Ward Hill, the Senior

by Everett T. Tomlinson

And now he was in Tim Pickard's room. The lamp upon the table was burning, and the room seemed to be flooded with a soft and mellow light which served to increase the luxurious appearance of all about him.

What an elegantly furnished room it was! In spite of his excitement, Ward could not fail to notice that. Pictures were hanging on the walls, the floor had a rich, soft carpet upon it, a little fire was burning in the open grate, just sufficient to take away the chill of the early autumn air. The study table was covered with books and papers, the chairs were beautifully upholstered, and the bed, which stood in one corner of the room, was not much like the rude little affair in his own room, Ward thought.

Indeed, for a moment Ward stopped and looked about him, deeply impressed by the contrast to his room in West Hall. And why should Tim Pickard, with all his money and comforts, wish to torment him by a series of petty and constant annoyances?

The thought made Ward's heart bitter and hard. It was unjust, mean, contemptible. Jack was right. The only way in which he could defend himself was to let Tim understand just what it meant for a fellow to have his room all upset.

Hark! What was that? Ward stopped and listened intently as he heard some one moving in the hall. Suppose he should be discovered in the room! He felt like a thief. What could he say or do to explain his presence if he should be discovered?

The sound of the footsteps passed and Ward breathed more freely. What he was to do, he must do quickly. Where should he begin? He started toward the bed to tear that in pieces, but quickly changing his purpose, he turned again to the study table. That was the proper spot at which to begin.

As he approached, the light of the lamp fell full upon the photograph of a woman's face looking up at him from a beautiful frame on the table. It almost seemed to him as if the eyes could see him and were looking at him with a reproving, reproachful glance. That must be Tim's mother, he thought. He knew that she was dead, for Tim had told him many a time of the fact that his father--"the governor," as Tim called him--was the only one he had to look after him or to whom he had to report.

Perhaps if his mother were alive, Tim would be a different fellow. It seemed to Ward, as he stood gazing at the picture, as if the woman were pleading with him. For a moment he thought of another woman in the far-away village of Rockford. His mother was living, and he had no such excuse as Tim had for failing to do what he knew was right. And how grieved she would be if she knew he had been stealing like a thief into another fellow's room. Ward almost started, for it seemed as if he could hear the sound of her voice. And there was the face of Tim's dead mother still looking up at him.

"I can't do it! I can't do it! I'd be no better than Tim Pickard if I did. I'd be doing the very same thing which made me so mad when he did it," groaned Ward.

The troubled boy quickly turned to leave the room Jack might think what he chose; he simply could not bring himself to do what he had planned.