OFF THE TRACK.
The appearance of the dummy, going at full speed, filled me with anxiety. I was sure that something was wrong, for I knew that Major Toppleton was not stirring at that hour in the morning, and that he could not have given any one permission to take out the car without telling me of it. I hastened up to the engine-house; but it was empty, and added nothing to my meagre stock of ideas on the vexed subject. The dummy was gone, and that was all I knew about it.
The Institute buildings were only a short distance from the engine-house, and I next went there in search of information. The students were engaged, in large numbers, in their sports. Indeed, there were so many of them present that the suspicion I had entertained that some of the boys had gone on a lark in the dummy seemed to be disarmed. Still, a dozen or twenty of them would not be missed in the crowd, and it was possible that this number were in mischief, though I thought, if it were so, they had chosen a singular time of day for it.
The students were rung up in the morning at six o’clock; but, by a merciful provision of the governors of the Institute, the first hour was devoted to play, so that those who were behind time cheated themselves out of just so much sport. I was informed that only a few neglected to get up when the bell rang; and I commend this humane and cunning arrangement to other institutions troubled by the matutinal tardiness of students. The morning is favorable to bold schemes and active movements; and the more I thought of the matter, the more anxious I became to know whose places would be vacant at the breakfast table, at seven o’clock, when the bell rang for the morning meal.
I inquired for Faxon, and soon found him making a “home run” in a game of base ball. Before I had time to address him the breakfast bell rang; and with a most surprising unanimity, all games were instantly suspended—a fact which ought to convince humanitarian educators that breakfast, dinner, and supper should immediately follow play, if boys are to be taught habits of promptness. The students rushed towards “Grub Hall,” as the dining-room was called; but, though Faxon had a good appetite, I succeeded, with some difficulty, in intercepting his headlong flight.
“What’s the row, Wolf?” demanded he, glancing at the open door through which the boys were filing to the breakfast table, and possibly fearing that the delay would involve an inferior piece of beefsteak.
“Are any of the fellows missing?” I asked.
“Not that I know of; but we can tell at the table,” replied he. “What’s up?”
“The dummy is gone,” I answered, mysteriously.
“Gone! Gone where?”