“By Jove I will!” suddenly exclaimed Luke with a change of manner. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since I did it. I am going to tell. I can’t stand it any longer. I want to see Excelsior win the Blue Banner. I’m going to tell the doctor!”
“Hold on!” Hiram fairly hissed. “If you squeal I’ll make it so hot for you that you’ll wish you’d never seen me—and so will Sam.”
“I’m not afraid! Besides I’m not going to tell on you—only on myself. I’ll say I put the telegram there. The doctor can think what he likes about who pulled down the statue. He can put me on probation for I won’t tell, but it doesn’t matter, for I don’t play ball. But that will let Joe play, and it’s not too late for him to get in shape—in fact, he’s at top notch, for I saw him practice to-day. I’m going to tell, and you can do as you like, Hiram.”
“I say you shan’t tell. I’ll——”
But Luke slipped from Hiram’s room, where the talk had been going on, and made his way to the doctor’s office.
Dr. Fillmore, as may well be imagined, was surprised to see Luke at that late hour, for it was past eleven. He laid aside a book on the immortal Cæsar, looked over his glasses at the conscience-stricken lad, and asked in his kind voice:
“Well, Fodick, what is it?”
“I—I—Doctor Fillmore, I’ve come to—confess. I put that telegram by the statue. Joe Matson didn’t do it. He dropped it—I picked it up. He had nothing to do with pulling down the statue and doesn’t know who did it. But he’s got to play ball to-morrow or we’ll lose the Blue Banner again. I’m the guilty one, Doctor—not of pulling the statue down—I won’t tell who did that, no matter what you do to me. But I want Joe to play. Oh, I—I couldn’t stand it any longer. I haven’t slept, and—and——”
Poor Luke burst into a fit of weeping—hot, passionate tears of real sorrow—the best thing he had done in many a long day—and Dr. Fillmore, understanding a boy’s heart as few heads of schools do, put his big arm over Luke’s shoulder. Thus was the confession made, and of its effect you shall soon hear.