“Yes. I—I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, think of it,” growled Arnold. “Not that it’ll do you much good!”
Toby did think of it. It seemed to make things much clearer to his mind. Whether Frick had recognized his assailant or not, he was accusing him because he wanted his place on the First. It was quite simple. Frick probably thought that Toby had no suspicion of Tubb and that Tubb would certainly not spoil the plot by confessing. This if Frick had recognized Tubb. Toby was inclined to think that he had.
Anyway, Frick’s scheme was a success. Toby had not seen George Tubb and he didn’t mean to. Tubb ought to take the blame, of course, but Toby meant to leave the matter in his own hands. He couldn’t altogether blame Tubb for taking vengeance on Frick, in view of the latter’s offenses, and while Toby had no desire to be a martyr he had grown to like Tubb and didn’t want him to lose his well-earned position on the School Team. So far as it was a question of the good of the School, it was far better for him to be punished than for Tubb to be. His loss to the team meant very little, while Tubb’s absence in the Broadwood game would be keenly felt. So, secretly, bitterly resentful toward Frick but harboring no grudge toward any one else, Toby took his medicine.
Being on probation cut him off from many privileges, amongst them that of seeing Yardley beat St. John’s on Saturday. Half the school made the journey and returned home triumphing. The score was 12 to 0 and the game was hard-fought and bristling with brilliant plays by both teams. Tom Fanning, Larry Snowden and Ted Halliday came back crowned with the laurel wreathes of heroes, although there were few on the Blue team who didn’t deserve high praise. Coach Lyle’s charges had worked together and individually in a manner to make the School proud of them, and that Saturday evening saw a big and enthusiastic celebration in the Assembly Hall and, later, outside. Toby didn’t attend it, since he was forbidden to leave his room after supper without permission from the Office, but he watched the triumphal end of it from his window and, although none heard but he, added his voice to the cheering. He felt rather lonely and rather downhearted that night, and even Arnold’s return a little later failed to cheer him much. Arnold was sympathetic, but to-night he was in an elated mood and very full of the afternoon’s game and the evening’s jollification, and Toby’s mood didn’t respond.
On Sunday afternoon Toby ran into George Tubb on the stairs. They had not met save in passing since the night of Frick’s escapade, and now of the two, Toby was the more embarrassed. He would have passed on up to his room, but Tubb wouldn’t have it. “Hold on,” said Tubb. “What’s your hurry? Let’s go for a tramp.”
“Can’t, thanks, I’m in bounds just at present.” Toby smiled to show that he didn’t mind, but Tubb scowled.
“Look here,” he said, “I want to talk to you about that, Tucker. Come on outside somewhere. You can walk down to the field, can’t you?”
Toby could, and, after a second’s hesitation, decided that he would. Once away from the buildings Tubb broke forth indignantly.
“Say, what sort of a game do you call that?” he exclaimed. “You make me promise to lay off Frick, and then you go and pound him up yourself! What’s the big idea, Tucker? I don’t get it!”