"Funny," said Tom lightly. "Did—did he say anything?"
"Oh, no. Of course I denied it at first, said I couldn't have taken it, but he said I must have, unless—unless you had. He asked if you were in his room and I said no."
"But I was!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't you remember? I went down just before we went out. But there wasn't any blue-book on his table then. At least, I didn't see any."
"Well, it doesn't matter. I told him you hadn't been there. I—I'd let him think so, anyway. There's no use having any more bother about the old thing."
"Well, but—you're sure he wasn't waxy? Of course I didn't take the book; you can prove that I didn't have it when I came back; but if he's acting ugly about it, why—I'll tell him I was in there too. He can lay it on me if he wants to. I—I think I'll tell him, Steve."
"You keep out of it," answered Steve roughly. "What's the use of having any more talk about it? He's got the book and there's no harm done."
Tom considered a moment. Then, "You're certain?" he asked.
"Certain of what?"
"That—that it's all right, that he doesn't blame you for it."
"Oh, he knows I did it, but he doesn't mind. What time is it?"