“This warrants serious discipline.”
Dr. Livingston’s words, with their uncomfortable portent kept racing through Jeff Thatcher’s mind as he sat in his room in Carter Hall. He knew all that this would mean to him. Not that, ordinarily, he was afraid to face whatever punishment was due him, but in this case he realized it would be far more serious to him than it would to almost any other boy in school. And the unpleasant part of it was that although Gould would receive the same disciplining, he would not suffer half as much as Thatcher would. Disciplining to the Sophomore, and to Pell for that matter, for he would unquestionably be implicated, would mean nothing more than so much punishment to be endured until they had paid the penalty, then they would be free to go on in their usual happy routine at school.
But for Thatcher it meant a great deal more. It meant disaster. It meant the sacrificing of an opportunity to play baseball on the best school team in the state; it meant that he would have to forego the happiness of school life, and most of all, it meant sacrificing his opportunities for an education. Thatcher realized that all this was in the balance and there is little wonder that he regretted his rash actions in getting into a fight with Gould on the school ground. It would have been far better if he had passed on, or if it had to be a fight, he should have refused to fight except out of bounds where school laws did not reach; across the bridge over Wading River, or on the other side of the town.
“What a fool I was,” he muttered as he sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside his door, and presently it was pushed open, then shut with a bang.
Thatcher raised his head just long enough to see that it was Wade Grenville, his roommate, who had entered.
“Hello, Wade,” he mumbled, scarcely rousing himself from his disconsolate attitude.
“’Lo, Jeff. For the love of Pete, what’s the matter with you? Still feeling sore over Gould’s dirty trick? Cut it, Jeff, cut it. Don’t take it so blamed hard. The rest of the fellows have forgotten it already; passed it up as a mucker’s trick and figure to get square on Gould and the Sophs some other time. That’s the way you want to take it. Buck up,” and he flung his cap on his own bed across the room and went over and clapped his hands affectionately on Jeff’s shoulder.
Jeff looked up and smiled ruefully.
“I’m square, I guess, or nearly so, but—”