Mr. Graham was at home again, to the relief of both school authorities and boys. He, of course, heard the tale of the robbery of the safe immediately after his arrival, and went over the matter exhaustively with Miss Devon, whose troubled mind was definitely comforted by the Principal’s emphatic assurance that she was wholly beyond suspicion. Later he was given Mr. Moore’s version.

“I am sure we are making too much of the matter,” said the teacher in conclusion. “We have been a little careless, and are paying a moderate fine for our offence.”

“The loss is to me the most unimportant consideration,” said Mr. Graham. “I would gladly sacrifice the money to learn how it disappeared. If a professional burglar took it, we are simply chance sufferers. If a boy took it, the act was probably due to some desperate distress and sudden temptation. That would mean, according to my experience, either gambling or a bad case of extravagance and debt. These are not pleasant conditions to surmise, but if they exist, I should like to know definitely about them.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Mr. Moore, to whom such a possibility had never occurred.

“Mind, I don’t say that a boy did it,” Mr. Graham hastened to add. “I am merely explaining why I want to know that he did not. Eddy seemed to be very nervous when I questioned him this morning.”

“He was probably frightened at being examined twice,” said Mr. Moore. “I saw nothing of it when I talked with him. Have you considered the possibility that Miss Devon—”

“What?” asked the Principal, as the other hesitated.

“May know more than she has told?”

“No, indeed!” replied the Principal. “Miss Devon is as honest as the day and as methodical as a machine. I have known her for years. It seems to me an act of injustice even to discuss the question.”

The Principal’s manner was not as sharp as his words, but Mr. Moore, whose life experiences had developed in him a goodly portion of caution, if not many other mental possessions of a practical character, felt no encouragement to continue the argument.

“And to me an act of treachery to suspect the boys,” he said good-humoredly, “and so we are thrown back again on the hypothesis of burglary; but I leave the problem with you. It is a relief to drop the burden of it from my shoulders.”

The Principal watched him as he trudged down the walk to the street, a stout, square figure marching sturdily and complacently, substantial behind, benevolent of aspect before. Mr. Graham was also cautious, and his thoughts, as he stood at the window, he would never have uttered; but they ran something like this: “Poor gullible old Moore! The years go by and leave with him more text-book knowledge and more satisfaction in his attainments, but not an additional jot of practical sense. Burglars indeed! Miss Devon may not be sure that she locked the window, but I am, and that to me, at least, is of more consequence. When a person of her systematic habits has done the same thing daily for the last five years, it is highly improbable that she forgot it on that particular day. Therefore the open fastening was a blind to make appearances indicate that the thief entered through the window. Therefore he did not enter by the window, but by one of the doors. So far I have fairly satisfactory reasoning behind me, but here I begin to jump at conclusions. The thief came in by the passage door, and was a student.

“Why a student? Because it was an enterprise which a desperate student might very possibly conceive, but the servants never. And if a student,—then there certainly exists somewhere in the school a plague-spot which must be discovered and cleansed. What a delightful prospect for a half-sick, nerve-worn man to come home to!”

Up the path from the street came a youthful figure of medium height, planting foot after foot with an air of business and determination.

“Sands!” said Mr. Graham to himself. “Another unpleasant task, but this at least will soon be over.”

“You sent for me, Mr. Graham.”

“Yes, to talk with you about Flanahan. Are you likely to want him on the nine?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the boy with a wondering face. “He’s our best pitcher.”

“Then I am glad that I can give you such early notice. He will probably not be allowed to play.”

“Why not, sir?”

“Because I am convinced from various facts which I have learned that he is not a proper person to play on our teams.”

“Do you think that we are hiring him, sir?” said Sands, a flush of indignation burning on his cheeks.

Mr. Graham looked at the student sharply. On the boy’s face was an expression of bitter disappointment and of indignation, but no sign of guilt. “No, I do not,” he replied heartily. “We haven’t fallen so low as that.”

“What is it, then, that you have against him?”

“Simply that he is not considered an amateur above suspicion of taint. I made some inquiries concerning him before my return, and the results were, in my opinion, conclusive.”

“Are you sure about it?”

“Sure as to my opinion, which I may also say is the opinion of Mr. Wallace, who helped me in the investigation. The wisest course for Flanahan would be to withdraw voluntarily from the baseball practice and devote himself to the work for which he says he came here.”

“Is this final?” came through Sands’s quivering lips. “Isn’t he to have a chance to hear the charges and defend himself?”

“Certainly, if he desires it,” replied Mr. Graham, promptly. “You may come, too, and a few others who are especially interested. I want to be fair to you all, but my first duty is to the school.”

The news was quickly abroad, discussed in every room and at every dormitory entrance. The boys naturally favored the unjustly oppressed, though some of the older fellows of influence, like John Curtis, Dickinson, and Melvin, who were not baseball players, sided with the Principal. Sands was disconsolate, Flanahan furious. The latter had talked with Mr. Graham, and returned greatly excited and able to give only a most incoherent account of the interview. On the main subject the pitcher’s explanations were not entirely satisfactory to his supporters. He asserted wildly, denied sweepingly, and fortified his statements by expletives which repelled the decent-minded.

Sands himself was somewhat ashamed of his protÉgÉ, as he led him into the Principal’s room for the hearing and sat down at his side, near the door. Mr. Graham had not yet come in. Melvin and Varrell sat near his desk at the upper end of the long room, opposite the door; at the side were Curtis and Arthur Wheelock, the manager, and several others.

The tension of the waiting seemed to be telling on Flanahan’s nerves. His naturally red face had taken on a deeper hue; his eyes shifted rapidly from point to point; his fists opened and closed and shook convulsively; his head nodded in sudden jerks in emphatic support of the whispered assertions which Sands seemed to be rather combating than listening to.

“Did you hear that?” said Varrell, with his eyes fixed on the pair.

“Of course I didn’t, nor you either,” said Melvin. “I can’t hear whispers at that distance. Sands looks like a man trying to hold a fighting bulldog. I don’t envy him his friend.”

“Sh!” said Varrell, still staring at the two. “The fellow’s wild. He’s just threatened to smash Mr. Graham’s face. Sands can’t control him. Quiet! I’ll repeat for you.”

Dick gaped in wonder. He could see Flanahan’s fierce manner, his clenched fists and lips excitedly moving, but not a single distinct sound reached him. Varrell, with eyes glued on the gesticulating man, began to repeat in phrases which matched the pitcher’s agitated nods:—

“I’m no professional. Whoever says so is a liar. If he tells me so again, I’ll smash his face. Yes, I will; and I don’t care who he is, whether he’s Principal of this old place or not. He’s no better than me. I’ll take it out of him if he gives me any lip,—just see if I don’t! I know what he’s been up to. He’s been sneaking around Brockville. What I got from Brockville was too small to count,—hardly more than expenses. Let me alone, I tell you. I can take care of myself. ‘Fired?’ What do I care about being fired! Just let him say a word and I’ll baste him one in the jaw that he’ll remember.”—“I’ve omitted the cuss words,” added Varrell, in another tone.

Mr. Graham entered and walked toward his desk.

“Did he really say that, Wrenn?” whispered Dick. “Are you fooling or not?”

Varrell gave him an indignant look. “Of course he said it, and he meant it, too. Do you think I’d fool about a thing like this?”

“How’d you know?”

“Don’t ask that now, you idiot! Just watch the Irishman and see that he doesn’t do anything reckless.”

At Mr. Graham’s suggestion the boys took seats near his desk. The Principal then read aloud two or three letters, reported certain facts which he had himself discovered, repeated the opinion of Mr. Wallace, and then asked Flanahan what he had to say.

“Most of those things are lies,” said the pitcher, fiercely. “I ain’t a professional; if they say so, they lie.”

“There’s a difference of opinion as to what constitutes a professional,” said Mr. Graham, kindly. “We will not argue about the name. The question for us is, whether you satisfy our standard. If you have ever received money for playing, whether the sum was large or small, we cannot allow you to play on our teams.”

“I tell you it’s just an attempt to blacken my reputation as an amateur,” screamed Flanahan. “I don’t care whether I play on this measly team or not, but whoever says I’m not an amateur is a liar.”

Mr. Graham rose. “You forget yourself, Flanahan,” he said sternly.

Flanahan choked an instant; then, beside himself with fury, burst forth in a flood of personal invective and threats, aimed directly at the Principal. So unexpected and so unparalleled was the outbreak that most of the audience sat silent and aghast, not knowing what to think or do. There were three, however, to whom a few expressions were warning enough. Melvin and Varrell sprang forward, clutched the irate ball-player by the arms and swung him about, while Sands leaped to their support from the other side. As Flanahan cursed and struggled, Curtis and Wheelock came to their senses and lent assistance. Together they hustled the furious rebel out at the door, like a half-back driven through a hole in the line on a tandem play. A few seconds later Mr. Graham was standing in the empty room conscious of a curious mixture of feelings,—mortification that such a scene should have been possible, but delight in the unhesitating loyalty of the boys.

Around the corner of Carter, Dick Melvin’s two hands held Varrell’s shoulders hard pressed against the brick wall. “No, you don’t! It’s of no use to squirm, because I’m not going to let you off. This thing has got to be explained, and with it some other mysteries. The more I think about it, the more there is to explain. You knew what Phil and I were muttering when you were out of hearing in the next room; you heard what this blood-thirsty villain was whispering to Sands twenty-five feet away; you saw little Eddy in Bosworth’s room, talking about the safe, and you knew what he said. Sometimes you don’t know what is going on right beside you; sometimes you hear what two fellows are saying to each other across the street. No juggling, now! Out with the secret, and be quick about it, or I’ll—”

“You’re a fool, Dick,” retorted the smiling Wrenn, “or you wouldn’t have to ask me. Let me go, and I’ll come in after supper and tell you. Let me go, do you hear?”

“Well then, till to-night! If you’re not on hand by seven, I’ll come after you and squeeze the life out of you,—like this,” he added, catching poor Wrenn under the arms, and giving him a hug that threatened to crush in all his ribs at once.

“No more of that!” gasped Varrell. “I’ll come.”