Winnie soon answered that question for herself, by writing another essay, and improving it in the process. But the disappearance of the Florentine letters was a nine days’ wonder. We searched the room thoroughly and even stepped out on the fire-escape and looked up and down for some bird of heaven that might have carried them away. “I shall always maintain,” said Milly, “that it is no real thief at all. Of course, none of us really believe in the ghost theory, though it is almost enough to make one turn spiritualist to be made the victim of such a trick. I believe that in the end it will be found that somebody’s little pet poodle has found his way in here, and like Old Mother Hubbard’s dog has a weakness for cupboards, and has chewed up everything that he has found. Sometime Nemesis will overtake that little poodle and he will be laid upon the dissecting table, and all of the money and Winnie’s essay will be found in his little gizzard.”
It was an absurd suggestion, but nothing seemed to explain the mystery, and we finally all gave it up. All but Winnie. She continued to worry about it. She laid many traps for her ghost, baiting them with edibles under the supposition that the thief might be an animal; and with money, tying silken threads around the cabinet, fastening the handle of the door to a bell in her own room, but they were all unavailing; the robber came no more.
The cadets’ prize declamation came before our graduation, and we all attended the exercises.
Stacey did not take a prize, but, as he laughingly told Milly, his coat did, and that was honour enough.
Woodpecker was the honour man that day, and as Woodpecker was a poor man’s son, he had no dress suit, and Stacey lent him his coat to appear in while he delivered his oration—Stacey sitting in his shirt sleeves behind the scenes meantime. Woodpecker’s long arms soared and the stitches in the back cracked, but he spoke with fire, and the committee unanimously awarded his “Description of a Chariot Race” the first prize, while Buttertub’s sonorous voice and grandiloquent manner secured the second for his “Philosophy of Socrates,” and Stacey’s “Athletic Games of Greece” came off with an “honourable mention” only. There was a good deal of what Jim called “kicking” at this decision. The drum corps, to a man, felt that Stacey ought to have had the first prize, and there was not a boy in the school, not excepting Buttertub, who did not think Stacey’s essay infinitely more entertaining than the Socratic philosophy. The Commodore, fortunately, was of this opinion. Stacey’s stock had risen rapidly in his father’s estimate. The essay interested the Commodore, and it made no difference to him that the committee did not agree with him; in his opinion Stacey was the brightest boy in the school. We girls shared this feeling. Stacey’s bouquets proclaimed him the most popular fellow in the class. The usher kept bringing them up, and it was impossible for Stacey to carry all his floral tributes from the stage at one time.
Woodpecker enjoyed the popularity of his friend more than his own honors. He had laid a wager with Ricos that Stacey would carry off the first prize, promising that if he did not, he, Woodpecker, would trundle a wheelbarrow down Fifth Avenue. Having lost the wager by his own triumph Woodpecker gaily proceeded to pay the penalty by carrying Stacey’s bouquets in a light wheelbarrow to the Buckingham Hotel—where Commodore and Mrs. Fitz Simmons had taken rooms—immediately after the exercises.
Stacey himself did not overestimate this expression of his friend’s regard, but it helped soften his disappointment at not obtaining the first prize. He was not embittered as at his failure at the games, but humbled in a salutary way. He saw his true position: a talented fellow, who until recently had not tried to make the best use of his opportunities, and who could not reasonably hope for the highest rewards after such brief effort. But something within him whispered, “You can do it yet. You can be something more than a dude and a good fellow,” and he resolved to devote his vacation to serious training in his studies.
It gave him a thrill of pleasure, strangely mingled with humility, to see the Commodore’s delight, just as he was handing Mrs. Fitz Simmons into the carriage, at hearing the old cry from the drum corps, who had been lined up in front of the barracks by Buttertub for that purpose, and gave it with a will—Jim’s shrill voice joining in the final cheer:
“First in peace, first in war,
He’ll be there again, as he’s been there before,
First in the hearts of his own drum corps,
That’s Fitz Simmons!”