“No; that’ll do for you, Parker,” he said curtly.
Sam, still very much in the fog of uncertainty and wondering greatly that there should be any doubt of the Trojan’s claim to his book, turned away from the platform. As he did so, he caught Zorn’s eye, and was reminded that that youth must have overheard all he had said. Well, he didn’t care; it was all true—so Sam told himself, even as a sense of resentment filled him. It wasn’t Zorn’s affair; playing eavesdropper was a contemptible trick. Sam amended his statement to himself: he did care; he objected strongly to Zorn’s action. At the first opportunity he would say so, forcefully and as publicly as might be. He glared at the other, who, truth to relate, returned the attention in kind. Then, Sam had passed by and was taking his seat at the back of the hall.
The Trojan appeared to be in a brown study. His brow was furrowed, and he was gazing at the wall in the fixed fashion which suggests seeing very little. Jack Hagle had developed sudden absorption in his work, and was bent over the text-book on his desk. The Shark was still deep in his calculation. Nobody else in the room, though, was ignoring, or pretending to ignore, the peculiar affair which had interrupted the study period.
The instructors had their heads together in a consultation which continued for several minutes. Then the principal and sub-master rose, and walked to the door; halted; exchanged a word or two.
“Walker!” the sub-master called, and the Trojan, his manner of perplexity remaining, again went forward. This time he did not return to his seat, but followed the two men into the corridor.
The pupils left in the hall exchanged questioning glances. Every boy there—with the exception of the Shark—felt that something out of the usual run was happening; and most of the number, including Sam Parker, groped vainly for the secret. Sam had a notion that Zorn, and perhaps Hagle, had clew to the mystery, and it is to be confessed that the suspicion annoyed him. Therefore he awaited eagerly the reappearance of the Trojan.
But Trojan Walker did not come back to the hall.
A gong clanged, marking the end of the period. Sam and the others gathered up their books, and streamed out into the corridor, there dividing and going on to their own rooms. In each of these there was the stir of preparation for home-going, for the period closed the day’s work; then came the little pause, while the rows of boys and girls sat quietly, awaiting the dismissal signal. Sam noted that Trojan was not in his accustomed place; but hardly had he made sure of this when the gong clanged again, and the school session was over.
Sam marched out with his classmates, but lingered in the yard. So, as it chanced, did a dozen other boys, among them several of his special chums. There was the Shark, blinking behind his big spectacles. There was “Step” Jones, so called because in height, and thinness, and angularity he suggested a stepladder. There was “Poke” Green, who was so plump that a finger could be poked into him anywhere. There was Tom Orkney, sturdy, reserved, not an ingratiating fellow but sound to the core on better acquaintance. And, finally, there was Herman Boyd, long a member of the clan and possibly the Trojan’s most intimate friend. These boys grouped themselves about Sam as about a leader, and waited, as he waited, for the coming of Trojan Walker.
“Something queer is on,” Sam told them. “I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. All I know so far is this.” And he sketched rapidly the incidents of the masters’ visit to the hall.