Dick was a hero. Every one said so; and “every one” certainly ought to have known. His advent at chapel the morning following the fire was the signal for an outburst of applause, a token of approval the like of which had not occurred at Hillton since that far-famed half-back, Joel March, was a student there and had rescued a lad from drowning in the river. Yes, Dick was a hero. Professor Wheeler sent for him and said all kinds of nice things, and the resident instructor, Professor Tompkins, waylaid him in the lower hall of Masters and beamed on him over his glasses, and other members of the Faculty shook hands with him warmly and quoted appropriate things in Greek and Latin, and the students played the part of a monotonous chorus and whispered when he passed.

But if Dick was a hero, his conception of the role was all wrong, judged by the accepted standard. Instead of wearing an expression of modest pride, instead of receiving the tributes of an admiring public with blushes and murmured expostulations as, of course, every hero has done since the time of Adam, he mooned around out-of-the-way corners like a bear with a sore head, while his most gracious response to the admiring public was a muttered “Oh, dry up, will you?” delivered in something between a growl and a groan.

“You’re absolutely the most disappointing hero I ever heard of!” said Trevor in disgust. “Why, if I’d done a thing like that I’d be strutting around the yard with my head back and my thumbs in my waistcoat pockets! A chap would think you were grouchy about it!” Whereupon Dick turned angrily:

“Trevor, if you don’t shut up I’ll pound you good and hard! Now, I mean what I say!”

“Some are born to greatness,” murmured Trevor, “some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them—and are exceeding wroth. I have spoken!” And having spoken, he bolted out the door a fraction of a second ahead of a German dictionary thrown with much vigor and precision.

But, despite Dick’s displeasure, there was both truth and justice in Trevor’s charge. Dick was disappointing. And the school at large marveled, and finding that their admiration for the plucky rescue was not wanted, thereafter refrained from further mention of the matter in Dick’s presence. And that youth kept to his room a good deal, where, instead of delving in his books, he sat glowering into space, or walked restlessly around like a caged lion. He became extremely taciturn, and even rowing affairs failed to arouse any but the most indifferent replies. Trevor wondered and grew alarmed.

By the burning of Coolidge’s house—due to the upsetting and subsequent explosion of a patent non-explosive lamp—seven boys found themselves homeless and less about everything save the scanty wardrobes in which they had made their escapes. Coolidge’s was a mere pile of ashes and charred timbers. For the family charity was unnecessary, since the house and contents had been well insured, but for the boys who had lost almost everything a scheme was speedily set on foot. A meeting was held in Society House, and the president of the senior class, Wallace Osgood, made a stirring address, which every one applauded, and then asked for suggestions as to a means of raising money to reimburse, to some extent at least, the victims of the fire. There was no response until Malcolm Kirk, who, with several members of the Faculty, presided on the stage, moved that an amateur performance, the exact character of which was to be later decided upon, be given in the Town Hall. He was sure, he said, that there was enough talent in the school to afford an interesting program, and believed that enough tickets could be sold at the academy and in the village to more than fill the hall. The plan met with instant favor; Professor Wheeler indorsed it, and moved that Mr. Kirk be asked to assume charge of it; Mr. Kirk assented and moved, in turn, that committees to work with him be appointed from the four classes; the classes made their appointments on the spot; a Saturday night some two weeks distant was chosen as the date of the entertainment, and the meeting broke up with great enthusiasm.

Boys hurried to their rooms, and brought down dusty banjos, guitars, and mandolins, and for nights afterward the dormitories were made hideous with chromatic scales and strange, weird chords. Dick found himself one of the senior committee, and throwing aside some of his lethargy worked busily with the rest. The first meeting of the joint committee of arrangements was held in Kirk’s room the following evening, and he outlined his plan. There was not, he thought, sufficient time before the date agreed upon in which to find performers for and rehearse anything in the way of a play. Instead, he would suggest that scenes from some well-known book be presented, each carrying only enough dialogue to make themselves clear. For instance, there was Tom Brown at Rugby; that afforded numerous opportunities for interesting stage pictures; there was Tom’s leave-taking with his father at the inn, in which the father’s excellent advice would, he thought, appeal to the risibilities of the audience. And then there was the fight with “Slogger” Williams, the hazing scene before the fireplace, and so on through the book. For the first part of the entertainment he suggested that the musical talent of the school could be levied upon; some of the fellows could undoubtedly sing; many could perform on some instrument or other; perhaps some could give recitations; and no doubt the band would do its share. For a further attraction, to constitute a third part of the program, Kirk suggested a series of representations of various sports, each to be pictured by a single person in appropriate costume—as Football, Baseball, Bowing, Lacrosse, Cricket, Hockey, Basketball, Skating, Tobogganing, Snow-shoeing, Tennis, and so on, all to be grouped together on the stage afterward for a final tableau.

The plan was adopted, and for the next two weeks every one was very busy, Kirk and Dick especially, since rowing affairs claimed more and more of their attention every day. May had brought fine, clear weather and sunny skies, under which it was a pleasure to work. The little chilling breezes that had been ruffling the blue waters of the Hudson had crept away in the track of winter, and the valley was green with fresh verdure and warm with the spring sunshine. Each day brought fresh hope to those who were interested in the success of the crew. The eight members of the varsity worked together with something approaching accord, and even Taylor’s continued absence from the boat was no longer a reason for constant dismay; for Jones, by dint of eternal vigilance and much tongue-lashing, had at last made of himself a fairly acceptable Number 7. Taylor was still laid up, for the fire and his efforts to fight his way from the building before Dick’s arrival had set back his recovery at least a fortnight.

Many times Waters had brought word to Dick that Taylor had asked to see him, and Dick had as many times answered that he would go over to Waters’s room as soon as he found time. But he took good care never to allow himself opportunity. Trevor told him he was a brute. Dick growled.

On the Saturday afternoon preceding the entertainment the varsity and second crews met for their first tussle on the water, and the result was surprising even to the varsity. The two boats raced from the down-stream end of Long Isle up the river for a half mile, and the varsity’s victory was too decisive to allow of its being explained by crediting the second with unusually slow work. In fact, even the second made favorable time for the course, while the varsity, which finished twelve lengths to the good, came within a few seconds of equaling the best record. But this was a fact known only to Kirk, Dick, and Keene, for the former pointed out dryly that it wouldn’t do them any harm if their rivals at Marshall continued to believe them in poor shape. “It may lead to overconfidence on St. Eustace’s part,” said Kirk, “and overconfidence is usually a winning card—for the other side.”

But, despite the brightening prospects, Dick was not happy. In fact, he didn’t remember of ever having been so utterly miserable and out of humor with himself. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand the cause; he was, he told himself savagely, at least honest with Dick Hope, no matter how much of a scoundrel he was in reality. He knew that if he went to Roy Taylor like a man and absolved him from the promise so villainously extorted, he would, in a measure at least, recover his self-respect. He tried at first to justify his conduct to himself by craftily pointing out the fact that he had used Taylor’s own weapons; that if Taylor had not acted like a thief there would have been no call for Dick to act like one; and that, when the matter was observed dispassionately, he had only taken advantage of his opportunity to work for the good of the crew and the school. But the pose of disinterested public benefactor didn’t satisfy him, and, although he ground his teeth and knit his brows and doggedly determined to hold on to the vantage he had gained, he was not happy, but, on the contrary, loathed himself heartily, hated Trevor because that youth insisted upon thinking him a high-minded hero, detested Taylor because the latter was primarily to blame for it all, and lost his appetite, didn’t half know his lessons, and was, in short, at odds with the whole world.

And then came the night of the benefit performance in the Town Hall. St. Eustace had subscribed for fifty tickets at a dollar apiece, and had then returned them to the committee to be resold. As a result of this, and of the activity of the class ticket-sellers, the hall on the night of the entertainment was altogether too small for the purpose. The villagers had responded generously to the appeal, and had bought seats until it had begun to look as though there would be no places left for the students. But every one in the end managed to squeeze in somehow; and as every member of the audience, whether he saw the performance from a comfortable seat in the front of the hall or only caught an occasional glimpse of it from behind a wall of less fortunate persons, paid a dollar for the privilege; and as the expenses were almost nil, the exchequer when the curtain went up held the very satisfactory total of $354, a fraction over $50 for each of the fire victims.

There is not space enough here to do justice to the excellency of the program. It will serve to say that some twenty boys sang, played on a marvelous variety of instruments, from accordion to piano, and recited. Williams gave operatic selections on a zither, and for encore rendered Way Down Upon the Suwanee River; a youth named Billings sang Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground, not so much because it was intensely musical as because it was about the only thing that accommodated itself to his voice; Todd sat down in a straight-backed chair at the front of the stage and did all kinds of stunts on a banjo, which pleased his audience vastly; Osgood sang The New Bully in a manner that sent the younger boys into spasms of laughter; Trevor, attired in hastily improvised costume, sang a number of coster songs in a sweet tenor, and gained much applause; Jones recited the tragic termination of the baseball career of one named Casey; and so it went. And when Part First had come to an end the stage was set for the first of the Scenes from Tom Brown at Rugby, and it fell to Dick, as his contribution to the evening’s entertainment, to go before the curtain and explain what was to follow. His appearance was greeted with the heartiest applause that had thus far fallen to the lot of any. The audience was in good humor, Dick was a hero, and here was an opportunity to show approval of the gallant rescuer. The boys cheered, the villagers clapped and stamped applause, the less polite members of the community that fringed the gathering yelled vociferously, and Dick—well, he did a most unaccountable thing: he grew pale, faltered, and even turned toward the wing as though meditating escape. “Such modesty!” breathed a kind-hearted lady in the second row. But after the first impulse toward flight Dick waited for silence, white-faced, unsmiling, and when it came made his speech calmly, in well-modulated but unenthusiastic voice, bowing himself off finally under a second bombardment of applause. Then the curtain arose on Tom Brown and his father in the tap-room of the inn. Mr. Brown, Sr., impersonated by Crocker of the varsity crew, was a hale and hearty country squire in wig, long coat, and top-boots; while a small junior, in ridiculous long trousers and chimney-pot hat, made up excellently as a rather nervous Tom. Crocker delivered his speech of advice in a manner that captured the audience, Boots appeared at the door to announce that the stage-coach was waiting and the curtain descended amid applause.

Dick, however, saw nothing of this. Having gained the wings he seized his hat from a chair, and, unobserved, made his way out of the door into the rear hall, clattered down the stairs and into the darkness. From the brightly lighted building came the sound of clapping hands and laughter; ahead the village street stretched in semidarkness. A yellow gaslight flared at each corner of the little triangle known as The Park. Dick almost ran. As he passed Watson’s stables a challenging bark told him that Muggins had heard his footsteps. On the next corner stood Bradford’s boarding-house. Dick found the front door unlocked, and after a moment’s hesitation climbed the stairs. On the landing above five portals confronted him, but from under only one of them did any light shine. He knocked. A voice bade him enter. Obeying, he found himself in a long, low-studded room, handsomely, almost luxuriously furnished. On a broad couch under the strong light of a big bronze lamp, a book in his hand and his listless eyes turned inquiringly toward the door, lay Roy Taylor.