A RIFT IN FRIENDSHIP

The prominent members of a particular set of boys can scarcely be on bad terms with each other without the relations of them all being more or less affected, and this was certainly the case with our friends at Deal. Tony had more and more become the real leader of the little circle, so that Kit’s defection partook of the nature of a rebellion.

Tack Turner, who had blackballed Finch at Kit’s request, had by that act lined himself on Wilson’s side. He was a slow, rather dull boy, quieter than the others, but generally liked. He had not felt particularly one way or the other with regard to Finch, and had agreed with Kit chiefly because it happened to be Kit that spoke to him first. But having given his word, he was of that tenacious and somewhat unintelligent type, that will stick to it whether subsequent events show his position to be a reasonable one or not. His semi-indifferent attitude was transformed, however, into violent partisanship for Kit, as Tony took occasion the morning after the Dealonian meeting to express his opinion of Tack’s blackballing Finch somewhat caustically.

“I confess, Tack,” he said “that I never gave you the credit for much independence of judgment, but I didn’t think you were quite so devoid of it as to vote just the way you were told to.”

Turner growled out a bitter retort to this unnecessary remark, and the two parted on bad terms for the first time in their lives.

Charlie Gordon, a light-hearted, easy-going, generous-minded lad sided naturally enough with Tony, and had been quite impressed by Tony’s eloquence the evening before. Teddy Lansing had not voted, and refused to commit himself. Poor Jimmie Lawrence was torn in both directions. He had been willing enough to vote for Finch and let Tony have his way, because he was deeply and genuinely fond of him, and was accustomed to follow his lead; but he could not bring himself to feel, despite Tony’s eloquent appeal at the meeting, that there was any real case for Finch with respect to the Dealonian, and he deplored the fact that Tony insisted on his plan. He was fond of Kit also; they had been chums since they had entered Deal together in the First Form five years before. His position was really a very hard one, because he felt and tried to be neutral, and neither Tony nor Kit, between whom the breach grew wider, was satisfied with neutrality. Both actually, if not expressly, were demanding partisanship.

Perhaps the most unfortunate aspect of the incident—and this also Jimmie had dimly foreseen and feared—was the effect it had on Jacob Finch. Forty boys cannot keep a secret, so that it was not long before Finch heard a tolerably correct version of what had taken place at the Dealonian meeting. He was grateful to Deering for the effort he had made in his behalf, but the consciousness that he had been publicly discussed by a society of representative boys and formally rejected as a candidate for their companionship, added intensely to the bitterness of what he felt was his position.

Sometimes when he was alone and thought of the incident, the hot tears would well up in his eyes and blind him. Bitter thoughts likewise would rise up in his soul and overwhelm him. He sometimes felt he could not stick it out for the year. But then, what else could he do? He could not think. He was absolutely dependent upon Doctor Forester, and he was not of the caliber to act rashly, go bravely out and face the hostile world. And the world seemed hostile to him—the very elements, these biting winter winds and prolonged northeast storms—seemed to beat against him. Hated alike by masters and boys, as he thought, he indeed was miserable. And, alas! save for his ardent affection for Deering, he began to hate bitterly and maliciously in return.

Life had taught him to be sly and silent, but heretofore beyond a furtive manner and an intense reserve, the quality of slyness had not shown itself. But now his malice seemed to demand expression, impelled him to action, and he began, first in little ways, afterwards by more systematic plans to torment his tormentors. But so secretly, so cautiously, that, though his sting was felt, his victim was ignorant whence it had come.

The principal objects of his hatred were Mr. Roylston and Kit Wilson, the latter only after he learned of Kit’s breach with Tony. Mr. Roylston began to be afflicted with a series of annoying and inexplicable incidents; anonymous letters were slipped into his mail-box, threatening him with dire calamities unless he speedily exhibited a change of heart; his books, his papers were misplaced, to be found in out-of-the-way places; twice or thrice his study was disordered; and once, at night as he was crossing the field, mud was thrown at him and his immaculate clothes were sadly bespattered. But so carefully did the culprit destroy all clues to his identity that the master had no redress. For once he was baffled. Never, so contemptuous an opinion did he hold of Finch’s spirit, did it occur to him even to suspect the poor worm whom daily he ground beneath the brazen feet of his sarcasm in the classroom.

He took little Beverly into his confidence as they sat late one night over a comfortable fire in the masters’ common-room.

“These things,” he remarked, “have been going on now for a number of weeks, and for the first time in my experience I do not discover the slightest clue to the culprit.”

“Of course, however,” was Beverly’s comment, made partly to display his omniscience, partly to flatter an older colleague, “of course, you have your suspicions?”

“Of course,” responded Roylston dryly, “that goes without saying. I have suspected both Deering and Wilson, whom indeed several times before have I discovered in misdemeanors of a similar character; but, if you chance to have been observing of late, you will have noticed and wondered that those two charming youths no longer consort together.”

“Oh, boys of that sort,” said Beverly blithely, to hide his ignorance of the alleged coolness, “boys of that sort always fall out after a time. Mischief is a poor cement for friendship.”

“On the contrary it has been my observation that it often does cement it. But I am the less inclined to lay my annoyances to the two boys I have mentioned than I would be if they were as thick as they formerly were. Wilson simply has not the ingenuity or the wit to do such things for so long a time and escape detection; and Deering lacks the incentive of Wilson’s impulsive and malignant vindictiveness. I am inclined to feel that I will discover the miscreant in some other set. Alas! they are not the only boys not above such things.”

“I would keep an eye on my suspects, however,” remarked Beverly, with an air of conviction that he was offering very subtle advice.

“Oh, my eye is ever on suspects, my friend.”

At that moment Morris happened to come into the common-room, and the conversation was dropped.

Finch, impishly elated by the successful secrecy of his attentions to Mr. Roylston and finding a certain relief for his spleen in his malicious tricks, began to extend his operations, concentrating on Wilson. Kit, when he discovered the tricks that had been played upon him, would storm about noisily, berating possible miscreants right and left, but for some time with as little effect as had attended Mr. Roylston’s quieter efforts. Success, however, rarely waits upon the criminal faithfully. He grows inevitably careless and falls at last into the most obvious trap that is set for him. Poor Jake proved no exception.

Twice in a week Kit had come in about four o’clock from his run across country with the hare and hounds, an unpopular game that he was seeking to boom, to find his room “rough-housed.” It was not the general disorder familiarly known by that term, but a more systematic confusion, if we may so speak; a more malicious effort to injure his property. His prepared work for the next day’s recitations would be smeared with ink so that it would have to be completely rewritten; his desk drawers would be turned topsy-turvy; his clothes hidden away in unexpected nooks and corners. This had happened several times, and the character of the destruction was more wanton than is often the case when boys indulge in such misguided forms of practical joking. He determined to watch carefully for weeks, if necessary, and catch the culprit if he should attempt to repeat his vandalism.

As usual, one afternoon after two o’clock call-over, he went off ostensibly for his run in running drawers and shirt, his white legs and arms gleaming in the winter sunshine, as he dashed down the hill with his hounds. But this time he deserted them at the foot of the hill, skirted the path along the Rocks in the direction of Whetstone and returned to the school within half-an-hour by way of the steep-sloping south field, which faces Monday Port and which the boys seldom played upon. Unobserved, for his schoolmates were mostly far afield, he reached Standerland, tiptoed through the corridors to his room, and once inside hid himself carefully behind the curtains that screened the door into his bedroom.

He waited impatiently a long dull half-hour, and several times was on the point of giving up; but for all his impulsiveness, Kit was doggedly persistent, and was quite capable of waiting there for an hour or more several times a week. And at last, to his joy, he heard a soft step in the corridor. Some one had paused before his door, and was evidently listening for sounds within. Then there was a gentle tap. Kit was still as a mouse. Another tap, another wait, then the door opened softly, and some one slipped in. Kit scarcely breathed. He could not see who it was, but he heard the intruder close the door gently behind him and stand for a moment, as Kit thought, looking furtively around him. He even came to the door of the bedroom, brushing the curtains back of which Kit was concealed as he passed. Then, satisfied at last that he was safe and alone, he went quickly to Kit’s desk, opened the drawers and thrust malicious disturbing hands amongst their contents. Then he drew forth a bundle of papers. Kit heard him rattle the ink-well, and his quick ears caught the sound of the patter of the ink drops as they fell on the papers. Instantly he leaped forward, with one bound was across the room, and had grabbed the vandal by the collar. It was Jacob Finch.

For a moment, as Kit recognized the intruder, he was speechless with surprise. Finch stood as if he were paralyzed, in the position in which Kit had grabbed him. Only the ink-well had fallen from his fingers, and the black fluid was trickling from the desk onto the floor. His face was ashy, his eyes glared like those of a rat in a corner. In a second Kit recovered himself.

i210

“You little hound,” he hissed, his anger blazing forth. “So it’s you that’s been rough-housing my room!”

Finch could not utter a word.

“Speak up, you cur. Bah! there’s no need. I’ve got you in the act. You’re caught red-handed, you sneak!”

He advanced threateningly, determined to administer instantly the sound thrashing he felt was too good for the palsied little wretch before him. As he grasped Finch’s collar the second time, the boy let out a weird shrill wail like the cry of an animal.

“Pah!” cried Wilson, “I can’t stand the touch of you. Get out of my sight.” He gave Finch a vicious kick that sent him reeling toward the door.

“If ever you come near my room again,” shouted Kit, “I’ll break every bone in your miserable body. You sneak! You cur! Get out!”

Poor Finch did not debate upon the manner of his going. With one movement, he had wrenched open the door and fled, not escaping, however, a parting shot from Wilson’s boot.

Kit turned wrathfully to survey his damaged desk and papers, and began to clear the litter up.

“The sneak!” he muttered. “And that’s the specimen that Tony Deering thought we ought to take into the Dealonian, that’s the dirty little cur for whom he’s thrown me over!”

Unfortunately, as Finch sped down the corridor for his own room, he ran squarely into Tony who was just coming out of Number Five study.

“Well, what the deuce is the matter with you?” exclaimed Deering, turning to look at the bewildered figure. But Finch did not reply. He dashed into his own room, and slammed and locked the door. Tony whistled softly, and went on. He was on his way to the shower, and had nothing on but his wrapper. His way led past Number Twelve study where Kit roomed, and at its door, as he turned a corner of the corridor, he saw Wilson thrusting armfuls of paper into the waste basket. Tony dropped his eyes and did not speak. Wilson looked up suddenly and recognized him, and impulsively exclaimed: “I say, Deering, just look here and see what a mess your particular pet has made for me.”

Tony stopped, surprised, and annoyed by Wilson’s angry tone. He glanced indifferently at the disordered room, the desk stained by the great blot of ink, the crumbled papers. “Well,” he remarked, “I don’t see how this concerns me or my friends.”

“You don’t, eh?” exclaimed Kit. “Well, I blamed well do. That’s the sort of thing I’ve had to put up with for the last three weeks. Your friend Finch has been in here, kindly putting my room on the bum.”

“Finch!” cried Tony. “I don’t be—I reckon you’ve made a mistake.”

“I reckon I haven’t. I laid for him, if you want to know; and I had the pleasure just now of kicking him out. If I catch him in here again, I’ll break every bone in his body. Since you are so deeply interested in his welfare, you’ll be doing him a kindness if you tell him that for me.”

Deering’s lips curled contemptuously. “I don’t know exactly what you are driving at, Wilson, and I don’t think I particularly care.”

Kit snorted, and went on with the task of setting his things to right. Tony majestically proceeded toward the shower. After he had stood for a quarter of an hour under cold water he felt considerably cooler, and when he had dressed, he stopped at Finch’s room on his way to the Rectory for tea. Finch at first refused to respond to his knock.

“Come, come, open up, old man. I want to see you particularly.”

It was a bedraggled depressed-looking Finch that finally opened his door. Deering pushed it back and entered. “Now, what’s the trouble?” he asked. “I know something’s up, because Wilson just now said he had—had put you out of his room. What were you there for?”

“He did put me out,” gasped Finch. He hesitated, then lied desperately. “I wanted to borrow some paper. I thought of asking you, but Wilson had the kind I wanted. He wasn’t in, or at least I thought he wasn’t in, so I went to his desk, and began to pull some sheets off his pad, and he jumped on me from behind a curtain or out of his bedroom, from somewhere, I dunno where.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much. He called me a sneak, and kicked me out.”

“How did the ink get spilled?”

“I knocked it over when he jumped at me. Somebody’s been rough-housing his room, I guess, and he thought it was me.”

“Well, it wasn’t you, Jake, was it?” asked Tony, fixing him with a keen hurt glance.

“No, Deering, ‘pon my honor, it wasn’t.”

“Had you ever been to his room before?”

“Never alone.” His eyes shifted back to meet Tony’s wondering glance. “Don’t you believe me, Deering?” There was a wail of despair in his voice.

“Yes, Jake, yes; of course, I believe you. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. Cheer up, I’ll try to get Wilson to listen to reason.”

“Oh, don’t—!” Jake stopped, aghast at his possible mistake. “I don’t want you to do anything for me, Deering, you’ve done enough. I’m just always getting you in trouble.”

“That’s all right, Jake; helping a friend out isn’t trouble.”

And with that Tony went on. He stopped again at Wilson’s room. The door was still open, and Kit was still fussing about his desk. He looked up at the knock, and scowled a little as he bade his visitor come in.

Tony came in and closed the door behind him. “Look here, Kit,” he said, trying hard to keep control of his voice. “I want to speak to you about Finch. I think you have done him a wrong. He came in here to borrow some paper——”

“Oh, is that the song and dance he gives you? Well, I know what he came in for. If you want to know, I kept still behind those curtains for a couple of minutes while he started his dirty work, and I caught him right in the act, with that ink-well in his greasy fingers smearing my exercises with it. He has been rough-housing this room for two or three weeks.”

“Well, he says he hasn’t, and I don’t think he’s a liar. Will you give him a chance to explain?”

“I’ll be hanged if I will. I know he’s a liar. I know it, man. Don’t talk to me any such blamed rot about his coming in here to borrow paper; he’s a sneak and a toad, and if he comes near me again I’ll lick the life out of him.”

“Go ahead, bully a chap that can’t defend himself.”

“Look here, Tony. I hate to quarrel with you, but it’s got to come. I thought you were wrong about that kid from the first; he ain’t fit for help, and ’s for the Dealonian,—well, save the mark! But it’s come to this—you and I can’t be friends, if you are going to take that little sneak’s part against me. We’ll just break for good and all. You can’t be a friend of mine, and take the attitude toward him that you’ve been taking. I might have got over the other business; but I can’t get over to-day’s dirty work, and for you to come in here, and tell me the pack of lies he’s made up, is too much. Let’s cut it out, and have done with each other.”

“Oh, all right; if that’s your point of view, I’m willing. You’re unreasonable and hot-headed, Kit. So long, old man, I’m sorry you can’t be just.”

“So long,” said Wilson, as Tony stalked out.

For a moment or so Kit fumed about, pulling things out of their places and thrusting them viciously back. Suddenly he put his head down on the table, and burst into tears.