For a few days after Duncan’s acquittal, Mr. Alsop seemed really to have profited by his lesson. It is no slight humiliation to make a theatrical charge of falsehood against two boys, and then be compelled to eat one’s words in sackcloth and ashes. The tale circulated among the students in a variety of versions, none of which was inferior to the truth in picturesqueness. Members of the faculty smiled significantly as they passed on the word that the committee on Peck would not report, even while they deplored their colleague’s misfortune and expatiated on his devotion to duty. The discomfited instructor had to draw on his whole fund of self-esteem to save himself from confessing that some of his methods needed mending. As he treated Sam with unwonted consideration in recitation for the next few days, and Sam, as a result, made more conscientious preparation of lessons, it began to look as if Sam, at least, was to be the gainer.
Birdie Fowle was left alone to bear the weight of Mr. Alsop’s particular suspicion, and Birdie dropped as naturally into trouble, as a fly into the milk-pail. Taylor and Sam, with Birdie, had one evening been enjoying a most exhilarating game of ball in Birdie’s room. They used a baseball and a bat. Sofa cushions piled in the corner constituted the field. To hit the Harvard cushion was a base hit, the Yale cushion counted for two bases, the pillow with the girl’s head on it three, and the S cushion a home run. To miss the cushions altogether was an out. The sport was great; the cries of the trio floated out through the open windows, and the floor trembled with the lunges of the players. Mr. Alsop, who had latterly resolved not to interfere with the boys in their rooms unless the disturbance was serious, growing impatient under the strain, tramped his study, nervously asking himself, with each crescendo from above, whether the time had not now come when he really must interfere. Then the noises ceased, and he went back to his work relieved.
The game was at its height when a knock at the door sent the guests scurrying to the closets. Poor Birdie, bound to obey the summons, tossed the cushions back upon the sofa, ran his fingers through his disordered hair, threw on his coat, and hurried to open the door. Without stood Brantwein with his basket of “hot dogs.”
“You old fraud!” exclaimed Birdie. “I thought sure it was Alsop.”
“You ought to be so glad it isn’t that you’d want to buy me out,” observed Brantwein, as he pushed in. “I’ll sell you the whole stock for an even dollar.”
“Come out!” yelled Fowle. “It’s only Brandy!” The hidden players emerged. “Who wants a dog?”
“I’ll give you a dime for three,” offered Taylor. “That’s all they’re worth.”
“They’re the best I ever sold, specially fine breed of dog,” returned Brantwein, seriously. “They’re really worth ten apiece, but I’ll let you have ’em for a nickel.”
“Hot?” asked Sam, thrusting his hand into the basket.
“Two hundred twelve degrees,” answered the vendor, as he pulled his basket well out of Sam’s reach. “Don’t handle the pups.”