“I hate to mention names; it seems awfully mean.” Tom's face got fiery red again. “And yet, as you all know, why, it can't be helped. Jenkins—well there, a fellow would want to be excused from speaking to him. And yet”—down fell Tom's head shamefacedly—“I let him show me how he was going to play a dastardly trick on Joe, the very day of the tennis tournament. I did, that's a fact.”
No one spoke; but Tom could feel what might have been said had the thoughts all been expressed, and he burst out desperately, “I let that cad take Joe's racket.”
A general rustle, as if some speech were coming, made him forestall it by plunging on, “His beautiful racket he'd been practising with for this tournament; and I not only didn't knock the scoundrel down, but I helped the thing along. I wouldn't have supposed I could do it. Joe was to play with Ricketson against Green and me; and two minutes after it was done, I'd have given everything to have had it back on Joe's table. But the boys were pouring up, and it was hidden.”
Tom could get no further, but hung his head for the reaction sure to set in against him by all this household that had welcomed and entertained him so handsomely.
“Has he got through? has the beggar finished?” cried Joel lustily.
“Yes,” said Polly, in a low voice, “I think he has, Joel.”
“Then I want to say”—Joel threw himself over by Tom, his arms around him—“that he's the biggest fraud to spring such a trap on me, and plan to get off that yarn here.”
“I didn't intend to when I came,” said Tom, thinking it necessary to tell the whole truth. “I hadn't the courage.”
“Pity you had now!” retorted Joel. “Oh, you beggar!” He laid his round cheek against Tom's. “Mamsie, Grandpapa, Polly,” his black eyes sweeping the circle, “if I were to tell you all that this chap has done for me,—why, he took me to the place where Jenk hid the racket.”
“Pshaw! that was nothing,” said Tom curtly.