A hand upon his shoulder made him start and glance up in surprise. Mr. Horton was standing at his side looking down at him.
“Clark,” he said, “I have come to the conclusion that I wronged you when I doubted your explanation about the translation I found in your desk.”
“Yes, sir, you did,” said Clark; “I told you the truth.”
“I believe you did, Clark, and I ask your pardon for doubting you,” said Mr. Horton, holding out his hand.
There was a lump in the boy’s throat and his eyes were hot as he took the offered hand, but he did not speak—he could not at that moment.
“I know no more about the matter, my boy, than I did that day,” Mr. Horton went on, “but I have been watching you ever since, and I believe that you can be trusted.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Clark, the first smile that his teacher had seen on his face for many a day flitting across it as he spoke. It was gone in a moment. It seemed as if his lips had almost forgotten how to smile.
“Have you any idea how the book got into your desk, Clark?”
“I have an idea, but it may be a mistaken one, and I would rather say nothing about it,” Clark replied in a low voice.
“You have not made many friends in the school, have you?” asked Mr. Horton after a moment’s silence.