“Do you think Bosworth’s still keeping it up?” asked Melvin, as he stood before the fireplace in Varrell’s room in Hale a day or two later.

“I am sure he is,” said Wrenn. “You can look right across from this room to his windows in Sibley. His shades were down close all last evening, and he doesn’t usually lower them, even when he’s dressing.”

“Tompkins’s conduct is beyond me,” said Melvin. “He seemed as indignant as any of us when the story came out, but I’ve seen him twice in the last two days hanging around with that gambler, as friendly as if he had known him for years.”

“I thought Tommy was a pretty decent fellow,” mused Varrell. “There’s no counting on these wild Westerners.”

“Well, what do you think?” questioned Dick, returning to the matter that had brought him over to Hale. “Are we bound to sit quietly and see Bosworth play his faro tricks on these little fellows? The next step will be to get them all in debt to him, and then he can keep bleeding them as they have money by promising them a chance to get even again.”

“And that’s not all,” said Varrell; “they’ll have to write lies to their families in order to get extra money to pay up with; and when they get used to lying about one thing, they’ll lie about another, and keep on lying till there’s no truth left in them. A little kid that’s tough is about the meanest and most pitiable individual you can find. He goes down hill like a ball rolling down an inclined plane,—friction disregarded.” The terms of physics occurred naturally to Varrell, who took especial delight in the study.

“Suppose we talk to the boys,” said Melvin, tentatively.

“It would probably do no good. The little fools don’t know enough to take advice.”

“Then we must deal directly with Bosworth,” said Melvin, decisively. “It’s an awfully unpleasant job to tackle,—makes you feel as if you were interfering in another fellow’s private affairs, and setting yourself up to be better than any one else; but the thing must be stopped.”

Varrell nodded in grave approval. “There’s nothing else to be done, and you’re the man for the job.”

“Why not you?” asked Dick, shortly.

“Because,” replied Varrell, with a smile of satisfaction, “you are Richard Melvin, the President of the senior class and the most famous full-back that ever shed glory—”

“Cut that out!” interrupted Melvin, authoritatively. “This is a serious matter, and we can’t afford to have any confounded nonsense mixed up with it.”

Varrell’s smile faded reluctantly away. “I am serious. You can do the thing without giving the fellow a chance to face you down or put you in a ridiculous light with the rest of the school, or advertise your cheek. You hold too strong a position to run any risk. I’m a newcomer and practically unknown.”

“Why shouldn’t both of us go?” said Melvin, after an interval of consideration, still shrinking from an odious task.

Again his friend had a decisive reply. “No, he will take it better and it will do more good if you go quietly by yourself, as if you alone knew it.”

Dick looked at his watch. “I think you are right, and if you are, the sooner the job is over, the better; so here goes!”

With these words he clapped his cap on his head and started for the door. Before Varrell could raise himself from his armchair and get across the room, he heard his visitor jumping quickly down the stairs.

“Oh, Dick!”

“Well, what?” came from the landing below.

“Remember that he’s slippery. Give it to him straight. Don’t let him lie out of it.”

“Never you fear!” called back Melvin, as he plunged on down the stairs.

Bosworth was sitting at his desk with a book open before him. His thoughts, however, were not on his lesson, as was clearly shown by the moody, fitful way in which his eyes wandered from mantel to window. His face wore a gloomy and bitter look, as if he were brooding on some particularly disagreeable event of recent occurrence that still rankled deep. His expression brightened as Melvin opened the door in response to the usual “come in”; for as Varrell had said, the senior was a well-known man, and Bosworth, who valued popularity far more than the ordinary virtues, had a moment of gratified vanity in the thought that Melvin was honoring him with a call. The pleasure was of short duration.

“No, I think I won’t sit down,” said the visitor. “My business is a rather unpleasant one which I can perhaps better attend to standing.”

Bosworth’s face hardened.

“I understand that you have been gambling with some of the little boys and getting their money away from them.”

“I’d like to know who says that!” exclaimed Bosworth, indignantly. “It’s a lie.”

“I’m sorry to hear you deny it,” returned Melvin, calmly. “The information was pretty direct.”

“It’s a lie, just the same,” answered Bosworth, fiercely, his pale face becoming in spots still paler. “It’s no affair of yours, anyway.”

“That’s what I expected you to say. In one sense it isn’t; in another it is not only my affair but that of every fellow here who feels any responsibility for the moral condition and honor of the school. It’s a contemptible trick to teach these little fellows to gamble. The result can’t be anything but bad for them, even if they don’t get into trouble from it here in school. And you know what would happen if the Faculty got on to it.”

“I suppose you’re on your way to let them know,” sneered Bosworth.

“No, I’m not!” retorted Melvin, taking a step forward with clenched fists, and then checking himself a moment to master the indignation that was boiling up in his throat. “But mind you, I don’t say what I won’t do if you keep this thing up. It’s not impossible that I may turn tale-bearer, but first I’ll try an easier method. Quit this thing, and quit it right off, or I’ll give you the worst thrashing you ever had,—and I’ll keep on thrashing you till you’re glad to sneak out of town.”

“Huh!” said Bosworth, contemptuously, but retreating to a safe position behind the table. “I’m not the only one that gambles,” he added significantly.

“I won’t discuss that,” retorted Melvin. “You’re the leader, and that’s enough.”

He turned toward the door. “I hope I’ve made myself clear. If you want to get hurt—badly hurt—just try another game with the little boys.”

With that, Melvin shut the door and shot downstairs as if to put the whole scene as quickly as possible behind him. He kept away from Varrell’s room in order to avoid the necessity of repeating the conversation, but with all his efforts it insisted on repeating itself over and over in his own mind, in exaggerated detail, until he was finally left with the uncomfortable impression that he had been ugly and had made savage threats and said ill-considered things, and that Bosworth had merely denied and sneered.

“It’s just as I thought last year,” he said to himself, dismally, “when Grim was so serious about the responsibility and the opportunity which the older fellows have. I felt then it was all nonsense; I know it’s so, now. The fellow who undertakes to make things better in school just renders himself unhappy and gets himself disliked.”

And then he felt again the impulse of the spirit that had carried him through so many months of discouragement to the final triumph of the great game. Unpleasant though it might be, his course was right; and having started on it, he would abide the consequences without wavering or shrinking. With this feeling uppermost, he marched off serenely to his recitation.

If he could have had a glimpse into Bosworth’s room and seen there the most frightened boy in school, he would not have wasted so much time in misgivings. His visit had had its effect.

The next morning Phil did not return promptly from his recitation. When he did come, there was a glint of pleased excitement in his very expressive eyes that aroused his room-mate’s curiosity.

“What is it, Phil,” asked Dick. “Encouragement from Sands?”

The boy’s countenance fell. “Not much! I’m not likely to get encouragement from him. My news is about something else. Eddy has got his money back.”

For an instant Dick enjoyed a sweet vision of a gambler, frightened into reform by bold threats, making righteous restitution to his victims. But the vision merely appeared and vanished, like the landscape under a lightning flash on a dark stormy night, leaving the boy more in the dark than ever.

“Got his money back! You don’t mean that Bosworth has given it back to him?”

“I’m not exactly certain about that,” said Phil. “All I know is that Tompkins came to him, asked him how much Bosworth had got from him, took out the money, said it came from Bosworth, and then made Eddy promise not to play again, and gave it to him.”

Dick whistled. “What in the world had Tommy to do with it?”

“Didn’t I tell you that I don’t know!” said Phil, impatiently. “The main thing is that Eddy’s got his money back and has promised to keep out of such things in the future.”

“It’s mysterious,” said Dick.

“Mysterious!” echoed the boy. “I don’t care about the mystery. It’s a low-down business, and Eddy is mighty lucky to get out of the hole. The worst thing about it is, that it will do him no good. I can’t really sympathize with the fellow. He hasn’t any moral backbone at all.”

“You ought to try to stiffen him up,” said the wise upper-class man.

“Stiffen him up! stiffen an eel!” returned the disgusted junior. “The only way you can do that is to kill it.”

If Phil was superior to curiosity, Melvin was not and Varrell was not. Together they lay in wait for the Westerner as he came whistling upstairs, and in a trice had him in the room, with the door held tight closed behind Melvin’s square shoulders, undergoing a cross-examination.

But Tompkins proved a most unwilling witness. He declared that he had no information to give. When they threatened to choke him, he gave them a bland smile; when told he would not be let out for dinner, he averred that he wasn’t hungry; when promised imprisonment for all day, he announced himself wholly content, as he had a lot of hard problems to do in which he should be delighted to have Melvin’s assistance. At last Varrell abandoned the examination and began to talk athletics. Presently he asked Melvin whether he had found Bosworth in when he visited him the day before.

“Why, yes,” replied Dick. “Didn’t I—”

A wink from Varrell stopped him.

“Tell us about it.”

As Dick, prompted by Varrell’s shrewd questions, launched out on a detailed account of yesterday’s interview, Tompkins passed quickly from assumed indifference to open interest, and from open interest to self-forgetfulness. With the end of the story he burst into a shout.

“Well, that’s what I call rubbing it in! and the poor chap hadn’t a cent to his name!”

Varrell rose with solemnity. “Look here, Tommy, that requires explanation. Whatever he is, the man isn’t a poor chap in any good sense. He doesn’t deserve any pity unless because of the way in which he gave back the money, and that you’re bound to tell us. You’ve said too much now to keep the rest.”

Tompkins was bursting with merriment. The secret he could keep, but not the joke.

“I’ll tell you two fellows, not because you’ve made me, or because it’s any of your business, but just because it’s so blamed funny that I can’t keep it in, and you’re the safest people to trust it to. I made up to Bosworth and got him to ask me to play with him. I reluctantly consented, and before we were through I’d cleaned him all out and had the money to give back to the kids. Then the very next day Dick pounced upon him and threatened his life, and he hadn’t a dollar of his ill-gotten gains about him. That’s where the joke comes in. It’s rich!” and he burst out again in a noisy laugh.

But neither Melvin nor Varrell seemed to appreciate the joke.

“And that’s the way you got the rascal to give back the money?” asked Melvin, aghast.

“Yes, why not?” said Tompkins. “Tar the devil with his own stick!”

Varrell looked at Melvin, and Melvin looked at Varrell, and neither knew what to reply.

“How could you do it?” said Melvin, at last. “Don’t you know that it’s totally against all rules? They’d fire you without a moment’s notice, if they knew you played.”

“They won’t know it,” said Tompkins, coolly. “Bosworth isn’t going to tell them, and I’m not and you’re not. Besides, I don’t play. This was only a special emergency.”

“But how could you do it?” repeated Varrell, who considered the practical side, as Melvin the moral. “Bosworth must be an old hand at the game.”

Tompkins was standing by the door which Melvin had long since abandoned. He turned on the threshold, and holding his head tightly framed between jamb and door, he answered with a patronizing air: “Oh, Bosworth plays a pretty good game for a tenderfoot. But poker? Why, they teach it in the public schools in Butte!”