“I think Collins ought to know the truth of it,” exclaimed Gerald. “Someone ought to tell him. I will if no one else does.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Dan. “No use opening old sores. Collins did what he thought was fair; the evidence was all against Burtis. It’s over with now and nobody’s any the worse for it.”
“That’s right,” Ned agreed. “Let deeping slogs lie. I do wish I’d known you then, Curt; I surely would have liked to have been there when you flashed the torch on them! We needn’t say anything to Collins about it, fellows, but it’s too good a joke on Broadwood to keep to ourselves, that is, if Curt doesn’t mind having it known.”
Kendall said he didn’t care about that, and he was quite sure he didn’t want to bother Mr. Collins with the affair. “He—he was awfully nice about it. And he’s been very kind ever since.”
“Collins,” said Ned with conviction, “is one fine man.”
And the others gravely agreed.
At nine o’clock they went yawning up to their rooms, and at ten nothing was to be heard therein but evidences of healthy slumber.
Mr. Payson had forbidden Dan to return before eleven, but Gerald was forced to be on hand fairly early, since the cross-country race with Broadwood—Nordham had declined Goodyear’s invitation to enter the contest—was due to start at ten-thirty, and so it was agreed that they should all return at half-past nine. They were up early and had breakfast at a quarter to eight. The morning had fulfilled the promise of the preceding day. It was an Indian Summer day if ever there was one. Dan had slept like a log, he asserted, and never felt better in his life.
“I’ll bet, though,” he said ruefully, “that I’ve taken on six or seven pounds. I can feel it just as plain!”