sweater"It was unlocked and the crimson sweater lay in the top of the till."
"It was unlocked and the crimson sweater lay in the top of the till."
But once on the road, instead of following it toward the village they crossed it and made up through the woods. When they reached the creek they turned up it and went stealthily, keeping a sharp lookout for Chub and Roy. As it was, in spite of their caution, they very nearly walked on to them at the deep pool, and had they not fallen instantly to the ground would have been detected. Afraid to move away lest the rustling of the branches prompt the others to investigate, they had to lay there for fully a quarter of an hour while Chub whipped the pool and Roy went off to sleep. Then they saw Chub wind in his line, glance at Roy and move toward them. Luckily for them, however, Chub took it into his head to try the opposite side and so crossed over on the stones and passed them by. They waited until he had slowly taken himself downstream. Then Horace sat up and saw the idle pole lying on the ground almost at Roy's feet. It was Otto who finally, after much persuasion and threatening, crept over and secured it without arousing the sleeper. Then, making a little detour, they went on up the creek.
Five minutes brought them to the edge of Farmer Mercer's property and in view of a placard threatening dire punishment to trespassers. Horace now donned the crimson sweater, threw his coat to Otto and jointed up the pole.
"Wish I had a line and fly," he muttered. "They'll think he was a crazy sort of fisherman, I guess."
Leaving Otto at the wall, he clambered over and stole on. A couple of hundred yards further on there was a place where the meadow came down to the stream and where there were neither bushes nor trees to screen it. It was in full view of Farmer Mercer's big white house which lay perhaps an eighth of a mile away across the meadow. Here Horace, a readily-distinguished crimson spot against the green of the farther trees, halted and went through the motions of casting his line. But all the time, you may be sure, he kept one eye on the white house. He had landed just one mythical trout and was preparing to cast again when his eye caught a dark figure stealing along the porch toward the meadow gate. Out flew the non-existent line. Through the gate hurried Farmer Mercer. Then, as though catching sight of the latter for the first time, Horace became apparently panic-stricken. He dropped his pole, picked it up again, looked this way and that for escape, made as though tossing a trout back into the stream, and finally, when the farmer was less than two hundred yards away, dropped his pole again and plunged into the bushes.
"Hi!" shouted the pursuer. "Hi! Come back, you rascal!"
But Horace refused the invitation. Instead he made for the spot where Otto was awaiting him, running, however, so slowly that the farmer had him in sight for fully a minute as he threaded his way through the trees along the creek. The farmer's cries continued and the farmer still pursued, trying his best to head off the fugitive. But he was running a losing race, for when Horace picked up Otto they ran in earnest and all the farmer had for his trouble was a discarded fishing pole minus line or hook and a vivid memory of a crimson sweater.
The two boys made a short cut for the school, but, as luck would have it, when they reached the dormitory the troublesome Tom Forrest was wide awake. So Horace, who had stowed the sweater under his own coat this time, had to smuggle it under his pillow and await Tom's departure. But Tom apparently had no present intention of leaving. And a few minutes later Chub and Roy clattered in. When they saw Horace and Otto they deferred telling Tom about his pole, and Chub laid himself down, very stiffly because of his own pole, on Roy's bed. Conversation languished. Horace mentioned the fact that he and Otto had been for a walk and Chub replied that they too had taken a stroll. Both sides waited for the others to leave. Suddenly the supper bell rang. Horace went to the wash-room and Otto followed. Chub slipped off downstairs and Roy told Tom about the pole. Tom good-naturedly told him to let the old thing go. Then Roy, by the merest chance, noticed that his trunk was unlocked, turned the key, slipped it into his pocket and followed Tom down to supper. A moment after when Horace went to return the sweater to its place he found that he was too late. After a second of indecision he opened his own trunk and hid the garment down at the bottom of it. Then he locked the trunk securely and, with Otto at his heels, followed the others.
It was at half-past nine the next morning that Roy was summoned to the Principal's office. A rather stout, hard-featured man of middle-age whom Roy had never seen before to his knowledge, sat beside the Doctor's desk.
"Porter," said the Doctor, "does this belong to you?"
He took a fishing-rod from the desk and held it out. Roy looked at it and shook his head.
"No, sir," he answered.
"Do you know whose it is?"
"No, sir."
"Do you own a fishing-rod?"
"No, sir."
"Where were you yesterday afternoon at—" The Doctor looked inquiringly at the stranger.
"Four o'clock," prompted the latter gruffly, viewing Roy with unfriendly gaze. Roy hesitated and his heart sank. Then,
"I was asleep, sir," he answered.
"Ah!" The Principal paused and tapped softly on the polished surface of the desk. Then, "In the dormitory, you mean?" he asked.
"No, sir, I wasn't in the dormitory."
"Not in the dormitory? But you just said you were asleep?"
"Yes, sir, I was."
"Whereabouts, then?"
"By Wissick Creek, at what the fellows call the Deep Hole."
The stranger snorted triumphantly.
"Why did you go there to sleep?" asked Doctor Emery.
"Why, sir, I—I was out walking and—and I laid down and got sleepy. So I just went to sleep."
He knew that it sounded awfully silly and unconvincing. Evidently the Doctor thought so too, for he smiled gently and regretfully.
"Don't you think that's rather a strange tale to tell, Porter?"
"It's the truth, sir."
"It's a tarnation lie, that's what it is," said the stranger vindictively. Roy turned hotly.
"It isn't a lie," he cried. "And I don't know what business it is of yours, anyhow!"
"Well, I rather guess it's my business—" began the other. But Doctor Emery held up a hand.
"Leave him to me, if you please, Mr. Mercer," he said quietly. "Porter, this gentleman tells me that he discovered a boy, presumably one of my boys, fishing at the bottom of his meadow at about four o'clock yesterday afternoon. The boy saw him coming and ran away, leaving this pole behind him. The boy wore—"
"Ask him what he wore," interrupted Farmer Mercer.
"Just what I have on now," answered Roy. "And this cap," he added, holding it forth.
"Yes, you had a cap all right," said the farmer. "But I don't suppose you happened to have on a red sweater, eh? A dark red one?"
"No, I didn't, sir," replied Roy.
"You have such a sweater, I understand, however," said the Doctor.
"Yes, sir, I have a crimson sweater."
"That's what it was, crimson," said the farmer.
"But I didn't wear it yesterday. I haven't had it on since camp."
"Have you loaned it to any one recently?" asked the Doctor.
"No, sir."
"Where is it kept?"
"In my trunk."
"Could any one borrow it without your knowing of it?"
"Why, I suppose so, sir; that is, if my trunk was unlocked."
"Do you keep it unlocked?"
"No, sir, not very often."
"Then you think it would have been impossible for anyone to have taken it without your knowledge?"
"I think it would, sir."
"Do you know of anyone else in school who has a red sweater?"
"No, sir. Gallup has a red and white striped one."
"There wasn't no stripes on the one I saw," said Farmer Mercer decidedly.
"Porter," said the Doctor after a moment's silence. "I'm sorry that I can't bring myself to believe your story. Is there anyone who can substantiate it? Were you alone yesterday afternoon?"
"I'm sorry, sir, that you won't believe me. I wasn't on this man's land yesterday, and I don't think I ever was. Anyhow, I never fished on it. I've never fished since I came here."
"I hope you are telling the truth," answered the Doctor gently. "But circumstantial evidence is sadly against you. There is no one who can prove that you were at the Deep Hole at four o'clock?"
"No, sir, no one knows that I was there at that time." Chub, he reflected, had left him at least a quarter of an hour before and so couldn't have been sure of his whereabouts at four o'clock.
"Hm! That's unfortunate," said the Doctor. He turned to Farmer Mercer. "I don't think I need trouble you to remain, sir. I regret deeply that this has occurred and assure you that punishment will be justly meted out to the culprit."
The farmer arose.
"It's got to be stopped, Doctor," he said. "As for the culprit you've got him right here. That's the boy without a doubt. Put him in his red sweater and I'll tell you mighty quick. Just about his height he was, and kinder slimmish like. Well, you know you own business best. Good morning, Doctor."
And the farmer passed out with a final ugly look at Roy.
ON INNER BOUNDS
By noon the news was all over school: Roy Porter was on inner bounds for the rest of the term!
"Emmy told him," confided Sid importantly to a group of Juniors and Middlers awaiting the dinner summons on the steps of Burgess, "that if it wasn't for his good record all year he would have suspended him!"
"Gee!" quoth the youngest boy in school, "that's pretty fierce, just for fishing on Sunday!"
"He was poaching," explained Sid. "Anyhow, Emmy says he was. Old Mercer swears he saw him on his place yesterday afternoon. Why, a couple of years ago there was a fellowfiredfor poaching!"
"Gee!" echoed the youngest again in wide-eyed amaze.
"Well, Sid, who'll play first?" asked another of the audience. Sid shook his head dispiritedly.
"Patten, I s'pose. I think it's a beast of a shame, that's what I think! Take a fellow off the nine just five days before the big game! Of course Hammond'll lick us."
"Sure!" was the concurrent opinion.
"If Patten goes back to first you may get his place at right-field," suggested the youngest boy.
"Maybe I will," answered Sid gloomily, "but who wants to play if Roy's out of it?"
And the countenances of the audience answered:
"Who indeed?"
"I'll bet if we wanted to we could get him back on the nine," said Sid presently.
"How?" asked half a dozen voices eagerly.
"Oh, I know a way," was the unsatisfying reply.
"Go on and tell us, Sid!"
"I would if you'd promise never to tell anyone, cross your heart and hope to die."
Everyone promised instantly and fervidly.
"Supposing, then," resumed Sid, "that a whole raft of us were caught fishing on old Mercer's place. What would happen?"
"We'd all get suspended," piped up the youngest boy promptly.
"Inner bounds," suggested someone else.
"Huh! I guess not! It isn't likely Emmy would suspend half the school," replied Sid scornfully. "He'd see the injustice of it, of course, and give us all a good blowing up and let us go. And if he let us go he'd have to let Roy off too. It would be a—a—" Sid paused for a word—"it would be in the nature of a popular protest!"
"That's so," said one of the number. "He couldn't punish all of us very well."
"He might, though," muttered the youngest uneasily.
"Oh, we don't want you in it," answered Sid contemptuously.
"I'm going if the rest do," was the dogged answer.
"We'd ought to get a whole lot of fellows, though," one of the Middlers said.
"Yes, about twenty," answered Sid. "We can do it, too, you bet! Supposing we call a meeting of the Middlers and Juniors for this afternoon after supper?"
"Good scheme! Whereabouts?"
"At the boat-house. You fellows tell it around, but don't say what the meeting's about. If you do Emmy'll hear of it, sure."
Then the dinner bell rang and the informal conclave broke up.
"Wait for me after dinner," whispered Chub to Roy at the table. "I want to see you."
"All right," answered Roy cheerfully.
He was trying very hard to hide the fact that he was terribly down in the mouth. The half-curious, wholly sympathetic looks of his companions followed him all through the meal and he was glad when it was over. Chub caught up with him on the steps and together they crossed the walk and found seats under one of the elms well away from possible eavesdroppers.
"Tell me all about it," demanded Chub, scowling fiercely.
So Roy told him.
"You don't think he will let you off in time for the game Saturday?" asked Chub.
"No, I'm pretty sure he won't. He's dead certain it was me that Mercer saw."
Chub jumped to his feet.
"Where are you going?" asked Roy suspiciously.
"To see Emmy," was the answer. "I'll tell him that you didn't wear your red sweater and that you couldn't have been on old Mercer's place because you were with me."
"Don't be a fool!" said Roy. "What's the good of getting into trouble yourself? He'll ask what you were doing and you'll have to 'fess up; and then the nine won't have any captain on Saturday."
"I don't care," answered Chub stubbornly. "I got you into the hole and the least I can do is to get you out."
"But you wouldn't get me out! You'd just throw yourself in with me. Look here, now, Chub; Emmy isn't going to take any stock in your story. He'll just think that we concocted it between us this morning. Besides, you left me for almost an hour and you can't swear that I didn't go over to Mercer's while you were gone. It's only a quarter of a mile from where you left me."
"But you were asleep!"
"So you say."
"Well, weren't you?"
"Yes, but Emmy won't believe it. He'll think we were both out fishing and that I went to Mercer's; and instead of being minus a first baseman on Saturday the team will be short a first baseman and a second baseman too; also a captain."
"But it isn't fair," cried Chub. "I was the only one that fished, and now you're getting the blame for it. It was all my fault, anyhow; I made you go along when you didn't want to."
"Nonsense; I didn't have to go."
"But you went to please me."
"Oh, well, what if I did?"
"It isn't fair," muttered Chub. "If I play in that game and you don't I'll feel like a brute."
"You don't need to, Chub. Besides, there's the school to think of. You know plaguey well we'll get done up brown if you don't play—"
"We will anyway, I guess," interpolated Chub sadly.
"—And that isn't fair to the nine and the school. You've got to do everything you can to win that game, Chub. You don't suppose that I mind being out of it if we're going to win, do you?"
"But we need you, Roy! Who's going to play first?"
"Patten, of course; he can do it."
"He can't bat like you can."
"He'll do all right," answered Roy cheerfully. "Now you keep your mouth shut, old man, will you?"
"I suppose so," Chub muttered. "But I hadn't ought to."
"Yes, you had, too. I'm not the main thing, Chub; there's the school."
"You're a brick," said Chub. "All right; I'll keep mum as long as you want me to. But if you change your mind all you've got to do is to say so and I'll do all I can with Emmy. Promise to tell me if you change your mind?"
"Honor bright; but I sha'n't change it; I don't mind, Chub, as long as we win."
"Win! Thunder, we aren't going to win! We're going to get everlastingly walloped!"
"No, we're not," answered Roy hopefully. "We're going to win; you see."
"Look here," said Chub after a moment's silence, "you didn't poach on Mercer and I didn't. Who the dickens did?"
"I can't imagine. I dare say it was some fellow from the village."
"With a crimson sweater on? Not likely. I suppose it couldn't have been your sweater, eh?"
Roy shook his head.
"How do you know?" pursued Chub.
"'Cause mine was locked in my trunk."
"Sure?"
"Certain."
"Someone might have had a key that fitted the lock, though."
"They might have, but—" Roy paused and scowled thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, Chub, my trunk wasn't locked yesterday afternoon. I remember now. I locked it after we got back."
"Was the sweater there?"
"I didn't look."
Chub whistled softly.
"Bet you anything some fellow swiped it and wore it," he declared. "Let's go see if he put it back."
They hurried up to the dormitory and Roy unlocked his trunk, threw back the lid and opened the till.
"I thought I left it here on top," he muttered, diving through the contents of the till. "Maybe I put it underneath, though." Out came the till and out came most of the contents of the trunk. But there was no crimson sweater. Roy turned to Chub in distress.
"I don't care if they took it," he said, "but I hope they'll bring it back! I wouldn't lose that sweater for anything!"
"Lock your trunk again," said Chub, "and let's get out of here. Some one's coming. Let's go somewhere and think it over."
"If we only knew who was away from school yesterday afternoon," said Roy when they were once more under the trees.
"We know that Ferris and Burlen were," answered Chub suggestively. "They said so."
"And Ferris saw you borrow that pole from Tom!" said Roy. Chub sat up suddenly.
"I'll bet that was Tom's pole that old Mercer brought with him!" he cried.
"But you left it at Deep Hole, and I didn't leave there until long after four, I guess."
"But you said you didn't see it when you left!"
"That's so; I'm pretty sure it wasn't there," answered Roy, thinking hard. "But how could anyone have got it?"
"Don't know, but I'll bet someone did. They might have sneaked up while you were asleep. Horace Burlen could do it."
They looked at each other a moment in silence. Then,
"If he took the sweater I'll bet he's thrown it away," said Roy sorrowfully. "He wouldn't be likely to bring it back again."
"Why not? He found the trunk unlocked and maybe thought he could put it back again without anyone knowing anything about it. See? That's just about what happened, Roy. I'll bet he did the whole thing to get you in trouble."
"Wasn't Tom in the dormitory when we got there?"
"Yes."
"Then maybe he was there when Horace got back; and Horace couldn't get at my trunk without being seen."
"What do you suppose he'd do with it?" asked Chub.
Roy shook his head.
"Put it in his own trunk maybe," he answered.
"Come on," said Chub.
Back to the Senior Dormitory they hurried, for each of them had an examination at two and it was almost that hour now. The dormitory was empty and Chub stood guard at the head of the stairs while Roy crossed the room and examined Horace's trunk.
"Locked," he announced softly.
Chub joined him and they stood for a moment looking at the trunk as though striving to get an X-ray view of its contents.
"Maybe we could find a key to fit it," whispered Chub.
"I wouldn't like to do that," answered Roy, shaking his head.
"No more would I," answered Chub, "but I'd do it if I was just a little more certain that the thing was in there. I'd like to bust it open with an axe," he added savagely.
Then the two o'clock bell rang and they hurried downstairs.
"Keep mum about it," said Chub, "and we'll get to the bottom of it yet."
"The trunk?" asked Roy with a weak effort at humor.
"You bet!" was the answer.
Roy watched practice that afternoon. He stood on the school side of the hedge which marked inner bounds and, out of sight himself, saw Patten playing on first. It was lonely work and after a while the figures on the green diamond grew blurred and misty. Then, suddenly, Brother Laurence's advice came back to him and Roy brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and turned away.
"'When you're down on your luck,'" he murmured, "'Grin as hard as you can grin.'"
So he tried his best to grin, and made rather a sorry affair of it until he spied Harry walking toward the tennis courts with her racket in hand. He hailed her and she waited for him to come up.
"I'm awfully sorry, Roy," she greeted him. "I told dad you didn't do it."
"And he believed you at once," said Roy despondently.
grin"'When you're down on your luck,' he murmured, 'grin as hard as you can grin.'"
"'When you're down on your luck,' he murmured, 'grin as hard as you can grin.'"
"N-no, he didn't," answered Harry. "He—he's a little bit stupid sometimes; I often tell him so."
Roy laughed in spite of his sorrow.
"What does he say then?" he asked.
"Oh, he just smiles," answered Harry resentfully. "I hate people to smile at you when they ought to answer, don't you?"
Roy supposed he did. And then, in another minute, they were side by side on the stone coping about the stable yard and Roy was telling Harry everything, even to the examining of Horace's trunk and the reason for it.
"That's it!" cried Harry with the utmost conviction. "He did it! I know he did!"
"How do you know it?" asked Roy.
"Oh, I just do! I don't care if he is my cousin; he's as mean—!"
"Well, suspecting him won't do any good," said Roy. "We can't see into the trunk. And, anyhow, maybe he didn't bring the sweater back at all."
"Yes, he did too," answered Harry. "Don't you see he'd want to put it back again so that you couldn't say that someone had taken it and worn it? It's there, in his trunk."
"And I guess it'll stay there," said Roy hopelessly. "He won't be fool enough to take it out now."
"Couldn't you make him open his trunk?"
"I don't see how. I couldn't go and tell him I suspected him of having stolen my sweater; not without more proof than I've got now."
"I suppose not," answered Harry thoughtfully, her chin in her hand and the heel of one small shoe beating a restless tattoo on the wall. "You might—" she lowered her voice and looked about guiltily—"you might break it open!"
"And supposing it wasn't there?"
"But it is there!" cried Harry. "I know it is!"
"Wish I did," grunted Roy.
"Well, we'll just have to think of a way," said Harry presently, arousing herself from her reverie. "And now I must go on, because I promised to play tennis with Jack Rogers. I'm sorry."
"That's all right," answered Roy. "I—I've got some studying to do, anyhow."
Harry turned upon him with alarm in her face.
"Now don't you go doing anything desperate, Roy Porter!" she commanded. "You just sit still and hold tight and—and it'll come out all right. You leave it to me!"
SID'S "POPULAR PROTEST"—AND WHAT FOLLOWED
Harry and Jack played one set of tennis, which resulted, owing largely to Harry's evident preoccupation, in an easy win for Jack, 6—3.
"Look here, Harry, you don't really want to play tennis, do you?" asked Jack.
Harry started and flushed guiltily.
"Do you mind?" she asked.
"Not a bit," he answered. "What's bothering you? Methuselah got a headache? Or has Lady Grey eaten one of the white mice?"
Harry shook her head.
"I wish I could tell you, Jack, but it's not my secret," she answered regretfully and a trifle importantly. "Do you—would you mind taking a walk?"
"No; where to?"
"Over to the Mercers'."
Jack thought he could guess then what Harry was troubled about, but he said nothing, and they cut across the orchard, in which a few trees of early apples were already beginning to ripen their fruit, and headed for Farmer Mercer's.
Harry was a great favorite with Mrs. Mercer and was cordially greeted. They had root beer and vanilla cookies on the front porch, and then, leaving Jack and Mrs. Mercer to entertain each other, Harry ran off to the barn to find the farmer. She was back again in a few minutes and she and Jack took their leave.
"Well, did you discover anything?" asked Jack when they were once more on the road hurrying homeward. Harry shot a startled glance at him. Jack was smiling.
"No," she answered disappointedly. "How'd you know?"
"Oh, I just guessed."
"He insists that it was Roy, but he didn't see him near to at all, so I don't see how he can tell."
"Don't you think it was Roy?" asked Jack.
Harry's indignant look was eloquent.
"Of course it wasn't! He says so!"
There was a mysterious exodus of Middle and Junior Class boys from the campus to the boat-house that evening after supper. And, when, an hour later, they came straggling back every face bore the impress of a high and noble resolution. It had been unanimously resolved—after a good deal of pow-wow—that they should proceed in a body on the following afternoon to Farmer Mercer's grounds and fish in Wissick Creek.
Behold them, then, at the time appointed, marching across the fields and through the woods for all the world like a band of young crusaders, each armed with a fishing pole and line! There were not enough "truly" poles to go around, so many of the party were forced to cut branches from the willows. On to prohibited territory they marched, eighteen strong, Sidney Welch, having sought and received permission to absent himself from practice, in command. In full view of the white farm-house they lined the bank of the stream and threw in their lines. To be sure, many of the lines were guiltless of flies or even worms, but that was a detail. The minutes passed. One boy actually hooked a trout, but was so surprised that the prey escaped before he could land it. And still the minutes passed, and the irate voice of the tyrant sounded not. The sportsmen began to tire and grew bored. Many of them had never fished before and didn't care about it. A few tossed aside their rods and fell to playing stick-knife. And then, just when Sid had decided to give up and lead his defeated hosts back to school, a figure ambled toward them across the meadow.
"He's coming!" whispered Sid hoarsely.
Fully half of the group exhibited unmistakable signs of alarm; half a dozen edged toward home and were summoned back by the stauncher members.
"He can't do anything to us," said Sid nervously. "We're too many for him—even if he is big!"
"Well, boys, what you doin'?" inquired the farmer amiably.
There was a moment of constrained silence. Then,
"Fishing," answered Sid bravely.
"Caught anything?" asked the farmer as he joined the group and looked curiously at the huddled poles.
"Not yet, sir," answered Sid.
"Too sunny, I guess," was the reply.
The trespassers darted bewildered glances along their front. This awful calm was worse than the expected storm.
"Didn't take you long to get here, by gum!" said Farmer Mercer presently. "I didn't just bargain for having the whole school turn out to once, but I don't know as it matters. A bargain's a bargain. I give my word, and there it is. 'Let 'em come once a week, then,' says I, 'but no more 'n that.' The way that gal sassed me was a caution!" The farmer's face relaxed into something very like a smile. "'If you gave 'em permission to come,' says she, 'they wouldn't care about it so much. It's the temptation that leads 'em,' says she. 'Tell 'em they can come and they won't want to.' Looks like she was mistaken there, though."
"Who—o?" stammered Sid.
"Why, Harry Emery. That's the way she talked, like a regular book. Said it was all my fault you boys got in trouble!" He chuckled hoarsely. "What do you think of that, eh? My fault, by gum! Called me a—a 'perverter of youth,' or somethin' like that, too! Couldn't do nothin' but give in to her after that! 'Let 'em come and fish once a week, then,' says I, 'an' as long as they behaves themselves I won't say anything to 'em.' Well, you ain't had much luck, to be sure, but I guess you're clustered kind o' close together. Guess what fish you fellers catch won't hurt much of any!"
sassed"'The way that gal sassed me was a caution!'"
"'The way that gal sassed me was a caution!'"
And Farmer Mercer turned and ambled off, chuckling to himself.
The trespassers looked from one to another; then, with scarcely a word spoken, they wound up their lines and, with poles trailing, crept crestfallenly home. And in such fashion ended Sid's "popular protest!"
Meanwhile events marched rapidly. School came to an end the following Wednesday. In four days, that is on Saturday, came the boat-race, in the forenoon; and the final baseball game, at three o'clock. Examinations would end the day before. It was a breathless, exciting week. On the river the finishing touches were being put to what the school fondly believed was the finest four-oared crew ever destined to carry the Brown and White to victory. On the diamond Mr. Cobb and Captain Chub Eaton were working like beavers with a nine which, at the best, could be called only fairly good. Tappen at first was doing his level best, but his best was far below the standard set by Roy. The nine, discouraged at first by the loss of Roy, was, however, fast regaining its form, and Chub began to feel again that he had at least a fighting chance.
It was a hard week for Roy, for there was always the hope that Fate would intervene and deliver him from his durance. But Wednesday came and Thursday came, and still the crimson sweater, upon the discovery of which so much hinged, did not turn up. Roy vetoed Chub's plea to be allowed to rip open Horace's trunk, and Harry's assistance, from which, for some reason, Roy had hoped a good deal, had so far worked no relief. There were moments when Roy was strongly tempted to accuse Horace to his face and dare him to display the contents of that battered trunk of his in the Senior Dormitory. But there was always the lack of certainty in the other's guilt to deter him.
Of Harry, Roy caught but fleeting glimpses. But although she had no good news for him, no brilliant plans to suggest, she was by no means idle. She very nearly thought herself into brain fever. So absorbed was she in Roy's dilemma that the permission wrung from Farmer Mercer to allow the boys to fish his stream passed entirely out of her mind until after school had closed. None of the members of the poaching expedition cared to talk about it, and so Harry remained in ignorance of it for the time being.
Roy finished the last of his examinations on Thursday afternoon, and, while he would not learn the results until next week, he was hopeful of having made a better showing than in the winter. Afterwards he went to the limit of his prison on the river side and watched from a distance the placing of the course flags for the race.
Presently from down the river the brown-shirted crews swept into sight, rowing strongly in spite of their weariness. They had finished the last work before the race, although in the morning there would be a half-hour of paddling. Number 2 in the first boat was splashing a good deal as the slim craft headed toward the landing, but it probably came from weariness rather than from poor form. The second crew looked pretty well done up and the coxswain's "Let her run!" floated up to Roy long before the landing was in sight. After that they paddled slowly in and lifted their shell from the darkening water as though it weighed a thousand pounds.
From behind Fox Island, well over toward the farther shore, a row of white shirts caught a shaft of afternoon sunlight and Roy watched the rise and fall of the oars as the Hammond four returned home at a good clip closely pursued by the second crew. Then, on his own side of the river, a single scull crept into view around the point and Mr. Buckman, handling the long sweeps with an ease and rhythm that seemed the poetry of motion, his little brown megaphone bobbing from the cord about his neck in time to his movements, shot his craft up to the landing. Then, save for the launch gliding across to the Hammond side, the river was empty and long lanes of sunlight were disappearing, one by one, as the sun sank behind the purple hills.
Roy had not watched baseball practice since that first afternoon. Brother Laurence's advice might be very excellent, but a chap couldn't always follow it; there were moments when the grins wouldn't come. And, somehow, when Chub confided to him that evening that things were looking up, and couldn't help showing some of the cheerfulness he felt, Roy was more lonesome and out of it than ever.
The next morning after breakfast Doctor Emery announced that every student must be in the dormitories at ten o'clock and have his trunk and cupboard open for inspection; Mrs. Emery would examine the boys' clothing and take away for repairs such garments as needed them. The announcement was something of a surprise to the older boys, for never before had such an examination been made. It was the custom for the boys to lay aside each week whatever clothing needed mending, cleansing or pressing, but a general inspection was something unprecedented. Many fellows made up their minds to get upstairs as soon as possible and remove certain things from their trunks; firearms and sensational literature, for instance, were prohibited and subject to confiscation if discovered.
Roy's heart leapt when he heard the announcement and he couldn't help glancing at Horace. The latter youth, however, had apparently not heard it, for he was talking away with Whitcomb at a great rate and his countenance showed no sign of dismay or uneasiness. But Roy made up his mind to be near Horace's trunk when Mrs. Emery looked through it! As he had nothing in his trunk he was unwilling for the authorities to see, he didn't go to the dormitory after breakfast. Instead, he crossed over to the gymnasium in the hope of finding Chub there. But Chub wasn't to be discovered, and Roy mooned about the campus for the better part of an hour and then went up to the dormitory. It was pretty well filled and the fellows were getting a good deal of fun out of the occasion. Jack Rogers called across and told him he wanted to see him after inspection. Horace Burlen had his trunk open and was sitting nonchalantly on the side of his cot. Mrs. Emery soon appeared and, with Mr. Cobb in attendance, began her rounds. The whole thing looked rather perfunctory to Roy. Perhaps the fellows' garments were in good condition; at least, few of them were laid aside for mending. When Mrs. Emery reached Horace's trunk Roy sauntered carelessly over and looked on. He imagined that Horace looked a bit uneasy when Mrs. Emery began taking his clothing out of the till.
"Your things are in nice condition, Horace," she said. "Now what's underneath?"
"There's nothing much there," answered Horace. "Everything's all right, Mrs. Emery."
"Well, I guess we'd better look at them and make sure," was the pleasant reply. "Just lift out the till, please."
Horace obeyed with ill-grace, and Roy, his heart beating hard, edged nearer. Garment after garment came out to be piled neatly on the floor and finally the last one appeared. The trunk was empty and the crimson sweater was nowhere in sight!
Roy's eyes darted here and there in search of other recesses, but beyond a doubt he had seen everything the trunk contained. Mrs. Emery began to place the things back very carefully, one by one, as though even she were looking for that sweater. Roy wondered. Perhaps—Of course that was it! Harry had taken her mother into her confidence and the unusual proceedings had been instituted on his account! He felt very grateful to Mrs. Emery, but he was terribly disappointed. There was only one thing to suppose now, and that was that Horace had thrown the sweater away instead of bringing it back to school with him. Of course red sweaters weren't scarce, but that particular one had been very precious to Roy and he felt its loss keenly. He went back to his own side of the room and dolefully locked his trunk. One by one the fellows went out. Mrs. Emery, having completed her task, collected a half-dozen garments and, still escorted by Mr. Cobb, took her departure. Horace, too, followed, and only Roy and Jack were left.
"Did you want to see me, Jack?" asked Roy indifferently.
"Er—yes. Just wait a minute."
He went to the door and called:
"O Chub!"
"Coming!" bawled Chub's voice from downstairs, and in a moment he came in. He was beaming like the cat that ate the canary. Roy sighed. It was all well enough for Chub and Jack to stand there and grin at him, he reflected sadly; they hadn't lost a priceless crimson sweater and weren't on inner bounds.
"Have you told him?" asked Chub breathlessly.
Jack shook his head.
"Told me what?" asked Roy resentfully.
For answer the two boys bade him rise from his cot. Wondering, Roy obeyed. Then, between them, they lifted bedding and mattress.
"Look underneath," said Chub.
Roy looked.
And the next instant he had his crimson sweater in his hands and was looking bewilderedly from it to Chub and from Chub to Jack and so back again at the sweater. Chub and Jack were grinning like satyrs and enjoying hugely his bewilderment.
"How—how'd it get there?" whispered Roy finally.
"Put it into your trunk and come on out," said Chub. "We've got something to tell you."
Roy found his key and unlocked the trunk. But in the act of laying the sweater away he paused and drew back. Under one shoulder was a long rip where the stitches had given way.
"I—I think I'll take it over to Mrs. Emery," he said, "and get her to mend it. That's a beast of a hole!"
"All right," said Jack. "Come on."
So they took the precious garment over to the Cottage, and as they went Chub—Jack assisting—explained.
"It was Harry's scheme, Roy. She told her mother and Mrs. Emery got the Doctor to issue that order about having the fellows unlock their trunks. But Harry knew that if Horace had the sweater he'd try and get rid of it before the examination. So she told Jack and me to come up here right after breakfast and hide where we could see what was doing. Well, we did. We got under Gallup's bed where he couldn't see us and waited. We hadn't been there five minutes before up comes little Horace. He looked around mighty carefully, you bet, and then he unlocked his trunk, dug down to the bottom of it and pulled out the sweater. Jack nearly whooped when he saw it!"
"That's right," agreed Jack. "I came near spoiling the whole show!"
"So Horace tiptoed over to your bed, lifted up the mattress and stuck the sweater underneath. Then he lit out. And he doesn't know yet that we saw the whole thing!"
"I knew he had it!" muttered Roy. "Gee! I'm awfully much obliged to you chaps."
"You want to thank Harry, I guess," said Jack. "It was her scheme."
"That's so," said Roy. "Harry's a wonder! I suppose she's at school now. Too bad, for she was dying to know what was going to happen and I promised to come over as soon as I could and tell her."
Mrs. Emery smiled knowingly when she came to the door and Roy handed the sweater to her, but she only said that she'd be very glad to draw the hole together for him and that Harry would be delighted to hear that it was found.
"I'll tell her as soon as she gets home from school," she added.
"And—and please thank her for me," said Roy.
"Is the Doctor in?" asked Chub
"No, he's gone to town," was the reply. "But he'll be back very shortly. Will you come in and wait?"
"No 'm, thanks. We'll come back again at noon," answered Chub. And when they had left the Cottage he turned and thumped Roy triumphantly on the back. "Practice at three, old chap!" he cried.
Roy smiled happily. Then,
"I suppose he will let me off?" he asked doubtfully.
"Who? Emmy? Course he will! What's he got against you now? Both Jack and I saw Horace put the sweater there, and we know that he was away from school Sunday afternoon. What more proof is wanted?"
"We've got Horace done brown," said Jack. "Emmy won't do a thing to him!"
"Kind of hard luck, too," said Chub, "with the race coming off in the morning; for of course Emmy will yank him out of the boat the first thing."
"Then we'll lose the race, won't we?" asked Roy.
Chub shrugged his shoulders.
"Sure to," he answered. "I'm kind of sorry for Horace, but he deserves every bit of it. It was a mean trick to work."
Roy was silent a moment. Finally,
"Well, I don't care so much now that I've got my sweater back," he said thoughtfully.
"Care about what?" asked Jack.
"Oh, the rest of it; being on bounds and—and not playing to-morrow," answered Roy. "You see, I'd just about made up my mind that I wasn't going to play, anyhow."
"Well, you'regoingto play," answered Chub cheerfully. "And I'm pleased purple. A few of those nice long hits of yours to-morrow will do a heap of good, Roy."
But Roy didn't seem to hear.
"No one knows about this but you and Jack and me?" he asked.
"That's all," replied Chub.
"And if we don't say anything about it, then, no one else will know."
"Don't say anything about it!" cried Chub. "Are you crazy?"
"No, but there's the boat race to think of, Chub; we don't want to lose that, I guess. And if they take Horace out—"
"Now don't you be a silly ass!" interrupted Chub in alarm. "Let them lose the old race! I reckon we don't want to lose the ball game either, do we? Now don't get sentimental and sloppy; Horace deserves all that's coming to him!"
"Maybe," answered Roy, "but I guess we'll just keep this to ourselves, if you fellows don't mind."
"But you won't be able to play!"
"I know," Roy replied, "but I wasn't expecting to, you see. And—and, anyhow, I've got my sweater back!"
"Sweater be blowed!" exploded Chub. "Don't be a fool, Roy! You're just fooling, aren't you, eh?"
"No, Chub, I'm not. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but—but I don't think it would be fair to the school to tell on Horace and lose the race. I'd like to play mighty well, but—I guess we'll just keep this to ourselves, fellows!"
THE BOAT-RACE
It was Saturday morning.
Along the Ferry Hill shore, from the landing to a point half a mile further downstream where the finish flags flew, students and villagers, the former in most cases accompanied by friends or relatives, stood, sat or strolled at points of vantage. On the river white-sailed skiffs, chugging launches, gaudy canoes and more sober rowboats darted and drifted across the sunlit water. It was the hottest sort of a June morning and only the steady little northerly breeze kept the heat from being intolerable to the spectators along shore.
The crews had gone up the river half an hour before, the men making the trip to the starting point in comfortable launches, their shells streaking along in tow. The time for starting the race was already past and everyone about the finish was eagerly awaiting the distant boom of the tiny brass cannon aboard the referee's launch which would announce to them that the struggle had begun two miles away.
From where Chub and Roy sat in the midst of a throng of onlookers on a high point of rock near the finish line the entire course was in sight save for a space where Fox Island hid it. Away up the broad blue ribbon of water tiny specks that danced and glittered in the blaze of sunlight told where the start was to be made, but only Sid, who was the proud possessor of a pair of dilapidated field-glasses, could tell one boat from another. At last there was an excited grunt from that youth.
"They're off!" he cried. "I saw the smoke from the cannon on the Sylph!"
And in confirmation of his statement a lowboomcame down to them on the breeze. Everyone jumped to his feet and gazed intently up-stream. But only such as had glasses were able to throw any light on the situation up there. Sid was popular and voluble.
"We're ahead, 'way ahead!" he cried excitedly. "About two lengths, I guess."
"Hooray!" shrieked Patten.
"No, we're not, either," said Sid lamely. "I was looking at a launch. I can't see our boat at all!"
"O—oh!" groaned the others.
"Yes, there it is! I think—it looks as though—"
"Well, out with it!" commanded Chub.
"I guess it's about a length behind," finished Sid.
But when half the course had been rowed it was possible to identify the two boats without the aid of field-glasses. Side by side they were, or very nearly, and coming hard. Someone in the Ferry Hill shell was splashing occasionally; they could see the water dash up into the sunlight. Then, still rowing about even, they were lost to sight behind the island and suspense gripped the spectators. The seconds seemed minutes until, at last, the slim sharp bow of a boat shot into sight past the lower end of the island. Followed a breathless moment until the back of the bow oar appeared. Then the group groaned as one man. Bow wore a white shirt; the Hammond shell was in the lead. Clear of the island it came and still the rival boat didn't follow.
"Guess our boat's sunk," muttered Chub nervously.
Then another brown nose poked its way past the point and Ferry Hill, three lengths behind, but rowing hard, flashed into view. The crowd on the shore vented its relief in a long yell. Maddox, the tiny coxswain, his megaphone strapped to his mouth, was bending forward and urging his crew onward. But three lengths is a good deal to make up in the last quarter-mile of a hard race, especially when one of the crew is plainly ragged.
"Just look at Hadden!" moaned Thurlow. "He isn't pulling a pound!"
"Thinks he's a blooming geyser, I guess," said Chub disgustedly. "See him splash, will you? He's just about all in."
But Hammond's stroke was also showing the effects of the work and was rowing woefully short. Inch by inch the brown shirts crept up on the white. At first, so slow was the gain, that no one noticed it. Then Chub let up a whoop of joy.
"We're after 'em!" he cried. "We're gaining on 'em!"
"Yes, but we can't cut down that lead," answered Roy, who had been freed from inner bounds for the race. "But we certainly are creeping up!"
"You just bet we are!" shrieked Sid. "Why, we're only two lengths behind! We—we aren't that much!"
"Length and a half," grunted Thurlow.
The two boats were almost abreast of them now and only a couple of hundred yards remained. In and out dipped the red blades and the brown, forward and back bent the straining bodies, back and forth like shuttles slid the two red-faced, shouting coxswains. The strident tones of Maddox came up to those on the hillside:
"Hit it up, now! Hit it up! Ten hard ones! One!... Two!... Three!..."
Ten hard ones made a difference. The bow of the Ferry Hill shell slid up to the stern of the rival boat. On the shore pandemonium reigned. Shouts, yells, shrieks, bellows; entreaty, command; a vocal jumble that no one even heard! For below there on the flashing river the two boats were crossing the finish line, Hammond a half length to the good! Down went the white signal flag.
"Let her run!" cried the Hammond coxswain.
Past the judge's boat floated the shells, victor and vanquished, while on the shore and in the watching craft spectators drew long breaths and turned homeward. In the Ferry Hill boat only Horace Burlen sat erect. Whitcomb was leaning weakly on his oar, Gallup's head was in his hands and Hadden was huddled limply while Maddox splashed water upon him. Hammond was paddling slowly around in a circle, coming back. Abreast of their defeated rivals they rested on their oars and cheered for Ferry Hill. And Ferry Hill cheered weakly for Hammond. And the boat-race was a thing of the past.