“Oh,” said Tom. He hoped the matter was straightforwardly done—sneaking tactics were not tolerated at West Point. Still the document was Tom’s own. But after his interview with the old army officer he had been so discouraged about the matter that he had not cared what had become of the trust deed. Now it had come back to him.
“I clean up around Captain Hawkesbury’s quarters, Mr. Taylor, sir,” went on Flack. “When I was emptying his basket some time back I saw this torn paper drop out. I didn’t pay much attention to it until I saw the name Charles Taylor. I thought of you, though that isn’t your name; is it—I mean your first name?”
“It’s my father’s,” Tom answered, as he saw where Mr. Taylor’s name appeared in the paper.
“Ah, that accounts for it then,” the janitor said. “Well, when I saw the name Taylor I looked further and got all the pieces. Then I pasted ’em together. I was going to bring it to you, thinking maybe you had lost it, though I couldn’t figure how it got in his basket.”
Tom did not think it wise to illuminate the janitor on that point. Flack went on.
“I was going to give it to you before, but I got laid up with the rheumatics, and I didn’t want to trust it to any one else. Then you got laid up yourself, Mr. Taylor, sir.”
“Yes,” Tom assented with a smile, “I’m laid up all right.”
“So I brought it as soon as they’d let me see you,” concluded the old soldier, “and I hope it’ll be of value to you.”
“Thank you, very much,” Tom answered. “I have no doubt but that it will. I’m obliged to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Flack said. “Sure you did me enough favors. It’s time I paid some of ’em back. He was quite anxious to get it himself,” and he jerked his head in the direction of the officers’ quarters.