“There’s nothing wrong, I hope?” said the instructor.
Clem shook his head. Of course there was a good deal wrong, but he couldn’t tell Mr. Tarbot so. Outside, he felt at once disappointed and satisfied; disappointed because, as thoroughly as he disbelieved Jim’s version, he would have been glad to find it true; satisfied because it is human nature to relish confirmation of one’s convictions. He spent the subsequent twenty minutes or so trying to find an acquaintance with whom to cast in his lot for the afternoon, but each room he visited was deserted, and finally he went back to Haylow and tried to make the best of the four empty hours ahead.
Already Jim’s crime looked less heinous to Clem. Of course, he assured himself, he could never feel toward Jim quite as he had before, but his first severity had waned. He even sought excuses for the other. Probably Webb had worked on Jim’s sympathies until the latter had become desperate and on impulse, without sober thought, had taken the only way to satisfy Webb’s demand that was possible. Perhaps, he told himself, even he, placed as Jim had been placed, would have done the same. But he couldn’t convince himself of that. And he was certain that had he stolen that money he could never have sought to escape suspicion by throwing the blame on another. That, in Clem’s eyes, was the deadliest sin.
He determined that so far as was possible he would put the affair out of his mind and behave as though nothing had ever happened. At least for the rest of the term. Perhaps after Christmas recess there would be a chance to move into Lykes. Lykes was the senior dormitory and if there was a vacancy he would be eligible for it. Of course the matter of getting Jim into Janus Society was at an end. Doubtless Jim would understand that. Clem felt a little bit happier—and perhaps a trifle heroic—after his decision, and he was all prepared to carry his plan into effect when Jim returned from the game. But Jim went right from the station to supper and, although Clem waited in Number 15 until nearly eight o’clock, didn’t get back to the room until ten. By that time Clem was feeling somewhat disgruntled, as well as sleepy, and in the few words that were exchanged constraint was as much in evidence as ever.
But the next morning Clem arose in a kindly and even expansive mood. It was Sunday, there was no work to be done and the sun was shining brightly on the best of worlds. So he began promptly to show Jim that everything was to be just as it had been—almost—and sustained a distinct surprise when Jim failed—or refused—to read the signs. Jim was calm and polite, but he was also brief and reserved. In fact, somewhat to Clem’s indignation, Jim appeared to be trying to swipe Clem’s rôle of Wounded Virtue! Hang it all, Jim sounded as if it were his feelings that had been outraged and hurt! Clem couldn’t make it out, and after a few futile efforts to reëstablish the former entente he relapsed into silence. Oh, well, if the idiot didn’t appreciate his intentions he could—could chase his blind aunt! He, Clem, was through!
So, on the whole Sunday wasn’t a very merry day in Number 15 Haylow, and the days that followed weren’t much better save in so far as that both Jim and Clem became gradually accustomed to the estrangement as time passed. Clem sought other companionship and seldom remained in the room after supper and Jim redoubled his interest in football and the affairs of the Maine-and-Vermont Society. Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that he sought to redouble his interest, for he didn’t really succeed. In fact, he wasn’t getting along so well on the gridiron these days. The process of making a star tackle out of Jim Todd appeared to have reached an end. By the last of the week he seemed to have retired permanently to the substitute status and even Mulford filled in as often as he did. Lowell Woodruff was puzzled and distressed. Lowell liked to believe that he had in a manner discovered Slim Todd; or that, if the actual discovery wasn’t his, he had at least preserved it to the world and established its value. He broached the subject of Jim’s slump to Clem one evening.
“I don’t know what’s happened to the blighter,” he said plaintively. “Up to a week or so ago he was going great and Johnny was building plays around him. But now look at the blamed thing! He’s forgetting everything he ever learned and a babe in arms could make him look like a joke.” This was an exaggeration, but Lowell dealt in exaggerations.
“I fancy,” answered Clem, plainly evasive, “that he’s not feeling very fit, Woodie.”
“Fit my eye! He’s fit but he won’t fight! Something’s taken all the pep out of him. Know what it is?”