudly, but, having slipped the blue-book out of sight under a pile on the table, he dropped into his chair, drew a sheet of paper to him and began on the schedule. It took him almost a half-hour to complete it, and he spoiled several sheets in the process, but it was finally done, and, heading it "Daley Schedule," with a brief smile at the pun, he placed it on his chiffonier and hurried across to Wendell.
"What do you know about that?" demanded Tom the next day. "'Horace' gave me a B on my comp! Of course, I'm not kicking, but I'll bet he made a mistake. Maybe he got nervous and his pencil slipped!"
"Seems to me," returned Steve coldly, "he knows better than you do what the thing is worth. He's not exactly an idiot, you know."
Tom stared in some surprise. "I didn't say he was an idiot, did I? Considering the things you've said about 'Horace' I don't think you need take that high-and-mighty tone!"
"Well, don't be a chump, then," replied Steve. "If Mr. Daley gave you a B you deserved a B."
"Thanking you kindly," murmured Tom as he disappeared behind the pages of the blue-book to digest the corrections and criticisms on the margins. Steve's manner since the night he had remained up until morning to write that composition had been puzzling. He had very little to say to Tom, and when he did speak, spoke in a constrained manner quite unlike him. And more than once Tom had caught Steve observing him with an expression that he couldn't fathom. There was something up, that was certain, but what it was Tom couldn't imagine. It wasn't that Steve was cross or disagreeable. For that matter, his disposition seemed a good deal improved. But he was decidedly stand-offish and extraordinarily quiet. Tom wanted to ask outright what the trouble was, but, for some reason, he held back. As the days passed, Steve's manner became more natural and he ceased looking at Tom as though, to quote the latter's unspoken simile, he was a new sort of an animal in a zoo! But some constraint still remained, and, after awhile, Tom accepted the situation and grew accustomed to it. By that time he had grown too proud to ask for an explanation. The two chums spent less time together as a result, Steve becoming more dependent on Roy for companionship and Tom on Harry. When they were all four together, which was very frequently, it was not so bad, but when Steve and Tom were alone conversation was apt to languish.
Tom at first was inclined to blame Steve's "Daley Schedule" for the change, for that schedule had quite altered Steve's existence. Helived by a strict routine which he followed with a dogged determination quite foreign to his ways as Tom knew them. He got up on time in the morning, reached the dining-hall almost as soon as the doors were opened, spent a scant twenty minutes there and then went directly back to his room to browse over his recitations for the day. Once Tom found him there hunched up in a corner of the window-seat while the chambermaid, viewing his presence distastefully, draped the furniture with bedding and did her best with broom and duster to discourage him from a repetition of the outrage. Between ten and eleven on three days a week Steve put in an hour of study in the room. On other days he managed to snatch two half-hour periods in the library between recitations. At six he was almost invariably awaiting the opening of the doors for dinner, and well before seven he was at his table again. Usually he studied until nine, although now and then he closed his books at half-past eight and followed Tom to Number 17 Torrence. Roy called him the Prize Grind and interestedly inquired what scholarship he was trying for. Steve accepted the joking with a grim smile.
It wasn't easy. For the first few days he had to drive himself to his work with bit and spur.His feet lagged and he groaned in spirit—perhaps audibly, too—as he approached his books. But he did it, and little by little it became easier, until, as Mr. Daley had predicted, it had become a habit with him to do certain things at certain hours and he was uncomfortable if his routine was disarranged. I don't think Steve ever got where he loved to study, but he did eventually reach a pride of attainment that answered quite as well. He found as time went on that it was becoming easier to learn his lessons and easier to remember them when learned, and by that time he had taught himself to command over his thoughts, and when he was struggling through a proposition in geometry he wasn't wondering whether he would beat out Sherrard for the position of regular right end on the second before the season was over. In other words, he had learned concentration.
But all this was not yet. That first week, in especial, was hard sledding, and that French composition almost drove him to distraction and gave him brain fever before it was done. But done it was and on time, and, while the best that Mr. Daley would allow it was a C plus, Steve was distinctly proud of it. And in that week he demonstrated to the instructor's satisfaction that he was up with the class in French. I think Mr. Daley was verywilling to be convinced and that he met Steve quite half-way. Latin was still a bugaboo to Steve, but it, too, was getting easier. On the whole, that schedule, backed by a grim determination, was making good.
Meanwhile football pursued its relentless course. Every day the first and second fought it out for gradually increasing periods and every day the season grew nearer its close and the Claflin game, the final goal, loomed more distinct. Phillips School came and went and Brimfield marked up her fifth victory. Phillips gave the Maroon-and-Grey a hard tussle, and the score, 12 to 0, didn't indicate the closeness of the playing. For Brimfield made her first touchdown by the veriest fluke and only gained her second in the last few minutes of play, when Phillips, outlasted, weakened on her six-yard line and let Norton through. On the other hand, Phillips had the ball thrice inside Brimfield's twenty yards, missed a field-goal by the narrowest of margins and, with the slightest twist of the luck, might have proved the victor.
"Boots" had hammered the second into what Mr. Robey unhesitatingly declared to be one of the best scrub teams he had ever seen, and there was more than one contest between it and the 'varsitythat yielded nothing to an outside game for hard fighting and excitement. Steve and his rival, Sherrard, were running about even for the right end position. Steve's tackling had improved vastly under Marvin's tutoring, and it was his ability in that department that possibly gave him a shade the better of the argument with Sherrard. So far there had been no decided slump in the playing of either team, and, since a slump is always looked for at some time during the season, both Mr. Robey and Danny Moore were getting anxious. Danny almost begged the fellows to go stale a little. "It ain't natural," he declared. "It's got to come, so let it and have it over with." Neither had there been any injuries of moment. On this score Danny had no regrets, however. He was a good trainer and prided himself on his ability to condition his charges so that they would escape injuries.
Of course there had been plenty of bruises—one mild case of charley-horse, several dislocated or sprained fingers, a wrenched ankle or two and any number of cuts and scrapes, but none of the injuries had interfered with work for more than three or four days and not once had any first-string member of the 'varsity missed an outside game by reason of them. Steve's share of the injuries was a bruised shoulder sustained in a flying tackle that was more enthusiastic than scientific, and the thing bothered him for several days but did not keep him off the field. Tom, who played opposite Jay Fowler in scrimmage, was forever getting his countenance disfigured. Not that Fowler meant to leave his mark, but he was a big, powerful, hard-fighting chap and there were plenty of times when both parties to the practice games quite forgot that they were friends. Tom was seldom seen without a strip of court-plaster pasted to some portion of his face.
It was four days after the Phillips game, to be exact, on the following Wednesday, that the first and second got together for what turned out to be the warmest struggle of the season in civil combat. It was a cold, leaden day, with a stinging breeze out of the northeast, and every fellow who wore a head-guard felt as full of ginger as a young colt. The second trotted over from their gridiron at four and found the first on its toes to get at them. Things started off with a whoop. The second received the kick-off and Marvin ran the ball back forty yards through a broken field before he was nailed. Encouraged by that excellent beginning, the scrub team went at it hammer and tongs. There was a fine old hole that day between Sawyer and Williams, and the second's backs ploughed through for gain after gain before the opposing line was cemented together again there. By that time the ball was down near the 'varsity's ten yards and Captain Miller was frothing at the mouth, while the opposing coaches were hurling encouragement at their charges and the pandemonium even extended to the side-lines, where the school at large, in a frenzy of excitement, shouted and goaded on the teams.
Twice the first held, once forcing Harris back for a loss, and then Marvin called for kick formation and himself held the ball for Brownell. What happened then was one of those unforeseen incidents that make football the hair-raising game it is. There was a weak spot in the second's line and, with the passing of the ball to Marvin, the 'varsity forwards came rampaging through. Brownell swung his leg desperately, trusting to fortune to get the pigskin over the upstretched hands of the charging enemy, but it swung against empty air. Marvin, seeing what was bound to happen, fearing the result of a blocked kick, snatched the ball aside just as Captain Brownell swung at it, rolled over a couple of times out of the path of the oncoming opponents, scrambled to his feet and, somehow, scuttled past a half-dozendefenders of the goal and fell over the line for a touchdown.
The 'varsity afterwards called it "bull-luck" and "fluke" and several other belittling names, but "Boots" said it was "quick thinking and football, by jiminy!" At all events the second scored and then leaped and shouted like a band of Comanche Indians—or any other kind of Indian if there's a noisier sort!—and generally "rubbed it in."
After that you may believe that the 'varsity played football! But nevertheless the first ten-minute period ended with the second still six points to the good and her goal-line intact. The teams were to play three periods that day and "Boots" ran four substitutes on the field when the next one began. One of them was Steve.
It is no light task to play opposite the 'varsity captain and not come off second best, but theconsensusof opinion that evening was to the effect that Steve had done that very thing. The wintery nip had got into Steve's blood, I think, for he played like a tiger-cat on the defence, ran like a streak of wind and tackled so hard that Coach Robey had to caution him. Twice in that period the first came storming down to the second's twenty yards and twice they were held there.Once Milton was nailed on a round-the-end run and once Still fumbled a pass and Freer fell on it.
Steve carried out his part of a forward-pass play with excellent precision later and seemingly had a clear field and a touchdown in sight for a moment. But Milton managed to upset him on the thirty yards, and the gain—Steve had negotiated four white lines before the 'varsity quarter got him—eventually went for naught, since Marvin fumbled a minute later and Sawyer squirmed through and captured the ball.
Neither side scored nor came very near it in that period. Steve, who was having the time of his life, beamed joyously when the whistle, starting the third period, found him still in the line-up. He had feared that "Boots" would put Sherrard back. But Steve didn't realise the kind of a game he had been putting up. If he had he would have credited "Boots" with more sense. Tom, with two brand-new facial contusions to his credit, was relegated to the bench for the last round. Perhaps "Boots" thought it only fair to allow Gafferty some of the decorations that Fowler and others were handing out!
The first tried a kicking game in order to reach striking distance and, since she always had the better of the argument there, forced the secondslowly and very surely back past the middle of the field. Then Marvin, realising the futility of pitting Freer and himself against Norton and Williams and Milton, either one of whom could outpunt the second from five to ten yards, started a rushing game on his thirty-five yards, swinging Harris and Freer around the ends for small gains and himself taking the pigskin for a delayed plunge through centre that put the scrubs on their forty-five-yard line and gave them their first down of the period.
But the next three tries pulled in only six yards, and Freer punted. For once he had plenty of time and the oval travelled far down into the enemy's territory and was caught by Kendall, who took it back a scant five yards before Turner, the second's left end, got past the hastily-formed interference and upset him. The 'varsity made four through the left side of the line and got her first down on a fake kick that caught the second napping. She again secured her distance on three tries, and the lines faced each other near the middle of the field.
What happened then was never definitely explained. Whether Milton fumbled the pass from centre or whether Still missed the toss from Milton, history doesn't record. Not that it matters,however. The fact is that the ball was suddenly seen to go rolling back up the field as though animated by a desperate desire to score a touchdown on its own hook. The 'varsity backs hit the line hard and went tumbling through, to the frenzied shouts of "Ball! Ball!" from Milton and the opponents. The latter, trying to get past the 'varsity and gain the bobbing pigskin, got so inextricably mixed up with the enemy that the ball went on rolling around, under the pranks of the helpful wind, for a heart-breaking length of time. Then, as it seemed, every fellow on the field started for it at once!
Steve had made a wild attempt to get through inside of Andy Miller, but Miller had sent him sprawling, and when he got to his feet again he was one of the last in the mad rush. How it happened that Eric Sawyer, not overly fast on his feet, reached the pigskin first, or, at least, finally, is a mystery. But it was Eric who at length plunged out of the confusion, ball in arm, shook off three or four tacklers and started hot-footed toward the distant goal. By some unusual burst of speed he not only got a clear start of the rest, but shot past Steve before that youth could intercept him. Marvin had followed the others toward the 'varsity's goal and now between Eric and thefinal white lines, some forty-five yards distant, lay a clear field. And Eric, spurred on by the knowledge that here was perhaps the one chance of his lifetime to make a spectacular run for half the length of the gridiron and score a touchdown, worked his sturdy legs as they had probably never been worked before!
But he was not to go unchallenged. The enemy was hot on his track, Steve in the lead. And with the enemy, doing their best to upset or divert the pursuit, came a half-dozen of the 'varsity. It was a wildly confused race for a minute. Then the slow-footed ones dropped behind and the procession consisted of Eric, running desperately some five yards ahead of Steve, Steve pounding along at his heels, Williams striving to edge Freer toward the side of the field, Marvin leading Captain Miller by a scant yard, and one or two others dropping gradually away as the race progressed. Near the twenty-five-yard line Williams managed to upset Freer and went down with him in the effort, Andy Miller drew even with Marvin, and Eric glanced behind him for the first time, at the same moment heading a bit further toward the centre of the gridiron.
That move lost him a stride of his lead, and Steve made a final spurt that took just about allthe breath left in his body. On the fifteen yards his hand went out gropingly, touched Eric's back and fell away. Near the ten-yard line Steve launched himself forward and his arms settled about Eric's thighs, slid down to his knees and tightened. Eric went down, dragged forward another yard and then, panting and weak, gave it up. Then Marvin settled ungently on his back, to make assurances doubly sure, Andy Miller threw him off very promptly and Steve rolled over on his back and fought for breath.
The rest of the teams came panting up, the audience along the side-line howled and cheered gloriously, if a trifle breathlessly, having itself raced down the field in an effort to keep abreast of the drama, and delighted members of the second team lifted Steve to his tottering feet, thumped him on the back and shrieked praise into his singing ears.
After that, with the ball on the second's eight yards, the 'varsity should have scored easily. And yet, so gallantly did the scrubs dig their toes into the trampled turf that thrice the 'varsity was held for a scant gain and, finally, with one down remaining, Williams dropped back to the twenty-yard line and dropped a field-goal.
"Boots" was almost moved to tears and lookedas though he wanted to embrace each and every member of his team. For what was a puny three points when the second had six to its credit? The things that Miller said were extremely derogatory, while Coach Robey walked back to the middle of the field with a disapproving air. In the four minutes that remained, there was football played thatwasfootball! The 'varsity, smarting under impending defeat, went at it with a desperation that promised everything. That it failed of what it promised was only because the second, buoyed up by the knowledge of victory in its grasp, fought like veterans. There was some fierce playing during those two hundred and forty brief seconds, and the fellow who finally trudged off the field without a scar felt himself dishonoured. Substitutes were thrown into the fray by both sides, although "Boots," having fewer men to call on, was handicapped. Steve went out in favour of Sherrard soon after the kick-off, and Tom relieved Gafferty. The coaches raged and urged, the rival captains scolded and implored and the quarters danced around and acted like wild-men. And then, suddenly, the ball was seized, a whistle blew and it was all over. And the panting players, tense of face, dripping with perspiration, drew apart to view each other at first scowlingly andthen with slowly spreading grins, taking toll of their own injuries and the enemy's.
"Good work, second," said Mr. Robey. "That's all for to-day. Get your blankets and run all the way in."
The second went off jubilantly. Steve was a hero for an hour. In the locker room "Boots" said some nice things to them, pointed out a few faults and took himself away just as the first team and its substitutes came piling in. Most of them looked pretty grim about the mouths. Evidently in the few minutes that Mr. Robey had detained them on the field, they had been provided with food for thought. Andy Miller encountered Steve on his way to the bath.
"That was good work, Edwards," he said heartily. "You fellows certainly put it over us to-day." He shook his head ruefully. "We ought to have got that touchdown in the last period." Then he smiled grimly, and, "We'll get you to-morrow, though," he said with conviction. "How's everything with you?"
"Fine and dandy, thanks," replied Steve heartily.
"Good! You haven't been around to see me,by the way. You and Hall must think a confidence-man isn't a proper acquaintance."
"We're coming around soon, Miller. The fact is, I—well, I made such a mutt of myself that last time——"
"Oh, nonsense! That's all right, Edwards. Don't let that worry you. Besides, you took my advice, I guess, and that squares it. Mind if I give you some more, by the way?"
"Of course not! I wish you would."
"Only this, Edwards. On defence don't watch the ball. They'll tell you to, but don't do it. Watch your opponent. Watch his eyes. He will tell you when the ball's snapped. He's got to watch it and you haven't, and then if you keep your eyes on him you can guess where he's coming almost before he starts. It may sound cheeky for me to tell you this, because, as a matter of absolute fact, Edwards, you played all around me to-day——"
"Oh, piffle, Miller!"
"Yes, you did," insisted the captain grimly. "I know it, if you don't. But you try what I tell you to-morrow and see what a jump you'll get on the other fellow. Come around and see me soon, you and Hall."
Andy moved away and Steve hurried on to finda shower before the new crowd claimed them all. He was pretty well fagged out this afternoon, and for once the thought of that swimming class didn't appeal. But after a tepid shower and then a hard rush of ice-cold water over his tired body, he felt different. Coming out of the bath he almost collided with Eric Sawyer. Eric had a nasty cut over his right eye that gave him a peculiarly ugly expression, and it was soon evident that Eric's temper was as ugly as his appearance.
"Hello, fresh," he growled, scowling at Steve and barring his way in the narrow passage. "What call had you to butt in on me to-day?"
"I was playing the game, that's all," replied Steve coolly.
"You think you're a wonder, don't you? Well, you wouldn't have got me if I hadn't slipped. And the next time you interfere with me on the field or anywhere else I'll fix you for keeps. Now you mind that, you fresh young kid."
"You're a wonder at making threats, Sawyer," returned Steve angrily. "Why don't you do something besides talk?"
"I'd give you a good thrashing if you weren't so small," Eric growled.
"Oh, that's all right," replied Steve airily. "We can't all have piano legs, you know."
"Say, you let my legs alone! For two cents I'd tell what I know about you, you cheater, and we'd see how long you'd stay so cocky!"
"What you know about me?" laughed Steve. "You go right ahead and tell anything you want to, Sawyer. Whatever it is, it's a lie, I guess."
"Oh, is it? It's a lie that you swiped Upton's blue-book with his composition in it, I suppose. It's a lie that you were going to use it until Daley went up to your room and found it, I dare say. It's——"
"Yes, it is a lie, and you know it, Sawyer," flamed Steve. "If you tell any story like that around——"
"I'll tell what I please, kid, and you can't stop me." Several fellows came along the passage, viewing the two curiously, and Eric dropped his voice a note. "You stop bothering me, Edwards, or I will tell, and if I do, this place will be too hot for you. We don't like cheaters here——"
Steve sprang at him madly, but Eric stepped aside and Steve's blow went past.
"None of that!" warned Eric in a low, ugly voice. "Ah, you want it, do you?"
Steve hit again and Eric countered and got in a blow on the younger boy's neck that sent himstaggering against the wall. Then arms wrapped themselves around Steve and a voice said:
"Here, what's up, Eric? Cut it out, Edwards!"
Steve, struggling, found himself in the firm grasp of Innes, the big first team centre-rush. "He called me a cheat!" he cried angrily. "You let me go, Innes!"
"So he is a cheat," returned Eric contemptuously. "He swiped Carl Upton's French composition and was going to hand it in as his own if Daley hadn't caught him at it!"
"That's a lie!" cried Steve. "Ask Mr. Daley himself! You're saying it because I kept you from making that touchdown, you—you——"
"Hold on, Edwards!" said Innes. "Don't call names." By this time the passage had filled with fellows, among them Andy Miller. Miller pushed forward.
"What's up, Jack?" he asked of the centre. Innes shrugged his big shoulders.
"Oh, just a scrap. Run along, you fellows. It's all over."
"It isn't over!" declared Steve, still trying to detach himself from the big fellow's grasp. "He's got to take it back! He's got to take it back or fight!"
"Cut it out, Edwards!" said Miller sternly. "Don't act like a kid. What's the trouble, Eric, anyway?"
"Oh, this kid got fresh with me," replied Eric with a malevolent glare at Steve. "Said I had piano legs——" There was an audible snicker from some of the audience—"and I told him to shut up and he made a swipe at me and I shoved him away. That's all."
"He said I cheated!" raged Steve.
"So you did. You stole Upton's French comp. out of Daley's room and he found it on your table."
"That's a lie! I don't know how that book got there. Mr. Daley will tell you——"
"Cut it, Edwards! I saw you carry the book out of the room myself! Now what do you say?"
"I say you lie! I say——"
"Stop that, Edwards!" Miller turned to Eric. "You've got no right to say things like that, Eric, and you know it. I don't believe he did anything of the sort. If he had, Mr. Daley would have had him expelled. Now you two fellows stop squabbling. You've been at it all the fall. If you don't, I'll see that you both lose your positions. And that goes!"
"Then tell him to let me alone," replied Eric with a shrug.
"Oh, forget it, Sawyer," exclaimed a voice down the passage. "You're twice as big as he is. Let the kid alone."
"Sure, I'll let him alone," growled Eric with an angry glare in the direction of the speaker. "Only he's got to stop getting fresh with me. I've warned him half-a-dozen times."
"And you'll have to warn me half-a-dozen more times," responded Steve grimly, "if you think I'm going to stand around and be called names. If I were as big as you are, you wouldn't dare——"
"That'll be about all from both of you," said Andy Miller. "Now beat it. If I hear of any more trouble from either of you while the season lasts, I'll have you both out of the game in a wink. If you've got to row, do it after we've beaten Claflin. Move on now! Get off the corner, all of yez!" And Andy good-naturedly pushed the fellows before him down the passage. Innes released Steve, but stepped between him and Eric.
"Come on, Edwards," he said with a laugh. "Be good and get your clothes on. Cap will do just what he says he will, too. You take my advice, kid, and bury the hatchet."
Steve went back to his locker, and with trembling hands dressed himself. Harry Westcott and Tom joined him and asked in low voices about the trouble. But Steve was non-communicative. He was wondering how much of Eric Sawyer's charge the fellows who had heard it were believing. Finally,
"No swimming to-day?" asked Tom.
Steve shook his head. "No," he answered. "Tell the fellows, will you? I'm—I'm too tired. I'm sorry."
"It's pretty late, anyway," murmured Harry. Together the three crossed the room toward the door. Already, as it seemed to Steve, fellows were regarding him suspiciously. Eric was not in sight, having gone on to his bath, for which two at least of the trio were thankful. Harry left them at the corner of Torrence, and Steve and Tom went on in silence to their room. Somehow it seemed difficult nowadays for them to find things to talk about. Steve resolutely sat himself down and drew his books toward him, while Tom, after fidgetting around for a few minutes, announced that he was going over to the office to see if there was any mail, and went out again. Steve was glad when he had gone, for he was relieved then of further pretence of studying. He couldn't gethis mind on his books. The encounter with Eric Sawyer had left him irritable and restless, and he couldn't help wondering whether the fellows believed what Eric had said. He was grateful to Andy Miller for the latter's support, but it was doubtful if Andy's words had convinced anyone. And the charge was an ugly one. Steve winced when he considered it. It had seemed to him as he had left the locker room that already the fellows there had looked at him differently. He could imagine them talking about him and weighing Eric's story. Further reflections were interrupted by the reappearance of Tom, an open letter in hand and several newspapers sticking from a pocket.
"Nothing for you but a couple of papers," he said. "What do you suppose those silly fathers of ours are doing now?"
"Fighting a duel?" asked Steve with an attempt at humour.
"Not quite," Tom answered, "but they're getting ready for a law-suit."
"What about?"
"I can't make out," replied the other disgustedly, scanning the letter again. "It's something about some contract for building supplies, though. Gee, they make me tired! Always squabbling!"
"Who's bringing the suit, your father or mine?" asked Steve.
"Mine," said Tom hesitantly.
"Then I don't see that you need to blame my dad for it," retorted Steve.
"It takes two to make a quarrel, though," answered Tom sagely. "I don't believe my father would start anything like that unless—unless there was some reason for it."
"Oh, I suppose my father beat him out on a contract and he got sore," said Steve, with a short laugh. Tom looked across in surprise and puzzlement. The tone was unlike Steve, while never before had they taken sides in their fathers' disagreements. Tom opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it and slowly returned the letter to its envelope.
"I guess it'll blow over," he said finally. "I hope so."
Steve shrugged his shoulders. "Let them fight it out," he said. "It may do them good."
The next day it was soon evident to Steve that Eric Sawyer's story of the purloined blue-book was school property. Fellows whom he knew but slightly or not at all observed him doubtfully, others greeted him more stiffly—or so Steve thought—while even in the manners of such closefriends as Roy and Harry and one or two more he fancied that he could detect a difference. Much of this was probably only imagination on Steve's part, but on the other hand there were doubtless many fellows who for one reason or another chose to believe the story true. Steve was popular amongst a small circle of acquaintances and well enough liked by others who knew him only to speak to, but, naturally enough, there were fellows in school who envied him for his success at football or took exception to a certain self-sufficient air that Steve was often enough guilty of. These, together with a small number who owed allegiance to Eric Sawyer, found the story quite to their liking and doubtless told and retold it and enlarged upon it at every telling. At all events, Steve knew that gossip was busy with him. More than once conversation died suddenly away at his approach, and he told himself bitterly that the school had judged him and found him guilty. He passed Andy Miller in the corridor between recitations, and Andy, being in a hurry and having a good many things on his mind at that moment, said, "Hi, Edwards!" in a perfunctory sort of way and went by with only a glance. Steve concluded that even Andy was against him now, in spite of his defence yesterday. In the afternoonit seemed that there was a difference in the attitudes of his team-mates on the second, and, so inflamed had his imagination become by this time, he even imagined he detected a contemptuous tone in "Boots'" speech to him! The result was that Steve "froze up solid," to use Roy's phrase, and, secretly hurt and angry, presented a scowling countenance to the world that was sufficient to discourage those who wanted and tried to let him see that they didn't believe Eric's story.
When he got back to his room after the swimming lesson that afternoon, he found Tom nursing a very red and enlarged nose. He had a wet towel in his hand and was gingerly applying it to the inflamed feature.
"What—where——" began Steve.
"Scrap with Telford," replied Tom briefly.
"What about?" demanded Steve.
"Nothing much."
"Let's see your nose."
Tom removed the towel and Steve viewed it. "He must have given you a peach," he said critically. "What did you do?"
Tom smiled reminiscently. "Nothing much," he answered.
"Huh! Let's see your knuckles. 'Nothingmuch,' eh? They look it! Did faculty get on to it?"
Tom shook his head. "No, it was back of the gym. Just the two of us. It didn't last long."
"Who got the worst of it?"
"That depends on what you call the worst," answered Tom judicially. "I got this and he got one like itanda black eye. At least I suppose it's black by this time. It looked promising."
Steve laughed. Then he said severely: "You ought to know better than take chances like that, Tom. Suppose faculty got on to it. Besides, fighting's pretty kiddish for a Fourth Former!"
Tom viewed Steve amusedly over the wet towel. "Coming from you, Steve, that sounds great!" he said.
"Never mind about me. What I do doesn't affect you. What were you fighting about?"
Tom looked vacant and shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing special, I guess."
"Don't be a chump! You didn't black his eye and get that beautiful nose for nothing, I suppose. What was it?"
"Well, Telford said—he said——"
"You're a wonder!" declared Steve. "Don't you know what he said?"
"I forget. It was something—something Ididn't like. So I slapped his face. That was on the gym steps. He said 'Come on back here.' I said 'All right.' Then we—we had it. Then he said he was wrong about it—whatever it was, you know—and we sort of apologised and sneaked off." Tom felt of his nose carefully. "I saw about a million stars when he landed here!"
"That's the craziest stunt I ever heard of!" said Steve disgustedly. "And you want to hope hard that no one saw it. If faculty hears of it, you'll get probation, you chump."
"I know. It won't, though. No one saw us."
"Who's Telford, anyway?" Steve demanded.
"Telford? Oh, he's a Fifth Form fellow."
"What does he look like?"
"Look like?" repeated Tom vaguely. "Oh, he's a couple of inches taller than I am and has light brown hair and—and a black eye!"
"Is he the fellow who goes around with Eric Sawyer?" demanded Steve suspiciously. "Wear a brown plaid Norfolk? The fellow who shoved me into the pool the night we had that fracas with Sawyer?"
"Did he? I don't remember. I didn't see who did that. I—I guess maybe he's the chap, though. I've seen him with Sawyer, I think."
"What did he say?" asked Steve quietly.
"Who say?"
"Telford."
"When?"
"To-day! When you had the row! For the love of Mike, Tom, don't be a fool!"
"I don't remember what he said."
"Was it about—me?"
"You? Why would it be about you?" Tom attempted a laugh.
"Was it?" Steve persisted.
Tom shook his head, but his gaze wandered. Steve grunted.
"It was, then," he muttered.
"I didn't say so," protested Tom.
"I say so, though." Steve was silent a moment. Then, "Look here, Tom, there's no use your fighting every fellow who says things about me," he said. "If you try that, you'll have your hands full. I—I don't care what they say, anyway. Just you keep out of it. Understand?"
"Sure," answered the other untroubledly.
"Of course"—Steve hesitated in some embarrassment—"of course I appreciate your standing up for me and all that, but—but I'll fight my own battles, thanks, Tom."
"You're welcome," murmured Tom throughthe folds of the towel. "Keep the change. I'll fight if I want to, though."
"Not on my account, you won't," said Steve sternly.
Tom grinned. "All right. I'll do it on my own account. Say, I'll bet Telford's nose is worse than mine, Steve. I gave him a bully swat!"