Timfound a dejected and most unsatisfactory chum when he got back to the room after the Chambers game that Saturday afternoon. All of Tim's demands for an explanation of the whole puzzling affair met only with evasion. Don was not only uncommunicative, but a trifle short-tempered, a condition quite unusual for him. All Tim could get from him was that he "felt perfectly punk" and wasn't going to try to change Mr. Robey's decision.
"I'm through," he said. "I don't blame Robey a bit. I'm no use on the team as I am. He'd be foolish to bother with me."
"Well, all I can say," returned Tim, with a sigh of exasperation, "is that the whole thing is mighty funny. I guess there's more to it than you're telling. You look like thirty cents, all right enough, but I'll wager anything you like that you could go out there and play just as good a game as ever on Monday if Robey would let you and you cared to try. Now couldn't you!"
"I don't know. What does it matter, anyhow? I tell you I'm all through, and so there's no use chewing it over."
"Oh, all right. Nuff said." Tim walked to the window, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and, after a minute's contemplation of the darkening prospect without, observed haltingly: "Look here, Don. If you hear things you don't like, don't get up on your ear, eh?"
"What sort of things?" demanded the other.
Tim hesitated a long moment before he took the plunge. Then: "Well, some of the fellows don't understand, Don. You can't altogether blame them, I suppose. I shut two or three of them up, but there's bound to be some talk, you know. Some fellows always manage to think of the meanest things possible. But what fellows like that say isn't worth bothering about. So just you sit snug, old man. They've already found that they can't say that sort of thing when I'm around."
"Thanks," said Don quietly. "What sort of things do you mean?"
"Oh, anything."
"You mean that they're calling me a quitter?"
"Well, some of them heard Robey get that off and they're repeating it like a lot of silly parrots.I called Holt down good and hard. Told him I'd punch his ugly face if he talked that way again."
"Don't bother," said Don listlessly. "I guess I do look like a quitter, all right."
"Piffle! And, hang it all, Robey had no business saying that, Don! He couldn't really believe it."
"Why couldn't he? On the face of it, Tim, I'd say that I looked a whole lot like a quitter."
"But that's nonsense! Why would you or any fellow want to quit just before the Claflin game? Why, all the hard work's done with, man! Only a little signal practice to go through with now. Why would you want to quit? It's poppycock!"
"Well, some fellows do get cold feet just before the big game. We've both known cases of it. Look at——"
"Yes, I know what you're going to say, but that was different. He never had any spunk, anyway. Nobody believed in him but Robey, and Robey was wrong, just as he is about you. Anyway, all I'm trying to say is that there's no use getting waxy if some idiot shoots off his mouth. The fellows who really count don't believe you a—a quitter. And the whole business will blow over in a couple of days. Look how they talked about Tom at first!"
"They didn't call him a quitter, though. They were just mad because he'd done a fool thing and lost the team. I wouldn't blame anyone for thinking me a—a coward, and I can't resent it if they say it."
"Can't, eh? Well, I can!"
Don smile wanly. "Thought you were telling me not to, Tim."
Tim muttered. There was silence for a minute in the twilit room. Then Tim switched on the lights and rolled up his sleeves preparatory to washing. "The whole thing's perfectly rotten," he growled, "but we'll just have to make the best of it. Ten years from now——"
"Yes, but it isn't ten years from now that troubles me," interrupted Don thoughtfully. "It—it's right this minute. And tomorrow and the next day. And the day after that. I've a good mind to——"
"To what?" demanded Tim from behind his sponge.
"Nothing. I was just—thinking."
"Well, stop it, then. You weren't intended to think. You always do something silly when you get to thinking. Wash up and come on to supper."
"I'm not going over tonight," answered Don."I'm not hungry. And, anyway, I don't feel quite like facing it yet."
"Now, look here," began Tim severely, "if you're going to take it like that——"
"I'm not, I guess. Only I'd rather not go to supper tonight. I am through at the training-table and I funk going back to the other table just now. Besides, I'm not the least bit hungry. You run along."
Tim observed him frowningly. "Well, all right. Only if it was me I'd take the bull by the horns and see it through. Fellows will talk more if you let them see that you give a hang."
"They'll talk enough anyway, I dare say. A little more won't matter."
"I just hope Holt gets gay again," said Tim venomously, shying the towel in the general direction of the rack and missing it by a foot. "Want me to bring something over to you?"
"No, thanks. I don't want a thing."
"We-ell, I guess I'll beat it then." Tim loitered uncertainly at the door. "I say, Donald, old scout, buck up, eh?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be all right, Timmy. Don't you worry about me. And—and thanks, you know, for—for calling Holt down."
"Oh, that!" Tim chuckled. "Holt wasn't theonly one I called down either." Then, realising that he had not helped the situation any by the remark, he tried to squirm out of it. "Of course, Holt wastheone, you know. The others didn't reallysayanything, or—or mean anything——"
Don laughed. "That'll do, Tim. Beat it!"
And Tim, red-faced and confused, "beat it."
For the next five minutes doors in the corridor opened and shut and footfalls sounded as the fellows hurried off to Wendell. But I doubt if Don heard the sounds, for he was sunk very low in the chair and his eyes were fixed intently on space. Presently he drew in his legs, sat up and pulled his watch from his pocket. A moment of speculation followed. Then he jumped from the chair as one whose mind is at last made up and went to his closet. From the recesses he dragged forth his bag and laid it open on his bed. From the closet hooks he took down a few garments and tossed them beside the bag and then crossed to his dresser and pulled open the drawers. Don had decided to accept Coach Robey's title. He was going to quit!
There was a train at six-thirty-four and another at seven-one for New York. With luck, he could get the first. If he missed that he was certain of the second. The dormitory was empty, it wasquite dark outside by now and there was scarcely a chance of anyone's seeing him. If he hurried he could be at the station before Tim could return from supper. Or, even if he didn't get away until the seven-one train, he would be clear of the hall before Tim could discover his absence and surmise the reason for it. To elude Tim was the all-important thing, for Tim would never approve and would put all sorts of obstacles in his way. In fact, it would be a lot like Tim to hold him back by main force! Don's heart sank for a moment. It was going to be frightfully hard to leave old Timmy. Perhaps they might meet again at college in a couple of years, but they would not be likely to see each other before that time, and even that depended on so many things that it couldn't be confidently counted on.
Don paused in his hurried selection of articles from the dresser drawers and dropped into a chair at the table. But, with the pad before him and pen in hand, he shook his head. A note would put Tim wise to what was happening and perhaps allow him to get to the station in time to make a fuss. No, it would be better to write to him later; perhaps from New York tonight, for Don was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to get a through train before morning. So, with anotherglance at his watch, he began to pack again, throwing things in every which-way in his feverish desire to complete the task and leave the building before Tim got back. He came across a scarf that Tim had admired and laid it back in the top drawer. It had never been worn and Tim should have it. And as he hurried back and forth he thought of other things he would like Tim to have. There was his tennis racket, the one Tim always borrowed when Don wasn't using it, and a scarf-pin made of a queer, rough nugget of opal matrix. He would tell Tim he was to have those and not to pack them with the other things. The thought of making the gifts almost cheered him for awhile, and, together with the excitement of running away, caused him to hum a little tune under his breath as he jammed the last articles in the bag and snapped it shut.
It was sixteen minutes past now. He would, he acknowledged, never be able to make the six-thirty-four, with that burden to carry. But the seven-one would do quite as well, and he wouldn't have to hurry so. In that case, then, why not leave just a few words of good-bye for Tim? He could put the note somewhere where Tim wouldn't find it until later; tuck it, for instance, under the bed-clothes so that he would find it when he pulledthem down. He hesitated a moment and then set his bag down by the door, dropped his overcoat and umbrella on the bed and seated himself again at the table. Tim was never known to take less than a half-hour for supper and he still had a good ten minutes' leeway:
"Dear Timmy [he wrote hurriedly], I'm off. It's no use sticking around any longer. Fellows aren't going to forget as soon as you said and I can't stay on here and be thought a quitter. So I'm taking the seven-one to New York and will be home day after tomorrow. I wish you would pack my things up for me when you get time. There isn't any great hurry. I've got enough for awhile. You're to keep the racket and the blue and white tie and the opal matrix pin and anything else you like to remember me by. Please do this, Tim. I'll write from home and tell you about sending the trunk. I'm awfully sorry, Tim, and I'm going to miss you like anything, but I shan't ever come back here. Maybe we will get together again at college. I hope so. You try, will you? Good-bye, Tim, old pal. We've had some dandy times together, haven't we? And you've been an A1 chum to me and I wish I wasn't going off without saying good-bye to you decently. But I've got to. So good-bye, Timmy, old man. Think of me now and then like I will of you. Good-bye."Your friend always,"Don."
"Dear Timmy [he wrote hurriedly], I'm off. It's no use sticking around any longer. Fellows aren't going to forget as soon as you said and I can't stay on here and be thought a quitter. So I'm taking the seven-one to New York and will be home day after tomorrow. I wish you would pack my things up for me when you get time. There isn't any great hurry. I've got enough for awhile. You're to keep the racket and the blue and white tie and the opal matrix pin and anything else you like to remember me by. Please do this, Tim. I'll write from home and tell you about sending the trunk. I'm awfully sorry, Tim, and I'm going to miss you like anything, but I shan't ever come back here. Maybe we will get together again at college. I hope so. You try, will you? Good-bye, Tim, old pal. We've had some dandy times together, haven't we? And you've been an A1 chum to me and I wish I wasn't going off without saying good-bye to you decently. But I've got to. So good-bye, Timmy, old man. Think of me now and then like I will of you. Good-bye.
"Your friend always,"Don."
That note took longer to write than he had counted on, and when he got up from the table and looked at his watch he was alarmed to find that it was almost half-past six. He folded the paper and tucked it just under the clothes at the head of Tim's bed, took a last glance about the room, picked up coat and umbrella and turned out the light. Then he strode toward the door, groping for his bag.
Timdidn't enjoy supper very much that evening. The game had left him pretty weary of body and mind, and on top of that was Don and his trouble, and try as he might he couldn't get them out of his thoughts. Mr. Robey was not at table; someone said he had gone to New York for over Sunday; and so Tim didn't have to make a pretence of eating more than he wanted. And he wanted very little. A slice of cold roast beef, rather too rare to please him, about an eighth of one of the inevitable baked potatoes, a few sips of milk and a corner of a slice of toast as hard as a shingle, and Tim was more than satisfied. Tonight he was not especially interested in the talk, which, as usual after a game, was all football, and didn't see any good reason for sitting there after he had finished and listening to it. All during his brief meal he was on the alert for any mention of Don's name, and more than once he glared, almost encouragingly, at Holt. But Holt had already learned his lesson and was doing very little talking, and noneat all about Don. Nor was the absent player's name mentioned by anyone at that table, although what might be being said of him at the other Tim had no way of knowing. He stayed on a few minutes after he had finished, eyeing the apple-sauce and graham crackers coldly, and then asked Steve Edwards to excuse him.
"Off his feed," remarked Carmine as Tim passed down the dining hall on his way out. "First time I ever saw old Tim have nerves."
"It's Don Gilbert, probably," said Clint Thayer. "They're great pals. Tim's worried about him, I guess."
"What do you make of it, Steve?" asked Crewe, helping himself to a third slice of meat.
"What is there to make of it?" asked Steve carelessly. "The chap's all out of shape, I suppose. I don't know what his trouble is, but I guess he's a goner for this year."
"It's awfully funny, isn't it?" asked Rollins. "Gilbert always struck me as an awfully plucky player."
"Has anyone said he isn't?" inquired Clint quietly.
"N-no, no, of course not!" Rollins flushed. "I didn't mean anything like that, Clint. Only I don't see——"
"He hasn't been looking very fit lately," offered Harry Walton. "I noticed it two or three days ago. Too bad!"
"Yes, you're feeling perfectly wretched about it, I guess," said big Thursby drily, causing a smile around the table. Walton shrugged and rewarded the speaker with one of his smiles that were always unfortunately like leers.
"Oh, I can feel sorry for him," said Walton, "even if I do get his place. Gilbert gave me an awfully good fight for it."
"Oh, was there a fight?" asked Thursby innocently. "I didn't notice any."
Thursby got a real laugh this time and Harry Walton joined in to save his face, but with no very good grace.
"If anyone has an idea that Don Gilbert is scared and quit for that reason," observed St. Clair, "he'd better keep it to himself. Or, anyhow, he'd better not air it when Tim is about. He nearly bit my head off in the gym because I said that Don was a chump to give up like this a week before the Claflin game. Tim flared up like—like a gasoline torch and wanted to fight! I didn't mean a thing by my innocent remark, but I had the dickens of a time trying to prove it to Tim! And he almost jumped into you, too, didn't he, Holt?"
"Yes, he did, the touchy beggar! You all heard what Robey said, and——"
"I didn't hear," interrupted Steve, "and——"
"Why, he said——"
"And, as I was about to remark, Holt, I don't want to. And it will be just as decent for those who did hear to forget. Robey says lots of things he doesn't mean or believe. Perhaps that was one of them. I'm for Don. If he says he's sick, he is sick. You've all seen him play for two years and you ought to know that there isn't a bit of yellow anywhere in his make-up."
"That's so," agreed several, and others nodded, Holt amongst them.
"I didn't say he was a quitter, Steve. I was only repeating what Robey said, and Tim happened to hear me. Gee, I like Don as well as any of you. Gee, didn't I play a whole year with him on the second?"
"Gee, you did indeed!" replied Crewe, and, laughing, the fellows pushed back their chairs and left the table.
Tim didn't hurry on his way along the walk to Billings, for he was earnestly trying to think of some scheme that would take Don's mind off his trouble that evening. Perhaps he could get Don to take a good, long walk. Walking always workedwonders in his own case when, as very infrequently happened, he had a fit of the blues. Yes, he would propose a walk, he told himself. And then he groaned at the thought of it, for he was very tired and he ached in a large number of places!
Only a few windows were lighted in Billings as he approached it, for most of the fellows were still in dining hall and the rule requiring the turning out of lights during absence from rooms was strictly enforced. Only the masters were exempted, and Tim noticed as he passed Mr. Daley's study that the droplight was turned low by one of those cunning dimming attachments which Tim had always envied the instructor the possession of. Tim would have had one of those long ago could he have put it to any practical use. He passed through the doorway and down the dimly lighted corridor, the rubber-soled shoes which he affected in all seasons making little sound. He was surprised to see that no light showed through the transom of Number 6, and he paused outside the door a moment. Perhaps Don was asleep. In that case, it would be just as well to not disturb him. But, on the other hand, he might be just sitting there in the dark being miserable. Tim turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The light from the corridor and the fact that Don had stopped startledly at the sound of the turning knob prevented an actual collision between them. Tim, pushing the door slowly shut behind him, viewed Don questioningly. "Hello," he said, "where are you going?"
"For a walk," replied Don.
"Why the coat and umbrella? And—oh, I see!" Tim's glance took in the bag and comprehension dawned. "So that's it, eh?"
There was an instant of silence during which Tim closed the door and leaned against it, hands in pockets and a thoughtful scowl on his face. Finally:
"Yes, that's it," said Don defiantly. "I'm off for home."
"What's the big idea?"
"You know well enough, Tim. I—I'm not going to stay here and be—be pointed out as a quitter. I'm——"
"Wait a sec! What are you doing now but quitting, you several sorts of a blind mule? Think you're helping things any by—by running away? Don't be a chump, Donald."
"That's all well enough for you. It isn't your funeral. I don't care what they say about me if I don't have to hear it. I'm sorry, Tim, but—butI've just got to do it. I—there's a note for you in your bed. I didn't expect you'd be back before I left."
"I'll bet you didn't, son!" said Tim grimly. "Now let me tell you something, Don. You're acting like a baby, that's what you're doing! It's all fine enough to say that you don't care what fellows say as long as you don't hear it, but you don't mean it, Don. You would care. And so would I. If you don't want them to think you a quitter, for the love of mud don't run away like—like one!"
"I've thought of all that, Tim, but it's the only thing to do."
"The only thing to do, your grandmother! The thing to do is to stick around and show folks that you'renota quitter. Don't you see that getting out is the one thing that'll make them believe Robey was right?"
"Oh, I dare say, but I've made up my mind, Tim. I'm going to get that seven-one train, old man, and I'll have to beat it. If you want to walk along to the station with me——"
"And carry your bag?" asked Tim sweetly. He turned the key in the lock and then dropped it in his pocket. Don took a stride forward, but was met by Tim's challenging frown. "There's noseven-one train for you tonight, Donald," said Tim quietly, "nor any other night. Put your bag down, old dear, and hang your overcoat back in the closet."
"Don't act like a silly ass," begged Don. "Put that key back and let me out, Tim!"
"Yes, I will—like fun! The only way you'll get that key will be by taking it out of my pocket, and by the time you do that the seven-one train will be half-way to the city."
"Please, Tim! You're not acting like a good chum! Just you think——"
"That's just what I am acting like," returned Tim, stepping past the other and switching on the lights. "And you'll acknowledge it tomorrow. Just now you're sort of crazy in the head. I'll humour you as much as possible, Donald, but not to the extent of letting you make a perfect chump of yourself. Sit down and behave."
"Tim, I want that key," said Don sternly.
Tim shrugged. "Can't have it, Don, unless you fight for it. And I'm not sure you'd get it then. Now look here——"
"You've no right to keep me here!"
"Will you unlock that door?" demanded Don angrily"Will you unlock that door?"demandedDon angrily
"I don't give a hang whether I've got the right or not. You're going to stay here."
"There are other trains," said Don coldly. "You can't keep that door locked forever."
"I don't intend to try, but it'll stay locked until the last train tonight has whistled for the crossing back there. Make up your mind to that, son!"
Don looked irresolutely from Tim to the door and back again. He didn't want to fight Tim the least bit in the world. He wasn't so sure now that he wanted to get that train, either. But, having stated his purpose, he felt it encumbent on him to carry it out. Then his gaze fell on the windows and he darted toward them.
But Tim had already thought of that way of escape and before Don had traversed half the distance from door to windows Tim had planted himself resolutely in the way. "No you don't, Donald," he said calmly. "You'll have to lick me first, boy, and I'm feeling quite some scrappy!"
"I don't want to lick you," said Don irritably, "but I mean to get that train. You'd better either give up that key or stand out of my way, Tim."
"Neither, thanks. And, look here, if we get to scrapping Horace will hear us and then you won't get away in any case. Be sensible, Don, and give it up. It can't be done, old man."
"Will you unlock that door?" demanded Don angrily.
"No, confound you, I won't!"
"Then I'm going out by the window!"
"And I say you're not." Tim swiftly peeled off his coat. "Anyway, not in time to get that train."
Don dropped his bag to the floor and tossed overcoat and umbrella on his bed. "I've given you fair warning, Tim," he said in a low voice. "I don't want to hurt you, but you'd better stand aside."
"I don't want to get hurt, Don," replied the other quietly, "but if you insist, all right. I'm doing what I'd want you to do, Don, if I went crazy in the head. You may not like it now, but some day you'll tell me I did right."
"You're acting like a fool," answered Don hotly. "It's no business of yours if I want to get out of here. Now you let me pass, or it'll be the worse for you!"
"Don, will you listen to reason? Sit down calmly for five minutes and let's talk this thing over. Will you do that?"
"No! And I won't be dictated to by you, Tim Otis! Now get out of the way!"
"You'll have to put me out," answered Tim with set jaw. "And you're going to find thathard work, Donald. We're both going to get horribly mussed up, and——"
But Tim didn't finish his remark, for at that instant Don rushed him. Tim met the onslaught squarely and in a second they were struggling silently. No blows were struck. Don was bent only on getting the other out of the way and making his escape through the open window there, while Tim was equally resolved that he should do nothing of the sort. In spite of Don's superior weight, the two boys were fairly equally matched, and for a minute or two they strained and tussled without advantage to either. Then Tim, his arms wrapped around Don's body like iron bands, forced the latter back a step and against a chair which went crashing to the floor. Don tore at the encircling arms, panting.
"I don't—want to—hurt you," he muttered, "but—I will—if you don't—let go!"
There was no answer from Tim, but the grip didn't relax. Don worked a hand under the other's chin and tried to force his head back. Tim gave a little and they collided with the window-seat, stumbled and slid together to the floor, Don on top. For a moment they writhed and thrashed and then Don worked his right arm loose, slowlytore Tim's left hand away and held it down to the floor.
"Let go or I'll punch you, Tim," he panted.
"Punch—ahead!"
Don strained until he felt Tim's other hand giving, and then, with a sudden fling of his body, rolled clear and jumped to his feet. But Tim was only an instant behind him and, panting and dishevelled, the two boys confronted each other, silent.
"I'm going out there," said Don after a moment.
Tim only shook his head and smiled crookedly.
"I am, Tim, and—and you mustn't try to stop me this time!"
"I've—got to, Don!"
"I'm giving you fair warning!"
"I know."
Don took a deeper breath and stepped forward. "Don't touch me!" he warned. But Tim was once more in his path, hands stretched to clutch and hold. "Out of my way, Tim! Fair warning!" Don's face was white and his eyes blazing.
"No!" whispered Tim, and crouched.
Then Don went on again. Tim threw himself in the way, a fist shot out and Tim, with a grunt,went back against the pillows and slipped heavily to the floor.
Don's hands fell to his sides and he stared bewilderedly. Then, with a groan, he dropped to his knees and raised Tim's head from the floor. "Gee, but I'm sorry, Timmy!" he stammered. "I didn't mean to do it, honest! I was crazy, I guess! Timmy, are you all right!"
Tim's eyes, half-closed, fluttered, he drew a deep breath and his head rolled over against Don's arm.
"Timmy!" cried Don anxiously. "Timmy!Don't you hear me! I didn't hit you awfully hard, Timmy!"
Tim sighed. "What—time is it?" he murmured.
"Time? Never mind the time. Are you all right, Tim?"
Tim opened his eyes and grinned weakly. "Hear the birdies sing, Don! It was a lovely punch! Help me up, will you?"
Don lifted him to the window-seat. "I'm horribly sorry, Tim," he said abjectedly. "I—I didn't know what I was doing, chum! I wish—I wish you'd hand me one, Tim! Go on, will you?"
Tim laughed weakly. "It's all right, Donald.Just give me a minute to get my breath. Gee, things certainly spun around there for a second!"
"Where'd I hit you?"
"Right on the point of the jaw." Tim felt of the place gingerly. "No harm done, though. It just sort of—jarred me a bit. What time is it?"
Don glanced at the tin alarm clock on his dresser. "Ten of seven," he answered. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Well, you can't make the seven-one now, Donald, unless you fly all the way, can you?"
"Oh!" said Don, rather blankly. "I—I'd forgotten!"
"Good thing," muttered Tim. "Wish you'd forgotten before! If anyone ever tells you you're a nice good-natured, even-tempered chap, Don, don't you believe him. You send 'em to me!"
"I didn't know I could lose my temper like that," replied the other shamefacedly. "Timmy, I'm most awfully sorry about it. You believe that, don't you?"
"Sure!" Tim laughed. "But I'll bet you're not half as sorry as you would have been tomorrow if I'd let you go! Don, you're an awful ass, now aren't you?"
Don nodded. "I guess I am, Timmy. And you're a—a brick, old man!"
"Huh! Any more trains to New York tonight?"
"There's one at twelve-something," answered Don, with a grin.
"Thinking of catching it?"
"Not a bit!"
"All right then." Tim dug in his pocket and then tossed the door-key beside him on the cushion. "Better unpack your bag, you silly ass. Then we'll go out and get some air. I sort of need it!"
Some three hours later Tim, tossing back his bed-clothes, exclaimed: "Hello! What have we here?"
"That's just a note I wrote you," said Don hurriedly. "Hand it here, Tim."
"I should say not! I'm going to read it!"
"No, please, Tim! It's just about two or three things I was going to leave you! Hand it over, like a good chap!"
"Something you were going to leave me?" said Tim as he let Don wrest the sheet of paper from him. "Oh, I see. Well,"—he felt carefully of the lump on his chin—"I guess you left me enough as it is, dearie!"
Practiceon Monday was a wretched affair. To be sure, many of the fellows who had played in the Chambers game had been excused, but that didn't account for the fact that those who did take part went at their work as if half asleep. Both McPhee and Cotter failed to get any life into the first, and the second, while it, too, seemed to have taken part in the general slump, managed to score twice while the first was with difficulty wresting three touchdowns from its opponent. Mr. Robey shouted himself red in the face, Steve Edwards, who followed practice, pleaded and exhorted, and a stocky, broad-shouldered, bearded individual who made his appearance that afternoon for the first time frowned and shook his head, and all to small purpose. The players accepted scoldings and insults as a donkey accepts blows, untroubledly, apathetically, and jogged on at their own pace, guilty of all the sins of commission and omission in the football decalogue.
There was much curiosity about the newcomerand many opinions as to his identity were hazarded on the bench that afternoon. It was quite evident that he was a football authority, for Coach Robey consulted him at times all during practice. And it was equally evident that they were close friends, since the stranger was on one occasion seen to smite the head coach most familiarly between the shoulders! But who he was and what he was doing there remained a secret until after supper. Then it became known that his name was Proctor, Doctor George G. Proctor, that he was a practising physician some place in the Middle West and that he was visiting Coach Robey. But that was unsatisfactory data and some enterprising youth hunted back in the football records and, lo, the mystery was explained. Eight years before "Gus" Proctor had played tackle on the Princeton eleven and in his junior and senior years had been honoured with a position on the All-American Team. Subsequently he had coached at a college in Ohio and had put said college on the map. Now, having stolen away from home to see Princeton and Yale play next Saturday, he was staying for a day or two with Mr. Robey. After that became generally known Doctor Proctor was gazed at with a new respect whenever he appeared on field or campus.
Don and Tim went up to Number 12 that night after supper to call on Tom Hall. Tim was having hard work making Don face the music. If Don could have had his way he would have kept to himself, but Tim insisted on dragging him around. "Just keep a firm upper lip, Donald," he counselled, "and show the fellows that there's nothing in it. That's the only way to do. If you keep skulking off by yourself they'll think you're ashamed."
"So I am," muttered Don.
"You're not, either! You've done nothing to be ashamed of! Keep that in mind, you silly It. Now come along and we'll go up and jolly Tom a bit."
Steve Edwards was not at home, but Amy Byrd was enthroned on the window-seat when they entered in response to Tom's invitation, and Amy had evidently been holding forth very seriously on some subject.
"Don't mind us," said Tim. "Go ahead, Amy, and get it off your chest."
"Hello," said Amy. "Hello, Don, old man. Haven't seen you for an age. Make yourselves at home. Never mind Tom, he's only the host. How did you like the practice today, Tim?"
"I didn't see it, but I heard enough about it. It must have been fierce!"
"It was perfectly punk," growled Tom. "I should think Robey would want to throw up his hands and quit!"
"Did you see it, Don?" asked Amy.
"No, I didn't go over. What was the trouble?"
"Well, I'm no expert," replied Amy, taking his knees into his arms and rocking gently back and forth on the seat, "but I'd say in my ignorant way that someone had unkindly put sleeping-potions in the milk at training-table! The only fellow who seemed to have his eyes more than half open was McPhee. Mac showed signs of life at long intervals. The rest sort of stumbled around in their sleep. I think Peters actually snored."
"Oh, we're going to get a fine old drubbing next Saturday," said Tom pessimistically. "And what a fine exhibition for that chap Proctor! I'll bet Robey could have kicked the whole team all the way back to the gym. He looked as though it would have done him a world of good to have a try at it!"
"Oh, well, these things happen," said Tim cheerfully. "It's only a slump. We'll get over it."
"Slump be blowed!" said Tom. "This isa fine time to slump, five days before the game!"
"I know that, too, but there's no use howling about it. What we need, Tom, is to have you get back there at right guard, old man."
"That's what I've been saying," exclaimed Amy earnestly. "I want Tom to go to Josh and ask him to let him play, but he won't. Says it wouldn't be any good. You don't know whether it would or not, Tom, until you try it. Look here, Josh doesn't want us to get beaten Saturday any more than we want it ourselves, and if you sort of put it up to him like that——"
"I'd look well, wouldn't I?" laughed Tom. "Telling Josh that unless he let me off pro the team would get licked! Gee, that's some modest, isn't it?"
"You don't have to put it like that," replied Amy impatiently. "Be—be diplomatic. Tell him——"
"What we ought to do," interrupted Tim, "is get up a petition and have everyone sign it."
"I thought of that, too," said Amy, "but this dunder-headed Turk won't stand for even that."
"Why not, Tom?" asked Don.
"Because."
"And after that?" asked Amy sweetly.
"Well, look here, you chaps." Tom scowled intently for a moment. "Look here. It's this way. Josh put a bunch of us on pro, didn't he? Well, what right have I to go and ask to be let off just because I happen to be a football man? You don't suppose those other fellows like it any better than I do, do you?"
"Oh, forget that! I'm one of them, and I'm having the time of my life. It's been the making of me, Tom. I'm getting so blamed full of learning that I'll be able to loaf all the rest of the year; live on my income, so to say." And Amy beamed proudly.
"That's all right," answered Tom doggedly, "but I don't intend to cry-baby. I'm just as much in it as any of you. If Josh wants to let us all off, all right, but I'm not going to ask for a—a special dispensation!"
"You don't need to," said Tim. "Let the fellows do it. That has nothing to do with you. What's to keep us from going ahead and getting up a petition?"
"Because I ask you not to," replied Tom simply. "It's only fair that we should all be punished alike."
"But you're not," said Don.
"We're not? Why aren't we?" asked Tom in surprise.
"Because you're getting it harder than Amy and Harry Westcott and the others," answered Don quietly. "They aren't barred from any sport, and you are."
"By Jove, that's a fact!" exclaimed Amy.
"But—but we all got the same sentence," protested Tom.
"I know you did, but"—Don smiled—"put it like this. I hate parsnips; can't bear them. Suppose you and I were punished for something we'd done by being made to eat parsnips three times a day for—for a month! You like them, don't you? Well, who'd get the worst of that? The sentence would be the same, but the—the punishment would be a heap worse for me, wouldn't it?"
"'Father was right'!" said Tim.
"Oh, father never spoke a truer word!" cried Amy, jumping up from the window-seat. "That settles it, Tom! Get some paper, Tim, and we'll write that petition this minute and I'll guarantee to get fifty signatures before ten o'clock!"
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Tom stubbornly. "Don talks like a lawyer, all right, but he's all wrong. And, anyway, I'm out of football and I'm going to stay out for this year. I've quittraining and I probably couldn't play if Josh said I might. So that——"
"Oh, piffle," said Amy. "Quit training! Everyone knows you never quit training, Tom. You could go out there tomorrow and play as good a game as you ever did. Don't talk like a sick duck!"
"There's no reason why I should play, though. Pryme's putting up a bully game——"
"Pryme is doing the best he knows how," said Tim, "but Pryme can't play guard as you can, Tom, and he never will, and you know it! Now have a grain of sense, won't you? Just sit tight and let us put this thing through. There isn't a fellow in school who won't be tickled to death to sign that petition, and I'll bet you anything you like that Josh will be just as tickled to say yes to it. Whatever you say about Josh Fernald, you've got to hand it to him for being fair and square, Tom."
"Josh is all right, sure. I haven't said anything against him, have I? But I won't stand for any petition, fellows, so you might as well get that out of your heads. Besides, my being on the team or off it isn't going to make a half of one per cent's difference next Saturday."
There was silence in the room for a moment.Then Amy went dejectedly back to the window-seat and threw himself on it at full length. "I think you might, Tom," he said finally, "if only on my account!"
"Why on your account?" laughed Tom.
"Because I'm the guy that got you all into the mess, that's why. And I've felt good and mean about it ever since. And now, when we think up a perfectly good way to—to undo the mischief I made, you act like a mule. Think what a relief it would be to my conscience, Tom, if you got off pro and went back and played against Claflin!"
"I don't care a continental about your conscience, Amy. In fact I never knew before that you had one!"
"I've got a very nice one, thanks. It's well-trained, too. It——" Amy's voice trailed off into silence and for the next five minutes or so he took no part in the conversation, but just laid on the cushions and stared intently at the ceiling. Then, suddenly, he thumped his feet to the floor and reached for his cap.
"What time is it?" he demanded.
"Most eight," said Tim. "We'd better beat it."
"What time——" began Amy. Then he stopped, pulled his cap on his head and literallyhurled himself across the room and through the door, leaving the others to gaze at each other amazedly.
"Well, what's wrong with him?" gasped Tim.
"He's got something in that crazy head of his," answered Tom uneasily. "Don't let him start that petition business, Tim, will you? I don't want to seem mean or anything, you know, but I'd rather let things be as they are. Come up again, fellows. And maybe today's showing doesn't mean anything, Tim, just as you said. We'll hope so, eh?"
Faculty conferences took place on Monday evenings at half-past seven in the faculty meeting room in Main Hall. At such times, with the principal, Mr. Fernald, presiding at the end of the long table and all members of the faculty able to attend ranged on either side, all and sundry matters pertaining to the government of the school came up for discussion. The business portion of the conference was followed by an informal half-hour of talk, during which many of the students were subjected to a dissection that would have surprised them vastly had they known of it. Tonight, however, the executive session was still going on and Mr. Brooke, the secretary, was still making notes at the foot of the table, when there came a rap at the door.
Mr. Fernald nodded to Mr. Brooke. "See who it is, please," he said.
The secretary laid down his pen very carefully on the clean square of blue blotting-paper before him, pushed back his chair and opened the door a few inches. When he turned around his countenance expressed a sort of pained disapprobation. "It's Byrd, sir," announced Mr. Brooke in a low, shocked voice. "He says he'd like to speak to you."
"Byrd? Well, tell him I'm busy," replied the principal. "If he wants to wait I'll see him after the conference. Although"—Mr. Fernald glanced at the clock—"it's only four minutes to eight and he'd better get back to his room. Tell him I'll see him at the Cottage at nine, Mr. Brooke. As I was saying," and Mr. Fernald faced the company again, "I think it would be well to arrange for a longer course this Winter. Last year, as you'll recall—— Eh? What is it?"
"He says, sir, that it's a faculty matter," announced Mr. Brooke deprecatingly, "and asks to be allowed to come in for a minute."
"A faculty matter? Well, in that case—— All right, Mr. Brooke, tell him to come in."
As Amy entered eight pairs of eyes regarded him curiously; nine, in fact, for Mr. Brooke, closingthe door softly behind the visitor, gazed at him in questioning disapproval.
"Well, Byrd, what can we do for you?" Mr. Fernald smiled, doubtless with the wish to dispel embarrassment. But he needn't have troubled about that, for Amy didn't look or act in the least embarrassed. "I'm afraid," continued the principal, "that I can't offer you a chair, for we're rather busy just now. What was it you wanted to speak of?"
"I guess it looks pretty cheeky, sir, for me to butt in here," replied Amy, with a smile, "but it's rather important, sir, and—and if anything's to be done about it it'll have to be done tonight."
"Really? Well, it does sound important. Suppose you tell us about it, Byrd."
"Thank you, sir." Amy paused, gathering his words in order. "It's this, Mr. Fernald: when we fellows were put on pro—probation, I mean, it was intended that we should all get the same punishment, wasn't it, sir?"
"Let me see, that was the affair of—— Ah, yes, I recall it. Why, yes, Byrd, naturally it was meant to treat you all alike. What complaint have you?"
"It isn't exactly a complaint, sir. But it's this way. There were nine of us altogether. It wasmy fault in the first place because I put them up to it. They'd never thought of it if I hadn't." Amy glanced at Mr. Moller. "It was a pretty silly piece of business, sir, and we got what we deserved. But—but none of us meant to—to hurt anyone's feelings, sir. It was just a lark. We didn't think that——"
"We'll allow that, Byrd. Please get down to the purpose of this unusual visit," said Mr. Fernald drily.
"Yes, sir. Well, eight of us it doesn't matter so much about. We aren't football men and being on probation doesn't cut so much—I mean it doesn't matter so much. But Tom Hall's a football man, sir, and it's different for him. This is his last year here and losing his place on the team was hard lines. That's what I'm trying to get at, sir. You meant that we were all to be punished the same, but we weren't. It's just about twice as hard on Tom as it is on the rest of us. You see that, sir, don't you?"
There was a moment of silence and then Mr. Simkins coughed. Or did he chuckle? Amy couldn't tell. But the principal dropped his eyes and tapped his blotter with the tip of the pencil he held. At last:
"That's a novel point of view, Byrd," he said."There may be something in it. But I must remind you that the Law—and the faculty stands for the Law here—takes no cognisance of conditions existing—hem!" Mr. Fernald glanced doubtfully down the table. "Perhaps it should, though. We'll pass that question for the moment. What is it you suggest, Byrd?"
"Well, sir, the team's in punk shape. It was awful today. It needs Tom, sir; needs him awfully. I don't say that we'll beat Claflin if he should play, Mr. Fernald, but I'm mighty sure we won't if he doesn't. And it seemed to me that maybe you and the other faculty members hadn't thought of how much harder you were giving it to Tom than to the rest of us, and that if you did know, realise it, sir, you'd maybe consider that he'd had about enough and let him off so he might play Saturday. The rest of us haven't any kick coming, sir. It's just Tom. And he doesn't know that I'm here, either. We tried to get him to let us petition faculty, but he wouldn't. He said he was going to take the same punishment as the rest of us."
"Then he doesn't agree with your contention, Byrd?"
"Oh, he sees I'm right, Mr. Fernald, but he—he's obstinate!"
Mr. Fernald smiled, as did most of the others.
"Byrd, I think you ought to take a law course," said the principal. "I might answer you as I started to by pointing out that it is no business of ours whether a punishment is going to hit one fellow harder than another; that just because it might should make that one fellow more careful not to transgress. But you've taken the wind out of my sails by getting me to testify that we intended the punishment to be the same for all. You've put us in a difficult place, Byrd. If we should lift probation in Hall's case it would seem that we had different laws for team members than for boys unconnected with athletics. You've made a very eloquent plea, but I don't just see——" Mr. Fernald hesitated. Then: "Possibly someone has some suggestion," he added, and it seemed to Amy that his gaze rested on Mr. Moller for an instant.
At all events it was the new member of the faculty who spoke. "If I might, sir," he said hesitatingly, "I'd like to make the suggestion that probation be lifted from all. It seems to me that that would—would simplify things, Mr. Fernald."
"Hm. Yes. Possibly. As the target of the extremely vulgar proceeding, Mr. Moller, the suggestion coming from you bears weight. Byrd,you'd better get to your studies. You'll learn our decision in the morning. Your action is commendable, my boy, and we'll take that into consideration also. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir. Good-night, sirs. Thank you."
Amy retired unhurriedly, unembarrassedly, and with dignity, as befitted one who had opened the eyes of Authority to the error of its ways!
The next morning Mr. Fernald announced in chapel that at the request of Mr. Moller, and in consideration of good behaviour, the faculty had voted to lift probation from the following students: Hall——
But just there the applause began and the other eight names were not heard.