AN ENDING

“Well, Sandy,” said the Doctor to his head prefect the next morning, as he waved the embarrassed Maclaren to a comfortable chair, himself standing with his back to the fire, “I am afraid I have been near making a very bad mistake.” And he related in a few words, without involving Carroll, the revelation that had been made to him the night before.

“I see, sir,” said Sandy. “I suppose of course, sir, that you can’t give me the name of your informant. I should like to do a little investigating on my own responsibility.”

“No, I can’t,” responded the Head decisively. “And for some reasons I am sorry; but it was such a manly and unselfish course for the boy to take, that I freely forgave him and promised him immunity. So far as he is concerned, I have no doubt that is the best course. But there are others—the ringleaders, I suspect. I want the investigation made, of course, if you can do it without acting on mere suspicion. If you can get me evidence in a straightforward way, I shall act on it. Just now, I wish you would find Deering and ask him to come in here to see me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Maclaren took his leave then, and the Head Master turned to his morning mail.

Within fifteen minutes Tony stood before him. He had not slept well and the strain through which he had been passing had told on his appearance—his freshness was dulled, there were circles under his eyes, his usually eager manner was unwontedly quiet and subdued.

The Head put the matter very briefly and frankly. “The evidence seemed very strong against you, my boy,” he concluded; “though I will say in justice to you that even when things looked darkest I never ceased to believe in you. I felt the difficulty, but I saw no way out but to push things on.”

“I understand, sir,” Tony replied. The weight was off his heart now, but he was still a little constrained and self-conscious. He was thinking how much he would like to say many things to Reggie and wondering if he could say them when the opportunity came.

“I must say, taking it all in all,” resumed the Doctor, “that heredity seems to demonstrate itself afresh in your case with unusual force. You remind me uncommonly of your grandfather. There was an affair at Kingsbridge in his sophomore year—a piece of brutal hazing. It was rather bad, you know, in our day. But Basil had had absolutely nothing to do with it. He was captured by the proctors under suspicious though in reality perfectly innocent circumstances, and to save a guilty friend, he maintained a stubborn silence to the verge of expulsion. The friend’s confession at last saved him also.”

Tony smiled. “That’s like my grandfather, certainly.”

“I admire the trait, you know,” continued Doctor Forester, “but I think there are limits to its indulgence. There is a point, as a boy seldom can realize, at which the authorities must probe very much as the law probes, with a fine disregard for personal feelings. Things that deeply concern the moral welfare of the boys here I must sometimes be inquisitorial about in a way that I little like. I think it well to suffer for a friend, but not to the extent of permitting untruth to establish itself in the minds of those who after all are responsible for your welfare.”

“I am afraid, sir, I don’t know where to draw the line.”

“No, my boy, I am afraid you do not.”

“I think it was pretty fine of Carroll to come to you, sir,” ventured Tony upon this.

“Yes, yes, so do I. But I think also that it would have been uncommonly mean if he had not. I have forgiven Reginald, partly because of his confession, partly too because I feel quite confident that he is not the ringleader, that he too has been to some extent a victim. I am not quite sure that he altogether deserves the immunity I have promised him—the complete immunity was a concession to you.”

“To me, sir?”

“Yes——”

“I don’t see how, sir?”

“No? Well, perhaps some time you will. You may go now. I am sorry for what has occurred; sorry to have felt it my duty to accuse you, to probe your replies. You will consider yourself, however, gated until further notice, and so will your friends, Wilson and Lawrence. I do not propose to overlook your breaking bounds at midnight. If that happens again, look out for more serious trouble.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They shook hands then, and Tony left.

How, how, mused the Head, as he looked after the boy, was one to put pressure upon the keenness of that sense of honor; and should one, if one could? Sometimes even a head master realizes that there are limits to his wisdom. One of the indications that the limits of Doctor Forester’s wisdom were less restricted than is often the case was the sincerity with which he frequently questioned his own actions.

After dinner Tony found his cronies waiting in the quadrangle back of the Old School for a report on his interview with the Head. He informed them briefly of the fact that he had been cleared and discharged on the several items of the accusations, but also of the penalty of gating that had been imposed upon the trio.

“Well, that’s all very nice and jolly,” said Kit, as the three sat and kicked their heels against a bench outside their form common-room, “and really not much of a soak for the provocation we undoubtedly gave ‘em. I only hoped in the old gentleman’s excitement about the shanty that he’d forget our minor sins. Not he! But, on the other hand, considering that they spoiled the best part of the lark and insulted you uncommonly by supposing all manner of rotten immoral things, I’m equally torn as to whether it’s not an awful roast and with wondering how we get off at all, at all.”

“Say, kiddo, you are all tangled up,” said Tony, feeling Kit’s head for indications of unsuspected abnormalities.

“I am, I confess it,” that youth blandly responded. “Kindly inform Jim and me, who’ve been unfeelingly omitted from these interesting interviews, who was the victim that went so willingly to the sacrifice?”

“Well,” interrupted Jimmie, “not Arty Chapin—”

“No, Chapin’s a bounder.”

“Not Hen Marsh.”

“No, Hen’s a shadow of Arty’s, and a poor measly sort of shadow at that.”

“Nor Buster Thorndyke.”

“Rather not,” assented Kit; “Buster’s just plain garden variety of no good.”

“Well, there are other candidates, of course, for the honor; but though nameless I guess we can count on them failing to qualify—all of which rather narrows the possibilities to Reginald Carter Westover Carroll.”

“Now look here!” exclaimed Tony. “It’s to Reggie’s credit or I wouldn’t admit it. Reggie’s a peach. I can’t stand for a word against him. He’s made everything all right.”

“Oh, Reggie’s all right,” admitted Kit soothingly. “Reggie is certainly all right. Haven’t I always said so? Haven’t I deplored from the very beginning that he was in with such a crowd of bounders. This only proves that he’s too good for them. I only hope,” he added, with mock gravity, “that this will have taught him a lesson and that in the future he will model himself upon us.”

Upon this Tony turned and with a powerful swing of his left arm swept Kit out off the bench onto the snow. But Wilson, in his sudden descent, reached out instinctively, grabbed Tony by an arm and a leg, and pulled him down on top of him. Jimmie joyously fell on the heap. For several blissful moments there was wonderful rough-house. Tony emerged at last, sent Jimmie sprawling, and established himself for a brief triumphant moment on Kit’s stomach.

“Swear you’ll never tell any of it, or I’ll stuff your mouth full of dirty snow. Swear!”

“I swear,” yelled Kit. “Let me up, you white trash! Jim, to the rescue!”

But Tony was up and at bay, and by whirlwind sparring was keeping Jimmie at his distance. Kit was ludicrously slow, and had a bad thump on his knee, which he rubbed ruefully as he arose with exaggerated dignity.

“Cut it,” he bellowed. “Come on, do let’s crawl back in the sun and be nice and quiet and comfy again.”

The other two quickly desisted and helped the wounded warrior to his seat. “I’m sorry, kid,” began Tony. “Didn’t mean to hurt you. Does it hurt so much, old man?” he added, teasingly.

Kit could not resist, but lumbered forward, despite the thumped knee, and fell afresh on the light-footed Deering.

“Keep off, Jim!” yelled Tony, and again they went crashing to the ground. “He has got to eat that nice clean white snow.”

“No—! I swear,” protested Kit. But they were in for it, and with Jimmie standing by, after a few moments of furious wrestling, both fed the other handfuls of snow, until exhausted with laughter and the effort, they lay supine and called on Lawrence piteously to help them up.

“I’m off,” said Jimmie, “call-over bell is ringing, and the Gumshoe’s on deck.”

“Oh, hang, oh hang the Gumshoe,” pleaded Kit.

They picked themselves up, cheeks glowing, eyes glistening, clothes and hair tossed.

“Such is life,” said Wilson, ostentatiously rubbing his knee.

At this moment Mr. Roylston emerged from the door of the Old School and was passing them on his way to the Gymnasium to hold call-over. He glanced at their disheveled clothes and paused.

“Will you take our names, sir?” asked Lawrence.

“Hm—yes,” replied the master at length. “And may I ask, do you propose to wallow for the rest of the afternoon in the dirt and snow?”

“Not much else to do, sir,” answered Kit ruefully, “we’re gated.”

“Ah!” murmured Mr. Roylston, not making the pretense of concealing his satisfaction, “to whom is the credit of having awarded you with your just deserts? I may ask?”

“Certainly, sir,” responded Kit blithely, “the Head.”

“Ah, indeed. Well, I will note your names.” And with that he passed quickly on.

“Ain’t he the tender-hearted elder brother?” said Kit, with a not altogether pleasant glance in the direction of the master’s retreating figure. “Well, I vote we play fox and geese and keep the amiable Gumshoe chasin’ us through the houses. ‘Twill be our only means of getting exercise.”

And fox and geese it was, and Mr. Roylston and they had plenty of exercise, and that night Deering and Lawrence and Wilson had a good long rest as they stood outside of Mr. Roylston’s study-door in Howard House until the clock struck twelve.

The gating, however, did not last many weeks, and before long our friends were back at their old haunts again.

Sandy Maclaren meanwhile was pursuing his investigation with both ardor and discretion. He felt certain of his victims, if he only had patience to watch their doings carefully. Chapin and Marsh were in his house, so that he could note their absences up to lights without deliberately spying. After lights Sandy was at a loss, for he did not believe in going into a boy’s bedroom to see if he were there. Nor on the other hand was it possible often to visit the shanty. However he gained an unexpected ally in his house master, Mr. Roylston. The doings at the shanty in Lovel’s Woods had come to that gentleman’s ears; he also had his suspicions; and he did not share Sandy’s scruples about quietly making sure half-an-hour after lights that none of his boys were out of their rooms.

He came one evening toward the end of the term to Maclaren’s study about half-past ten. Sandy was almost ready for bed. “Chapin and Marsh are not in their rooms, Maclaren,” he said.

“What, sir?” exclaimed Sandy, starting to his feet, “how do you know, sir?”

“That is of no consequence. Chapin and Marsh are out of their rooms.”

“Do you know where they are, sir?”

“I have some reason to suspect that they are playing poker in that wretched shanty in the Woods.”

“Oh, but we raided that, you know; took all their stuff,—if it was they.”

“Yes, but a clever criminal goes directly back to commit his crimes in the same place. After a little time he is nowhere so safe. Most fools think lightning never strikes in the same place twice. I have suspected them for some time, but I have not before been sure that they were missing. I am sorry to ask you to make a journey over to the Woods at this time of night, but I cannot well leave the House. You will probably find them, I think; in which case you will direct them to report to me at once. I will wait up until your return.”

Poor Sandy began to pull on his clothes. He did not like the job, not merely because it was cold and dark, but because he would have preferred to have received the information from another master. He was not adverse to catching Chapin and Marsh, if he was to catch them, but he felt a little sorry for himself as well as them that it all had to come on such a night. He routed out Larry Cummings to go with them, and they started on the dismal journey. After all, duty was duty, they reflected; and if that gang could be broken up it would be a good thing for the school.

It was nearly midnight when Sandy, Larry and their victims—Chapin, Thorndyke and Marsh—returned to Mr. Roylston’s study. The master received them with a quiet satisfaction. It was a good, and thought Sandy a little unkindly, an easy night’s work for him.

“You will all retire at once,” he said in grave judicial tones, “and in the morning you will accompany me to the Rectory.”

It was a clear case for the Head Master on the morrow, though he singularly failed to congratulate Mr. Roylston on the success of his detective work. He suspended judgment until he could talk with Mr. Morris about Reggie Carroll’s connection with the affair.

Morris, when the Head had sent for him, was convinced that Carroll deserved the leniency; that there were chances for him in the school of making good that did not exist for Chapin, that were doubtful for Thorndyke and Marsh. Carroll certainly had improved, markedly improved, since his confession. He had broken, Morris felt, with his old crowd.

“Besides,” he added, “as for Chapin there is an old score against him that should perhaps weigh with you in your decision, Doctor Forester.”

“Yes?—what is that?”

Morris told the story of the Boxford game of the year before.

“Ah, I see,” said Doctor Forester, and he did see with an admirable lucidity. “And Deering held his tongue about that too?”

“About that too,” answered Morris.

“Unusual boy!”

“A very fine boy, sir.”

“Yes, a fine boy. Well, I think that settles it. After Chapin is gone I shall tell the prefects the whole story, and I think perhaps it will be well that the school should know it too, at least through them. We can trust them to do justice to the football episode, anyway.”

“I agree with you, sir,—now; but for a long time I wanted to let things take their course. It has been good for Deering. It has deepened his easy-going pleasant nature; or rather it has served to bring out the deep things that are in his nature.”

“Yes, yes—that was right, I dare say. But that you have told me now makes my course perfectly clear. I am glad you have done so.”

Chapin was shortly summoned to the Rectory. He had a brief and uncomfortable interview with Doctor Forester, and an hour later he boarded a train bound for Coventry, and was heard of at Deal School no more. Marsh and Thorndyke and one or two others were suspended for the rest of the term, and after this house-cleaning the school settled down to its normal life.

One afternoon not long after these events Doctor Forester paused on the terrace of the Old School and looked over the playing-fields. The snows had melted, the frost was out of the ground, it was one of the first warm days of the Spring shortly before the Easter vacation, and the boys were playing ball for the first time, rushing the season as they commonly do. Doctor Forester liked baseball, for it gave him less anxiety than some other games.

Morris had joined him as he stood on the terrace in the pleasant sunlight. Morris was an Old Boy, and the Head had a special feeling for him that for the most part he carefully concealed. He welcomed him now with a sympathetic nod.

Just below them a rod or so away Jimmie Lawrence and Tony Deering were passing ball.

“Good to see the baseball starting, eh? Who are those two boys just below us? Deering and Lawrence? I am getting blind, I fancy. I wish Deering were as good a baseball player as he is a good football player. Oh, yes, I know you like the other game. Look, how quick he is! I like that. By the by, I have thought often of what you told me of his keeping his mouth shut about Chapin’s trick in the Boxford game. It was like a Deering. His grandfather was just such a chivalrous fool—such a good Christian, Morris! I like a boy like that here. He will do something. I wonder what?”

“Who knows, sir? We can count on him, I feel sure of that.”

“And that is much. One muses of these boys now and then—what the future has for them. Yes—you do, I know. I envy you sometimes knowing them as you can and do. How much one wants to do for them, eh? That Deering, now—we must watch him. He will be worth while.”

“Yes, I think so. We shall see, sir, just how.”

“Yes, we shall see.” And still musing, the Doctor turned away.

Morris stayed on for a long time watching the boys on the playing-fields.

The Head Master had turned as he was about to enter the Old School and glanced again at his younger colleague, and a smile of quiet affection and satisfaction stole over his keen kindly face.