And catching Dan’s hand he made a spring to his waist and a reckless scramble to his shoulders.
“Hooray!” said Dan, cheerily. “Steady now, and hold on to the bar!”
“Do you feel me now?” said Fred, pressing down with all his small weight on the sturdy figure beneath him.
“A mite!” answered Dan. “Sort of like a mosquito had lit on me up there.”
“Do you feel me now?” said Fred, bringing his heels down with a dig.
“Look out now!” cried Dan, sharply. “Don’t try dancing a jig up there. Hold to the bar.”
But the warning came too late. The last move was too much for the half-sick boy. Freddy’s head began to turn, his legs gave way—he reeled down to the floor, and, white and senseless, lay at Dan’s feet.
In the big, book-lined study beyond the quadrangle, Father Regan was settling final accounts prior to the series of “retreats” he had promised for the summer; while Brother Bart, ruddy and wrinkled as a winter apple, “straightened up,”—gathering waste paper and pamphlets as his superior cast them aside, dusting book-shelves and mantel, casting the while many an anxious, watchful glance through the open window. The boys were altogether too quiet this morning. Brother Bart distrusted boyish quiet. For the “Laddie,” as he had called Freddy since the tiny boy had been placed six years ago in his special care, was the idol of the good man’s heart. He had washed and dressed and tended him in those early years with almost a woman’s tenderness, and was watching with jealous anxiety as Laddie turned from childish ways into paths beyond his care. Dan Dolan was Brother Bart’s especial fear—Dan Dolan, who belonged to the rough outside world from which Laddie had been shielded; Dan Dolan, who, despite tickets and medals, Brother Bart felt was no mate for a little gentleman like his boy.
“They’re quarely still this morning,” he said at last, giving voice to his fear. “I’m thinking they are at no good.”
“Who?” asked Father Regan, looking up from the letter he was reading.