Ward Hill, the Senior

by Everett T. Tomlinson

"No, but I can smell it," said Ward half-laughingly, for the odor of the kerosene which had been spilled was only too apparent in the room.

However, the boys soon seated themselves by Henry's table and began their work for the evening. It was some time before Ward could bring his thoughts to bear upon the work in hand, but at last he succeeded and studied hard all the evening.

"There, I haven't my work all done," he said when at last the bell was rung indicating that the end of the study hour had come. "I must have more time. I'm going down to ask Mr. Blake for permission to sit up a little longer."

"Let me go," said Henry quickly, but Ward was out of the room by this time and made no reply.

In response to his request Mr. Blake shook his head and refused permission. Ward went slowly back to his room thoroughly angry. The teacher's manner betrayed his suspicion of the boy, and Ward did not take time to consider that Mr. Blake did not know anything of the new resolution he had formed, or of the struggle which was going on in his own mind.

He closed the door with a slam as he came back and expressed his opinion in no mild terms of the man who was in charge of West Hall. Henry strove to soothe the angry feelings of his room-mate, but without avail, and when at last the boys retired for the night, Ward's anger had steadily increased.

"Even Mr. Crane would be satisfied now," he thought as he drew the bedclothes up around him. "I've got enough anger, as he called it, to supply every boy in West Hall."

But he was too tired to cherish his feelings for any length of time and was soon asleep.

He was awake long before the breakfast hour, and hastily arising resumed his studying. By the time Henry had joined him he had his work all done, and felt that he was thoroughly ready for the tasks of the day. The fact gave him much satisfaction, and when they started toward the dining hall much of his anger had disappeared, so far as any outward manifestation of it was concerned; but deep down in his heart Ward was thinking of his own troubles. Perhaps he even tried to cherish the feeling of anger a trifle, for it was so much more easy to work and face the school when he was aroused, than it was when only the fact of his own unpopularity was most apparent.

However, he had decided upon one course of action, at least, and that was what he would have to say to Jack Hobart. A fine friend he was! After all his protestations of friendship, to go over to West Hall and get the keys to his room! For Ward had not a doubt in his mind that Jack had been the one to carry out the scheme which he believed Tim Pickard had concocted. Not that Jack had "stacked" the room himself. Ward did not for a moment believe that. But he knew Jack Hobart so well that he was certain he would strive to keep in the good graces of all the school, and if he saw the tide setting too strongly against him Ward somehow felt that Jack would desert him. Had he not done that very thing in the preceding year? It was true he had professed to be sorry, but what did "feeling sorry" amount to, since he failed to stand beside him when troubles came?