Hector lost no time in drawing up a statement of the facts connected with the loss of the wallet, which he got Wilkins and Ben Platt to sign. This he put into an envelope directed to Allan Roscoe, accompanied by a brief note, which I subjoin:

“MR. ROSCOE: I send you a statement, signed by two of my schoolmates, showing that the charge which Mr. Smith was in such a hurry to bring against me, in order to screen his nephew, who is the real thief, is wholly unfounded. I am not particularly surprised that you were ready to believe it, nor do I care enough for your good opinion to worry. I consider that it is due to myself, however, to prove to you that I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed. Finding the scholars here in terror of a bully, who imposed upon his schoolfellows with impunity because, being the principal’s nephew, he was protected in so doing, I taught him a lesson which may not do him good, but has certainly been of benefit to his fellow-pupils. In so doing, I have incurred his enmity, and that of his uncle, who, for more than one reason, is utterly unfit to conduct a school of this kind.

“You threaten to remove me from school at the end of this term. I do not wish to remain, and shall remove myself at the end of this week. I shall not look to you for support, nor do I expect again to depend upon the estate to which I once thought myself the heir, unless I should be able to prove that I am the son of your brother, as I fully believe, notwithstanding the letter you exhibit.”

“HECTOR ROSCOE.”

When Mr. Allan Roscoe received this letter he was very much disturbed. As he had no affection for Hector, and did not care what became of him, this may, perhaps, excite surprise. Could it be the last sentence which excited his alarm?

“Is that letter from Hector?” asked Guy, who had noticed the postmark as it lay upon his father’s table.

“Yes,” answered Allan Roscoe.

“Does he try to explain his theft?” asked Guy.

“He says he had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, of course!” sneered Guy. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

“He sends a statement of two of the pupils to the effect that the wallet was taken by another pupil, a nephew of the principal.”

“That’s too thin!”

“I don’t know. It may be true. I don’t like the boy, but I hardly think it probable he would steal.”

“You think better of him than I do. I suppose he wants to get into your good graces again?”

“No; he says he shall leave school at the end of this week, and will not again look to me for support.”

“That’s jolly!” exclaimed Guy, much pleased. “You’re well rid of him, papa. Let him go away and make a living as he can. He’ll have to turn newsboy, or something of that sort—perhaps he’ll have to be a bootblack. Wouldn’t that be a good come down for a boy like Hector?”

Guy spoke with great glee, but his father did not seem to enjoy his release as well as Guy. He showed that he understood the boy better when he said:

“Hector will not have to resort to any such employment. He has a good education, and he can get some decent position, probably. On the whole, I am sorry he is going to leave my protection, for friends of the family may, perhaps, blame me.”

“But it isn’t your fault, papa. He is taking his own course.”

“To be sure. You are right there!”

Mr. Roscoe thought so much on the subject, however, that the next day he went to Smith Institute to see Hector, without telling Guy where he was going.

Arrived there, he asked to see Mr. Smith.

The latter did not appear to be in a happy frame of mind.

“How do you do, Mr. Roscoe?” he said.

“Very well,” answered Mr. Roscoe, briefly. “Mr. Smith, I wish to see my ward.”

“I am sorry you cannot see him, Mr. Roscoe.”

“Cannot see him! Why not?”

“Because he has left the institute.”

Allan Roscoe frowned.

“Why has he left?” he asked.

“He has left against my will. I think he has been influenced by an usher in my employ who has behaved very ungratefully. I took him, sir, when he was in danger of starving, and now he leaves me at a day’s notice, after doing all he can to break up my school.”

“I feel no particular interest in your usher,” said Allan Roscoe, coldly. “I wish to obtain information about the boy I placed under your charge. Do you know where he has gone?”

“No; he did not tell me,” answered the principal.

“You wrote me that he had been detected in stealing a wallet!”

“Yes,” answered Socrates, embarrassed. “Appearances were very much against him.”

“Do you still think he took it?”

“I may have been mistaken,” answered Mr. Smith, nervously, for he began to see that the course he had been pursuing was a very unwise one.

“Hector has written me, inclosing a statement signed by two of his schoolfellows, implicating your own nephew, and he charges that you made the charge against him out of partiality for the same.”

“There is considerable prejudice against my nephew,” said Socrates.

“And for very good reasons, I should judge,” said Allan Roscoe, severely. “Hector describes him as an outrageous bully and tyrant. I am surprised, Mr. Smith, that you should have taken his part.”

Now, Socrates had already had a stormy interview with his nephew. Though partial to Jim, and not caring whether or not he bullied the other boys, as soon as he came to see that Jim’s presence was endangering the school, he reprimanded him severely. He cared more for himself—for number one—than for anyone else in the universe. He had been exceedingly disturbed by receiving letters from the fathers of Wilkins and Ben Platt, and two other fathers, giving notice that they should remove their sons at the end of the term, and demanding, in the meantime, that his nephew should be sent away forthwith.

And now Allan Roscoe, whom he had hoped would side with him, had also turned against him. Then he had lost the services of a competent usher, whom he got cheaper than he could secure any suitable successor, and, altogether, things seemed all going against him.

Moreover, Jim, who had been the occasion of all the trouble, had answered him impudently, and Socrates felt that he had been badly used. As to his own agency in the matter, he did not give much thought to that.

“My nephew is going to leave the school, Mr. Roscoe,” said Socrates, half-apologetically.

“I should think it was full time, Mr. Smith.”

“Perhaps so,” said Smith; “but if I have stood by him, it has been in ignorance. I cannot think him as wrong as your ward has probably represented. Hector was jealous of him.”

“Of his scholarship, I presume?”

“Well, no,” answered the principal, reluctantly, “but of his physical superiority, and—and influence in the school. I may say, in fact, Mr. Roscoe, that till your ward entered the school it was a happy and harmonious family. His coming stirred up strife and discontent, and I consider him primarily responsible for all the trouble that has occurred.”

“I don’t defend Hector Roscoe,” said Allan, “but he writes me that your nephew was a bully, who imposed upon his schoolfellows, and that he, by taking their part and stopping this tyranny, incurred his ill-will and yours.”

“I supposed I should be misrepresented,” said Socrates, meekly. “I am devoted to my school and my pupils, Mr. Roscoe. I am wearing out my life in their service. I may make mistakes sometimes, but my heart—my heart, Mr. Roscoe,” continued Socrates, tapping his waistcoat, “is right, and acquits me of any intentional injustice.”

“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Smith,” said Allan Roscoe, stiffly. “As Hector has left you, I have only to settle your bill, and bid you good-day.”

“Will you not exert your influence to persuade the boy to return?” pleaded Socrates.

“As I don’t know where he is, I don’t see how I can,” said Allan Roscoe, dryly.

“That man is an arch hypocrite!” he said to himself, as he was returning home.

I may state here that at the end of the term half the pupils left Smith Institute, and Socrates Smith lamented too late the folly that had made him and his school unpopular.