Late in the evening the captain and the manager separated, having written the letters and made sure of their prompt departure by carrying them to the office instead of leaving them in the street boxes. Anxious as the boys were to speed the cause, there was nothing now left to them but to wait quietly for the returning messages and control their impatience as best they could. To Dickinson, whose temperament inclined to moroseness, this waiting was not so difficult. He had always shown an inconceivable indifference to the athletic ambition which was so powerful an animus in the lives of the boys about him. The immediate effect of the unpleasant news was to change his indifference to disgust. The accusation was groundless and unjust; if he must prove his innocence against every absurd charge which could be suddenly trumped up against him, the sooner he was done with athletics the better. The game was not worth the candle.
Weary of the disagreeable subject, Dickinson went to bed and fell quickly asleep. Not so the unfortunate manager. To him the fleet runner was a school possession, intrusted to his keeping as a fine blade to the care of the armorer, who must produce it at the call of its owner, glittering, keen, and ready for instant use. He heard the clock strike twelve and one, as he rolled nervously from one side of the bed to the other, vainly courting elusive sleep, or brooding over the perplexing situation. Dickinson might not have suggested the right men to appeal to; the letters might not reach their destination safely; the people to whom they were addressed might not answer promptly; the committee might not give proper weight to the answers received. He recalled with alarm stories he had read in newspapers of the accidental destruction of mail cars. The letters would be forwarded together; an accident to a single pouch would stop them all. He groaned aloud as he pictured himself and Dickinson and the school waiting hopeful and helpless, day after day, mail after mail, for letters which, having never been sent, could never arrive.
Varrell also was awake late. Stretched in his easy-chair, with feet comfortably cushioned on the window-seat, he gazed out into the peaceful night and pondered the same problem which was distressing his friend. When at length he rose to his feet and turned up the light, there was the shadow of a smile on his face and a gleam of satisfaction in his eye, which indicated that one at least of the three seniors had cudgeled his brain to some purpose.
The trio came together next morning on the way to chapel.
“Did you get the letters off?” asked Varrell.
Melvin nodded.
“Did you write to the newspapers?” continued Varrell. “The newspaper men are usually best posted on local happenings.”
Manager and captain looked at each other in surprise. “We didn’t think of them,” confessed Dickinson. “There’s the Times and the Chronicle. Some one in those offices ought to know the facts perfectly well.”
“I’ll write to them both immediately after chapel,” said Melvin, joyfully. “Much obliged, Wrenn; I knew you’d help us.”
While Melvin composed his letters, Varrell was at the telegraph office sending messages to the same addresses. But he kept his own counsel.