Distracted, scarcely realizing what he did, with that terrible cry from Hooker’s lips still ringing in his ears, Charley Shultz turned from the old quarry and limped away as fast as he could go. In his mind he carried a dreadful picture of Roy Hooker, lying bleeding, battered and dead at the bottom of that great excavation, and for the time being Osgood was wholly forgotten.

On his hands and knees, Charley crawled up the railroad embankment. One of his hands happening to touch a stout, crooked stick, about a yard in length, he grasped and retained it instinctively. When the track was reached, the stick served him for a cane as he hobbled away.

“It’s awful—awful!” his dry, bloodless lips kept repeating. “And I’m to blame for it all! I’m the only one who is really to blame. I thought some of the rest should help shoulder the load, but I was wrong. It’s up to me; I can see that plainly enough at last. If I’d only seen it in the first place, perhaps—perhaps this terrible thing might not have happened.”

After a time he remembered Osgood, and halted, looking back toward the quarry.

“Why doesn’t he come? Why is he staying there? He can’t do anything now. Well, perhaps it’s best that I should go it alone. That’s what I ought to do. No one else should be seen with me. I must face this thing by myself. What will they do with me? I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is that I can never, never forget, if I live to be a thousand years old.”

His teeth set, he crippled onward, his ankle, if possible, causing him greater distress than ever, though it seemed as a mere nothing compared with the anguish of his remorseful and repentant soul. Not once were the shooting pains sufficient to wring a whimper or a groan from him. His mind was made up at last; he had decided what he would do, and he was almost fierce in his eagerness to do it before he should weaken or falter.

The South Shore Road, approaching the railroad at one point, promised an easier course to follow, and he abandoned the ties. Vaguely he wondered what the hour could be, and looked for some sign of approaching dawn, as it seemed that the night must be far spent. To him that night had stretched itself to the length of a lifetime. Into it had been crowded experiences which had wrought in this boy a complete change of heart. In the moulding of his character such experiences must indeed have a powerful effect.

Beyond the river, as he drew near the dam at the lower end of the lake, he could see a few lights still shining palely in the windows of the village. Little had he imagined, when he first came to this small, despised country town, that here he was to face the first great crisis of his life. Here, it now seemed, he had met with disaster that meant his complete undoing.

The little railroad station on the southern side of the river was dark and deserted. Near it he halted again, tempted by the thought that somewhere around those black buildings he might hide until the first train should pull out in the morning—might hide there, and, sneaking aboard that train at the last moment, succeed, after all, in making his escape.

“But I won’t do it!” he suddenly snarled. “I attempted to run away like a coward, and this is what I’ve come to. I won’t try it again. I’ll face the music and pretend that I’ve got a little manhood left.”

Beneath the span of the bridge the water flowed swift and silent, save for a few faint whisperings and gurglings. Looking down at it, he drew away from the railing, fearful that he might be tempted to leap and end it all. Had he been met at the foot of Main Street by officers, waiting to place him under arrest, he would not have been surprised, and would have offered no resistance.

Once before upon this same night he had sneaked up Cross Street, and again he followed the same course. Something like a powerful magnet now seemed drawing him on, although as yet he but faintly realized that he was moving toward Hooker’s home as fast as he could.

The house was lighted in almost every room. In front of it he halted again, struggling weakly against that attracting force. In there was Roy’s mother—the mother of the boy he had destroyed—waiting distractedly for some tidings of her unfortunate son. How could he face her? How could he utterly crush her with the terrible truth?

As he faltered and wavered, he became aware that some one was coming up Cross Street. In the silence, even at that distance, he heard the sound of footsteps.

“Some of the searchers—Roy’s father, perhaps—returning to tell her that they have not found him. When they do find him—oh, when they do!”

Then he thought of another house, a modest little white cottage, farther up the street. It was to that cottage that he should go, after all. There he would find the one to whom his confession should be made. This decided on, he forced his stiff and swollen ankle to bear him a little farther, with the aid of the stick, which clumped upon the sidewalk as he hobbled. There was a light in one of the windows of the cottage, the window of Professor Richardson’s study. The professor was awake. He was there in his study, waiting for some news of Roy. Well, he should soon know it all.

Shultz rang the door-bell, and barely had he done so when he heard some one hastening to answer. Through the sidelights of the door came the gleam of a lamp. A key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and the old professor, in dressing-gown and slippers, lamp in hand, stood before Charley Shultz.

“What is it?” he eagerly asked, his voice hoarse and husky. “You’ve come to tell me. They have found him?”

“I’ve come to tell you everything, professor,” was the answer. “May I come in? I’m ready to drop. I can’t stand a minute longer.”

“Come in, my boy—come in. Good gracious! you’re in rags. You’re lame! You’re hurt!”

Having closed the door, the professor sought to aid his visitor to hobble into the study, which opened off the hall. In that room Shultz dropped heavily upon a chair, the stick, released by his nerveless hands, falling with a thud upon the rug.

“My goodness!” breathed the old man, staring aghast at the boy. “You must have been through a terrible experience. You’re ghastly pale, and your face is scratched and cut. What has happened to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know how I can tell you! But I must, and I will. That’s why I came here. I should have told you long ago. You were right, professor—you were right when you said it was a cowardly thing for the one who was to blame to keep silent. I didn’t understand then, but now I do—now that it’s too late!”

“Too late!” breathed Professor Richardson, intensely moved. “Too late! Do you mean that Roy is——”

“He’s dead,” said Shultz.

Groping for a chair, the old man grasped it and sank upon it.

“Dead!” he echoed, running his thin hands through the white locks upon his temples. “This is terrible news, indeed! I’ve been hoping they would find him and bring him back all right. It will be a dreadful blow to his poor parents. How do you know? Are you sure—are you sure he’s dead?”

“Yes, I’m sure. And I killed him!”

A few moments of absolute silence followed this declaration. Grasping the arm of the chair, the professor leaned slowly forward, his lips parted a bit, his eyes fastened upon the face of the boy. One hand was partly extended as he whispered:

“You—you killed him? What are you saying, Charley Shultz? Are you crazy?”

“No, no; but it’s a wonder I’m not. Listen, professor, and I’ll tell you the whole story. It started over a game of cards. He accused me of cheating. I struck him. I knocked him down. As he fell his head hit against a marble mantelpiece. That was what ailed him. No one else did a thing, professor; no one else is to blame. They wanted me to tell, but I refused. One fellow insisted that I should tell.”

“But why didn’t they tell, themselves?”

“Because they were afraid. Because they knew the disgrace and trouble it would bring on them all. Besides, I was the one who did it, and I was the one who should have owned up to it.”

“But you said—that Roy—was dead.”

“So he is. Listen, and I’ll tell you how I know. You shall have the whole story.”

Shultz told it all, holding nothing back save the names of the other participants in that game of poker. He made no effort to shield himself, no attempt to justify himself, and there was no need to question him; for his story, although given in short, broken sentences, was vivid and complete. When he told at last of Hooker’s blind plunge into the old quarry, the listener groaned aloud.

“That’s all, professor—that’s all,” Shultz concluded, in a manner that bespoke his boundless contrition and utter resignation to consequences. “You can see that it was I who killed him, and whatever my punishment may be, I deserve it.”

“It’s terrible!” said the old man solemnly. “It’s the most terrible thing that has ever come beneath my personal notice in all my life!”

In the hall the bell of a telephone began to ring, causing them both to start nervously. Immediately the man rose to his feet.

“It must be a call from the Hooker’s,” he said. “I’m on the same party line with them. Roy’s mother must be ringing up to ask me if I’ve heard anything. How can I answer? What can I tell that poor woman?”

Shultz, sick with pain of body and mind, could make no reply to this. Slowly, reluctantly, the professor left the study to answer the phone. Listening, Shultz could hear his words:

“Hello.... Yes, this is Professor Richardson.... What’s that? I don’t understand you.... Is that you, Mr. Hooker?... Yes, yes. What are you telling me? Roy—Roy is——” His voice, husky and broken, became confused, and he seemed a bit incoherent. “Yes, yes,” he went on more plainly. “I think—I think I understand.... Yes, I’ll come down. Right away.”

The receiver clicked upon the hook. Professor Richardson re-entered the study with a firm tread, stopped in front of the chair on which Charley Shultz still sat, and for a few silent moments gazed sternly at the cowering lad. Presently he said:

“The call was from Mr. Hooker. I’m going down there. You’ll wait here for me, while I get on my shoes and coat. Wait here. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” answered Charley faintly.

During the few minutes while the professor was absent Shultz sat there nervously clasping and unclasping the fingers of his cold hands. For a single moment, dreading what he might yet have to face upon this eventful night, he thought of stealing from the house and hurrying away. Only for a fleeting moment, however, did he harbor that thought.

“Never!” he whispered savagely. “Whatever I must face I’ll face. I’m done with being a coward!”

The professor reappeared, wearing his overcoat. “Come,” he said, and Shultz lifted himself to his feet. In the hall the man secured his hat. They left the house, and Shultz managed to descend the front steps with the aid of his stick. On the street the professor gave the boy an arm.

The door of the Hooker home was opened almost instantly at their summons.

“Come in,” cried Roy’s father; “come in, professor. Oh! you’ve some one with you.”

“Yes,” replied the principal of the academy, “I brought Charley with me for a most excellent reason, as you’ll soon learn. He has hurt his ankle and is very lame.”

In the sitting room Shultz staggered and nearly fell, for he suddenly found himself face to face with Ned Osgood.

“You?” he exclaimed in amazement. “You here? Then you’ve told them everything!”

Osgood seized him, swept him off his feet and practically bore him into another room.

“Look, Charley!” he cried, pointing at a person who sat in the depths of a big easy-chair, near which hovered Mrs. Hooker. “Here he is! He’s all right now, too. He’s all right, for he can talk and he remembers.”

The person on the easy-chair was Roy Hooker!