CHAPTER XXI—ON THE ACADEMY STEPS
They approached the academy cautiously, yet in a hurried manner. Lights were in the barracks windows, suggesting warmth and comfort within. Outside the driving wind was cold and biting. Away to the southwest the burning woods flung a red glow against the clouds, and this light reached even to the academy. They feared the light would betray them as they approached, and they slipped up swiftly.
Sure enough, some one was sitting on the steps outside the door. Who was it? They halted beneath the leafless trees and held a consultation. What was to be done?
“We must get in somehow,” said Hogan.
“I’m sorry I came out to-night,” averred Crauthers.
“It’s been a bad night,” came dolefully from Stark.
Miguel Bunol had kept near them, but he did not venture to take part in the conversation.
They watched the figure on the steps for some time. Now and then they looked away toward the strip of burning woods, and the reflected light revealed the terror in their eyes.
They thought of the boy who had been stricken down and left for the flames, and it robbed them of strength and courage and manhood.
“If that fool would leave the steps!” muttered Stark. “But he sits there like a dummy.”
“I’m going in,” chattered Hogan. “I’m almost frozen.”
“You’ll be recognized.”
“I don’t care.”
When he started forward the others quickly decided to follow him, and in a body they advanced toward the steps where sat the motionless figure. They came up close to it, and then—they suddenly stopped. It was Bunol who uttered first an exclamation in Spanish, and then jabbered:
“Look! See! It is here!”
He was half-crouching, pointing at the figure, and his teeth rattled together like castanets, while his protruding eyes gleamed with terror.
Crauthers uttered a groan, and his legs nearly gave way beneath him.
“A ghost!” he whispered.
For the light of the burning woods seemed to show them sitting there on the steps, hatless, pale, a streak of red down across his temple, Chester Arlington. Never before had those boys been so startled. In fact, they seemed for a moment struck dumb and motionless with horror. Then one of them turned and ran, and the others followed, not uttering a word.
As they disappeared beneath the trees, Dick Merriwell stepped round a corner of the building and spoke to the lad who sat on the steps.
“I thought that you would give them a shock. You had better get up to your room now.”
Chester Arlington, for Chester it was, made no retort and no move. He sat there dumbly, not even looking at Dick.
“Come,” said young Merriwell, taking his arm.
Chester rose, and they entered the building. Dick assisted Arlington to his room.
“Are you sure you are all right?” asked young Merriwell.
Chester nodded.
“All right,” he said, in a mechanical manner. “Only my head hurts some.”
At the wash-bowl the blood was washed out of Chester’s hair and from his face.
“Perhaps you had better have the doctor,” suggested Dick, but Arlington objected, saying:
“I don’t want the doctor! He’ll ask too many questions. I’m going to take care of myself. Tell me again how it was you happened to find me there in the woods.”
“It was not a case of happening to find you,” said Dick. “I have been to the Den before. I had a fight on the tree-bridge once. I followed you to-night when I saw you striking out in that direction. You aroused my curiosity. But I was not familiar enough with the path through that jungle to keep very near you. So I was not on hand when you were tapped on the head, but I knew something had happened to you when those fellows rushed past my place of hiding. I crossed the bridge and stumbled over you. Then I discovered the fire, which was just starting. I shook some life into you, got you out and brought you here.”
Arlington was gently drying his hair with a towel. He made a despairing gesture and dropped on a chair.
“It’s fate!” he muttered. “I might have been burned to death in the woods but for you! Twice you have saved me from fire! It’s no use, I’ve got to leave Fardale!”
“Why?”
“I can’t stay here as your frie——” Chester stopped himself abruptly, remembering the change of policy he had decided upon. A few more words would ruin everything.
Could he play the part now? Could he continue to pretend to be friendly toward Dick while really plotting to injure him? That was the plan he had decided upon, but fate seemed determined to baffle him, to make sport of him.
Then he thought of the fellows who, a short time before, had pretended to be his friends. They had struck him down in the woods and left him to be consumed by the flames. Were these the kind of friends he had made since coming to Fardale? And Dick Merriwell had friends who would fight for him, suffer for him, sacrifice anything for him. Chester was doubly disgusted.
“I’m going away,” he declared. “Merriwell, I’ got to do it!”
“I don’t see why.”
“I do! I can’t tell you. But one thing I am going to do before I go: I’m going to get even with those whelps who turned on me to-night!”
“You know them all?”
“Every one.”
Chester tied a handkerchief about his head. His manner was rather queer, and he kept glancing at Dick out of the corners of his eyes.
“There is no more I can do?” said Dick, rising.
“No; you have done too much!”
“Too much?”
“Yes. Frankly, Merriwell, I’d rather any one else in the world should have given me this last lift.”
Dick smiled. He realized that he had been able to pour hot coals on Arlington’s head, and it gave him a feeling of satisfaction.
“Too bad you feel that way about it!” he said, retreating to the door.
“Good night,” said Arlington shortly, and Dick went out.
“A thousand devils!” grated Arlington, when he was alone. “How am I going to keep it up? I hate him still, but he has made it almost impossible for me to again lift my hand against him. Yes, I believe I shall have to get out of Fardale. Mother wanted me to go, and I would not; but now it is different.”