Osgood and Shultz arrived at the academy barely in time to escape tardy marks. As they slid into their seats neither of them glanced toward Piper, who had an eye turned upon them, and at intermission both seemed anxious to keep away from him. Watching them, he saw Ned, seeking to avoid general attention, pass a few low, hasty words with both Springer and Cooper.

“That won’t do you a bit of good,” thought the determined boy. “If you get the whole of the rest of the bunch to stick by you, I’ll give them fair warning and speak up myself.”

Shultz evidently took pains not to be seen with any of the fellows who had participated in the card game, but never for a moment during that intermission did he give Piper an opportunity to address him when other scholars were not close by. Fully aware that the fellow would refuse to step aside with him, Piper made the request of Osgood.

“Well, you’ve had time,” said Billy, as they paused beneath one of the trees near the academy. “What have you done? What are you going to do?”

“It will be all right,” assured Osgood suavely, “only just don’t push the thing too hard; for if you do, Shultz may balk, and that would put us all in a hole. You’ve got to think of some one besides yourself, Piper.”

“I am; I’m thinking of Hooker.”

“I tell you it will be all right,” reiterated Ned. “Just give us a little more time. Don’t do anything foolish.”

The bell struck, recalling them to the building, and, far from satisfied, Billy returned to fix his mind as best he could upon his studies.

Before dismissing school for the day, Professor Richardson stood beside his desk and again pushed his spectacles upward on his forehead. His thin cheeks were unnaturally flushed, and his voice had changed from huskiness to a croaking sound, which seemed to indicate that the cold had gripped him at his throat. Silence fell upon the room, for every one seemed to know the topic upon which the principal was about to speak, and more than one boy felt a shiver run through him.

“I regret,” began the professor, “that my talk of this morning had so little effect. I’ve waited, vainly hoping that some one might come to me with the truth concerning Roy Hooker. At noon I again saw Dr. Grindle, and I’m glad to say that what he told me was almost an assurance that Roy would fully recover, and that very soon. The unfortunate boy was able to talk a little this forenoon, and although no one urged him, he said enough to give an inkling of the cause of his trouble.”

For a moment he paused, his eyes seeming to rove from face to face before him, and the shivering ones found it most difficult to meet his look and appear interested without betraying guilt. How much had Hooker told? That was the question that made every pulse throb, even while their blood seemed to run chill.

“I spoke this morning of evil influences and bad associates,” continued the principal. “There’s no need to repeat what I said. From Hooker’s rambling words, it has become apparent that upon Saturday night he was engaged in a game of cards—for money. In short, he was gambling. Where and with whom, he did not state, and it was not thought best to worry him in his present condition with too many questions. Of course he was gaming with his usual companions, his so-called friends. That means almost to a certainty that some who are now listening to my words were with him. I will repeat my assertion that the names of his companions must assuredly become known.

“What happened to him in that game may readily be surmised. There was a quarrel. There were blows, and he was dreadfully injured. It will be a merciful thing if his reason is not permanently affected. The actual cause of the quarrel is yet a matter of surmisal, but whoever enters into a gambling game invites disaster. Greed and triumph fills the heart of the winner; bitterness and resentment fixes its hold upon the loser. Suspicion is aroused. At the slightest happening which seems to confirm suspicion there is an arousal of bad blood and a quarrel. We have here an example of how serious such a quarrel may be, and it should be a lesson to all of you—a lesson to be remembered always. It should teach you to shun gambling as you would shun a contagious disease. It is a disease that undermines the moral fiber and manhood of any one it touches. Having been contaminated, there is only one remedy, one cure:—good resolutions, the determination to shun this evil thing in future, and the will-power to hold fast to that determination.

“A person who makes up his mind to do right in the future, and is sincere about it, seldom hesitates to admit his errors or mistakes of the past. There are always willing hands to help one who thus proves his sincere change of heart. I hope before it is too late I may yet receive the evidence that some of you are sincerely repentant and sincerely determined henceforth to avoid such mistakes. You are dismissed.”

The old man puttered around, gathering up his books and papers and locking his desk. When he was ready to leave he found himself alone in the big room.

“Ah, well!” he muttered; “it’s hard for them. I’m afraid I haven’t sufficient influence. I’m afraid I failed to make my words convincing.”

Outside, the members of the ball team had turned toward the nearby field for practice, but they were not talking of baseball. The knowledge that Roy Hooker had been engaged in a card game for money caused their tongues to wag vigorously. Speculation was rife as to where the game had taken place and who had been concerned in it. Several of them, while pretending ignorance, knew very well indeed, and at least one who was not in the secret was inclined to believe he could make a good guess at the truth.

Jack Nelson had not forgotten that Roy Hooker was one of the trio in Hyde’s livery stable, after the return from Wyndham, to whom Ned Osgood had said that he would see them later. But, having nothing further on which to base his surmisal, and never dreaming how much Billy Piper knew, Nelson refrained from hints or accusations. Perhaps in this he was supported by the belief that, taking into consideration the benching of Osgood in Saturday’s game, it might seem that he had a pronounced animus against the fellow were he to suggest that Ned knew more than he was disposed to tell.

“As Prof said,” thought Nelson, “it’s bound to come out, and I won’t make any blunder if I keep my mouth shut.”

One thing he did not understand was why Piper, knowing certain fellows met regularly Saturday evenings in Osgood’s rooms, seemed to show so little interest in the matter. It was wholly unlike Billy, who heretofore had displayed the most eager disposition to probe anything which bore on its face the tag of mystery. Even Piper’s protestation that he was done with such things and would play the detective no more did not seem to be an adequate excuse for his apathy.

“It’s all mighty queer,” decided Jack, as, taking little part in the talk of the boys around him, he got into his uniform in the gymnasium. “Osgood doesn’t seem at all worried, but his friend Shultz is altogether too gay to be natural. It’s not like him. Well, if they’re concerned, they’re in deep, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the nine lost a couple of good players.”