Читать книгу Danforth Plays the Game: Stories for Boys Little and Big - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 8

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“You haven’t much to go on,” said Tracey the next morning. “You don’t know whether the fellows stopped on this floor or went on to the third. And as for the brown sweater, why, there are at least a hundred in school. You might look for a sweater with a white tag on it, I suppose. I don’t understand the tag business. Sweaters don’t have tags on them except when you buy them, do they? Did it look like a new one?”

“I couldn’t tell,” replied Harry. “It was dark on the stairs and I only saw the chap for a second.”

“Adams is a pig-headed old codger, anyway,” said Tracey disgustedly. “You couldn’t convince him that you didn’t do it unless you had the fellow who did do it and go and make an affidavit before a notary! You’re up against it, chum, I guess. Perhaps, though, Dobs”—the Principal was called Dobs for short—“will believe you. He isn’t a bad sort, Dobs. Neither is Adams, for that matter, except that he’s as stubborn as a mule and as full of dignity as a—a camel!” At any other time Harry might have protested at the simile, but this morning he was too down in the mouth to care. “I suppose,” went on Tracey, “that Adams didn’t mind being hit with the apple much, but the fact that it was rotten offended his blessed dignity. If you’d only chucked a green apple——”

“I tell you I didn’t!” cried Harry exasperatedly. “I don’t know anything about it! I——”

“I know! I meant to say it was a pity the fellow who did it didn’t throw a green one,” answered Tracey soothingly. Harry grunted. After a moment’s thought: “I suppose that even if you found out who the fellow was,” continued Tracey, “it wouldn’t do you much good. I don’t suppose he’d ’fess up to it.”

“He’d have to if I knew him,” replied the other grimly. “Why, confound it, Tracey, if Dobs thinks I’m lying he will—will——” Harry choked. Tracey nodded sympathetically.

“Pro,” he answered. “I know. Off goes your head! No more football. It’s—it’s a shame, old man!”

“And Adams will tell his story and I won’t have a show at all,” mourned Harry. “If—if he says I can’t play any more I won’t stay here, Tracey! I—I’ll leave!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, chum. After all, you know, things like this are likely to happen to a fellow occasionally. And as for football, why, there’s another year coming, and——”

“You make me tired! Another year coming! Just when I’ve beaten Dyker out for my position, and the St. Matthew’s game comes to-morrow! No, sir, if he says I can’t play to-morrow I’ll quit, Tracey! It isn’t fair! I didn’t do anything and they’ve no right to punish me for something I didn’t do! You—you just wait and see!”

“You’ll think differently later, I guess,” said Tracey sympathetically. He put an arm through Harry’s. “Come on and have some breakfast. You’ll feel better after that.”

“I don’t want any breakfast,” sighed Harry. But he allowed the other to draw him to the door and down the stairs and across to the dining-room. And afterward, had he thought about it, he would have had to confess that Tracey’s prediction had been a true one. For he did feel better, a whole lot better, and even began to look forward to his visit to the office with more assurance. After all, he had done nothing, and Dobs would just have to believe him!

But, sad to state, Dobs didn’t, although I really think he wanted to and tried his best to. Circumstantial evidence was overwhelmingly against Harry and Mr. Adams had told his side of the story convincingly. Moreover, Harry’s desire to shield the real perpetrators led to complications. He owned to having seen three boys at the instructor’s window and the Principal wanted to know directly why he had not stated that number to Mr. Adams last night. Harry had difficulty in explaining that satisfactorily, and, while it was a small matter, it caused the Principal to entertain doubts of Harry’s candidness. In the end the Principal, regretfully, as even Harry could see, gave the only verdict possible: Guilty! Harry was sentenced to a month’s probation, which meant many hardships of which but one affected him seriously. Boys on probation were not allowed to represent the school on any athletic team.

“I’m very sorry, Danforth,” said the Principal gently. “Let this be a lesson to you, my boy. Take your punishment like a man, and play the game! Remember that it is adversity that is the real test of us all!”

Harry made no audible reply, but walked out of the office mutinous and defiant. He would not stay there a single hour longer, he told himself hotly. Everyone was unjust and unfair. He hated the whole school and everyone and everything connected with it! He would go back to his room, pack his bag and leave immediately! But the next moment recollection of the folks at home, of what they would think of his conduct, came to him. His parents wouldn’t understand, of course. They might even—yes, he greatly feared they’d insist on his coming back! Plainly, home was not the place to go to if—if he did shake the dust of Barnstead from his shoes. And if he didn’t go home where was he to go? He had a little money, about eight dollars, but that wouldn’t last long; in fact, when he stopped to think about it, it wouldn’t much more than take him home! And home—Harry shook his head and sighed—home didn’t look very good to him. He could imagine just the way his father would frown and click his lips impatiently. Mr. Danforth had never played football, had hardly, in fact, even seen a game, and Harry was pretty certain that he would never understand the motives prompting his son to give up a school career in the middle of the first term! And besides, he had, he reflected, grown rather fond of the school and—and some of the fellows. And, after all, Dobs wasn’t really a bad sort; and Dobs had told him to “play the game.” Running away wouldn’t be playing the game, and so—so—well, he guessed he’d stay!

The Principal rendered his verdict just before ten o’clock. By eleven, so quickly does news circulate at school, it was very generally known that young Danforth was on probation for something he had done to offend Old Adams. School sentiment was divided. Some fellows condemned Harry unheard for risking his place on the team and thereby putting the morrow’s game in jeopardy. Others, and these were mostly fellows who had at some time or other run foul of Mr. Adams in study hall, declared that the instructor was always looking for trouble and that it was a fair wager that whatever Danforth had done he did not deserve the punishment meted out to him. But of course it was to Coach Worden and Captain Corson that the tidings brought the most dismay. To lose a first-string halfback on the very eve of the Big Game was a misfortune to try their patience and fortitude. But as there was no help for it Mr. Worden promptly drew a line through Danforth and wrote Dyker after it. And presently, having discussed and mourned the loss of the left half to its heart’s content, the school at large accepted the situation, perked up and again set its gaze confidently on the morrow.

The mass meeting that night was the biggest and most enthusiastic of any. Coach Worden addressed the fellows, as did Captain Corson and several members of the faculty. Neither Harry nor Tracey attended. Harry for the reason that probation confined him to his room after supper, and Tracey because he didn’t want to leave his chum to moon there alone. But I fancy that these two boys were the only absent ones that evening, and they were probably not greatly missed. Certainly the two hundred and odd occupants of the hall managed to make plenty of noise without them! After they had cheered and sung to their heart’s content indoors they piled downstairs and out on to the campus and began all over again. Tracey went to the window and watched them massed in front of School Hall, but Harry remained at the table where, for an hour past, he had been making a weak pretense of studying. It had not been a very cheerful evening for Tracey, for Harry was far too downhearted to be good company and conversation had languished early.

“There goes Mr. Warren after them,” announced Tracey with a chuckle. “He will break that up quick time.”

“Hope he does,” grunted Harry. “How’s a fellow going to study with that beastly noise going on?”

Tracey’s prediction proved correct. The cheers died suddenly away at the instructor’s advent across the yard and the crowd broke into small fragments and dissolved quietly. Yet not altogether quietly, either. For presently, from the upper end of the campus, came one shrill and defiant cheer:

“Rah, rah, rah! Warren!”