Two minutes later a youth in khaki, armed with a gun, stopped the up car just around the curve beyond the power-house, called out a startled passenger, and let the car go on. Those who were curious enough to look back—including a shrewdly grinning conductor—saw the pair disappear over the fence into a clump of trees.

“What’s up?” demanded Duncan, as soon as his foot touched the ground.

“They’re going to transfer passengers at the power-house. Towle and Snow are there—” Sam stopped for breath; his run up the hill had winded him. “You’d have been caught like a rat in a trap.”

Duncan whistled, and gave vent to a variety of exclamations prompted by a variety of feelings. Sam cut into them abruptly.

“You can’t show yourself until after the car passes here. By that time the other one will have gone, and there isn’t another for an hour.”

“And some one is likely to be on that,” said Duncan, gravely.

“Yes, and on the one after. If you want me to, I’ll stay down and watch to see who’s aboard, and give you a signal. Or—”

“Or what?”

“You might walk back. It’s only five miles.”

“In all this mud?” cried Duncan.

“It isn’t so bad on the track; and it’s the safest way. If any one sees you walking, it won’t hurt, because you’ve got a right to walk where you want to.”

“That’s true,” said Duncan. “Well, I guess I’ll walk. What are you going to do?”

“I got permission for the marshes. I suppose I ought to go.”

“Go ahead!” answered Duncan. “There comes your car. I’ll see you when you get home.”

Sam vaulted the fence, stopped his car, and got in. Professor Towle fastened on him a questioning glance as he sat down.

“We were wondering what had become of you,” said the teacher, kindly. “You went on ahead?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Sam, demurely.

“Rather unpleasant walking,” remarked Mr. Snow, looking at Sam’s muddy feet.

“I don’t mind the walking,” Sam hastened to say. “When you’re out with a gun, you go through so much mud that a little more or less doesn’t count.”

“I suppose so,” responded Mr. Snow. Professor Towle was thinking in a half-interested way that it was a queer freak for a boy to go ahead of a car on a day like this, and wondering vaguely what prompted the impulse. He did not wonder long. When one has been guessing more or less unsuccessfully at schoolboy conundrums for a quarter of a century, one gives up easily before a casual new one.

When Sam came back to 7 Hale that night, with game bag empty as usual, he found Duncan stretched out in an easy chair before the fire, arrayed in bath robe and slippers. His shoes, brown with mud and bleached at the tips with water, sulked, neglected, in a corner.

“Been to dinner?” inquired Sam, as he opened the door.

“Not going,” Duncan answered laconically. “When I got back about five, I was so dead hungry I couldn’t wait for dinner, so I filled up at McLane’s. You see I didn’t stop for much luncheon this noon. I had a whopping big steak with two orders of French fried, and half a lemon pie. I sha’n’t want anything more to eat this week.”

“What do you think about it now; was it worth while or not?” Sam talked from his bedroom, where he was busy peeling off his soaked clothes.

“No, it wasn’t,” responded Duncan, slowly. “I didn’t see much of the surf, and I came near getting into trouble.” He waited a minute and added as an afterthought, “From one point of view it was.”

“What’s that—exercise?”

“No. I found out what a good fellow I’ve got for a room-mate!”

A thrill of delight ran through Sam’s chilly limbs as he heard this unexpected acknowledgment. His own heart had long since declared itself. Yet an instinct of self-repression, inbred by many generations of Puritan ancestors, combined with the aversion to sentiment common to all boys, forced an almost flippant answer to his lips. “You’d better wait till the end of the year before you say that. Your opinion of me may slump.”

“I’ve waited long enough—too long. You got me sour on you at first when you turned me out of my room; then the way you let Mulcahy work you, made me sore.”

“I was pretty slow about Mulcahy,” confessed Sam, “but that was partly your fault. I thought you were unfair to him, and that made me hang on to him.”

“How did you come to go down there this afternoon?” asked Duncan, with an abrupt change. “You didn’t say anything about going when I started off.”

“I thought I might as well go,” Sam answered carelessly. He shied at confessing the real reason.

“You saved my neck, all right,” remarked Duncan. “I believe you went on purpose. I’m going to think so, anyway.”

Sam hurried his shower and his dressing and got over to dinner before the doors were closed. On his way back he stopped at Dr. Leighton’s rooms to tell him that he had returned within the time set. Dr. Leighton invited him in, and they talked together intimately for an hour, not as teacher and pupil, but as friends. They fell ultimately upon the subject of injustice in the school life; of boys who trotted and cribbed and got C, while boys who plugged and were honest got E; of lies that secured immunity when the truth brought punishment; of Duncan Peck kept on pro for three weeks when Fish got off with one for the same offence; of the troubles of mischievous Birdie Fowle, who, though by no means a bad boy, was considered a monster, while others were thoroughly corrupt and yet enjoyed an immaculate reputation; of hypocrites who joined the Christian Frat because it would help them with the faculty, yet showed no respect for the principles of the organization. Dr. Leighton did not deny the facts of injustice; he did not undertake to absolve either himself or his colleagues from all mistakes in their estimates of the boys. But he did try to show that injustice is not intentional or permanent, that immorality and dishonesty are sure to work their way to the light of day and receive their reward; that no boy can escape the responsibility for his own character and influence. Sam went home feeling that his own unimportant life, if lived cleanly and honorably, might have a value in the school world.

Mr. Alsop returned Monday morning, his sensitive and suspicious soul agitated by a dire discovery. He had distinctly seen, as he walked along a Boston street on Saturday evening, Duncan Peck with another, unrecognized boy entering a theatre—Duncan Peck, whom he himself had put on probation, and who could not, save by misrepresentation, get leave of absence from any one. He went immediately to Peck’s boarding place—Duncan had long since wearied of Alumni—to make inquiries, and learned that Peck had not been present at dinner Saturday night nor at breakfast Sunday morning. He visited the matron of the dormitory, and was told that the maid who had gone in to take care of Number 7 on Sunday had reported Peck sleeping soundly at nine o’clock, with shoes standing before the fireplace still wet, and muddy trousers hanging over a chair. Remembering the heavy downpour of rain which had occurred early that morning, Mr. Alsop felt that his case was complete. The rascal had broken his probation, had taken a six o’clock train to Boston Saturday night, attended the theatre in the evening, spent the rest of the night—no one knew how—and returned in fancied security by the paper train very early in the morning. It was a piece of tragic but most successful detective work. The circumstantial evidence supporting the testimony of his own eyes was complete.

Yet before he laid the scandal in all its appalling details before the faculty, Mr. Alsop decided to question Peck, and incidentally Archer. It should never be said that he had condemned a boy without a hearing. From Archer he expected no confirmation of his own true account of Peck’s movements on that fatal night, for in accordance with the notions of loyalty prevailing among the students, a room-mate would feel bound to hide the facts, however heinous the guilt of the offender. Peck, of course, would not hesitate to lie, when he found himself trapped.

The two boys rose as the instructor walked solemnly into the room. He dismissed the offered chair with a wave of the hand and a chilly “Thank you,” and entered straightway upon his business.

“Peck, I have come to ask you about your absence from town on Saturday,” he began.

Duncan threw a look of dismay at his chum. “My absence from town!” he exclaimed, striving to appear wholly surprised, yet conscious of a traitorous blush suffusing his cheeks and a well-nigh irresistible inclination to avoid the instructor’s stern eye.

“Yes, from town,” repeated Mr. Alsop, with slow and distinct emphasis.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Duncan.

It would have been an interesting problem for a mediÆval casuist to determine the moral character of this statement; whether a black lie, a white lie, or no lie at all. Duncan used it merely as a means of drawing the teacher out. He suspected that he knew only too well what the instructor meant. Yet, as a fact, he knew nothing. Mr. Alsop recognized it at once as the first of the expected chain of falsehoods, and sharpened his wits to detect its successor.

“Where were you on Saturday afternoon?”

“Knocking around,” answered Peck, vaguely, sure now that he saw Mr. Alsop’s meaning, and wondering how he had been found out.

“Were you out of town?”

Duncan was silent.

“Where were you in the evening?” went on the inquisitor, triumphantly. The weak line of defence was already breaking.

“Here,” replied the defendant, puzzled to understand the bearing of the question.

“Are you quite sure, Peck?” said the questioner, solemnly.

“Yes, sir.”

Sam stepped forward and opened his lips, “Mr. Alsop—”

He was interrupted by an uplifted hand. “I am questioning Peck, if you please.” Sam retired, abashed.

“Were you not in Boston Saturday evening, Peck?”

“In Boston!” Into this three-syllabled explosion Duncan compressed a heavy charge of wonder and relief.

“Yes, in Boston!” returned Mr. Alsop, with sharp emphasis. “You are doubtless an excellent actor, Peck, but please do not answer my questions with exclamations. Were you in Boston Saturday night or not?”

“Not!” replied Duncan, his eyes twinkling, and the corners of his mouth twitching in an incipient smile. He had recovered his self-possession completely.

“This is not a fit subject for jest, Peck.” Duncan’s face sobered immediately. “It is a very serious matter. I repeat my question once more and demand a frank answer. Were you in Boston last Saturday evening?”

“I was not,” answered Duncan, in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on the floor.

“It would be better to confess honestly than to persist in a lie, Peck,” continued Mr. Alsop, in a judicial manner.

Duncan did not reply. His head was turned away.

“The fact is bound to come out, whether you admit it or not.”

“What fact?”

“The fact that you were in Boston Saturday night. I saw you there with my own eyes just as you were entering the Colonial Theatre!”

Duncan drew a long breath, and waited an artistic interval before replying. “I suppose if you saw me—” he began.

“If I saw you, what, Peck?” prompted the teacher, gently.

“If I should confess, should I get off any easier?”

“I can make no promises. The faculty would doubtless give the fact consideration. You have been a long time in school.”

“Why, he has nothing to confess!” broke in Sam. “He was here Saturday evening. I can testify to it.”

To Sam’s surprise, Duncan turned roughly upon him. “It’s no use for you to say that. You’d better keep your fingers out of it.”

Mr. Alsop nodded approval. “I respect your desire to help your friend, Archer, but false testimony will only serve to hurt you without benefiting Peck.”

This calm assumption that he was prepared to act the part of a false witness wounded Sam’s self-respect and stirred his indignation. For the instant, however, he was dumb with astonishment. Before he could gather his wits to make protest, Duncan had turned away from Mr. Alsop and shot at his chum a beseeching look, emphasized by a vigorous side jerk of the head, that closed the boy’s opening lips.

Again silence, broken by Mr. Alsop.

“It is better to make a clean breast of it, Peck,” he said, in a persuasive voice.

Peck drew another long breath and lifted his eyes to the instructor’s face. He had evidently taken a deep resolution.

“Tell me everything frankly,” encouraged Mr. Alsop.

“I wasn’t in Boston at all,” declared Duncan, lapsing suddenly into a sullen manner. “I haven’t been in Boston for five weeks.”

Mr. Alsop’s face hardened. “You insist on that story, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So much the worse for you, then. The faculty will consider the case on Tuesday evening. I will give you until that time to come to your senses.”