Wallace was silent. David, glancing at him as they walked, saw that his head was downcast and his face still red. The sight made David, who had been steeling himself to be hard, soften and want to say, “O Lester, we’ll forget it, we’ll never think of it again!” But he knew that could not be true, and he walked on, silent.
“I was ashamed of it, Dave,” Wallace said at last in a low voice. “I used the book in class—that’s how my recitations happened to be so good. That’s how I got a reputation for being so bright—my election to the Pen and Ink. You know I wouldn’t take it, Dave.” He spoke with appeal in his voice. “I was ashamed to do that.”
They were approaching the study; they crossed the road to avoid groups of boys who were standing in front of the building. “What you fellows having a heart-to-heart about?” called Adams, who had played second base on the Corinthian nine. Wallace made no answer; David waved a hand in reply. They walked slowly on—for a time in silence. Then Wallace spoke again:
“I found the book just by chance in a second-hand bookstore in town. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything to injure Mr. Dean. It couldn’t hurt him in any way.” His tone was pleading rather than defiant.
“No,” David said. “But it wasn’t straight. Don’t you see?”
“I didn’t always read the translation,” Wallace pleaded. “I only looked at it when I had to.”
“If it had been anybody but a blind man.”
“Lots of fellows crib any way they can.”
“Not with Mr. Dean.”