A thrill of delight ran through Sam’s chilly limbs as he heard this unexpected acknowledgment. His own heart had long since declared itself. Yet an instinct of self-repression, inbred by many generations of Puritan ancestors, combined with the aversion to sentiment common to all boys, forced an almost flippant answer to his lips. “You’d better wait till the end of the year before you say that. Your opinion of me may slump.”
“I’ve waited long enough—too long. You got me sour on you at first when you turned me out of my room; then the way you let Mulcahy work you, made me sore.”
“I was pretty slow about Mulcahy,” confessed Sam, “but that was partly your fault. I thought you were unfair to him, and that made me hang on to him.”
“How did you come to go down there this afternoon?” asked Duncan, with an abrupt change. “You didn’t say anything about going when I started off.”
“I thought I might as well go,” Sam answered carelessly. He shied at confessing the real reason.
“You saved my neck, all right,” remarked Duncan. “I believe you went on purpose. I’m going to think so, anyway.”
Sam hurried his shower and his dressing and got over to dinner before the doors were closed. On his way back he stopped at Dr. Leighton’s rooms to tell him that he had returned within the time set. Dr. Leighton invited him in, and they talked together intimately for an hour, not as teacher and pupil, but as friends. They fell ultimately upon the subject of injustice in the school life; of boys who trotted and cribbed and got C, while boys who plugged and were honest got E; of lies that secured immunity when the truth brought punishment; of Duncan Peck kept on pro for three weeks when Fish got off with one for the same offence; of the troubles of mischievous Birdie Fowle, who, though by no means a bad boy, was considered a monster, while others were thoroughly corrupt and yet enjoyed an immaculate reputation; of hypocrites who joined the Christian Frat because it would help them with the faculty, yet showed no respect for the principles of the organization. Dr. Leighton did not deny the facts of injustice; he did not undertake to absolve either himself or his colleagues from all mistakes in their estimates of the boys. But he did try to show that injustice is not intentional or permanent, that immorality and dishonesty are sure to work their way to the light of day and receive their reward; that no boy can escape the responsibility for his own character and influence. Sam went home feeling that his own unimportant life, if lived cleanly and honorably, might have a value in the school world.
Mr. Alsop returned Monday morning, his sensitive and suspicious soul agitated by a dire discovery. He had distinctly seen, as he walked along a Boston street on Saturday evening, Duncan Peck with another, unrecognized boy entering a theatre—Duncan Peck, whom he himself had put on probation, and who could not, save by misrepresentation, get leave of absence from any one. He went immediately to Peck’s boarding place—Duncan had long since wearied of Alumni—to make inquiries, and learned that Peck had not been present at dinner Saturday night nor at breakfast Sunday morning. He visited the matron of the dormitory, and was told that the maid who had gone in to take care of Number 7 on Sunday had reported Peck sleeping soundly at nine o’clock, with shoes standing before the fireplace still wet, and muddy trousers hanging over a chair. Remembering the heavy downpour of rain which had occurred early that morning, Mr. Alsop felt that his case was complete. The rascal had broken his probation, had taken a six o’clock train to Boston Saturday night, attended the theatre in the evening, spent the rest of the night—no one knew how—and returned in fancied security by the paper train very early in the morning. It was a piece of tragic but most successful detective work. The circumstantial evidence supporting the testimony of his own eyes was complete.
Yet before he laid the scandal in all its appalling details before the faculty, Mr. Alsop decided to question Peck, and incidentally Archer. It should never be said that he had condemned a boy without a hearing. From Archer he expected no confirmation of his own true account of Peck’s movements on that fatal night, for in accordance with the notions of loyalty prevailing among the students, a room-mate would feel bound to hide the facts, however heinous the guilt of the offender. Peck, of course, would not hesitate to lie, when he found himself trapped.
The two boys rose as the instructor walked solemnly into the room. He dismissed the offered chair with a wave of the hand and a chilly “Thank you,” and entered straightway upon his business.