"I do not see, Mr. Mallory," was the response, "what else I am to believe. I do not like to accuse these three gentlemen of a plot to ruin you. And yet—and yet——"
"May I ask a question or two?" inquired Mark, noticing the puzzled and worried look upon his superior's face.
"Most certainly," was the answer.
"In the first place, if you please, according to this story, if I gave this man a hundred dollars, why did he tell about it afterward?"
"His conscience troubled him," cried the old squire excitedly. "As yours would have if you had any. He knew that he had done wrong, robbed my son, and he came and told me. And I was wild, sir, wild with anger. I have brought this man on all the way from Colorado, and I propose to see my son into his rights, if I die for it!"
"Oh!" said Mark. "So you want Benny made a cadet. But tell me how, if I had the papers, did Benny beat me so badly, anyhow?"
"My son always was brighter than you," sneered the old man.
"And all the examinations weren't from printed papers," chimed in Benny's crowing voice. "There was spelling, and reading and writing—that was where I beat you."
"I see," responded Mark. "It is a clever scheme. And I'm told I passed here because I cheated; how came you to fail?"
"My son was sick at the time," cried Squire Bartlett, "and I can prove it, too."