“There’s nothing to do but stand it, my son. I’d rather you’d be suspended for a year than have you clear yourself at others’ expense. Loyalty is paramount in this instance, and I’ll support you in the stand you’ve taken.”
“Jove! father, you’re a brick!” said Donald, gratefully. “I was jolly afraid you’d cut up rough, for it’s pretty tough on you to have your son rusticated.”
“A trifle tough on you, my lad,” returned Doctor Ward. “But there are worse things than rusticating for a time. One is—deserving it.”
“The Faculty think I do,” answered Donald.
“Never mind that. Suppose those of you who can, do clear yourselves. That fastens the blame definitely on the few, where now it is distributed among twenty. And the whole thing is not serious in itself, only the Faculty had promised to suspend the next offenders and to expel the ringleaders, if they could be found.”
“This is the next time, as it happens,” said Donald, gloomily. “Worse luck!”
“Yes, worse luck for you. But you are entirely right. Don’t prove your alibi. Do you all stand by the others; you fellows can, as you say, stand three months’ rusticating better than the half-dozen could stand expulsion.”
Donald drummed his heels together. He was seated on a corner of the library table, throwing up a paper-weight, and catching it carefully.
“Oh, we’ll stand by the men,” he said. “See here, dad, you know I didn’t mean to let on all this even to you. I only meant to tell you that your promising son is suspended. But,” he added, ruefully, “somehow I forgot you weren’t one of the fellows.”
Doctor Ward gave his big son a crack on the shoulder that nearly sent him under the table.