“No, that’s not the reason. Guess I’ll skip along.”
“If you find out anything, let a fellow know,” Nelson called after him.
“If you only knew what I know now!” muttered Piper, as he turned down Willow Street.
Much to his disappointment, Billy Piper was not permitted to see Roy Hooker. At the door Roy’s mother, who was plainly in a deeply distressed and anxious state of mind, told him that the doctor had given orders that Roy was not to be disturbed and had administered a mild opiate to quiet the unfortunate lad, who had grown fearfully excited when questioned concerning the cause of his injury.
“It’s a dreadful thing, Billy Piper,—a dreadful thing!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know why any one should hurt my poor boy like that. Some one must have done it. It was a wicked thing—a wicked, wicked thing! What if he never recovers? What if he is always wrong in his head? He doesn’t seem to remember anything, and maybe he never will.”
“It can’t be as bad as that, Mrs. Hooker,” said Billy, in an effort to cheer her up. “We—I talked with the doctor a short time ago, and he seems to think Roy will come round all right very soon. Don’t you think he fell, or something, and hurt himself that way?”
“How could he fall and hurt his face and the back of his head at the same time? I’m sure some one struck him, and it was a wicked blow. But we’ll find out who it was; such things always come out in time. You know all the boys, Billy Piper. Do you know anything about it? Have you heard anything?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Hooker,” answered Piper, feeling cheap and mean and miserable. “Do you think I wouldn’t tell you if I knew anything?”
“Not unless—— Oh, but of course you weren’t concerned in it. But perhaps you can find out, Billy. Roy says you’re a real wonder at finding out anything you want to know, and we all remember how you and Roy caught one of those bank robbers. Roy gave you all the credit. He said that you tracked the man, and that you even knew all about Fred Sage’s brother being alive before any one else was aware of it. Now, if you can do things like that, why can’t you find out who hurt my boy? The scoundrel who did it should be punished. Won’t you try to find out the truth and tell us about it?” Entreating him thus, she placed her hand on his shoulder, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he refrained from shrinking beneath her touch.
“I’ll do all I can,” he promised in a low tone. “I’m awful sorry this happened, Mrs. Hooker, but, believe me, I can’t really think any one hurt Roy maliciously and with deliberate design. It must have been an accident.”
“If it was that, wouldn’t the person who did it come forward and own up?”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps he’s frightened. Roy has a temper, you know, and maybe he got into a fight with some one who struck him in self-defense.”
“Any boy who would do such a thing, and then keep still about it with his victim in a dangerous condition, is a bad, bad fellow. There are some very bad boys in Oakdale, Billy, and you must know it. Roy has said more than once that you’re a regular detective. Here is something for you to detect—something worth while.”
“I’ve been a chump,” acknowledged Piper, with an unmistakable intonation of self-scorn. “I’ve played that detective game for my own amusement, and made lots of trouble by it. I’m done with it now, Mrs. Hooker, for it’s sneaky, cheap, underhand business. Any one who wants to become a detective may do so for all of me—I never shall.”
“Then you won’t try to find out? You won’t help us any?”
“I’ve promised already to do all I can, and I shall keep my promise, Mrs. Hooker. But I’m sure you’re unnecessarily worried. Roy will be all right to-morrow. Of course he will tell you everything.”
He departed with his head hanging and his feet dragging, a spiritless, downcast chap.
“Another lie,” he muttered. “What will she think of me when she knows? And she’ll find out. She was right, things like this always come out. Well, I see where some fellows in this town will have something to live down, and I’m one of them.”
Springer and Cooper received his report with disappointment.
“You made a fuf-fizzle of it,” said Phil. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Nothing except tell a lie. I led Roy’s mother to believe that I didn’t know a thing about it.”
“You couldn’t do anything else,” said Cooper.
“I could have told the truth, couldn’t I?”
“That would have been peaching; that would have been blowing on us all. You couldn’t do that.”
“If you fellows have got the notion that we’re going to hide and escape through lying and deception, you’d better give it up. We’ll have to shoulder our part of the blame, sooner or later.”
“That’s fine!” sighed Chipper dolefully. “My father hasn’t used the strap on me for some time, but I’m going to pad my trousers in preparation for the coming walloping.”
“I’d like to pup-punch old Shultz!” rasped Springer. “He’s the one that’s to bub-blame for it all.”
“No,” contradicted Piper promptly, “we can’t duck behind any such excuse. If we hadn’t been there it never would have happened, for it takes more than two or three to make up a decent game of poker. We were all doing something on the sly—something that we didn’t wish respectable people to know about, and something we mortally dread to have them find out about.”
“Dread it!” groaned Chipper. “I should say I do!”
“It wasn’t a cuc-crime,” spluttered Springer, in an attempt at justification.
“I don’t know about that,” snapped Billy. “Gambling is illegal, and so it was a crime.”
“Oh, but we wasn’t gug-gambling; we were just playing for fun.”
“And we’re getting a lot of fun out of it, aren’t we? Perhaps you enjoy it!”
At this point Phil’s anger blazed and he raged at Billy, calling him chicken-hearted. Piper refused to listen; shrugging his shoulders, he walked hastily away, heedless of the calls of the two lads, who begged him to come back.
The church bells were sounding the second call and people in their Sunday clothes were passing on their way to services when Piper rang at Mrs. Chester’s door. The maid appeared, and, answering his inquiry, informed him that Ned Osgood had already departed for church.
“He goes every Sunday reg’ler,” she said, with a touch of pride. “The misses calls him ‘a most exempl’ry young man.’ Maybe you’ll see him at the church if you go, too.”
“Thank you,” said Billy, descending the steps.
As soon as possible, he struck off across lots, to avoid the church-goers. “A most exempl’ry young man!” he muttered, with a short laugh. “He’s got her fooled. She doesn’t know what’s been going on in his rooms every Saturday night. I wonder if she’s heard about Roy? Don’t s’pose she’d have an idea anything happened to him in her house if she has heard.”
He next thought of finding Shultz, but, from lack of courage or an aversion for facing the fellow, could not bring himself to look for the prime cause of all the trouble.
Returning home, he found the house deserted, his folks being away to church, and his manner of wandering restlessly about through the empty rooms made him think of the old simile about the caged tiger. It was practically impossible for him to keep still. He wanted to do something, and his tortured conscience bade him do the right thing; but what that was, he could not for the life of him decide. Gradually his restlessness wore away, but still dread, like a bird of evil omen, seemed to hover near.
His parents returned, and, as usually happened when he remained away from church, which, it must be confessed, was often, he was sharply scolded by his father. Mr. Piper was much given to scolding, but only when especially aroused did he attempt to exert genuine parental authority over his son. In fact, Billy, like far too many boys of the present day, was permitted to do practically as he pleased as long as he did not worry his folks by getting into “scrapes.”
The day wore slowly away without further information concerning Hooker until near night, when it was learned that some one had made inquiries about him over the phone, and that his mother had said his condition seemed unchanged.
At dusk Piper met Chipper Cooper at the end of the upper bridge. They looked at each other inquiringly, and, after some moments of silence, Chipper said:
“Well?”
“Well?” returned Billy with precisely the same inflection.
“I’m pretty near sick,” declared Cooper. “I hear Roy is no better. It’s bad, Pipe—bad.”
“Rotten,” agreed Billy, leaning against the railing.
Cooper leaned at his side, and their tongues seemed chained. Beneath the bridge the water gurgled and whispered. In the gathering shadows a robin called plaintively from a treetop some distance away. The village appeared almost as deserted and lonely as the hamlet of Goldsmith’s immortal poem. A heavy weight, like lead, seemed to weigh upon the souls of the two unhappy boys.
After a time Cooper heaved a sigh.
“It’s bad,” he repeated—“bad!”
“Rotten,” said Piper again.
Looking careworn and old, Professor Richardson called the first session to order on Monday morning. The scholars and the two assistant instructors were assembled in the big main room. Every one seemed to feel that there was something unusual impending, and all eyes were turned upon the sober face of the aged principal as he pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up upon his forehead and tapped gently but authoritatively upon his desk.
“It becomes my duty to speak of an unpleasant matter,” said the professor, in a voice a trifle husky from the effect of a cold. “For some time I have felt that I would have to face this necessity. I have held my present position with this institution for eighteen years, which is a trifle more than one-fourth of man’s alloted span of life, three score and ten—a very long time. When I took up my work here I scarcely fancied it would continue so long, and at least twice in the earlier years of my stay I had opportunities to go elsewhere in the same capacity. One of these opportunities, the second which presented itself, was very tempting, and I debated not a little with myself regarding the advisability of accepting. At that time, however, I had just begun to feel myself bound to Oakdale Academy by strong yet tender ties, and it was my heart rather than my head which led me at last to decline the alluring offer. I have now been here so long that Oakdale, more than any other place I know, seems like home, and it is my hope to remain here among my many kind friends as long as I live.
“Necessarily, there have been some unpleasant features in connection with my services as principal of this academy, but, for the most part, I am happy to say that pleasant memories predominate. Having felt that my life work was to be teaching, I have ever sought to perform that work as faithfully and thoroughly and conscientiously as possible. Nor do I think I have neglected striving to enter into sympathy with my pupils; I have always sought to understand their varying natures, to make allowances for their natural faults and failings, and to encourage all their worthy desires and ambitions. This is by far a more difficult thing for a teacher than may seem possible to the youthful mind. The difference in years, which must necessarily exist between instructor and pupils, is bound to produce a pronounced difference in habits, methods of thought and the viewpoint from which life in general is regarded, and that instructor who has the ability always to put himself in sympathy with the young mind beneath his guidance is indeed fortunate.
“In the last eighteen years athletics and allied sports, as relating to schools and colleges, have made amazing progress. I will not enter into a discussion as to whether such things have not obtained too powerful a hold upon our modern institutions of learning, for that really has little bearing upon what I wish to say. In my boyhood, baseball was, indeed, a very crude sort of a game, and football was practically unknown in this country. At the present time there is in America no school or college of importance attended by males that does not have its baseball and football teams; and other similar games, such as ice hockey and basketball, have become amazingly popular, the latter even being played by teams made up of girl students.
“I am aware that many young school instructors have fostered and encouraged such tendencies, some of them even taking part in the coaching of teams made up from their pupils. Nevertheless, had I myself at one time been an enthusiast in such sports, I sincerely doubt if I ever should have felt it either my duty or my place to follow the example of such instructors. For it seems to me that there is, or should be, a distinct dividing line over which the conscientious principal of a school may not wisely step.
“I maintain that I am not prejudiced against any healthy, beneficial sport or pastime in which students may indulge, unless it is carried to that excess which threatens physical injury or infringes upon and retards mental advancement. When, however, a student becomes so wrapped up and absorbed in baseball that he neglects his studies and can seem to think of nothing save the game that has fixed its subtle but damaging grip upon him, I am of the firm belief that it is high time something should be done. When I see naturally bright students falling back in their classes, recklessly refusing to give a proper amount of time to studies and openly declaring their resentment at the old fogy idea that mental training is first and foremost the great object of all schools for the young, I unhesitatingly assert that those boys are being injured by the present craze for sport.
“It has been my purpose, as far as possible, to restrain such mistaken fanaticism. As far as possible I have always tried to appeal directly to the misguided boy himself, and up to the present term I pride myself that I have succeeded fairly well. This spring, however, my task has become more difficult, and my efforts have, I regret to say, produced results far from satisfactory to me. I am aware that behind my back I have been more or less derided by certain scholars. It has been all too apparent that a new feeling of rebellion against interference from me has crept into the school. This feeling has steadily increased, until of late it has developed into downright defiance of my authority and desires. It has affected discipline. It has led me at last to make this direct appeal to you, scholars, as a body.
“Even if the day of corporal punishment had not practically passed, I am sure, were I physically capable, I would not resort to such measures in order to maintain discipline. Nevertheless, I will admit that there are scholars to-day who cannot be reached by appeal or moral suasion, yet who doubtless would be led to see the error of their ways by physical suasion. They are generally the leaders in defiance of discipline; such fellows as smoke upon the grounds and in the building, regardless of rules or requests to desist; such as use bad language, absent themselves from classes, or repeatedly appear in classes only to declare themselves unprepared. With pernicious ingenuity they devise all sorts of methods to break rules and regulations and to defy their instructors, whom they foolishly seem to regard not as their friends but as their enemies.
“There are such boys in this school. They are fostering dissension, defiance of authority, and are priming themselves and their associates for downright and open rebellion. I think I know them all. If I chose, I could give their names, but I will not do so—now. Not only is their influence harmful in the classroom, but it is seriously injurious to those with whom they associate outside the confines and hours of school. One such lad may do an incalculable amount of injury to others. The example of every human being is bound to have some effect upon those with whom he associates, and they will be polluted, just as a clear river is polluted by a foul tributary. Some of his worst self such a lad pours into those with whom he comes in contact.
“There’s an old saying that boys will be boys. Boys can be boys and still be decent. There is nothing reprehensible in the natural boisterous high spirits of a vigorous young animal; it is only when such high spirits and vigor is misdirected, that it becomes injurious. Many a time, as I have watched a band of youngsters frolicking naturally in the sheer joy of bounding youth, I have felt a tugging at my heartstrings and a regret for that which the years have taken from me. Always, however, when they have been my scholars, there has been a sort of deep pleasure and satisfaction mingled with that regret; for it has seemed that, in a way, they were a part of my life, and that my association with them repaid me in a measure for the loss of that splendid thing which time had filched from me.
“But when I have known that certain scholars were breaking rules and defying authority with malicious perverseness, I have felt more than resentment or anger—I have felt sorrow. When I have seen, as has sometimes happened of late, my boys banding together at night upon street corners, behaving offensively, moving surreptitiously, betraying by unmistakeable signs that they were engaged in stealthy and secret purposes, my alarm and distress has overcome both anger and sorrow. I have not known just what was taking place, but I have felt that there were things happening which ought not to happen. I have felt sure, likewise, that something bad was bound to come of it.
“This brings me to speak of Roy Hooker. I am sure you all know about him. Roy is not a bad boy, his inclinations are not pernicious, yet I am aware that he has been associating with those who could do him no good. On Saturday night, at a late hour, he met with an injury—an injury from which, perhaps, he may never recover. This injury was inflicted by one or more blows upon the head, and it seems to have deprived him of the power of speech and memory. Since that time he has scarcely spoken half a dozen coherent words. It is not at all probable that Roy was injured in this manner while alone, yet up to the present time no associate of his has had the manhood to come forward and tell precisely how it happened.
“This seems to me evidence enough that Roy was hurt in a manner that was regarded as shameful, if not actually criminal. Otherwise, why should the person or persons with him at the time take so much pains to prevent the truth of the matter from becoming known? Whoever they were, they have shown a lack of courage that seems absolutely cowardly. I’m certain there’s not one of them who does not carry in his breast a tortured conscience, and this is one of the most certain punishments for wrong-doing. The evil-doer, if he possesses any of the finer human sensibilities, must always endure the writhings of a wounded conscience. If Roy Hooker should not recover, those responsible for his condition must bear all through life a sickening burden.
“Let us, however, hope for the best. I have talked with Dr. Grindle this morning, and he encouraged me to believe that Roy would come through all right. It is not impossible that he may recover sufficiently to-day to tell precisely what happened. In that case, unless others come forward without delay, it will be too late for them to escape the brand of cowardice. It may require an amount of moral courage to confess the truth, but such a confession will partly atone for the silence so far maintained. Time is fleeting.”
But if Professor Richardson expected any of his scholars to come forward at once with a confession he was disappointed; and, after several minutes of waiting, during which he busied himself by pretending to arrange some papers on his desk, he slowly returned his spectacles to their usual place astride his thin nose and regretfully announced that the regular course of the session would be taken up.
Never had a morning session at school seemed so wretchedly long to Billy Piper. The hands of the old clock on the wall behind Professor Richardson’s desk actually seemed to stand still.
At intermission Billy sought an opportunity to speak a word in private with Charley Shultz, but was prevented from doing so, Shultz being surrounded by several boisterous fellows, who made a great deal of noise and laughed often and loudly. In this general chatter Charley took part, but Piper was certain that his loud talk and laughter were inspired by a desire to appear carefree and untroubled. Once Shultz’s eyes met Billy’s, which led him to frown and turn his glance quickly away, a sullen, resentful expression flashing across his face for a moment.
The other members of that Saturday night party seemed not at all disposed to associate with one another. Ned Osgood put himself to much trouble to chat with Rod Grant, which was something unusual, as he had never before betrayed a particular liking for the Texan’s company. Phil Springer hung around Nelson and Stone, who talked baseball when they had finished speculating over the mystery of Roy Hooker’s injury. Cooper slipped away by himself, and returned only when it was time to get back to his seat and his books.
At last the hands of the clock stood perpendicular, one over the other, and, having announced that he would remain at his desk a few minutes to speak with any one who wished to have a word with him, Professor Richardson dismissed the scholars. A few of the boys lingered, curious to observe if any one should approach the principal, but all of the fellows who could have cleared up the mystery made haste to get out of the room.
Again Piper was baffled in his effort to speak privately with Shultz, who walked away between two girls, talking and laughing like one who bore no shadow of apprehension in his heart.
“He’s putting up a big bluff,” muttered Billy. “He never troubled himself before to be so jolly sociable with those girls. He can’t carry it off like Osgood; he hasn’t got the natural swing.”
Piper bolted his dinner with such haste that his mother was led to warn him of indigestion, with which he was sometimes troubled.
“As soon as it comes spring,” she said, “you get baseball crazy, Will, and you don’t like to stay home a minute longer than you have to.”
“It’s not baseball to-day, mother,” he answered. “I wonder if anybody has heard anything new about Roy?”
“I haven’t, not a word. I thought perhaps you might at school. You’re always so quick to see through things, haven’t you an idea what happened to him?”
“Do you think I wouldn’t tell if I had?”
“No, but it seems queer nobody knows anything at all about it. Can’t you even guess, Will?”
“No, I can’t,” he answered brusquely, pushing back and jumping up from the table. “It’s never been my habit to guess; I’ve always had something to base my theories on.”
“And you haven’t a thing in this case?”
“Of course not.” He grabbed his cap and almost bolted from the house.
“Still more lies!” he half snarled, as he hurried along the street. “My own mother will lose confidence in me when she finds out the truth. It’s the most miserable piece of business I ever got mixed up in.”
Straight to Mrs. Chester’s home he hastened, and his heart gave a throb of satisfaction when the maid, admitting him, stated that Charley Shultz was with Osgood in the latter’s room.
They were talking in low tones when Piper unceremoniously opened the door and entered that room. Osgood had been pacing up and down, but Shultz was standing by the window. Both looked startled.
“You’re just the two fellows I want to see,” said Billy, closing the door carefully behind him.
“Who invited you in?” growled Shultz. “Why didn’t you knock?”
“Won’t you sit down?” invited Ned, in his usual courteous manner, which had at first seemed like affectation to the boys of Oakdale.
“Thanks,” said Piper. “Don’t believe I care to. I’ve been trying to get a private word with Shultz, and this is the first time——”
“If you wish to talk with him privately I’ll step out.”
“No need of it. What I want to say I can say just as well with you here, Osgood, old man.”
“We were having a little private talk of our own when you butted in,” said Shultz sourly.
“When I’m through there’ll be plenty of time for you to finish up. I won’t be long, and I’ll get out the minute I’ve had my say. It’s about this wretched scrape—about Hooker.”
“Itisa wretched scrape,” agreed Osgood. “I’m greatly disturbed over it, and of course you must be also, Piper. What are we to do?”
“That’s just what I want to talk to Shultz about. Something has got to be done, and that pretty quick, too. It strikes me that Shultz is the fellow to do it.”
The boy named swung round and squared himself, his red lips pressed together, his eyes staring straight at Billy from beneath lowered brows. “I suppose,” he began harshly, “you think you’re going to shoulder the whole business onto me. If you do, you want to forget it, and forget it quick. I’m no more to blame than the rest of the bunch. It’s true I hit Hooker a poke, but he brought it on himself, and you know it. He accused me of cheating.”
“It was your blow that knocked him against that mantelpiece and dazed him so that he hasn’t been able to talk or remember. In stating that the truth was sure to come out soon, Professor Richardson was doubtless correct.”
“Ah, don’t talk to me about that old dried-up shrimp!” cried Shultz fiercely. “He practically owned up before the whole school that he was a back number. He’s no more fit to be the principal of Oakdale Academy than I am—nor half as much. It’s time he retired and let a younger and better man fill his place.”
“I didn’t come here to argue that point. I say he was right in asserting that the truth about Hooker is bound to come out. Now are you going to wait and let the facts be found out through some other channel, or are you going to brace up and make a clean breast of it?”
“Now wouldn’t that be fine!” sneered Shultz. “You want me to blow the whole thing, do you? You want me to come out and tell the general public that a bunch of us were here in Ned’s rooms gambling, and that in a quarrel over the cards I hit Roy Hooker. Do you think for a minute that by doing so I’ll make you stand better in the public eye?”
“Somebody has got to tell it before Hooker tells, himself,” persisted Piper. “As you’re the fellow mainly involved, it seems to me it’s up to you.”
“And if I don’t tell, I suppose you’ll run and peach, you common tattler!” frothed Shultz, taking a step forward, his fists clenched, his face crimson with rage.
Piper stood his ground.
“Perhaps it will make you more popular with yourself if you hit me,” he said. “You can’t frighten me, Shultz, with black looks and bluster. I knew what you’d do, but I made up my mind to talk straight to you, and I’m going to talk, even if you knock me down and jump on me with both feet.”
“There’ll be nothing of that kind happen in here,” announced Osgood, taking a position to interfere in case Shultz’s wrath should gain absolute control of him. “We were talking of this thing when you came in, Piper.”
“That old dead one, Richardson, tried to make folks believe it would be a courageous thing to come forward and confess,” said Shultz; “but anybody knows that the fellow who squeals is usually a coward. He’s frightened into it. That’s the trouble with you, Piper; you’re scared stiff. You haven’t any nerve at all.”
“Scared?” retorted Billy. “I didn’t hit Hooker. The worst that can be said about me is that I was playing poker here and that I joined with the rest of the bunch in keeping still about what happened to Roy. You know, Shultz, that there was no one else save yourself and Roy to blame for that wind-up of the game. Now if we all keep still and wait till it comes out, every one of us will be in the soup; but if you have the nerve and manhood to go to Professor Richardson or Dr. Grindle and tell just what the finish of that game was, without naming any one besides yourself and Hooker, it will——”
“Ho! ho!” scoffed Shultz. “So that’s what you want! I knew it; I knew you were trying to save your own hide somehow. You want me to expose myself as a real thug and scoundrel, in order that you and the rest may get off scot-free. Fine—I don’t think. I’ll rush right away and do it—not.”
“Osgood is your particular friend, isn’t he? Can’t you see any reason why you should shield him, dismissing consideration for the rest of us? You were here playing poker in Ned’s rooms. An unfortunate misunderstanding—I hope that’s what it was—brought about that encounter with Hooker. You can tell the story and refuse to name the others who were in the game. More than half the people will consider that an act of decency on your part. They won’t blame you for trying to shield the rest of the crowd, although they may attempt to worm our names from you.”
“It wouldn’t do any good, anyhow,” asserted Shultz. “As soon as Hooker gets straightened out and remembers things, he’ll tell; he’ll name all of us.”
“There’s the unpleasant possibility that Hooker may not get straightened out, Shultz. Anyhow, perhaps it will be some time before he does. Perhaps he’ll come around gradually, and some of us may be able to see him and caution him to keep mum. It’s the only chance.”
“And if he doesn’t come around at all, and none of the crowd squeals, how are they ever going to find out just what happened? There you are.”
“They will find it out, Shultz; I’ve made up my mind to that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that somebody is going to tell the truth. If you don’t do it, somebody else will.”
Osgood was compelled to grapple with Shultz, who strove to reach Billy, crying hoarsely:
“Let me get at that little whelp! He’s threatening to blow on us! I’ll fix him!”
“No, you won’t,” said Ned, displaying an amount of strength that surprised Piper, who still remained apparently calm and undisturbed. “He hasn’t said that he’s going to blow.”
“But that was what he meant.”
Ned thrust the raging fellow back and held him until he had calmed down somewhat.
“What did you mean, Piper?” Osgood asked over his shoulder. “Did you mean that you were going to chase right out of here and tell every one?”
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” answered Billy. “I’m going to talk with the rest of the crowd. I’m going to tell them just where I stand and what I think. I’m going to do my best to induce them, one and all, to put it up to Shultz just as I have put it up to him. Then, if he isn’t man enough to shoulder the blame, I’ll suggest that we all walk up in a body and tell the whole thing.”
“You see! you see!” panted Shultz. “That’s his game! He’s a squealer! He’s bound to make me the goat.”
“Give me a chance to talk to him,” urged Osgood. “I’m sure Billy will listen to reason.”
“I’m ready to listen to reason,” said Piper; “but argument on false premises won’t have the slightest effect on me. I’ve thought this thing all over and decided on the only proper course to be followed.”
“But you can see,” said Ned, almost pleadingly, “that you’re asking a most difficult thing of Charley.”
“That doesn’t make it any less the right thing,” was the unbending retort.
“Confound him!” cried Shultz. “Did you ever see such an obstinate, stiff-necked little brat! He’s bound to besmirch me. He wants to drive me out of the school, that’s what’s the matter. He’s got it in for us both, Ned. That’s because we don’t happen to belong in this miserable one-horse burg. I’ve had troubles enough. If I get fired from this school my old man is going to froth, I tell you that. And I’ll be fired just as sure as the facts are known.”
“I see further talk will be a waste of time,” said Piper, “so I think I’ll be going.”
“Wait a minute,” requested Osgood. “You must realize that you sprung this thing on us rather suddenly. We haven’t had time to think it over. Give us time, won’t you?”
“At this stage of the game time counts, for there’s no telling how soon Hooker will be able to talk.”
“A little time,” persisted Ned. “Let me talk it over with Charley. Try to put yourself in his place and see if you can’t realize——”
“All right,” cut in Billy, suddenly deciding it was best to yield a little. “Talk it over. I won’t make another move until I see you again. But it’s no use dilly-dallying, and Shultz may as well understand it.”
Without a word of adieu, he opened the door and left them.
Osgood and Shultz arrived at the academy barely in time to escape tardy marks. As they slid into their seats neither of them glanced toward Piper, who had an eye turned upon them, and at intermission both seemed anxious to keep away from him. Watching them, he saw Ned, seeking to avoid general attention, pass a few low, hasty words with both Springer and Cooper.
“That won’t do you a bit of good,” thought the determined boy. “If you get the whole of the rest of the bunch to stick by you, I’ll give them fair warning and speak up myself.”
Shultz evidently took pains not to be seen with any of the fellows who had participated in the card game, but never for a moment during that intermission did he give Piper an opportunity to address him when other scholars were not close by. Fully aware that the fellow would refuse to step aside with him, Piper made the request of Osgood.
“Well, you’ve had time,” said Billy, as they paused beneath one of the trees near the academy. “What have you done? What are you going to do?”
“It will be all right,” assured Osgood suavely, “only just don’t push the thing too hard; for if you do, Shultz may balk, and that would put us all in a hole. You’ve got to think of some one besides yourself, Piper.”
“I am; I’m thinking of Hooker.”
“I tell you it will be all right,” reiterated Ned. “Just give us a little more time. Don’t do anything foolish.”
The bell struck, recalling them to the building, and, far from satisfied, Billy returned to fix his mind as best he could upon his studies.
Before dismissing school for the day, Professor Richardson stood beside his desk and again pushed his spectacles upward on his forehead. His thin cheeks were unnaturally flushed, and his voice had changed from huskiness to a croaking sound, which seemed to indicate that the cold had gripped him at his throat. Silence fell upon the room, for every one seemed to know the topic upon which the principal was about to speak, and more than one boy felt a shiver run through him.
“I regret,” began the professor, “that my talk of this morning had so little effect. I’ve waited, vainly hoping that some one might come to me with the truth concerning Roy Hooker. At noon I again saw Dr. Grindle, and I’m glad to say that what he told me was almost an assurance that Roy would fully recover, and that very soon. The unfortunate boy was able to talk a little this forenoon, and although no one urged him, he said enough to give an inkling of the cause of his trouble.”
For a moment he paused, his eyes seeming to rove from face to face before him, and the shivering ones found it most difficult to meet his look and appear interested without betraying guilt. How much had Hooker told? That was the question that made every pulse throb, even while their blood seemed to run chill.
“I spoke this morning of evil influences and bad associates,” continued the principal. “There’s no need to repeat what I said. From Hooker’s rambling words, it has become apparent that upon Saturday night he was engaged in a game of cards—for money. In short, he was gambling. Where and with whom, he did not state, and it was not thought best to worry him in his present condition with too many questions. Of course he was gaming with his usual companions, his so-called friends. That means almost to a certainty that some who are now listening to my words were with him. I will repeat my assertion that the names of his companions must assuredly become known.
“What happened to him in that game may readily be surmised. There was a quarrel. There were blows, and he was dreadfully injured. It will be a merciful thing if his reason is not permanently affected. The actual cause of the quarrel is yet a matter of surmisal, but whoever enters into a gambling game invites disaster. Greed and triumph fills the heart of the winner; bitterness and resentment fixes its hold upon the loser. Suspicion is aroused. At the slightest happening which seems to confirm suspicion there is an arousal of bad blood and a quarrel. We have here an example of how serious such a quarrel may be, and it should be a lesson to all of you—a lesson to be remembered always. It should teach you to shun gambling as you would shun a contagious disease. It is a disease that undermines the moral fiber and manhood of any one it touches. Having been contaminated, there is only one remedy, one cure:—good resolutions, the determination to shun this evil thing in future, and the will-power to hold fast to that determination.
“A person who makes up his mind to do right in the future, and is sincere about it, seldom hesitates to admit his errors or mistakes of the past. There are always willing hands to help one who thus proves his sincere change of heart. I hope before it is too late I may yet receive the evidence that some of you are sincerely repentant and sincerely determined henceforth to avoid such mistakes. You are dismissed.”
The old man puttered around, gathering up his books and papers and locking his desk. When he was ready to leave he found himself alone in the big room.
“Ah, well!” he muttered; “it’s hard for them. I’m afraid I haven’t sufficient influence. I’m afraid I failed to make my words convincing.”
Outside, the members of the ball team had turned toward the nearby field for practice, but they were not talking of baseball. The knowledge that Roy Hooker had been engaged in a card game for money caused their tongues to wag vigorously. Speculation was rife as to where the game had taken place and who had been concerned in it. Several of them, while pretending ignorance, knew very well indeed, and at least one who was not in the secret was inclined to believe he could make a good guess at the truth.
Jack Nelson had not forgotten that Roy Hooker was one of the trio in Hyde’s livery stable, after the return from Wyndham, to whom Ned Osgood had said that he would see them later. But, having nothing further on which to base his surmisal, and never dreaming how much Billy Piper knew, Nelson refrained from hints or accusations. Perhaps in this he was supported by the belief that, taking into consideration the benching of Osgood in Saturday’s game, it might seem that he had a pronounced animus against the fellow were he to suggest that Ned knew more than he was disposed to tell.
“As Prof said,” thought Nelson, “it’s bound to come out, and I won’t make any blunder if I keep my mouth shut.”
One thing he did not understand was why Piper, knowing certain fellows met regularly Saturday evenings in Osgood’s rooms, seemed to show so little interest in the matter. It was wholly unlike Billy, who heretofore had displayed the most eager disposition to probe anything which bore on its face the tag of mystery. Even Piper’s protestation that he was done with such things and would play the detective no more did not seem to be an adequate excuse for his apathy.
“It’s all mighty queer,” decided Jack, as, taking little part in the talk of the boys around him, he got into his uniform in the gymnasium. “Osgood doesn’t seem at all worried, but his friend Shultz is altogether too gay to be natural. It’s not like him. Well, if they’re concerned, they’re in deep, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the nine lost a couple of good players.”
Practice that night was a failure; no one seemed to enter into it with heart or enthusiasm. The ball was batted and thrown around listlessly, and Nelson’s efforts to wake the fellows up bore no fruit. And so, after a time, seeing that this sort of work would do the boys no good, the captain put an end to it.
“It’s plain we haven’t our minds on the business in hand, fellows,” he said, “so we’ll quit it for to-night. I fancy we’re all thinking too much about what happened to Hooker.”
They straggled back to the gymnasium, which stood just outside the grounds, and took their showers and rub-downs and dressed. There was not much talk now, and very little joshing or laughter. Cooper perpetrated a pun, but no one seemed to notice it. Even beneath the hissing, spattering cold showers there was not much of the usual whooping and shouting; they dove into the icy spray, gasped, jumped out, grabbed their towels, scrubbed and dressed. Then, one by one, or in little groups, they departed.
Charley Shultz followed Ned Osgood from the gym and overtook him outside.
“There goes that cub, Piper, along with Phil Springer,” he said anxiously. “Cooper’s ahead of them. They’re all going the same way. Let’s hustle up and overtake them.”
Ned restrained him. “Let them go, Charley. It won’t do any good to chase them, and it may look suspicious to others.”
“Did you get a chance to say anything to Phil and Chipper?”
“Sure. Couldn’t talk to them much, but I told them what Piper was up to, and urged them to hold him in check.”
“What did they say?”
“They’re worried. They said they’d do their best.”
“He’ll bring them round,” snarled Shultz. “I never saw such a vicious, determined little imp. I figured him out to be a wishy-washy, spineless creature, but, on my word, he’s the most obstinate, pig-headed fellow I ever ran up against. He’s got it in for me; he’s bound to queer me.”
“He’ll queer us both if he sticks to his plan,” said Ned, in a discouraged way. “It’s going to hit me about as hard as it will you, old fellow. I had to get out of Hadden Hall because I was caught with a bunch playing poker in my room in one of the dormitories. My mother insisted that I should attend a smaller and quieter school where there would be less temptation, and that’s how I happened to come here.”
“There’s a bond of sympathy between us,” declared the other boy, with a grin. “I was expelled from Berkley for fighting, and before that I got into trouble in the public school of my own town. Like you, it’s my mother who wants me to have an education. The old man was for putting me to work with my coat off after the Berkley affair.”
They had paused near the academy gate.
“Going home?” asked Ned.
“Home?” exclaimed Charley, misunderstanding him. “If I’ve got to get out of this town I’ll strike out for myself; I’ll keep away from home.”
“I mean are you going, now, to your boarding place?”
“Oh! I guess not yet. I’ll walk up with you. I want to talk this thing over a little more.”
To avoid passing through the center of the village, they crossed the yard to a field behind it, which brought them to Middle Street. As they went along, Shultz was saying:
“My people aren’t such swells as yours, Ned, though the old man is making some money. They’re German, but I was born in this country. It’s only lately that my father has been scraping together some dollars. All his life he’s had to pinch, and now he hangs on to the mazuma with a deathlike grip. It about breaks his heart when he has to send me my monthly allowance, and one reason why he put me here into this little school was because he thought it would be less expensive. Your people are different. You always have money. They might have sent you to any big school if you’d insisted on it.”
“I explained my mother’s reason for wishing me to come here. After that exposure at Hadden Hall, it seemed best that I should put in a year at some obscure school before entering an institution of importance. You see, considering our standing and family, she felt fearfully cut up over what happened at Hadden. If there’s a repetition of it here, it will make her hair turn gray. I may not betray my feelings to the extent that you do, but I’ll confess that this miserable mix-up has got me going. If you hadn’t struck that blow——”
“Oh, now you can’t blame me; you’d done the same under those circumstances. What I’d like to know is where that extra ace came from. You don’t suppose that sneak, Piper, slipped it into the pack, do you?”
Osgood shook his head. “I examined the cards after you fellows left. You know I stated at the time that I had two packs with the backs alike. Investigation showed me that the ace of spades was missing from the pack that was not in use. It got into the other pack, somehow, and that’s what makes me blame myself. You understand, Charley, that it was really through my own carelessness that this whole thing came about.”
“It was rotten hard luck.”
“Yes, it was hard luck.”
Neither of them seemed to fancy for a moment that the element of Fate entered, even remotely, into the case, and perhaps they could be excused in this, for “hard luck” is ever the cry of the erring who face exposure through seemingly chance twists of circumstances. Even hardened malefactors, which these boys were not, rarely understand how closely the threads of human destiny are woven, making it almost impossible completely and effectually to hide the slightest flaw in the web.
Although Osgood invited him in when Mrs. Chester’s house was reached, Shultz declined; he was troubled by a vague aversion for the room of his friend, in which an event bordering on tragedy had taken place. They lingered outside near an old elm that was just beginning to show the least touch of tender green amid its branches, and continued seeking to ease their minds by talk.
“Under any circumstances,” said Shultz, “this business seems to put the kibosh on our little plan. It’s upset everything.”
Osgood nodded. “Just when we had things pretty well fixed,” he sighed. “We were standing in right with the majority of the baseball team, and Nelson’s act at Wyndham would have helped us along.”
“Sure. I’ll guarantee you would have been captain of the Oakdale Academy nine before long. If Wyndham had won that game after Nelson benched us, it would have settled everything our way. You’re mighty clever, old man. You worked the fellows who could be worked, and did it just right. They didn’t realize for a moment what we were up to. Still, we had them sounded so that we knew which way every one would jump if a split came.”
“It was your idea; I’d never thought of it myself. Even after seeing how loosely athletics are run here, being only a short time in the school, I wouldn’t have fancied it possible to depose Nelson had you not suggested it.”
For ten minutes or more they continued to talk without securing the least relief from the oppression and anxiety that was on them.
The face of Shultz, as he trudged toward the home of Caleb Carter, where he boarded, was clouded and gloomy. After supper he waited until the shadows had lengthened into twilight, and then set forth into the village. In their talk, neither he nor Osgood had spoken much of the probable result of Roy Hooker’s injury, but Charley was inwardly consumed by a desire for some report on the unfortunate boy’s condition.
In town he lingered around the post-office and the stores where the villagers occasionally gathered to gossip, hoping to learn what he desired without making inquiries. He joined some boys near the drinking fountain in the square, but took little part in their characteristic chatter.
“You’re glum to-night, Shultzie,” said Hunk Rollins. “Got a grouch on?”
“Oh, no,” was the answer. “I’ve had bad news from home. Father’s sick, and I may have to give up school. It wouldn’t surprise me to get a telegram to-morrow.”
“Oh, gee!” cried Chub Tuttle. “Don’t think you’ll have to go for good, do you? With Hooker hurt and you gone, the nine will be mighty weak.”
“Has any one heard anything from Hooker to-night?” Shultz desperately forced himself to inquire.
“Only that he seems to be about the same,” answered Harry Hopper. “He hasn’t talked much yet. We’re all waiting to find out what he will have to say when he does talk. The old Prof seemed to think it was going to bump somebody. We’ve been trying to figure out who it will be. Fred Sage is Roy’s closest friend, but he wasn’t out of the house Saturday night, so he don’t know anything about it.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Shultz, “if the whole thing turned out to be sort of a tempest in a teapot. It doesn’t seem at all likely that anybody knows the facts and is keeping still. I’ll wager Hooker took a tumble and hurt himself on his way home.”
“But the question is, where had he been?” said Tuttle, munching a peanut. “He must have been out with somebody at that hour, but nobody has come forward to say he was with him. That’s what makes it look suspicious.”
“Well, I’m going home,” announced Shultz, who had no relish to discuss the matter. “Perhaps we’ll hear something new in the morning.”
In his small back room at Caleb Carter’s he tried to divert his mind a while by reading, but gave it up at last and decided to go to bed. He was half undressed when, chancing to turn toward the window, which looked out upon the roof of the ell, he staggered as if struck a blow, his mouth open, his eyes bulging, both hands outflung.
The light of his lamp, shining through the window, fell upon the pallid face of Roy Hooker, who was gazing fixedly at him!
Aghast, his heart in his throat, Charley Shultz stared at the face outside the window. Only the upper part of the body of his unwelcome visitor could be seen, and that, clothed all in white, seemed particularly ghostlike. The head of the figure was encircled by a heavy white bandage, like a turban. The eyes which stared back at Shultz from an apparently set and pallid face were full of terrible accusation and menace, and beneath that unwavering gaze the terrified boy felt his blood turn to icy currents in his veins.
For a moment he stood spellbound and as motionless as the unmoving figure upon the roof of the ell. Presently, unable longer to endure the ordeal of those burning orbs, Shultz fell back a step, clapping a trembling hand over his own eyes.
He struck against the little stand on which his lamp stood, and the lamp was overturned. Fortunately, it was of metal, and did not break. The chimney, detaching itself, dropped upon a rug and was also unbroken. The burning wick continued to flare, sending up a writhing spiral of smoke, but the room was temporarily plunged into semi-gloom; and, still further terrified lest complete darkness should ensue, Charley stooped and caught up the lamp. He scarcely realized that he burned his quivering, nerveless fingers as he tried to replace the chimney. It was some moments ere he succeeded in his object, and even then, with the lamp gripped convulsively in his hand and held above his head, he could scarcely bring himself once more to look toward the window.
When he did look, he was astounded by the fact that the apparition had vanished, and for at least sixty seconds he stood watching for it to reappear; for it to materialize slowly and horribly, little by little, vague and mist-like at first, but gradually taking form and growing plainer, until, crouching at the window, it should once more sicken his soul with those terrible eyes.
It did not come. Hoping at last that it was truly gone, he forced himself to advance, bearing the lamp. Reaching the window, he ran the roller shade to the very top, and then, still holding the lamp above his head with one hand while he shaded his eyes with the other, he gazed out into the silent night.
The lamplight showed that the roof of the ell was bare. At the far end of the building it fell upon a big chestnut tree with spreading branches. Beyond that nothing could be seen.
Presently, with a deep breath that was almost painful in the relief it gave, Shultz drew back from the window, seized the shade and quickly pulled it all the way down.
“Mercy! what a fright!” he whispered hoarsely. “I must have imagined it. My nerves must be on edge, and I never knew I had any nerves. Great Cæsar! but it did look natural and real!”
He put the lamp back on the stand and dropped upon a chair, weak and covered with clammy perspiration. For the first time in his life, perhaps, Charley Shultz had been thoroughly frightened, and it was no easy matter for him to recover and regain control of himself.
“I can hardly believe I imagined it, now!” he muttered. “Why should I? I haven’t felt that I was really to blame for this Hooker business, and, if I’m not to blame, why should I get all wrought up over it?”
Up to this time his great concern had been almost wholly for himself as he would be affected by the unfortunate affair. In a slight measure he had regretted that Osgood would be entangled. Hooker had called him a cheat and had been the first to lift his hand in wrath. Therefore, why should he feel remorse over what the fellow had brought upon himself?
“He deserved all he got,” Shultz had told himself this over and over. “Of course I didn’t intend to give him a poke that would hurt him seriously, but I had to defend myself.”
Now, however, something like a ray of light, piercing his distressed heart, showed him that under the circumstances he could not hope wholly to escape just blame and censure. Although seemingly a bit stolid about ordinary affairs, he had always permitted his ungovernable temper and somewhat bullying proclivities to have full sway, and no person with a violent temper is totally phlegmatic or stolid. Rage and resentment had put power into the smashing blow which threatened him with disgrace—or worse.
“If only I hadn’t been quite so quick!” he sighed. “I didn’t realize what might come of it. I didn’t stop to think.” Which is the prime cause of most misfortunes we bring upon ourselves; we do not stop to think.
Rising, after a time, from the chair, he paced the floor of the little room, feeling that in his present condition it would be useless to go to bed; for sleep would be denied him. Back and forth he walked for a long time, his mind a riot of wild thoughts. Presently he stood still, breathing softly with his lips parted, his eyes wide and staring, yet seeing nothing in that room. A dreadful thought had gripped him. What if Hooker were dead?
“Perhaps it was his ghost I really saw!” The words drifted so faintly from his lips that another person in the room could not have understood them. “It isn’t impossible that he’s dead! The doctor thought he’d get better, but doctors make mistakes. If he’s dead I’m done for.”
Scarcely realizing what he was doing, he flung on the garments he had removed some time before. And as he dressed he became more and more convinced that Roy Hooker was really dead.
“I’ll have to get out of this town—quick. I’ll pack up and get ready.”
Forth from an adjoining closet he drew his trunk, into which he flung his belongings without method or care. A few things, such as he might need for immediate use, he packed into a leather grip.
“I can’t get away till morning,” he muttered; “there’s no train. Still, I suppose I might hire a team from the stable. I might tell them I’d had a message that my father was dying. It’s thirty-four miles to Watertown on the main line, and there’s a train goes through that place at four in the morning. I could catch that train, but, first, I’ll make sure about Hooker.”
Blowing out the lamp, he tiptoed down the dark stairs and presently found himself outside the house in which Mr. and Mrs. Carter were soundly sleeping. The air was raw and the night still dark. Later the moon would come up, though it might be smothered by clouds.
Shultz walked slowly, irresolutely, down the black road which led into Lake Street. After a time the academy loomed on his left, and on the right he saw the gymnasium and the fence of the athletic field. Like an avalanche a host of memories came rushing over him; memories of the days he had spent here since his expulsion from Berkley Academy.
For the first time he realized how pleasant those days had really been, and for the first time he perceived with wonderment that he had become attached to the place and it would give him regret to go away. Through his athletic prowess and his skill in baseball he had won a certain amount of popularity, which might have been much greater if he had only made some effort to curb his unpleasant characteristics. Osgood, his friend, was immensely popular; so popular, indeed, that it had seemed probable that, through a little maneuvering and scheming, he might supersede Nelson as captain of the nine. Without a thought of the moral or manly points involved, they had plotted to bring this about.
“Well, it will never happen now,” said Shultz, with a low, bitter laugh. “The jig is up, anyhow. I hardly thought Ned would agree when I proposed it, but he almost jumped at it. I believe he’d been thinking of the very same thing. There’s class to his people, and he’s a gentleman, so, when he did agree, it seemed all right to me.” In this manner he sought to excuse himself.
He recalled how he had scoffed at Oakdale, the school and the old professor. He had even dreamed of resorting to various harassing methods in order to make Professor Richardson’s task so difficult that, unable to govern his pupils with a stern hand, he would withdraw from his position to let it be filled by a younger and more efficient instructor. Yes, having instilled some of his own spirit into his associates, Shultz had started a campaign of nagging and annoyance and disregard for what he called old-fashioned rules, which had certainly given the principal no small amount of worry and trouble.
“I suppose,” he half laughed, as he walked slowly past the building, “the old relic thinks I’m a bad egg. What do I care what he thinks! What do I care what anybody thinks!” But for the first time in his life he did care.
At this hour the center of the village seemed dark and deserted. Only an occasional light was to be seen shining dimly from a window. Nevertheless, the boy hesitated about passing through the square, fearing that some one might see him, know him, and wonder what he was doing prowling about so late. This fear led him to turn from Lake Street and cross lots toward the rapids below the upper dam. In this manner he stole down the slope at the rear of the stores and houses which lined the western side of lower Main Street.
The water was gurgling and grumbling around the rocks which thrust themselves upward in the channel. At intervals, as Shultz passed, it hissed, like a living creature expressing scorn and hatred.
At the bridge he climbed upward to the roadway, where he stood for a few moments, peering and listening.
“I seem to be the only one alive in this old burg.” The thought brought Hooker to his mind—Hooker, dead, perhaps.
Cross Street, which ran back of the town hall and along the shore of the lower pond, would bring him into Lake Street again, near Willow, upon which was the home of the Hookers. He had almost reached Lake Street when he stopped short, halted by the sound of echoing footsteps, which were approaching from that part of the town he had avoided. In a moment he was pressing his body against the bole of a big tree.
The footsteps came nearer. The person began to hum a tune. Here was some one abroad with a light heart and fearless of observation.
“It must be Tuttle,” thought the boy by the tree. “Yes, it is. Why don’t he let his eternal peanuts stop his mouth?”
Chub Tuttle passed on the opposite side of the way, and, ceasing to hum as he trudged serenely homeward, began to whistle not unmelodiously. The notes of “The Last Rose of Summer” came drifting back to the ears of Charley Shultz, growing fainter and fainter in the distance and sounding inexpressibly sad.
Shultz thought it must be getting darker, and was amazed, on rubbing them, to find that his eyes were moist and blurred. He leaned against the tree and listened, almost against his will, as the whistling grew fainter and yet fainter, softened and sweetened by the distance. When he could hear it no longer he gave himself a savage shake.
“You fool!” he rasped. “What’s the matter with you? You never felt like this before. You’re growing silly.”
Reaching Willow Street, he gazed toward Hooker’s home, but, even had the darkness not prevented him from seeing the house, it stood so far back on the Middle Street corner that he could not have surveyed it from his present position. Dread heavily upon him, yet hope not entirely dead, he walked slowly up the street. He had almost reached the corner when he stopped again.
He could see the house now, and his heart hammered furiously as he perceived that something was taking place there. There were lights flashing from room to room; he heard excited voices calling; the house was in a commotion.
“What’s that mean? What’s that mean?” whispered Shultz over and over.
Suddenly the door of the house was flung open. A man came running out, some one calling after him. Down the steps he sprang; across Lake Street he dashed; along Middle Street he raced.
Panting, one hand clutching a nearby fence-railing, Shultz was certain he knew the cause of this commotion. Mr. Hooker was running for the doctor. They had just discovered that Roy was dead.
Turning sharply about, Schultz ran also.