Brightly was speechless.

He looked from one to the other of the persons present in unfeigned astonishment. Beginning to recover his presence of mind, he took up the papers and examined them. Surely enough, there was the erasure, and there the substitution. The work had not been neatly done, either. The original figures were still discernible.

He laid down the lists, more perplexed than ever. He was sure he had not made the alterations himself, and he could not understand why any one else should have made them,—especially why they should have been made in his favor. Glancing around again on the occupants of the room, he noticed that Colonel Silsbee and Finkelton were looking steadfastly at him, but that Brede sat with his eyes turned away.

In the next moment the explanation was suggested to Brightly’s mind. He knew that Brede had handled the reports that day; he knew that Brede would go any length to injure him. The plot, its conception, its object, its fulfilment, were as plain to him now as sunlight.

A sudden hatred flared up in his heart against the author of so cowardly a scheme,—such a hatred as impels the hand of the assassin. Hot words came to his lips; an indignant denial was on his tongue, a passionate charging of malice and crime against his implacable enemy.

But in the midst of his wrath he took counsel of his judgment, and checked the utterance. What would Brede care for his anger or his arraignment? He would have anticipated that. He would only curl his lips more scornfully than usual, and invite proof of the accusation. That would not do.

Suddenly a new thought flashed into Brightly’s mind. It was the conception of a scheme completely to checkmate his enemy,—a scheme so bold and novel and unprincipled that it swept conscience like a feather before it, and impetuously floated its lie to the lad’s lips.

For one moment he hesitated; then he placed his finger on the altered list, and said: “These figures are correct. That is my true standing.”

Brede turned in his chair and started to his feet, gazing upon the speaker incredulously. The lie was so unexpected, so deliberate, so audacious, that it staggered him.

“Why!” he exclaimed impulsively, “I—” Another word would have betrayed him hopelessly. He saw his mistake in time, checked himself, and dropped into his chair in red-faced confusion.

Colonel Silsbee waved his hand toward the door.

“That is all, Brightly,” he said. “The figures will stand as they are. You are excused.”

Brightly bowed, left the office, and returned to his place in the schoolroom. A few minutes later Brede came out also. His countenance had greatly changed. Instead of the scornful smile of self-satisfaction, his face bore marks of humiliation and of bitter disappointment. He shot one angry glance at the enemy who had outwitted him, and passed to his seat. But his books were nothing to him; he had been baffled, crushed, out-Heroded. He smarted and writhed with a sense of ignominious defeat.

The night passed and the morning came, and the days went by; but this feeling remained with him,—he could not shake it off.

To know that his intended victim had been guilty of an offence so enormous that its mere disclosure would bring down upon the offender punishment and permanent disgrace, and yet to be powerless, to see this unblushing liar go scot-free from the penalty of a crime which he did not dare to bring to light, hurt him, galled him, exasperated him almost beyond endurance.

It made him careless at drill, neglectful of his studies, violent in temper. He spoke lightly of rules; he sought the society of boisterous fellows; he fraternized with the ruder and disorderly element. His demoralization was so marked and rapid that it became the talk of the school.

He never spoke to Brightly; he tried to ignore him; but whenever these two met in those days, whether in the drill-hall, the classroom, or the corridor, each felt that the other knew to a certainty the guilt of both.

And Brede, measuring his enemy’s feeling by his own, had no conception of the true state of Brightly’s mind.

Had he known what this young fellow suffered, he might have asked no greater revenge. The lie was scarcely cold on the lad’s lips before he regretted having spoken it. Within ten minutes from the time he uttered it he would have given much to be able to recall it; but that was clearly impossible. He felt that it would only make the matter so much the worse.

His exultation at Brede’s discomfiture was short-lived. After that night it never gave him a moment’s pleasure. He sought to drown the memory of it in idle thought, in boisterous fun, in hot discussion with his fellows; but all expedients were vain. It was a veritable Banquo’s ghost. He lost strength, hope, courage, ambition. Before the utterance of that fatal falsehood he had not thought but that he should soon regain his office, his honor, and his old position in the school. Now he did not even wish to do so.

But of Brede he had scarcely a thought now, except the occasional flashing up of that old hatred and disgust in his heart. They were little more to each other than strangers.

Once they met and exchanged words. It was in the drill-hall, while they were waiting for supper. There was a small boy at the school who was called by his companions “Apache,” or, more briefly, “Patchy.” He had come there from an army post in the far West, where his father, a government officer, was stationed; and it had pleased his fellows to pretend that they supposed him to belong to the Apache tribe of Indians.

Brede was annoying this boy, who liked play well enough so long as it was not too boisterous, but who felt that he was being handled a little too roughly now, and who called, still half in fun, to Brightly, who was passing at the time, to come to his aid.

Brede had not intended to hurt the lad, and would not have done so; but this appeal to his enemy angered him, and he gave the child’s arm a twist that caused the little fellow to cry out with a pain not now assumed.

Brightly had stopped for a moment, uncertain whether to respond; but when the cry came, he advanced a step toward the two, and said to Brede, “Let the boy alone.”

The captain loosed his hold of Patchy, who immediately made his escape, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, stared for a moment in feigned contempt at his adversary.

“I don’t take orders from disgraced officers!” he said.

Brightly answered, trying to be calm, “A person who has been guilty of forging records shouldn’t talk to others about disgrace.”

Brede’s face grew white with passion. “Nor do I take advice from common and contemptible liars,” he responded scornfully.

It is uncertain what would have been said or done next, had not Harple seized Brightly’s arm and hurried him away. He had chanced to notice the two boys in conversation, had hurried across the hall in time to hear the last words, and, acting on the urgent necessity of the moment, now rescued his friend from further trouble by removing him from the scene.

Harple had made it his business during these days to be with or near his chum as much as possible. He felt somehow that Brightly was no longer responsible for his own conduct, and that some one should be on hand to keep him from bringing further disgrace upon himself. In this case, at least, his vigilance had been amply rewarded. He shuddered to think what the result would have been if the quarrel with Brede had gone on.

But Harple suffered much by reason of his anxiety for his friend. It pained him deeply to see Brightly sinking into such a deplorable state; he was beginning to feel that he was powerless to save him. He had exhausted his powers of logic, of entreaty, even of abuse. He could do nothing now except to stand by and extend such aid and comfort as he might. Brightly was still as friendly with him and apparently as fond of him as of old; but he would not listen to reproof or advice.

Harple watched with alarm the demoralization also of Brede. He felt and knew that there were strong and co-operating influences at work on these two long-time rivals and enemies that were dragging them both, surely and rapidly, to degradation; but what these influences were he could not even guess.

Almost every movement made by either was an act of retrogression. Perhaps the change was more marked in respect to the society they chose than in any other way. Boys with whom Brightly had had nothing in common in the better days, and whom Brede had utterly disdained, appeared now to be the friends of both.

Colonel Silsbee’s hope that the deepening spring-time would put to rest the spirit of unquietness and discontent among his boys was not realized. There was neglect of lessons; there were breaches of military discipline, infractions of academy rules, private quarrels, boisterous conduct.

A half-dozen of the older boys had been discovered one day in a secluded nook smoking cigars and pipes, and had been promptly disciplined. There had been an incipient riot in the upper dormitory at night after taps, the participants in which had been severely punished. Half the school was on delinquency, and of half that number the delinquency was perpetual.

The principal and teachers were quite at a loss what course to pursue. One thing only seemed feasible, and that was to draw the lines with still greater strictness, and to compel the utmost obedience by the severest discipline.

Thus matters stood at the close of a beautiful May day. It was one of those languid, luxuriant days on which every lover of Nature longs to be in the woods and fields, breathing without stint air sweetened by the touch of bursting buds and growing leaves and springing grass.

It was after supper and before the time for the evening session. The boys were strolling about the grounds, playing quiet games, or lounging on the lawn. A group of them, however, had gathered near the eastern porch of the building, and were shouting and singing boisterously. Some one had composed a few doggerel verses containing little of either rhyme or metre, and had entitled them “The Noble Army of Delinquents.” It was the chorus of this song that the members of the little group were shouting out with rude vigor. They tired of this finally, and then one, Fryant, spoke up.

“What we want and need, fellows,” he said, “is a holiday. It’s a shame for Old Sil to put us on delinquency and keep us shut up here such a day as this.”

“True enough!” responded Belcher. “Last year we had a holiday long before this time. The old man’s trying to spite us because we happen to belong to the noble army of delinquents. That’s what’s the matter now, and I, for one, don’t propose—”

“Let’s petition him to go to-morrow,” broke in a third speaker. “The woods are splendid now; Beach and Valentine were over the river yesterday, and they said so.”

“Yes, let’s petition him!” exclaimed two or three at once.

Some one threw up his cap and cried out, “A holiday! holiday!”

In a moment others took up the cry, and sent it out through the twilight. Boys, separately and in groups, came hurrying toward the little party, attracted by the unusual sound. When they heard what the proposition was, they were mostly in favor of it.

It had been the custom of Colonel Silsbee to give his boys a holiday every spring. They usually went in a body to the groves across the river, taking luncheon with them, and spending the day in rowing, in athletic games, or in roaming about the woods.

Such a day could not fail to have charms for any boy; but for these delinquent lads, who were not allowed to leave the grounds, save as they were marched discreetly to church on Sunday mornings and evenings, the very thought of pleasure like this was intoxicating.

The holiday idea was infectious; it spread like a swift contagion. Everybody was shouting for it now.

Some one turned to Brightly, saying, “Here, Bright, you draw the petition; you can do it.”

“Yes,” cried some one else, “let Bright draw it; he’s literary; he can put it in better shape than any other fellow in school.”

Now Brightly was not averse to compliments; and in no way was his vanity more easily flattered than by favorable comment on his literary ability, which, indeed, was not slight.

Moreover, he felt a certain grim pleasure in the fact that although he had been suspended and disgraced by the authorities, yet when anything was to be done requiring peculiar mental skill and art, he was unanimously selected by the boys of the school to do it. So, followed by a score or more of them, he led the way to the vacant schoolroom, intent on the accomplishment of their desires, thoughtless and careless of what the result might be to himself.

Hastily scribbling what he considered a good form for a petition, he read it to the boys.

“’Taint strong enough,” said one.

“We don’t want so much beggarly humility in it,” said another. “We’ve got a right to a holiday, and we’d best let him know’t we know it.”

“Put it to him fair and square, Bright,” said Fryant. “There’s no use mincing matters; he’s bearing down heavy on us, and we’ve got to meet him on his own ground.”

Thus conjured, Brightly made another effort, this time apparently with better success; for when he read what he had written, they all cried, “Good! that’s good! now copy it!”

Six months before he would never have thought of writing such a paper at the dictation of this lawless crowd; but now, with jealousy stinging him, with conscience torturing him, with disgrace hanging over him, he had only his self-respect to fall back upon,—and that, alas! was already following in the wake of hope and ambition, both of which had left him weeks ago.

When the petition was copied, it read as follows:—

At the moment when the paper was ready for signature, Brede entered the room.

“Here!” cried a dozen boys at once. “Brede, captain! sign the petition!”

“What for?” asked Brede, surlily.

“A holiday! We’re going to have a holiday; sign the petish!”

The captain took the paper and read it.

“Haven’t you put it pretty strong?” he asked.

“It’s got to be strong,” was the reply, “or we won’t get the holiday.”

Plumpy, the fat boy, waddled hastily toward the group, crying out in his falsetto voice: “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a mule!”

“Plumpy wants a mule!” shouted Patchy, hilariously. “What you want a mule for, Plumpy?”

“To cross the raging Helles-py-ont and picnic in the groves of doodle dell,” responded Plumpy, in mock heroics.

“Oh, shut up!” cried some one, but Plumpy continued: “Why, then, without a mule, I’ll swim the raging flood me selluf to bask—”

“Oh, shut up! shut up!” sounded a chorus of voices. “Put him out! Sit on him!”

This last suggestion was promptly acted on; a half-dozen lads pounced on the unfortunate fat boy, dragged him to the floor, rolled him over and over like a bulging barrel, and smothered his squeals by placing their combined weight on his elastic body. But they did not hurt him. Indeed, it seemed almost impossible by any course of treatment to give Plumpy more than the suggestion of physical pain.

Brede was still scanning the petition.

“Oh, come, captain!” said some one at his elbow, “sign the petition. If you don’t sign it we won’t stand a ghost of a show.”

“And if you do,” continued another, “we’ll have a dead sure thing.”

Brede’s vanity was flattered.

“Well, I don’t care,” he said sharply. “What’s the use? If a fellow gets into trouble, all he’s got to do is to lie out of it, and Silsbee’ll coddle him back to virtue. There’s no use trying to be decent here any more. Where’s your pen?”

The pen was given to him, and he signed his name. His was the first signature to the petition. Then Harple was sought; but he could not be found, and there was no time to be lost, so others affixed their signatures without regard to the order in which they came.

Brightly signed the paper, of course. He could do no less after having drawn it. Not that he cared about the holiday; but he had become too weak and indifferent to resist any pressure, or to count the cost of any action.

The evening session interfered with a further circulation of the petition; but before tattoo was sounded there was another opportunity to sign it, and at reveille on the following morning it was again on its rounds.

At inspection a committee of two was appointed to present it to the principal. These two, Robinson and Miller, had been selected on account of their popularity and their high standing; one of them, indeed, was an honor-grade man.

They selected the time immediately after breakfast to approach Colonel Silsbee with the petition. He was in his office, and they went there. They were gone but a few moments. When they came out, they were surrounded by a group of eager questioners.

“What did he say?” “Are we going?” “Did he read it?” They were all asking at once.

“Keep still a minute,” said Robinson, “and I’ll tell you. He took the paper and just glanced at it, and then he folded it up again. He said he’d take the matter into consideration, and whatever he conceived to be for the best interests of the school, that he’d do. He said he’d let us know at the opening of the session. Now that’s as near as I can remember it. Isn’t that about what he said, Miller?”

“Just about. It’s as close as you can get to it, anyway. I tell you what, boys, he looked mighty favorable.”

“Do you think we’ll get it, honest?” asked an eager bystander.

“Yes,” replied Miller, “I do.”

“Hurrah for the holiday!” shouted an enthusiastic delinquent. “We’re going to get the holiday! hurrah!”

The good news spread, and as it passed from lip to lip, the holiday was spoken of as an assured fact. Indeed, many of the boys hastened to their rooms to make preparations for going.

As the long file wound up into the schoolroom at the usual hour for the morning session, the flow of good feeling was manifested by so much good-natured mischief that the officers found it difficult to keep order in the ranks.

The morning was beautiful. Nature was propitious; there was not a cloud to be discovered either in the blue sky or on the bright hopes of the students. Everybody was jubilant. Even Brightly had awakened to an unusual degree of enthusiasm, and Brede was smiling and swaggering with much of the old-time manner.

Colonel Silsbee entered the room, read the Scripture lesson as usual, and offered the morning prayer. Then, seating himself again in his chair, he looked down for a moment on the bright and expectant faces before him. In that look, kindly but stern, his pupils discovered the first cloud upon the horizon of their hopes.