"As Gold in the Furnace" : A College Story

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"As Gold In The Furnace"

Books by the Same Author

=Harry Russell=; a Rockland College Boy. 12mo, cloth, .85

=Saint Cuthbert's.= 12mo, cloth, .85

=Shadows Lifted.= 12mo, cloth, .85

=Tom Losely: Boy.= 12mo, cloth, .85

=The Making of Mortlake.= 12mo, cloth, .85

=The Son of Siro.= A Novel. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, 1.50

[Illustration: It was hard! It was a sore trial to give up his dream of years!--_Page 20._]

"As Gold in the Furnace"

A College Story

(Sequel to "SHADOWS LIFTED")

By Rev. JOHN E. COPUS, S.J.

Author of "Harry Russell," "The Son of Siro," etc.

[Illustration: Small religious line drawing]

New York, Cincinnati, Chicago

Benziger Brothers

Printers To The | Publishers Of Holy Apostolic See | Benziger'S Magazine

1910

Copyright, 1910, By Benziger Brothers.

Contents

CHAPTER I PAGE Roy Surprises His Friends 7

CHAPTER II The Motive 13

CHAPTER III The Conditions 19

CHAPTER IV Roy and Garrett 25

CHAPTER V A Pitching Cage 30

CHAPTER VI Advice 38

CHAPTER VII The Little Sisters 45

CHAPTER VIII Something Happens 56

CHAPTER IX Who? 64

CHAPTER X A Day's Adventure 72

CHAPTER XI An Afternoon's Fun 82

CHAPTER XII Reports 90

CHAPTER XIII What Henning Remembered 96

CHAPTER XIV Facing the Boys 104

CHAPTER XV Suspicions 111

CHAPTER XVI Roy Makes a Move 119

CHAPTER XVII Garrett is Angry 129

CHAPTER XVIII A Talk 135

CHAPTER XIX The Unexpected 142

CHAPTER XX The Fairest Lily 149

CHAPTER XXI The Passing of Ethel 157

CHAPTER XXII Roy and His Father 163

CHAPTER XXIII The Great Blow 170

CHAPTER XXIV The Fallen Tree 177

CHAPTER XXV Surprises for Roy 185

CHAPTER XXVI Stockley's Story 193

CHAPTER XXVII Stockley's Story (_Continued_) 201

CHAPTER XXVIII The Unraveled Tangle 206

"As Gold In The Furnace"

Chapter I

Roy Surprises His Friends

"I tell you what it is, gentlemen, once for all. I can not go in for baseball next spring, nor even for the few games we have still to play this fall."

Roy Henning was talking to a group of college boys of the upper classes in St. Cuthbert's yard. It was late September and still very warm. The little gathering of friends found the shade of a large elm tree in one corner of the yard very grateful. A hearty burst of laughter followed Roy's announcement. No one for an instant entertained the idea that Henning was in earnest and meant what he said. Was he not passionately fond of the game? Had he not, before vacation, been the very best player on the college diamond?

"Oh! of course not! of course not!" exclaimed Jack Beecham, Roy's truest friend and constant companion. "Of course not! You're no good anyway! You couldn't be center-rush on the eleven if you tried! You don't know a thing about baseball either! Oh! no! And another team wouldn't do a thing to us if you left the pitcher's box! Oh! no, not at all!"

"Look here, Jack," said Henning, "I'm in earnest. I am not going to engage in sports at all this year."

"Not for the money, I know that. It has always cost you a good penny. But let me assure you, you dear old goose, that you can't come any sort of game like that on us--not on me, at least. Let me tell you, Roy boy, that you are most decidedly and most strictly in it, and in it every time."

"Look here, Jack, will you listen to reason----" began Roy Henning.

"With pleasure, when I find evidence that you are in possession of that valuable commodity."

"But----" began Roy again.

"That's all right, old fellow. We know your modesty, and all that. We're also under the impression that you have recently developed a remarkable penchant--that's the word, isn't it, boys--for practical jokes. But this time be so condescending as to remember that joke-day--April 1, you know--is a long way off. See?"

"Yes, I see," replied Henning, "but you fellows will not, nor will you listen to reason. So it is useless for me to talk."

"That's precisely what we wish to do," said Jack--laughing Jack Beecham--who struck an attitude and continued, "but you persist in talking anything but reason. What an incontestably preposterous thing for you to say that you are not going to play ball. Is a fish going to swim?"

"Nonsense or not, boys, I have good reason for saying what I have said. It's a fact. I am not going to play."

Roy Henning's clean-cut, handsome face was flushed at the moment with vexation. His eyes showed his annoyance, and his brows contracted in displeasure. It was vexatious enough for him to make--to be compelled to make--such an announcement to his friends, but his chagrin was rendered four-fold by having his companions receive his statement with incredulity. Not the least part of his annoyance came from the fact that his own particular friend should affect to believe that he was perpetrating a practical joke, especially as he was very much in earnest and the announcement had cost him much effort to make.

When Roy Henning first came to St. Cuthbert's, he was a narrow-chested, weakly boy of very quiet manners and of a retiring disposition, as the readers of the chronicles of St. Cuthbert boys may remember.

Month after month, however, saw him growing stronger and taller and more robust, until now, in his last year at college, he was one of the biggest boys in the yard, with the strength of a giant, and, as some who knew declared, the grip of a blacksmith. The opportunities of acquiring brawn and muscle he had not neglected, resulting in a proficiency in running, jumping, swimming, and boating, and in all the manly and invigorating exercises of school life.

He was well aware how much the success of next summer's baseball season really depended on him. He knew, also, what the boys expected of him. They all regarded it as a foregone conclusion that he would again be the captain and the principal pitcher on next season's team.

No one but himself knew what annoyance it had been to him to make the statement which his hearers had refused to accept otherwise than as the merest joking. Yet he intended to give up sports for this school year. Why? The reason for so doing, and all the consequences that such a course of action brought in its train, will constitute the following narrative.

Roy's eyes, quick to sparkle in fun, quick to soften in sympathy, yet quicker to glitter with indignation at any exhibition of smallness or meanness, just now had a look in them other than was their wont. Their owner was annoyed because the boys standing around him seemed determined not to take him seriously, and this annoyance could be seen. For a moment he felt a strong throb of anger, such as quickens the pulse, and the hasty word was on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself in time. Why should he not be believed when he had made a plain statement and had reiterated it? Yet there was a smile as of incredulity on nearly all the faces grouped around him.

The truth of the matter was that Jack Beecham and his companions were hoping against hope. They clearly saw Henning's annoyance, and several of them had more than a suspicion that, after all, he meant exactly what he had said. Beecham's badinage was only a cover for his uneasiness.

A silence fell on the group, during which, to their nimble imaginations, visions of future victories on the diamond grew dim, for every boy there had the most unlimited confidence in the proven prowess of Henning to lead them to victory.

"But, Roy," said Tom Shealey, a short, thick-set, sturdy, whole-souled boy, who had a habit of calling a spade a spade: "Give us your reason. You are not sick?"

"No, not sick, certainly," said Henning, smiling at such an idea.

"What's your reason, then?--supposing you have a reason and are not joking."

"I'm not joking, Tom," said Henning, "but I can not give you my reason."

"Guess he has none," said Andrew Garrett, a youth who affected a blue sweater instead of a coat and vest and whose face was not a healthy-looking one. "Guess he has no reason. He's merely posing."

The remark vexed Henning all the more that it came from his own cousin, to whom in a difficult situation he might have looked naturally for some form of support.

"Stop that, Garrett," said Tom Shealey, hotly. "Do you wish to insult your own cousin? I'd rather believe him than you--there! If Roy says he has reasons for acting as he is doing and does not want to give them to us, I believe he has them anyway. I guess you don't know your own cousin as well as we do."

"Well, why doesn't he give his reasons for not playing?" asked Garrett, sulkily.

"Because," answered Henning, with no little natural dignity, "I do not feel at liberty to do so. If I did I would give them readily. Believe me, boys, it is not by my own choice that I resign my position on the baseball and football teams."

"We believe you, Roy," said Shealey. "Although we regret your action, we believe you have good reasons; don't we, Beecham?"

Jack Beecham nodded affirmatively. "Yes," he replied, after a moment's silence, "I joked at first only because I thought Roy was joking. Sorry he wasn't. Garrett, you had better believe what your cousin says. He is not accustomed to lie into or out of a thing."

This remark was received by Garrett in silence. With a look unpleasant enough to be considered a leer on his face he walked away, but Shealey's innuendo, as we shall see later, had more significance for the one to whom it was directed than the rest of the group realized. Were it not on account of the relationship with Roy, the boys in general would have ignored Garrett. Winters and Hunter and Stapleton and Clavering were gone from St. Cuthbert's, having graduated the previous year. Henning and Ambrose Bracebridge, Rob Jones and Tom Shealey were taking their places, and among these Henning was most popular.

In a few minutes Henning walked away, and his friends began freely to discuss his decision, vaguely guessing at the motive which prompted it, and entirely unsuccessful in arriving at any solution of the difficulty.

"Of course," said Jack Beecham to Shealey, as they strolled about the yard somewhat disconsolately, "Henning must have some good reason for backing out, but I am more sorry than I can say that he has done so. I am afraid things are going to be mighty unpleasant for him in consequence."

"I, too, am afraid they will be."

"Well, I'm going to stick to him, come what may."

"Same here," replied Shealey. "It won't be hard to do that, because he is the soul of honor and a royal good fellow. You might as soon expect anything wrong with him as--as to see----"

"You at the head of your class in next examination," interrupted Jack.

"Thanks! Or to see you heading the philosophers."

"Thanks, too."

Chapter II

The Motive

Before proceeding to narrate the complications which beset Roy Henning's path during his last year at St. Cuthbert's, and the many curious cross-purposes of which he may be said to have been the victim, we shall endeavor to give some idea of the motive which actuated him in retiring from the arena of college sports.

It must be remembered that Roy Henning, in the previous year, was a fast friend of Claude Winters, Hunter, Selby, Clavering, and Stapleton. The companionship of these boys had helped as much to form his character as had the careful work of the professors. Under his friends' influence he had gradually lost much of his bashfulness. By the time that Winters and his other friends had graduated, he could conduct himself with an amount of ease and composure. He no longer blushed and squirmed immoderately, like a small boy, when addressed by a stranger or by one in authority. He could now speak to a Father or even the President without wishing to fall through the floor. Roy was much improved, yet the influence which his companions of the previous year had exercised over him had taken a somewhat peculiar turn.

As far as he knew, not one of his last year's friends, now graduated and gone, had any aspirations to study for the sacred ministry of the priesthood. Their joyous piety, nevertheless, and their cheerful goodness had been the means, entirely unknown to themselves, of making Henning entertain a profound veneration for the ecclesiastical state.

From often contemplating how eminently suited, both in talents and in virtue, were many of his companions for this state, Roy had passed from admiring them to the thought of the feasibility of embracing that state himself. The more he thought of this, and the more frequently he examined himself, the more enamored of the lofty idea he became; so that at the expiration of the previous year's term he had fully made up his mind to enter the priesthood should he secure the sanction of his spiritual director.

Before he left college for vacation he had a long interview with the white-haired, holy old chaplain, from which he received great encouragement, but was told to keep his intention a secret from all save his parents. He took the admonition literally and obeyed it exactly, so that he left St. Cuthbert's in the previous June without his most intimate acquaintances so much as dreaming that he entertained such exalted ambitions and aspirations to a dignity than which there is none greater on earth.

It was not remarkable that his companions should never imagine such things of him. Was he not the recognized leader of all sports and games? Who had a merrier shout? No one's laugh rang more musically across the playground. How should boys--mere boys, after all--imagine that graver thoughts and sublimer ambitions were coexistent with merry pranks, resounding cheers, or harmless escapades. Well, boys, college boys even, are gifted with only a limited prescience, and none suspected the great plan of life which was now continually in Roy's mind.

He did not broach the subject to his father until the vacation months were drawing to a close, and it was time to think about returning to St. Cuthbert's. The Hennings spent the summer months in the lake region. One beautiful calm, warm evening in August, Mr. Henning was sitting on the broad veranda of his cottage, watching in quiet content the silver pathway which the full moon made across the water, and marveling how the light made the sails of the yachts appear now black, now silver as the vessels tacked about. Roy, who for several days had been watching his opportunity to have a private talk with his father, saw that it had now come. He took a seat near his father.

"Where are Mama and the children, Roy?"

"They are down on the beach, Father, throwing sticks into the lake for Fido to swim after. The dog is almost crazy with the delight of the game."

"Why are you not down there too? You seem to be moping lately, my boy. Is anything the matter? Are you quite well?"

"Quite, thanks. I am not moping, but the fact is, Father, I have something I wish to talk to you about, and as the rest won't be back for some time, perhaps this is a good opportunity to tell you what I have to say."

"Dear me! what a lot of mystery! Say on, son. I am all attention. Let me see: how old are you? Nineteen next month, eh? You'll be graduated next year at St. Cuthbert's, will you not?"

"I hope so," replied the boy modestly.

"That's right. Well, I suppose you want to talk about the choice of a profession. It is quite time you made a choice, you know."

"That is precisely what I wish to speak about."

"Ah! Well, go on. I am willing to listen to your ideas, reserving, of course, the right of veto, Is it to be the law, or medicine, or the army? Perhaps 'tis the navy? I have influence enough to get you into Annapolis, if you wish to follow the sea."

"It is none of these you have mentioned, sir," said Roy, nervously, and the next moment he blurted out awkwardly, "I want to enter the priesthood!"

"The priesthood!" said Henning senior, with an intonation that expressed various emotions. "H--um!" And he remained a long time silent.

The light from the sitting-room fell on Mr. Henning's face. Roy watched the florid features of his father. His closely-cropped white hair and side-whiskers worn in the style once designated "mutton-chop," the short-trimmed mustache, and clean-shaven, well-rounded chin, all showed distinctly in the strong light of the reading lamp, which sent a flood of light out across the veranda. Roy thought that his father's face was unusually flushed. It appeared almost purple in the artificial light, and the son became anxious, momentarily fearing that the suddenly communicated intelligence might have caused a rush of blood to the head. The family physician not long before had told Mrs. Henning that her husband was quite liable to an attack of apoplexy.

Roy could not guess what was passing within the mind of his father, who remained silent a long time. Nothing was heard except the nervous tapping of Mr. Henning's eyeglasses on the arm of the rocker.

The boy knew that his father was irascible, and he was more or less prepared for a storm. He waited for what he thought several minutes--in reality less than forty seconds--for his father to speak. No sound was heard save the nervous tap-tap-tapping on the arm of the chair. Roy twirled his cap and shifted his weight from one foot to another.

Then, as it often does, the unexpected occurred. Mr. Henning arose from his chair, and without noticing his son, or saying a word, retired into the house, leaving the surprised boy on the porch.

The young man was perplexed at this turn of affairs. Had his father flatly refused he could have pleaded and coaxed. Had he stormed, the boy knew enough of his parent to be aware that the end he desired would most probably be attained--when the storm blew over.

Roy left the porch in a dazed sort of way. He had never seen his father act so peculiarly. Wanting to be alone to think over the affair, he sauntered off to a secluded part of the large lawn.

* * * * *

"Hi, Roy, is that you? Where have you been? I have been searching for you everywhere. Put on your dancing pumps and come over to our villa. We are going to have a carpet dance. All the tables and chairs have been put out on the lawn, and we are going to have a jolly time. Come on."

The speaker over the hedge was Andrew Garrett, Roy's cousin, whose father had rented the adjoining villa for the summer. Garrett was on the road, seated in a stylish dogcart. He held a pair of white ribbons over a mettlesome horse whose silverplated harness ornaments shone brightly in the moonlight.

"You must make my excuses----" began Roy.

"Eh! what? Oh! come! that won't do. My sisters have netted a lot of girls, many of whom are already there, and the cry is 'still they come.' We haven't enough partners for them. I am not slow at this kind of affair, but, you know, a fellow can't make himself ubiquitous. Run and put on your dancing-shoes, and if you spoil them in the dew coming home, I'll buy you another pair to-morrow."

"The puppy!" thought Roy, and the ugly word was on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself in time, and said:

"I am sorry indeed to disappoint you, but I have more important things to think about to-night. I really can not come. You must make my excuse to auntie and your sisters."

"Oh! hang it all, man; we haven't enough dancers!"

"I am sorry, but to-night----"

"Sorry!----" We regret to say that Garrett used an expression not at all becoming to the lips of a Catholic young man.

"You won't come, then?"

"I can not, to-night."

"You won't, you mean!"

"I did not say that."

"But you mean it. Well, I can go up the road and get the Meloche boys, and the Poultneys, and others. Mark my words, Roy; I'll get even with you for this. You'll be sorry for it yet. It's a mean trick. Get up, Nance."

And he gave the mare a vicious cut, which sent her rearing and racing up the dusty country road, giving the ill-tempered boy all he could do to prevent the spirited animal from running away with him.

A week later, Roy Henning was surprised to learn that Andrew Garrett was to be a student at St. Cuthbert's the coming term. His first effort at "getting even" with his cousin was attempted as we have seen in the preceding chapter, when Henning made the unwelcome announcement of his retirement from college sports.

Chapter III

The Conditions

The following morning, Mr. Henning called Roy to him soon after breakfast. When the two had taken seats under a shady beech on the lawn, Roy saw that his father appeared moody, and as if suffering from a great disappointment.

"What is this I hear about your refusing to go to your Aunt Garrett's last night?"

"I did not refuse to go and see Aunt Helen, sir. Andrew wanted me to go and dance. I did not care to dance. Nor could I have gone and retained my self-respect."

"Dear me! dear me! Are not your Aunt Helen's children and their friends good enough associates for you?"

"Quite good enough. But, sir, you mistake my meaning. I had two reasons for refusing. I do not care for dancing, and do not care to be made a mere convenience of, nor do I wish to be patronized by my cousin Garrett. My other reason was that I was anxious and worried, having received no word from you since I told you of my earnest desire to study for the priesthood."

"Ah! Yes, to be sure. You may think my abrupt leaving you last night was a strange proceeding. It was. I am sorry I vexed you. I want to be kind."

"Thank you, Father; I am sure you do."

Mr. Henning was not a demonstratively affectionate man, and it must be charged to heredity that his own child possessed decidedly similar characteristics, especially in all absence of demonstrativeness. Roy loved his father deeply, but no terms of endearment or outward show of affection, so far as the boy could remember, had ever passed between them. If Roy had only known he could have crept very close to his father's heart this morning. If Roy could have known just then, he would have seen his father's heart sore and sensitive, trying to discipline itself into renouncing its life-long ambition--that of his son's advancement. He had so earnestly wished the boy to adopt his own profession. Was he not already getting along in years? Would not a partner in his law practice become ere long an imperative necessity?

He had too clear and too well-trained a mind not to see the futility of attempting to thwart the boy's inclinations. He was too sincere a Catholic of principle and too well instructed in the obligations of his faith to wish effectually to prevent or destroy a vocation, and yet--oh, it was hard! It was a sore trial to give up his dream of years!

"Thank you, Father; I am sure you wish to be kind."

Roy, seeing that his father had remained silent an unusually long time, repeated his remark. The elder man's lips twitched. The muscles of his cheeks moved with the strong emotions he was experiencing.

"Oh, Roy, Roy! Think what it all means for me! My shattered hopes for you! I know that as a Catholic I dare not thwart you in following so high a vocation, nor would I have it on my conscience to do so. But all my shattered hopes of you! I have wealth and position, but they are not everything. I have looked forward to you as my prop and stay and my honor in my declining years. Must you--must you leave us? Are you sure of this call? Is it not a mere passing fancy, such as many good and pure boys have? Are you sure that your duty does not point to your family rather than to the seminary? Are you sure, my lad?"

The old gentleman's words were almost passionate. Young Henning was unwontedly affected. He had never been placed in so peculiar a position. His father evidently regarded him now, spoke to him, even appealed to him, as to a man, with a man's responsibilities. For a moment he was thrilled with exquisite pleasure in being so treated, but he did not waver in his purpose. He knew that he would probably add to his father's regrets, yet he was conscious that he could not hold out the faintest hope that the parental wish, which appeared to run contrary to what he now conceived to be his plain duty, would be gratified.

"My dear father," he said, "I am sorry to cause you pain, but I believe I have this vocation and I must, in conscience, follow it."

There was a long pause.

"Well--what must be, must be, I suppose, but, my child, have you well considered the step? Are you willing to live on a meager pittance, as most priests do? Are you willing to lead a life of penurious denial and of study? Can you face the ordeal of the confessional for hours at a time, listening to tales of misery, wretchedness, and degradation? Can you be strong with the strong, and not too strong with the weak? Can you bear all this? Are you sure of yourself?"

Now Roy Henning, during the previous year at St. Cuthbert's had thought over the question of his vocation time and time again, examining himself rigorously as to his fitness, and, as far as his experience allowed, reviewing the life of the ordinary parish priest. He saw clearly that no one embraced the priestly life from a purely natural motive. Such as did, he argued, must become failures, and unfit for their state. He had, as every one who has a true vocation, a higher motive than a merely natural one. With him the supernatural was paramount, and in its light all prosaic, squalid, unheroic circumstances sank into insignificance. He, therefore, answered:

"Yes, sir, I have thought it all over. I firmly believe I have a vocation, and after I graduate, I think it will be my duty to enter a seminary with a view to probing and testing it."

"I will not thwart you, my boy; I dare not. But do you think yourself worthy of so high a calling?"

"I do not, indeed, Father; but my confessor encourages me to go on."

Mr. Henning sighed on discovering that the opinion of the boy's confessor was averse to his wishes--sighed as if giving up his last hope of being able to change his son's views. He then altered his manner suddenly, as if ashamed of having displayed emotion before any member of his family. He was again the sharp, shrewd man of affairs.

"Very well, sir," he said, with a crispness in his voice which hitherto had been absent; "you take your degree the coming year. After that you have my permission to enter a seminary. I will be responsible for your expenses until your ordination. As you desire, however, to enter a hard and self-denying life I consider it my duty to test you myself to some extent during the coming school year."

In the midst of the delight at his father's capitulation, Roy looked up in surprise. He wondered what was coming next.

"You must apply yourself wholly and solely to your studies. I shall allow you only twenty-five dollars for your private expenses, and I desire and insist that for the last year of your college life you relinquish all sports of whatsoever kind."

"Father!" cried the poor boy in dismay; and oh, the heart-sinking that was expressed in that one word!

"I mean precisely what I say," persisted Mr. Henning, almost relentlessly; "a priest's life is one of constant self-sacrifice and denial. You can not begin to practise those virtues too soon."

"But, Father, I am captain of the ball nine, and the football eleven, at college!" And there was a world of appeal in the boy's voice.

"I am sorry, under the circumstances, to hear it. Abstinence from baseball and football and boating and all sorts of contests is the condition under which I sanction your plans, which, pardon me if I say it, I can not but consider chimerical. The test I have selected will prove how right or wrong I am in my opinion. You will take only enough exercise to keep a sound mind in a sound body."

Whether Roy Henning's father was acting judiciously or otherwise, we will not undertake to say. We merely give the facts. Mr. Henning was desirous to see how his son would act under circumstances which he readily admitted would be particularly trying.

It is probable that many boys will be inclined to think that Roy Henning was not in such a very sad plight after all, and perhaps would be willing to exchange places with him if their pocketbooks were exchanged too. It is true that many a boy goes to college with far less spending money than that which was to be Roy's share for his graduating year. It must be understood, in order to make Roy's position clear, that the boy was generous to a fault, and never having stinted his expenditures at college, or been stinted in the supply, he was looked to for pecuniary assistance by all sorts of college associations whose financial condition, as most collegians are aware, is perennially in a state of collapse. He was one of the most popular boys, because his purse was always open.

His father had, indeed, arranged a severe test for him. He little realized what the trials of a rich boy's poverty were. Little did he imagine to what hours of guiltless ignominy he was unwittingly condemning his son. We must do the lawyer the justice to say that had he imagined but one-tenth of the trials which were to come upon his son by his restrictive action, he would have been the last man to have imposed the conditions.

Roy Henning accepted them unreservedly, and the conversation at the beginning of the first chapter shows us how fully and completely he intended to obey his father's injunctions.

Chapter IV

Roy And Garrett

Henning was not overwhelmingly delighted when he learned that Andrew Garrett was to accompany him to St. Cuthbert's. He knew his cousin's disposition fairly well and did not expect to derive much pleasure from his presence at college, although he was aware that the relationship would occasion more or less close intimacy.

Never were two boys more dissimilar in character. Henning had been molded at St. Cuthbert's for five or six years. He had imbibed that spirit which is found among the students of every well-conducted Catholic college--that peculiar something which is so difficult to define, but which is so palpable in its effects, elevating and rendering the Catholic student the comparatively superior being he is. Those who have intelligently watched this college phenomenon admit that the tone, or spirit, or influence, or whatever it may be, is like nothing else on earth, so that if nothing else were accomplished, this result gives abundant reason for the existence of our Catholic colleges. If one were asked to define the exact process, to point out the various means employed, in transforming a crude youth into the manly, generous, self-possessed young man of high ideals and noble purpose, it would be found a most difficult thing to do.

Roy Henning was a fair example of what Catholic training does for a well-disposed youth. He was not perfect, as we shall probably see later on in our story; yet he had qualities that endeared him to all who knew him. Hating any appearance of meanness, he was ever the champion of the weak or the oppressed, as many a boy who was not the "under-dog" found to his cost. His cheerful, manly piety made religion attractive. There was nothing squeamish or mawkish about him. Everybody who knew him would laugh at the idea that Henning and effeminacy had the remotest connection. If the truth were told of him at this time he was, owing to his splendid health and sound physique, verging on the opposite of effeminacy.

Under the tutelage of such boys as Hunter, Claude Winters, Clavering, and others, he had developed into a really fine athlete. The "muscles of his brawny arms were" literally "strong as iron bands," and that one was certainly to be pitied who, if under Roy's displeasure, came in close contact with him.

Andrew Garrett was his cousin's antithesis. He was about the same inches as Roy, who measured five feet ten inches in his stocking feet, but beyond this all resemblance ceased. Andrew was not an athlete. He was of spare build, but did not look healthy. His chest was narrow, his arms and legs spindling and flabby. He had no muscle, because he took little exercise, and was, consequently, frequently bilious, which often resulted in his saying or doing much meaner and pettier things than he intended. It would be difficult to find two more dissimilar characters than these two cousins.

In justice to Andrew Garrett it must be stated that when he came with his cousin to St. Cuthbert's he had not the slightest knowledge of the conditions under which Roy was laboring. Owing to what he had previously known of the state of Roy's purse both at home and during vacation time, he had not the slightest suspicion that now his cousin's paternal allowance had been inconveniently curtailed. Whether he would have acted differently had he known all the circumstances is a matter of conjecture. Garrett was a factor in much of the annoyance Roy Henning suffered during the year.

For several days after the arrival of Andrew Garrett, Mr. Shalford, the prefect, watched him closely. Being a cousin of Henning, the prefect thought it was natural that he would associate with the Henning-Bracebridge-Shealey-Beecham set, and be one of those to whom no particular attention need be given. He was not a little surprised to discover that these boys had very little to do with him. There was no overt act on their part by which Garrett could be said to have been snubbed or "dropped," but the prefect saw that there seemed to be a tacit understanding among these boys to let Garrett severely alone. No one had any particular liking for him, and it is quite probable that had he not been Henning's cousin, he would have experienced several times a very unpleasant quarter of an hour.

Roy Henning was now one of the leaders among the forthcoming graduates. His influence was now as great as Hunter's or Winter's had been in the previous year, and his relationship with Garrett saved that boy much annoyance, which, by his want of tact and a lack of companionableness, he would have brought upon himself.

"You do not seem to get along with the other boys, Garrett," said Mr. Shalford kindly, one day not long after the conversation recorded in our first chapter.

"I guess I can manage without them," was the ungracious reply.

"I don't think you can, my boy," said Mr. Shalford.

"Well, I do. I think I can manage my own affairs."

The prefect did not know whether this speech was intended as a rebuff to his advances, but he took a charitable view of it, and ascribed it to awkwardness, rather than to intentional boorishness. He said:

"Let me tell you, Andrew, that you can do no such thing."

"Yes, I can."

"Look here, my young man. You are forgetting yourself. I do not know what sort of training you received at home, but while you are here, you must speak to your superiors with more respect. Prefects and professors and the other officers of the college are accustomed to be treated here with at least a certain amount of deference."

The boy winced under the allusion to his home training. He prided himself upon being a gentleman, and, indeed, his home life was all that was delightful. As if he had read his thoughts, the prefect said:

"Do you know the meaning of gentleman--a gentle man? It is not necessarily an inherited quality of birth. It is rather a question of manners, is it not?"

Garrett hung his head. He knew that he had been rude and uncouth.

"Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to be ungentlemanly. But I do not like these boys here. They don't seem to treat me squarely."

"Why? What is wrong?" asked the prefect, now satisfied.

"Oh! I don't exactly know. They all seem inclined to let me alone. Nobody seems to want to have anything to say to me."

"Perhaps that statement is not altogether exact. Have you not annoyed or vexed several of them one way or another? Think now of what you may have done. If you want to get along with St. Cuthbert's boys, you will have to act honorably and above board in everything. Do not for a moment imagine that I am accusing you of anything underhand or mean. I am far from doing so. But boys are quick to discern character--frequently quicker than men. It is a species of intuition with them, and they are rarely deceived. You have been here a month. Do you know of any nicknames among the boys?"

"Yes, sir; several of them. There is Shanks, and Owly, and Pinchey, or Pinchbeck, and a lot more of them."

"Just so. Now, do you not see that each of these boys to whom a nickname sticks has just the characteristic or foible the name indicates?"

"Yes, sir, that is true."

"I am glad you recognize it. You have not as yet developed or shown any particular trait which would give the boys an opportunity of attaching any particular name to you. I should advise you to watch carefully, for, believe me, if they do give you a name, it will not be a pleasant one, and probably it will be one that will sting. At all events it will be one that will show to you your foibles pretty clearly. Watch yourself, therefore, and prevent it if you can."

With this warning the prefect left the boy and went to ring the great bell as first warning for supper. Garrett remained in a "brown study" for some time. Had he taken the prefect's advice he might have saved himself many hours of subsequent regret and remorse.

Chapter V

A Pitching Cage

Jack Beecham and Tom Shealey were standing at a window in their classroom one dark afternoon in the late fall. They had their heads together, for both were reading from the same letter, which the former had just received. They were evidently much interested in its contents, for neither noticed the entrance of Rob Jones, nor were they conscious of his presence until he, boylike, gave them both simultaneously a thump on the back.

"You must be mightily interested, you two, not to hear me come in," said Jones.

"We felt your presence, Rob, quick enough," said Beecham.

"It was quite striking," added Shealey.

"What's the news? It must be of tremendous importance to cause such absorption."

"It is important," said Shealey. "Jack has just received a nice letter from those nice fellows of Blandyke College. They write elegantly--perfect gentlemen."

"What have they to say?" inquired Jones.

"It isn't a challenge for next spring, or anything of that sort," said Jack, "but a sort of recapitulation of this year's games we played together, and a chat over the prospects of next year. Listen to this: 'We met with few defeats this summer, and I am instructed by the nine to say that if we were to be defeated--and we were once or twice, as you remember--we preferred to have been defeated by no one but the St. Cuthbert's team, not only because you, gentlemen, were considered worthy of our steel, but also because every player on your team was a gentleman whom it was a pleasure and an honor to meet.'"

"Now isn't that nice!" exclaimed Beecham. "But let us see what more he has to say. They are capital fellows, these Blandykes," and Jack read on: "'We intend to meet you early next summer, if we can arrange some games with you. We have great pleasure in telling you that we intend to wipe out all defeats of this season. With this in view, we have, already, men daily in the pitching cage, and our captain intends to keep his men in training all the winter months.'"

"They must feel pretty sure of victory to tell us all their plans," remarked Beecham. "Pshaw! isn't it a pity that Henning has gone back on us! I wonder what we shall do without him!"

"I don't know. I can't imagine," remarked Jones. "Whatever we do, we must not be behind the Blandykes. We, too, must get a cage and practice pitching and catching. We can't afford to dim the glory of last summer's record. You remember we won two out of the three games we played with the Blandykes. Next spring we must capture the three."

"But we have no cage, and they are expensive things," observed Beecham.

"Pass round the hat," remarked Shealey promptly; "of course Roy will help us as usual. He is always generous with his money; just the fellow who deserves to have plenty of it."

"Yes, that's true," said Jones, "and I suppose his cousin, young Garrett, has plenty of cash to spare too, but I doubt whether he will be as generous as Roy has always been. Thanksgiving day will be here in ten days, and we ought to have the pitching cage ready when the football season closes."

"What will Mr. Shalford say about it?" asked Beecham.

"Oh! he will leave it all to us, that's sure; but we may expect his one proviso which he is very strong on, and that is, as you know, that we do not go into debt."

"Very good," said Jack. "Then we had better begin at once. Here comes Garrett. I'll try him first."

Beecham explained the project to Garrett, and then asked him whether he would help them out. His first words rang with a false note.

"Has my cousin given anything?" he asked.

"Not yet. We have not seen him yet. You are the first that has been asked."

"Very well. Put me down for five dollars."

"Thanks; much obliged," said Beecham, without a particle of enthusiasm.

Strange to say, young Garrett did not feel satisfied. He had at once conceived this an opportunity to make himself popular by a liberal donation. The gift, for a college student, was liberal enough; but there was something in the merely civil "Thanks," from Beecham, which told him he had not succeeded, at this time, in his purpose. He thought he detected in the tone a covert sneer. But of this he was not sure. He made another mistake.

"Let me know," he said, "what my cousin subscribes, and if he gives more than I have given, I will increase mine."

A second civil--but colder--"Thanks," greeted this speech, and Garrett walked away in no very pleasant frame of mind. "Why is Roy so popular and I a nonentity?" he asked himself, but it was to be a long time before he would learn the answer to his own question.

Beecham and Shealey started at once on a subscription tour. They caught Henning in the study-hall.

"Hello, Roy! We have come to bleed you, old man. We are going to put up a pitcher's cage in one end of the long playroom for winter practice. How much shall we put you down for?"

Roy Henning blushed slightly and a look resembling pain came over his face. His father's test was beginning to operate. Roy, owing to his restricted capital, had made a resolution to spend only two dollars and a half each month. He made a rapid calculation of the present month's necessary boyish expenses, and he knew that he would have very little to offer them. Before he could speak, however, Beecham remarked:

"Say, Roy boy, we know you won't play next spring; but we want you to be treasurer and secretary of the club."

"Yes, you are the man for the job," said Shealey, "none better. Won't you take it? You can do ten times more with the boys than either Jack or myself."

"I don't know----" hesitated Henning, for several reasons.

"Oh, yes, you do, Roy," urged Jack. "You are a capital beggar, you know, and with your own big donation at the head of the list you will be irresistible."

"Call him a good solicitor," laughed Shealey, "it's more euphonious."

"I think I can act as treasurer and secretary for you, if the boys are willing. It is the least I can do if I don't play."

"Of course it is. Thanks. That's good of you," said Beecham, and Shealey nodded approvingly.

"Now, Roy, how much shall I put you down for before I hand over to you the subscription list? Twenty is too much, I suppose," said Shealey.

Roy looked out of the window in a perplexed sort of way. He had always been a liberal contributor. What would his friends think of him now? The paternal test was certainly a hard one in more ways than one.

"I am afraid I shall disappoint you," he said.

"In what?" asked Beecham. "In book-agent assurance? Never fear. I am willing to certify that beneath all your laughing good humor, you are possessed of an unlimited amount of--of--well--to put it without circumlocution--an unlimited amount of cheek. No one can withstand your winning smile and drawing manner. But what is your own gift? Let us head the list with that. I must tell you that your cousin Garrett has promised to equal your subscription, so make it large, if you please. He has already given----"

"How much?" asked Henning uneasily.

"Five dollars."

"Oh!" said Henning, with something very like a sob in his throat.

"Better make it twenty-five, Roy; you can spare it, and it's practically giving an extra twenty which comes out of the pocket of that beg--Oh! I beg your pardon. I am constantly forgetting that he is your cousin. I wish he wasn't."

Beecham spoke the last sentence in blunt, boyish fashion. Roy understood him, but just now he was not inclined either to defend his cousin, or discuss his friend's desires.

"I am afraid I shall disappoint you this time, boys," said Roy.

"You never have yet," remarked Shealey.

"But I shall this time, I am sure."

"Well, let's see the amount of the disappointment," said Beecham laughingly.

Jack Beecham, of late, could not, as he himself expressed it, "make out" his friend Roy. Several times since the beginning of September he had surprises from Henning. He was beginning to regard him as an uncertain or even an unknown quantity. Was his friend becoming miserly? This idea made Jack Beecham laugh. Roy misanthropical! The clever, bright, jolly Roy doing aught but loving all mankind was absurd to think of, but yet--There certainly had come over his bright, genial friend a change which was puzzling. What could----

But his thoughts, as he stood expectantly, with his pencil and notebook in hand, were interrupted by what Roy said next:

"You may put me down for two dollars and fifty cents." Shealey only partly suppressed a giggle, supposing that Roy, as usual, was hoaxing. Roy saw the laugh and was deeply hurt.

"Phew!" began Jack Beecham, and he was about to make a very straightforward remark when he caught a side view of poor Roy's face, which was suffused with the blushes of mortification. There was a look of positive pain there.

Good, sensible Jack at once saw there was something wrong somewhere. Hastily changing his pencil from right-hand to left, he took Roy's hand and pressed it warmly, sympathetically. The action told more than words could do. Beecham gave a quick glance toward the door for Shealey, which that individual understood and immediately departed.

When they were alone Jack said:

"You are in trouble, Roy. Is there--is there any financial difficulty at home?"

"None whatever, Jack; but I can't explain."

There was another silent pressure of the hand.

"Nor will I ask you to do so. But there is something wrong somewhere. Oh, Roy! If I could do--if I could share--look here, Roy," he at last blurted out, boy-fashion, "look here. I intend to give twenty dollars--let me put ten of it under your name--do let me."

"No, no, Jack," said Roy, after a few moments of silence which his emotion compelled him to observe; "no, you must not do that. I can't explain, but come what may I want you not to misunderstand me. Whatever you may hear or see I want you not to lose faith in me," and Roy Henning held out his hands to his friend, while there was a hungry, eagerly hungry, look in his eyes.

There was, of course, no absolute reason why Roy Henning could not have given his entire confidence to his friend. His father had made no such restriction in the test he had imposed. It was Roy's own peculiar temperament which prevented him from confiding in any one; in consequence his trials were in reality much more severe than even his father could have foreseen.

"Have faith in you! Believe in you! Well, I should guess. I don't understand it all--your refusing to play, and this--this small donation, and everything; but, believe in you! Roy, I would as soon cease to believe in myself."

Roy's eyes were hot, and his lips were dry.

"Thanks, old man. I knew you would. I can't explain--yet. But as long as you have confidence in me I'll go through it all right. God bless you, Jack."

Young Beecham was more mystified than ever at this exhibition of emotion, but he felt at the moment something like the knight of old who sought quarrels to vindicate the fair name of the lady of his heart. To make the simile more in accordance with our own more prosaic times, Jack Beecham became Henning's champion, and went around for several days with a metaphorical chip on his shoulder, daring any one to come and knock it off. Of course, the chip represented Roy Henning's actions and intentions.

After this interview, Roy looked a long time out of the study-hall window.

Chapter VI

Advice

Whether Roy Henning's small donation to the boys' collection for the purchase of the pitching cage for the winter practice was the cause, or whether there was some other occult reason, the subscriptions came in very slowly. Many boys, seeing that Roy, usually the largest contributor to all such schemes, had given so small an amount, measured their own donations by his. The project, consequently, dragged along very slowly. The treasurer-secretary more than once called those interested together, and proposed that they should give up the plan.

To this neither Shealey, nor Beecham, nor Bracebridge would listen. They were boys who, having once taken a project in hand, were determined to carry it through to success. Bracebridge encouraged Henning to continue his work of soliciting, but the latter found that he was working against some impalpable obstacle to success, the nature of which he could not divine.

The boys were as free and as genial with him as ever. Every one appeared to like him as usual, yet withal there was an intangible something in the atmosphere, as it were, which appeared to militate against his success. Roy often tried to discover the cause. Was this silent but unmistakable change toward him, which had lately come over most of the boys, of his own causing? After much introspection he could discover no reason for blaming himself.

His retirement from the field of college sports had been more than a nine-days' wonder. All his friends, not understanding or guessing his motive, expostulated with him, and time and again urged him to reconsider his decision. He had remained firm.

His more immediate friends had long ago ceased to make the matter a subject of conversation in his presence, giving him credit for acting from right intentions, although what these were, now near Christmas, was as much a mystery to them as they were on the September day on which he had announced his withdrawal.

Others were not so considerate. With a savagery often found among thoughtless but not necessarily ill-intentioned boys, they frequently discussed his "going back on his team," as they expressed it, in Roy's presence, with an almost brutal unreserve.

"If I could play ball as you do, Henning," said a coarse-grained youth named Stockley, one day, "I would call myself a dog in the manger."

"And why, please?" asked Henning, who was by this time getting used to such talk from those whose opinion he did not value.

"The old reason. A bird that can sing and won't sing, ought to be made to sing. The honor of the college is at stake."

"Your motto has no application in this case," replied Henning. "If I do any injustice to any one by not playing ball, then I ought to be the bird who should be made to sing. But I think you will have some difficulty in proving that I am acting against justice. As to the honor of the college being at stake, in that you know as well as I do, if you have any sense at all, that you are talking sheer nonsense."

"I don't know whether I am," sneered Stockley. "I am not the only one who thinks there is a nigger in the woodpile in this affair. Your cousin was saying only this morning that he could tell the boys something why you will not play ball that would make things mighty ugly for you."

"Now look here, Stockley," said Henning warmly, "you go and mind your own business and leave me and Garrett alone or--or it will be decidedly unpleasant for you."

Stockley, coarse as he was, was observant. He saw Henning's fist close tightly, and he observed the muscles of his arm swell up for a minute. He discreetly moved some paces away.

"When I want your advice upon my conduct," continued Henning, "I will ask it. Till then, mind your own affairs, and keep your tongue from wagging too freely about mine."

The young fellow walked away, muttering some unintelligible words between his teeth. Roy saw no more of him for several days.

Henning entered the Philosophy classroom with a flushed face and an unpleasant frown.

"What's up, Roy?" asked Ambrose Bracebridge, seeing that his friend had been suffering some annoyance.

"Nothing, Brosie; only I have had to talk pretty freely to one fellow who attempted the mentor business over me."

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Oh, no. I merely told him to mind his own business; that's all."

"Do you care to walk?" asked Bracebridge, who saw Henning was very much annoyed.

"Yes, come along," replied Henning.

They walked some time in the face of a cutting wind, such as brings tears to the eyes. While facing it conversation was impossible. Presently they came to the base of a wooded hill which afforded them some shelter. Here they could talk at ease.

"How much money have you collected, Roy, for the cage?" asked Ambrose as soon as both had finished rubbing their chilled cheeks to bring back the circulation.

"I have collected sixty-four dollars in cash, but about eighty-seven has been subscribed. Why do you ask?"

"Please do not think me impertinently curious if I ask you where you keep it."

"Certainly not. It is in the drawer of the table in the dressing-room of the gymnasium. That room just off the playroom. You know, Ambrose, that is the place of meeting of all committees of the various college associations. It's safe there; don't you think so?"

"Yes--perhaps," answered Bracebridge, with evident hesitation. "I would rather you keep it there than in your desk, or in your trunk."

"Why? You appear uneasy. What's the matter?"

"It may be foolish of me, but, Roy, I can not help thinking there is some ugly work being concocted. No doubt you think I am fanciful, but I have accidentally overheard here a word and there a word which I do not like."

"From whom?"

"I can not tell you from whom, because it is all too vague, and if I mentioned any name I may be doing an innocent boy a grave injustice. There is a good deal of talk against you. Many silly fellows have taken it as a personal affront that you refuse to play ball."

"Pshaw! I----"

"Wait, old fellow: of course that is all nonsense. It is no one's business except your own, and their talking is not worth your consideration. Nevertheless there are a few restless spirits here this year, and it is my opinion they are only waiting their chance to make trouble for you."

"What would you advise me to do, Brosie?"

"Why not put all the money you have collected into the hands of the college treasurer? He will take care of it for you. It will be safer in the office vault than in the committee-room."

"I think it would be the better plan, but really I do not think there is any necessity for it. There is no one here who would attempt a robbery."

"Maybe there is not; but as I said, it is better to be on the safe side."

"All right. Much obliged. I guess I'll take your advice. Jack Beecham, only yesterday, hinted something similar to what you have just said about the ugly spirit against me. I wonder why it should have arisen, Ambrose, if it really does exist outside of your imagination. I have done nothing small or mean to any one. The head and front of my offending seems to be that I have withdrawn from next year's ball team. I happen to be a good player. Personally I regret having to take the course, but circumstances have occurred, which, in a way, compel this action. I can not divulge my reasons for so doing, even to my nearest friends--not even to Jack or you, Ambrose."

"Nor do we wish to know them," replied Ambrose, "it is quite sufficient for us to know that you do not wish to give them. Both Beecham and Shealey, and of course, myself, have every confidence in you, and you may rely on our staunch support in anything that may happen. By the way, how does the prefect, Mr. Shalford, regard you?"

"I do not know exactly," said Henning, cautiously. "You see, he is a great enthusiast for sport and games among us boys. I know I have vexed him by my decision. More than once he asked me to retract it. When I refused to do so, and told him I could give him no reason, he seemed, or at least I fancied he seemed, to be cool toward me."

"Don't misjudge him, Roy," said the other, warmly. "It was only yesterday that he advocated your cause to half a dozen pessimistic baseball malcontents. He's all right. Before he had done with these fellows, they held very different views concerning you. Still, he has not influenced all in your favor, for, as you know, not all will take a common-sense view of things, nor listen to reason."

Henning nodded assent.

"The fact is," Ambrose continued, "the yard seems to be dividing or divided into two camps. One is pro-Henning, the other contra. Therefore, and I know you will take what I say in the right spirit, I want you to watch yourself and be quite careful in what you say and do."

"Do you think I shall be attacked?"

Ambrose glanced over the big form of his friend, and laughed loudly.

"Not much. There is no one such a fool as to invite corporal punishment. But there are a dozen means of annoying and vexing without resorting to the lowest means--physical force."

"I am really very grateful, Ambrose, for the interest you take in me. Be sure that, come what may, you shall never be ashamed of having done so. It seems to me that, without the slightest fault of my own, I am placed in a most awkward position. Come what may, I'll try to do nothing I should afterward regret."

"That's right. I know you will be careful."

The two shook hands with the warmth of confident friendship, as they began to retrace their way to the college.

On their way home they were joined by Garrett, who still affected the sky-blue sweater, although he now wore it under his coat. In the presence of Garrett the two friends dropped the subject of their confidences, and the conversation became general.

Chapter VII

The Little Sisters

Time crept slowly, as it is apt to do with boys at school. To the St. Cuthbert boys it seemed as if the year had leaden wings, but at length the week before Christmas arrived. All were now in expectation of coming events. If anticipation is half the joy, then most of the boys were taking their Christmas pleasures in advance.

Already the Christmas feeling was in the atmosphere. In various out-of-the-way places were stored bunches of holly and cedar and laurel. At all times of the day when boys where free from lessons, some one or other would be carrying strange wooden devices from place to place. Now one would be seen carrying to some out-of-the-way shed or unused classroom, wooden stars or double triangles. Another would partially and often unsuccessfully secrete a knot of clothesline. There never was such a demand for fine wire or binding twine.

All of which meant the mediate preparation for decorating the chapel, study-hall, refectory, and even to some extent, the gymnasium. It was a pretty fiction among the boys that all the preparations had to be done in secret. It was fiction only, for the real fact was that, in both divisions, everybody was interested and everybody knew exactly what everybody else was doing.

None entered into the work of remotely preparing for Christmas more heartily than Roy Henning and his friends, Bracebridge, Shealey, and Beecham. There is a certain skill required in decorating. To some this proficiency never comes. It is perhaps an innate quality. It had never come to Roy Henning: He was no decorator. He could neither make a wreath of evergreens, nor cover a device with green stuff creditably.

Owing to this defect of at least a certain kind of artistic temperament, Henning was the subject of a good amount of banter from his friends. He took all their teasing good-naturedly, and admitted his utter inability to make or cover designs.

"I have been thinking--ouch!" said Henning. The last word was spontaneous. It came from sudden pain, caused by the sharp point of a holly leaf penetrating his finger, which member he immediately applied to his mouth.

"By my halidom," remarked Shealey, "'tis strange!"

"Don't do it again," laughed Bracebridge, "but learn from experience what an awful and immediate retribution follows upon such a crime. Hast lost much blood in this encounter?"

"I think each of you fellows has a screw loose," retorted Roy, still sucking his wounded finger. "I am sure Shealey is _non compos mentis_."

"Sane enough to keep holly thorns out of our fingers," retorted Shealey.

"But, fellows, I really have an idea," said Henning.

"Halt! Attention! Stand at ease! Dismiss company!" shouted Beecham with mock gravity, and then with a military salute, he said:

"Now, colonel, I am all attention. What is it?"

"It's this, boys. It wants but five days to Christmas. Between now and the great day all our Christmas boxes will have arrived."

"There's nothing very new in that idea," answered Jack Beecham. "History, just at this time of the year, has the pleasantest way in the world of repeating itself."

"You'll be accused of having brains, Jack," said Henning, "if you keep on that way. If it is not too great a waste of gray matter, or too violent a cerebration for you, just try to listen to me for a moment."

Jack Beecham fell against the wall, and fanned himself with his handkerchief.

"Poor fellow! Isn't it too bad! and so near the holidays, too," he said. "Does any one know when the first symptoms appeared?" Jack turned to Shealey and Bracebridge. "Hadn't we better call an ambulance at once?"

"You'll need one if you don't stop your nonsense and listen to me," said Roy, and he doubled up his great fist. His friends knew Roy's blows, although given only in jest, and having no desire for sore bones for Christmas, they were immediately all attention. Henning laughingly relaxed his muscles and allowed his hands to fall to his sides.

"I thought I could bring you fellows to reason," he remarked.

"We are all attention. Say on, say on," they shouted.

"My idea is this, then. When we get our Christmas boxes, we shall each have much more than we need. Now you know the Little Sisters of the Poor maintain a large number of men and women in their institution. Without any settled income, don't you think it must often be a difficult matter for them to secure enough for the old people to eat and drink?"

"Never thought anything about it. Guess it's true, though; but how does that affect us?"

"Just this way," said Roy. "Let us ask every boy to give something out of his abundance to provide a feast for the old people."

"Capital idea!" shouted Bracebridge. "I do not believe there is a boy who would refuse."

"I agree with you," said Jack.

"But the difficulty is," remarked Ambrose, "that we can not feast old folk on cake and nuts and candy. I suppose this is about all that comes in those boxes."

"You mistake," remarked Roy. "I am sure you will find all sorts of cooked meats--turkeys, chickens, geese, and an unlimited supply of canned meats and delicacies."

Bracebridge was surprised, but then he had not much experience in college Christmas boxes. He was inclined to be slightly incredulous. This was Ambrose's second year at St. Cuthbert's. As he had spent the previous Christmas at home, owing to the fact that he lived but a few miles from the college, he had not yet seen the college sights of Christmas time.

Had he seen the hundreds of Christmas boxes arrive a few days before the great feast; had he learned that one of the smaller study-halls had to be converted into a temporary boxroom for the holidays; had he seen the contents of an average Christmas box from home, he would have been possessed by no doubt as to the possibility of the boys, presuming they were willing, to supply the inmates of the home for the aged poor with as bounteous a dinner as heart could desire.

The proposal appealed to the fancy of our friends. They went at once to the President to obtain the necessary permission.

"I give you leave willingly," said the head of the college, "and I am pleased to see my boys cultivating a spirit of charity and considerateness for others. It will bring down God's blessing on you all."

"Father, it wasn't our idea at all," said Jack. "It originated with----"

"We have another permission to ask, Father," interrupted Roy Henning.

"What next?" said the President, smiling.

"We would like to be allowed to go and serve the dinner to the old people some day during the Christmas week."

"Dear me! What would three hundred and fifty boys do there?"

"I don't mean everybody, Father."

"Whom, then?"

"Just enough to serve all their tables."

"How many inmates are there in the Home?" asked the Father.

"About two hundred, I believe," replied Beecham.

"Very well, Henning; you may select two dozen boys to go with you."

"Thank you, Father. When may the feast take place?"

"Christmas day falls on Monday this year. Suppose you arrange matters for Wednesday. But Wednesday night there is to be the Seniors' play, isn't there?"

"Yes, Father," said Bracebridge, "but I do not think that will interfere. We can have the last rehearsal in the morning, if necessary, or we can be back by three o'clock in the afternoon."

"Very good," said the genial President; "arrange everything with your prefect; but remember the matter drops unless the response is generous among the students. It would not do to send half a feast."

"There won't be any danger of that, Father," said Jack Beecham confidently.

"Very well. God bless you for your charitable intentions," and they were dismissed.

Beecham was correct. The students, almost to a man, became enthusiastic over the proposed feast. Abundance of provisions from the boys' boxes was donated. Every boy, instinct with the spirit of the season, gave something and gave it willingly. Some were offended because they were not allowed to give as much as their generosity prompted. One or two who were inadvertently neglected were very much vexed over not being asked to give their share. Many wondered why the beautiful idea had not occurred to them before. Others were so certain in advance of the success of the banquet that they then and there proposed to make it an annual occurrence.

The little black wagon of the Sisters--and who does not know those wagons! a familiar sight in nearly every city in the Union--made several trips to the college on the Wednesday of Christmas week. Hitherto the boys had paid little attention to this vehicle as it daily drove modestly to the door of the kitchen. On this day it came triumphantly into the boys' yard, amid the lusty cheers of the generous-hearted lads. Even old "Mike," the driver, noted everywhere in town for his delicious brogue, was an object of special interest.

Owing to the excitement of the occasion--the boys afterward declared this most solemnly--the driver performed the remarkable feat of making the old gray mare, which had seen almost as many years as her driver, canter, actually, positively _canter_, up to the classroom door where the provisions were stored. In the after-discussion of this startling event authentic documents were called for, and as they were not forthcoming the cantering incident remains an historic doubt until this day. This old gray mare was known----

The boys would not let the two nuns load the wagon. There were too many strong arms and willing hands for that. At last all the boxes were on the wagon, and old "Mike" mounted his chariot once more. This was a slow operation, for the old man's joints were stiff and he was no longer active. When one of the boys put the lines into his knotted rheumatic fingers, he broke through his usual taciturnity and said:

"You are good boys: good boys. God bless yees all."

"Three cheers for Mike!" shouted a lively youngster in the crowd. The signal was taken up, and it is safe to say that the old man never received such an ovation before in all his life.

As the leather curtain fell the cheering boys caught a last glimpse of the faces of two smiling Sisters, jubilant over the fact that they were carrying home an unwonted treasure for their old people. When the wagon had driven clear of the mob of good-natured boys, Jack Beecham ran alongside, and lifting the flap said to the Sisters:

"Twenty of us are coming by eleven o'clock to-morrow. So you are to do no work. We are going to set the tables and serve the old people. Please tell the Mother-Superior that she and the Sisters are to stand by and give the orders, and we will do the rest."

And the feast itself! What a revelation the inside of the convent was to these gay, careless, happy boys. The sight of so much pain and suffering and dependence and resignation was to them a revelation indeed.

To Ambrose Bracebridge, who eagerly accepted the invitation to don an apron and turn waiter for the occasion, the scene was one of absorbing interest. It will be remembered by those who have read the second book of the series of three which deal with the fortunes of the St. Cuthbert's students, that at this time Ambrose was a convert to Catholicism of about six months' standing, and consequently had seen little or nothing of the workings of the vast fields of practical charity within the Catholic Church. The immense Catholic charities of almost every imaginable kind which dot the land are so familiar to ordinary Catholics that they scarcely cause comment or notice. To Ambrose Bracebridge all was new and wonderful. As a waiter on the old people he did not prove a success. He did not do much serving, but spent most of his time watching the old people feasting, and the good Sisters looking after their comfort.

"A penny for your thoughts," said the chaplain of the institution as he came up to Ambrose.

"I was thinking, Father," said Ambrose, amid the rattle of knives and forks, "what a wonderful charity this is."

"Yes? What impresses you most deeply?"

"The retiring modesty of the Sisters, I think, and the wonderful way they have of managing these old people."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, I am impressed with the docility and evident gratitude these old people show toward the Sisters. How is the institution supported, Father?"

"By the charity of all classes. Have you not often seen the Sisters' modest wagon on the streets? It seems to me that this one charity has touched the tender spot in the heart of the American people. Did you ever know a merchant, or a hotel manager, Catholic or non-Catholic, to refuse the Sisters?"

"Never," replied the boy.

"Yet, after all, this is Catholic charity working in only one direction. Did you ever realize what the Catholic Church is doing for the State in this country? It seems to me that the State would be simply overwhelmed if all the Catholic orphanages, asylums, hospitals, academies, protectories, deaf-mute institutes, and, above all, the vast system of parochial schools, which make, literally, a network of Catholic charity over the land--if, I say, all these were closed and the State had to do the work."

"Some, of pessimistic view," continued the chaplain, who was evidently quite optimistic in his own views, "are always grumbling over the fact that many non-Catholic institutions of learning are so richly endowed, and that Catholics of the country are doing nothing for education. I believe there never was a greater mistake. It is true that, as yet, there are few large Catholic endowments. They will come in time. The money paid by Catholics in the interest of Catholic education--and, mind you, at the same time they are paying their pro rata share of taxes for the support of all secular institutions, including the public schools--the money paid by Catholics, I say, throughout the country, makes a magnificent showing when compared to the few highly endowed secular universities."

"Is not this a rather optimistic view, Father?" asked Bracebridge.

"I do not think so," was the reply. "Ponder over it, and you will see that what I say is correct."

"Here, you lazy rascal--oh! excuse me, Father--here, Ambrose, you lazy rascal, get some of that cranberry sauce from that table. You would not earn your salt as a waiter, Brosie," and Roy Henning, red-faced and excitedly busy, laughingly pushed Ambrose in the direction of the sideboard.

Thus the talk with the chaplain was abruptly broken off. Nevertheless, Bracebridge had received much food for thought for future days. He pondered to good effect, and the result was that his graduation speech at the end of that year was on "Catholicity, a State Aid," which was subsequently the cause of much comment.

One event occurred during the old folks' dinner which was of great interest to some of our friends. Roy Henning, during the latter part of the feast, when the demand for the services of the voluntary waiters was not so urgent, frequently passed a few words with the chaplain who had acted as a sort of honorary general superintendent of the banquet.

On one of these occasions Jack Beecham happened to be passing with a plate of fruit for the table in one direction, and Bracebridge was carrying something in the opposite. Both were near enough to inadvertently hear portions of what appeared to the priest to be a very interesting revelation. Both boys heard the end of a sentence:

"Seminary! You?"

"Yes, Father, please God."

"When?"

"Next year."

"For this diocese?"

"No, my own."

"Ah! I am sorry."

Bracebridge and Beecham exchanged glances as they passed each other. What a revelation was here for both in regard to Henning's conduct. Did not this explain a thousand things?

As soon as the services of the two amateur waiters could be dispensed with, they came together in one corner of the room, and while wiping their fingers on the aprons the thoughtful Sisters had provided for them, they eagerly discussed their accidental discovery, but in a rather curious fashion.

"Please, Brosie, give me a good kick," said Jack.

"Why?" asked his companion.

"Just to think, numskulls that we are, that we never thought just this about dear old Roy."

"I do not see how we could. Roy never gave us the slightest hint."

"No, but if we were not such ninnies--Oh! I say, Ambrose, do you think it is true?"

"No doubt of it. 'Seminary--next year--his own diocese' tells the tale most conclusively for me."

"I'm so glad! If any one of us fellows is worthy of being a priest, it surely is Roy."

"Amen. But why has he kept it such a secret? Now all his actions are clear to me, although I confess I think some of them are mistaken or ill-advised."

"I won't admit that until I know more," remarked loyal Jack.

"That's right, too. But knowing what we now know, we can make things much pleasanter for Roy than they have been so far this year."

"Yes; if only for that I am glad we were involuntary eavesdroppers."

Chapter VIII

Something Happens

The charitable boys returned from the Little Sisters early in the afternoon, aglow with the warmth of their own good deeds, in time to take a rest and an early supper, and put themselves in good condition for the play that evening. It was the Seniors' night, and they were to present "Richelieu" for the first time at St. Cuthbert's in years. The last performance of that great play, ten years ago, had been a brilliant success. The present generation of student actors were nervously anxious to equal, and, if such a thing were possible, to excel the reputation of the bygone players.

To make the situation more critical, several of the old boys who had taken part in the play at its former presentation had been invited to witness its reproduction. Six or seven, stirred by the memories of old times, had accepted the invitation. They were the welcome guests of the college for Christmas week. It can, then, be well understood that this play was to be the great event of the holidays.

The afternoon passed quickly and already the college theater was lighted. Already the boys had more or less noisily scrambled to secure the best positions. Suddenly the footlights shot up, sending a thrill of expectancy through the audience. Amid a rather unmeaning applause, for as yet it was certainly unearned, the orchestra took their places.

Before the curtain, much expectancy; behind it a much larger amount of suppressed excitement. Some of the actors were busy scanning over their lines for the last time, and with regretful haste, sorry now that they had not taken more to heart the advice of the trainer and committed them to memory better. Others were thronging around the busy make-up man, getting into his way, and--as always happens--upsetting the spirit-gum used to fasten on artificial mustaches and beards.

Roy Henning, in the scarlet robe and white fur tippet of _Richelieu_, nervously tugged at a blue silk ribbon which was around his neck, and patiently waited his turn for his make-up.

Shealey was _De Mauprat_ and looked well in a black velvet suit. Ambrose Bracebridge had a decidedly comical appearance in a Capuchin's brown habit and cord, with fleshlings and sandals, as the monk, _Joseph_. Ernest Winters, who this year had been promoted to the large yard, was to impersonate _Richelieu's_ page, _Francois_, and certainly his brother Claude would have been proud of him could he have seen at this moment how fine he looked in his handsome doublet and trunks.

The play had been slightly modified to allow of its presentation by college students. The _Julie de Mortemar_ had been for this occasion metamorphosed in _Julius de Mortemar_, and was consequently nephew instead of niece of the great cardinal. The adaptation of the lines had been cleverly done, so the transposition of this character did not greatly injure the play.

Behind the curtain the actors could hear faintly the squeakings and tunings of the orchestra violins. Presently the first overture began, and the actors knew their time had come. The manager, with a commendable horror of delays and stage waits, and knowing that anything of that kind would ruin the very best production, had everything arranged for the opening scene when the music ceased.

The manager's little bell rings once, twice, and up rises the curtain on the drinking scene in _Marion de Lorme's_ house. The great play of the year had begun. Is it not strange that so many really good plays open with a drinking or carousing scene? At best, there is nothing elevating in them, and it takes the finest kind of professionalism to make them even tolerable. The St. Cuthbert's college boys were not professionals. The consequence was that the first scene went but slowly.

It was not until Henning, magnificently costumed as _Richelieu_, entered, in the second scene, that any of the players appeared at their ease. The round of applause which greeted his entrance with _Joseph_ seemed to steady the actors and give them confidence.

There now occurred a strange thing during this scene, which led to much talk and fruitless speculation for many subsequent days. Henning made a good entrance. He began his lines in a rich baritone:

_Richelieu_--"And so you think this new conspiracy The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox?-- Fox!--Well, I like the nickname! What did Plutarch Say of the Greek Lysander?"

_Joseph_--"I forget."

_Richelieu_--"That where the lion's skin fell short he eked it Out with the fox's. A great statesman, Joseph, That same Lysander."

Just as Henning had finished the rendering of the sentence, "That where the lion's skin fell short he eked it out with the fox's," there was heard from the far right-hand corner of the hall a loud, distinct sound--one word. Clear and resonant, every one in the hall and the actors on the stage heard it distinctly. As nearly as letters will represent the sound it was "UGH!" The intonation of the one syllable was such as to convey without doubt to the hearers that the perpetrator regarded the words of the cardinal as practically applicable to the actor himself.

Many heads were momentarily turned in the direction whence the sound had come. Henning himself gave a rapid glance to the corner of the hall. As he did so, he saw his cousin Garrett drop his head and look fixedly at the floor.

Boys at a Christmas play do not usually fix their gaze on the floor. Henning felt that, for some reason or other, his cousin had made the interruption. For what purpose? Roy could not imagine. That it was Garrett there was no shadow of a doubt, for the actor plainly recognized the blue sweater his cousin wore constantly. Perhaps after all this time, thought Roy, his cousin was now trying to "get even" with him, as he had promised, for refusing to accompany Garrett to that carpet dance during the summer. Roy loyally put this thought out of his mind, but in doing this he was more mystified than ever, as it left him without a motive which could explain the curious action.

Fortunately for the success of the play the intended interruption, and probably intended insult, did not sufficiently distract Henning to the extent of spoiling the scene. There was a pause but for a moment. "A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander," he repeated, and thus recovering himself, the play went on without further interruption to a most successful finish.

The next day the attempted spoiling of the scene was the general subject of conversation. Many boys were uncertain who made the attempt. Henning did not refer to the matter when Garrett approached him. He accepted the many congratulations without evidence of either pleasure or displeasure, merely politely bowing. He appeared indifferent to praise or blame from his cousin. When, however, among his own special coterie of friends he was by no means passive.

After breakfast the Philosophers met in their own classroom, which, as we have before stated, was a sort of clubroom for them. Everybody crowded around Roy. Some shook his hand vigorously, others patted him patronizingly on the shoulders, assuring him that he was "the stuff" without deigning to explain their use of that word; others, in their enthusiasm, thumped him on the back, and Ernest Winters, who because he had taken part in the play, had been allowed to come up to the classroom, presented him, amid the profoundest salaams, with a bouquet of paper flowers surrounded by cabbage leaves which he had purloined from the kitchen.

"Ye done rale good, an' this is fer yees," said the young rascal.

"He did that," said Jack Beecham, and turning to Roy he continued: "If I knew who it was who tried to rattle you, I would----"

"What?" asked Roy.

"I would--would punch his head!" replied Jack, and manner, look, and gesture showed how pugilistic were his inclinations at that moment.

"Who was it, Roy?" he continued, "I wasn't on the stage just at that time, you know."

"I do not know," replied Henning slowly.

"Mental reservation," said Bracebridge laughing.

"I do not know," repeated Roy, and his friends could get no more out of him.

"By the way," said George McLeod, "are you going to finish taking the subscriptions for the pitcher's cage to-day, Roy?"

"Yes," answered Roy. "The boys seem to have plenty of money now, and we want only about twenty-six dollars more."

"That's splendid," said George, "we must have that cage ready by the time classes begin again after the Christmas holidays."

"That reminds me," said Henning, aside to Ambrose Bracebridge, "that I forgot to take that money out of the table-drawer and place it with the treasurer. I intended to do it every day for several days past, but every time I put more money in I forget all about it."

A shade of vexation passed over Bracebridge's bright features. He said:

"I am sorry you forgot. It would be much safer with the treasurer of the college. But I suppose it's all right, anyway."

"I have seven dollars in my pocket now belonging to the fund. Let us go over to the playroom, boys, and I will unlock the drawer and take the money to the treasurer for safe-keeping."

The group of boys left the classroom and went diagonally across the yard to the playroom, which was situated under a large study-hall, and was a half-basement room.

There were about two dozen boys in the playroom when our friends entered it. As Roy passed up the long room, first one and then another complimented the _Richelieu_ of the previous evening on his fine acting. Roy's cheeks flushed with pleasure. There was some of that semiconscious gentleness of perfect success about him. He was experiencing some of the pleasantest moments he had ever spent at St. Cuthbert's.

Jack Beecham took the key from Roy and unlocked the door of the sports-committee room. The group that had recently left the classroom entered, those in the playroom paying little attention to them. Boys were accustomed to see various groups enter the small room for the purpose of discussing various sporting events and conditions of the college games.

"How much have you collected, Roy?" asked Tom Shealey.

"About seventy-two dollars--seventy-nine with this in my pocket. Wait; we'll see in a minute."

He felt in his pocket for a small bunch of keys, but could not find them.

"There! I have left my keys in my desk. Wait a moment, boys, and I'll be back," and he started for the classroom.

"What a dastardly thing that attempt last night was," said one of the company.

"I guess Roy knows who it was well enough," remarked Tom Shealey, "but cousin or no cousin, if he did such a thing to me, I would have to get a very satisfactory explanation, or by the nine gods he would pay dearly for it."

"But Henning is too generous to take any further notice of it," said a boy named White, "but I wonder whether Mr. Shalford will move in the matter at all."

"Haven't the least idea," said Shealey. "I do not see what he could do exactly. It seems to me it were better to let the matter drop, and I am sure that is Roy's wish too. Treat it with the silent contempt it deserves."

Which speech shows that Shealey was not always consistent.

Ambrose agreed with him, although at the time he was furiously angry. As _Joseph_ in the play he was close to Richelieu, and beneath the disguising grease-paint on Henning's face he saw the hot flushes of passion rise, for a moment. Ambrose thought that Roy was going to address the interrupter, but he saw him check himself in time to save a scene that would indeed have been memorable.

"Go on, Roy," Ambrose had whispered. "A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander."

Henning took the cue from Ambrose, and although trembling with suppressed indignation his friend knew the play was saved.

"Where on earth is that Roy all this time?" asked Beecham.

Just at that moment that young man reappeared, red, and out of breath.

"Oh! I say, fellows, forgive me for keeping you waiting so long, but Mr. Shalford caught me in the yard, and--and, really, he was very complimentary."

"Is he going to find out who attempted the interruption last night?" asked young McLeod.

"Not if I can help it, George," replied Roy.

Chapter IX

Who?

"Have you your keys, Roy?" asked Bracebridge.

"Yes, here they are."

Henning moved to the end of the table where the drawer was, and picked out the key which was to unlock the table drawer.

By this time all were engaged in a general discussion as to the kind of pitcher's cage which should be procured.

"I can not make up my mind," said Roy, as he inserted the key into the lock, "whether to recommend the committee to get a wire backstop, or a canvas one." He had now opened the drawer and was feeling mechanically for his subscription book.

"I think a canvas one will be better because it will not be so hard on the balls, and be less noisy, too. Why! where is my book--Ah! here it is."

He drew out from the drawer the book containing the list of donors. In the back of the book Henning had made a rough sketch of what he supposed was wanted as a pitcher's cage. He showed it to the boys.

"Who's the artist?" asked Jack.

"Your humble servant," replied Roy.

"H'm! Perspective all out. It looks two miles long. I guess the grease-paint man of last night could do better than that."

"That's what you say, Jack," answered Roy good-naturedly; "I would like to see you do as well, anyway."

Jack Beecham was not in earnest. Henning had caught him winking to the others while decrying his work.

"Well," continued Roy, as he put his hand again into the drawer, "I would not ask Mr. John Beauchamps--to draw--for me--a--a barn door--Great heavens! Where's that money! I can't feel it anywhere in the drawer!"

All this time Henning's forearm was in the drawer and his fingers were nervously searching for the bag.

"Give yourself more room. Open the drawer wider, you goose," said Beecham.

Henning pushed back his chair so suddenly that it fell. He pulled out the drawer to its full length. Then taking out the contents of the drawer he put them excitedly on the table. There was a large leather blotter, with pouches, a pad of athletic club letterheads, a lot of spoiled half sheets of foolscap, about a quire of clean paper, and a few small miscellaneous articles.

"Did you have the money in a purse?" asked Bracebridge, who could not keep his anxiety out of his voice.

"No; it was in one if those yellow bank canvas bags."

"Look again through the pile of papers and be sure it is not there."

They all searched. The money was gone.

Those who saw Henning at that moment pitied him from the bottom of their hearts. For a few seconds he stood as one dazed. When he realized the force of the catastrophe which had happened to him he turned ghastly pale. His lips became livid. Around them were distinct white lines.

For a moment the six boys stood in perfect silence. Ambrose Bracebridge seemed afraid to look at his friend.

Henning stood as one dazed, not at present seeming to realize all of the untoward thing that had happened to him. It seemed to him as if he were under water and could not breathe. He panted for breath. A moment or two later a reaction set in and the blood rushed to his head, making his sight waver and his temples throb, and reddening his face to crimson. He felt as if he were falling forward, yet he remained motionless.

"Fetch Mr. Shalford, Ernest, but tell him nothing. Say we want him at once," whispered Bracebridge to young Winters. The boy slipped out noiselessly and it is doubtful if any one except the last speaker noticed or knew of his departure. In half a minute Mr. Shalford came in. As he pushed the door open he saw the standing group, and began to laugh.

"High tragics, eh? Are you all posing for a tableau? Where's the camera? What! What on earth is the matter with you boys? Speak some of you; what has happened?"

They certainly did look a lot of frightened boys. Suddenly Roy regained the power of speech. With a full realization of his own predicament he threw up his hands in a despairing attitude.

"Oh, oh, oh! I shall be branded as a thief!"

Then he dropped on his knees and buried his face in his arms on the table.

"That's quite dramat----" again began Mr. Shalford, but suddenly checked himself. He now saw there was something woefully wrong.

A moment before Roy Henning had a strong inclination to burst out laughing at his ridiculous position, but his self-control was too great to permit him to give way to the nervous hilarity of misfortune. Just as Mr. Shalford entered the room the thought flashed across his mind of the consequences at home for him. What would his stern father say! Then a momentary thought of his mother's grief--and he gave way.

Who can blame him? Roy was as yet only a boy, after all. At present he lacked the stability and poise of later years. Fifteen or twenty years later he would have borne the crash of a financial misfortune with a certain kind of equanimity. But he was young yet, living in boy-world, with all a boy's thoughts and feelings. And he wept. Do not blame him. It is more than probable that under the same circumstances you and I, and a hundred others, if we ever had a spark of boy nature, or boy feeling about us, would have done the same, and not thought it derogatory either.

Mr. Shalford, putting his hand on Roy's shoulder in a kindly way, said:

"What is wrong, Roy? What has happened? Your friends do not want to see you in this way."

The poor boy raised his head from his arm.

"It's gone. The money's gone. My character is ruined!"

"That is not so, my boy. Be sensible. No one in his senses will ever accuse you. How much was taken?"

"All, sir, except seven dollars in my pocket."

"But how much?"

"Seventy-two dollars."

"Dear me! dear me! Seventy-two dollars! Why did you keep so large a sum in a place like this, Roy?"

"If I had a particle of common-sense I would have taken Bracebridge's advice long ago. He recommended putting it away safely two weeks ago, but I forgot to do it. What a fool I was--fool! fool!"

"Don't say that, my boy. Come, cheer up. There is not a shadow of moral wrong for you in the whole affair. It's a misfortune for you, truly. You can bear that bravely. We may catch the thief yet."

"Yes; but, sir, I shall be suspected. Many fellows will point the finger at me. Oh!--oh! I think I had better go home and give up all my plans."

Give up all his plans! In the bitterness of his heart he thought that all was ruined, that the secret hopes of a vocation were now irretrievably lost, character gone, opportunities wasted. Well, Roy Henning was not the first and will not be the last of those who, when sudden misfortune comes, grow exceedingly pessimistic and want to give up. This was the first great grief of Roy's life. All the petty annoyances he had suffered from Garrett and his undesirable clique sank into insignificance in the face of this overwhelming calamity. Oh, why had he not followed Bracebridge's advice, and, days ago, put the money out of his own keeping!

"Yes," he said again, "I think I had better leave----"

"No, no, no, no, Roy!" came the chorus from his friends.

"If you do so, now, Roy," said Mr. Shalford, who motioned silence to the others, "you make the mistake of your life. You give your enemies--I mean those ill-disposed toward you, if there are any--a free field, and unlimited opportunities to vilify you. You can not, you must not go."

"But I must."

"No, no, you must not, Roy."

"But I must, sir. Oh, I can't stand it!"

"Well, if you must, think over your friends' sorrow at such a course."

"Sir?" asked the bewildered boy, not at all understanding.

"I say, think of our sorrow, your friend's sorrow at such a step. And, Roy, think of your mother's sorrow! A son with a blighted name! Don't you see that by running away now you make a tacit confession of some guilt? No, you must not go!"

Long ago Mr. Shalford had surmised what were Henning's intentions and aspirations for a future career. He saw this affair would be an occasion of trying the very soul of the boy before him, and that it would either make or break him. He thought, and correctly, that he knew the character of the youth now in such deep trouble, and he was anxious that he should make no false step. He looked Roy straight in the eye, and said seriously:

"Definitely, you must not go," and then, as calmly as he had spoken before, he made use of a somewhat enigmatic expression: "Eagles live on mountain heights where storms are strongest."

A quick glance from Henning told the prefect that the boy understood him, and the saying also told the boy that the prefect had divined his intention accurately. Mr. Shalford had thought the words and the glance would be understood by himself and Henning only. In this he was mistaken. Two boys, who had overheard Roy's words to the chaplain at the Little Sisters, understood perfectly.

"Very well, sir. I stay," said Roy.

"That is right; that is sensible," said Mr. Shalford, but in a moment Henning burst out, with an agony in his voice that was piteous:

"Oh, the shame of being suspected! What shall I do! What shall I do!"

"Let me think what is best to do," said Mr. Shalford, who walked up and down the room once or twice. He realized that it was a critical moment in Henning's life, and he wanted to gain a little time. He decided that it was wisest to get Henning away from the scene of his misfortune at least for a few hours.

"What you will do now is this, all of you. You--Henning, Bracebridge, Beecham, and Shealey, will go out at once for a long tramp, buy your dinners somewhere, and do not come home till dark. Have you plenty of money?"

"Yes, sir; yes, sir, lots of it," answered the delighted three who were not in trouble.

"I don't think----" began the despondent Henning.

"That's right; just now do not think," said the energetic prefect. "It will do no good. Walk and talk instead. Come home tired out, all of you."

Three out of the group were enthusiastic over the plan. But there were two other very long faces just then. George McLeod and Ernest Winters were not included in the generous proposal.

"I say, Mr. Shalford, may not the kids come, too?" asked Tom Shealey.

"The kids! Whom do you mean?" and the prefect turned and saw two very disconsolate faces. He thought for a moment.

"Let--me--see. Records clear, Ernest? George?"

"Yes, sir," answered the two, their hopes rising.

"How were your notes in the Christmas competitions?"

"Pretty good, sir, eighty-two," answered Ernest.

"Fine, sir, mine were eighty-nine," answered McLeod for himself.

In the meantime Mr. Shalford had caught Henning's eye. By a slight raising of his eyelids he wordlessly inquired if the company of these smaller boys would be acceptable. Roy answered by an almost imperceptible affirmative movement of the head.

"Very well, then," the prefect said, "I suppose you both may go, too, but it's only another weakness on my part, letting small boys out all day. You big boys must take care of them."

"Whoop!" shouted Ernest vociferously, and even the disconsolate Henning smiled at Ernest's resemblance in voice and manner to Claude, his brother, especially under stress of any pleasurable excitement.

"Of course I will set about investigating this money matter at once," resumed Mr. Shalford, "and you six here had better keep the whole matter a secret, at least for a time."

This injunction was useless. The prefect, this time, had reckoned without his host. At his own exclamation of surprise at the discovery of the theft, several boys who were in the large playroom, crowded around the door, unobserved by the prefect, whose back was toward them. Already the fact was known in the yard to some extent. Already had little excited groups begun to discuss the startling event.

Chapter X

A Day'S Adventure

Mr. Shalford at once told the President of the theft, and what he had arranged for Henning. The head of the college agreed with the prefect in thinking that a day's outing for Roy would be the best distraction he could get. A change of scenery and of faces would be beneficial, and prevent the unfortunate boy's mind from dwelling too morbidly on his misfortune while the event was still fresh.

"Why, why, why! What's this? Boys out of bounds? Where are you going? Dear me, dear me!"

The President, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, shook his gray locks, and a long finger, at the six boys whom he purposely met on the snow-covered lawn in front of the college.

"Where are you going?" he asked again.

"We hardly know yet, Father," said Jack Beecham. "We have only a few minutes ago obtained permission from Mr. Shalford for a day off."

"A day off! and what do you expect to do with it?"

"Take a good tramp, buy our dinners at a farmhouse, and have a good time, Father."

"H--hm! Have a good time, eh? Well, that's right. You can all be trusted. Hope you will enjoy yourselves. Wait. Where are your skates? If I were you I would take them with me. In your journeying you may come across a frozen pond, and then you would regret being without them."

"That's a good idea, Father. We will go back and get them," said Jack.

"Do, and meet me here before you start."

The boys turned back into the yard, and the President went to his office. A few minutes later he met the boys. He was carrying a good sized parcel.

"Were you not some of the charitable boys who, out of their abundance, provided the old folks with a feast yesterday?"

Not one of those engaged in that enterprise answered, but Ernest Winters said:

"Yes, Father, these four big fellows were some of them and I think they are all a set of mean fellows."

The four, and the President, too, looked surprised.

"Why do you think that, my child?" he asked.

"Because they didn't give any of us smaller boys a chance to give anything toward the feast."

The four big "mean" fellows burst into a laugh.

"Never mind, Ernie, this time," said Jack Beecham, "we had too much anyway. You shall have a chance for the next spread."

The President smiled at Ernest's vehemence, and at the nature of his charge.

"On your way," he said to Henning, "I want you to call at the Little Sisters and give them this package. I learned last night that although your dinner there was a great success yesterday, still there are many poor creatures, both men and women, who are in the infirmaries and could not attend. Here are a couple of boxes of cigars for these old men, and two boxes of candy for the old women."

The boys were delighted to be given such a mission. A bright smile of welcome spread over the features of the Sister who answered the door, when she saw these college boys again.

"Come into the parlor, young gentlemen, and I will call Mother."

The Superioress soon came. She was profuse in her thanks for what the students had done that week for her charges.

"May God bless you all," she said. "Our old people, since yesterday's dinner, have done nothing but talk about the kindness of the young gentlemen in remembering them. Many extravagantly funny, and some really comical things were said in your praise," and the nun's eyes twinkled and a smile stole around the corners of her mouth at the remembrance of many a quaint bit of Irish humor from the old men.

"Oh, tell us some of the things, Mother," said the impetuous young Winters.

"I am unable to reproduce any of it. I should only spoil it if I were to attempt it. You must come and hear them yourselves some day."

Henning then told her their mission.

"Please convey my thanks to the President. All of you must visit the infirmaries and distribute the gifts."

Whether this is what the President intended--we are inclined to think it is--that visit was the very best thing that could have happened to Henning in his present frame of mind. There is nothing like witnessing the sorrow and misery of others to make us think less of our own. For the first time in his life Henning was face to face and in close touch with pain and suffering and disease and all the calamities of impoverished old age. What was a misfortune like his to that of being doubled and rendered helpless by rheumatism? Here one was totally blind, but marvelously patient. There another whose distorted hands rendered her powerless to help herself. Another had to be lifted and tended and fed as a little child in the helplessness of old age and years of sickness. Yet all, under the fostering charity of the nuns, were clean, docile, grateful, and as cheerful as their condition would permit. Yes, the visit was very beneficial to Henning.

It is true that Roy's greatest distress was, after all, in the anticipation of what was to come. He knew there were many who were by no means kindly disposed toward him. Would these set afloat rumors and reports? Would they attempt to blacken his character? He greatly feared they would.

The chagrin caused by having lost the money entrusted to him through want of a little prudential forethought, or through mere forgetfulness of what he had the intention of doing, was bad enough. The imputations and the innuendos he dreaded far more. He realized that life could be made very bitter for him. But after all, what was all he might have to suffer, even granting the gloomiest view of the future to be the actual one, in comparison to the chronic and hopeless pains of these poor people in the Sisters' infirmaries?

He left the convent in a much more cheerful frame of mind than he had experienced since the discovery of the theft. His companions gladly saw the change. They did their utmost during the long tramp over the hills, by quip and prank and song and jest, to make the time pass pleasantly.

It was a splendid day for a winter's walk. It is true there was no sun, but neither was there a breath of cold air stirring. There was an even gray sky, a motionless atmosphere, and just sufficient snow to accentuate the beauties of a winter landscape, but not enough to envelop everything in an indiscriminating white pall. It was an ideal winter day in which to be outdoors.

The fresh snow that had fallen during the night and early morning remained on the trees, loading down every branch and twig. The well-known bridle-path through the woods, along which the boys passed merrily, had a double carpet, the upper one of snow, and beneath that a spreading of dry autumn leaves.

The great charm of a windless snow-covered forest is the absolute silence that prevails. Nothing was heard by the travelers save the distant occasional bark of a shepherd-dog, or a far-off train whistle, sounding like a dismal appeal for help, and subconsciously regarded by the hearers as an irreverent intrusion upon the silence of the solitude. Once in a while from an overweighted bough the soft snow would fall, but with a muffled sound as if fearful of breaking nature's sabbath calm.

As the boys traveled merrily on, here and there they saw the "vestigia" of birds or rabbits, and once they discovered what they supposed to be deer tracks in the snow. Descending to a pretty hollow they saw a scene which delighted them immensely. In the bottom of the hollow, which in the summer time was a beautiful glade in the forest, there was standing out alone with a clear space around it, a magnificent snow-laden spruce tree. Each graceful downward curve of the limbs sustained its load of pure white snow. The symmetry of the forest king was unmarred, but appeared glorified by its covering of whiteness.

The six were enraptured. They gazed long at the beautiful sight and would have delayed much longer had not Jack Beecham, who had assumed a temporary leadership of the excursion, warned them of the unwisdom of staying too long in one place.

A little farther along they saw an ideal winter scene. A large, comfortable farmhouse, with all the sheds and barns of a well-kept farm, lay at their feet under a mantle of white. From the broad chimney arose a straight column of blue smoke, telling of warmth within. In the barnyard were several head of comfortable-looking sheep and fat cattle were contentedly ruminating in the shelter of a huge straw stack. One of the inmates of this cosy looking farmhouse had, probably unconsciously, added the last touch to complete the artistic effect of this scene of gray and white. In the door yard on a clothesline were three or four brilliantly red woolen shirts which heightened by contrast the more somber colors of the scene.

"That's our Mecca if the fates be propitious," said Tom Shealey, as the boys were viewing the scene here described from an elevated point at least a mile away.

"It is a comfortable looking house and doubtless has a well-stocked larder. I wonder if the Dowsibel of the Kitchen could be induced to turn a spit for us."

"'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished," observed Beecham, "for already I believe I could eat a couple of sheep and a Michaelmas goose."

The boys had already walked a good seven miles. All were beginning to feel tired and to realize the necessity of a good meal.

"Suppose we can not be entertained there?" suggested Ernest Winters.

"Then we shall have to tramp on till we find a place where we can be--perhaps ten miles more," said Roy Henning teasingly.

"O--oh!" groaned Ernest. Roy laughed.

"Well, do not despair, little one. Nine miles from here I know of a wayside hostelry where we may perhaps get some year old crackers and eggs, with an apology for coffee, and have the privilege of paying Delmonico prices."

"Oh, oh! Nine miles--oh! Sixteen miles and crackers! Oh!" groaned Winters again. All burst out laughing at the comical look of despair Ernest's face had assumed.

"Look here, Ernie," said Roy again, "if it comes to the worst we can eat our shoes and our skate straps, and our gloves for dessert."

During their chatter they had continued their walk down the hillside toward the comfortable-looking farm. When about half way down the road they saw a jolly looking, red-faced man--in the clear atmosphere they could easily distinguish his red face--come out of the farmhouse, take his stand on the stoop or veranda, shade his eyes with his hand, and look a long time at the approaching boys.

"We shall know our fate in a few minutes," said Jack Beecham in a tragic whisper to Ernest. "If we are not welcome he will set his savage dogs on us as soon as we get near enough, and then we shall be hungry orphans out in the cold world, sure enough."

But no such catastrophe occurred. After gazing a few minutes the man went into the house and closed the door. The boys opened the yard gate with trepidation, fearful of the onslaught of some vicious watchdog, and more afraid than they would have been owing to the rascal Jack's ominous forecast of the possibilities. To their great relief no canine enemy appeared.

All they saw pleased them. There was an air of prosperous, generous plenty everywhere. The hay-mows were bursting with sweet-smelling hay. The wheat barn was congested with unthreshed grain. The cows, pigs, and sheep were fat, and evidently well cared for. Repose was everywhere. In such a place as this, thought Roy, life must be well worth the living.

"Cave canem," whispered Bracebridge, as he espied the watchdog lying on the porch of the house. This old Roman warning, "Beware of the dog" was, on this occasion, unnecessary, for when the animal saw the visitors he merely wagged his tail and did not take the trouble to stir. He seemed too fat and too contented with life to care about molesting a mere parcel of college boys, and his instinct told him they did not belong to the genus tramp.

As they reached the porch of the house the good-natured looking man who had watched them coming down the hillside opened the door. The boys noticed that he had put on his coat to welcome them. While making his observations he had been in his shirt-sleeves.

"Welcome, young gentlemen. Come right in by the fire," was his hearty greeting. "Mother, Mother! Here are some young gentlemen from Cuthberton," he called to some one in the large living-room.

A kind, motherly woman appeared in the doorway. She was clad in a warm homemade linsey dress, with a white handkerchief over her shoulders, and white muslin cuffs to match. A black lace coif surmounted her snow-white hair. The boys saw a very smiling, kindly face in the doorway greeting them.

"Welcome, welcome, my dears. You are welcome. But, please, scrape the snow off your shoes before you come in. I am very particular about that, am I not, Roland?" and she glanced affectionately at the big man beside her.

"Yes, yes, indeed she is," he remarked humorously. "Would you believe it, gentlemen, she leads me an awful life about my dirty boots--awful--awful!"

"Roland," said the elderly lady, "how you do talk!"

The husband gave a sly, comical wink to the boys, who immediately understood the nature of the amicable bantering which they soon found was going on constantly between these two.

"Take off your overcoats, my dears, and come up to the fire. You must be cold. There's no wind, but it's near zero. And did ye walk all the way, from St. Cuthbert's College? You must all be tired."

She saw at once they were college boys.

"Did ye now! Well now! well! well! My! but that's a long way to walk. Roland, go ye and get another hickory back log, and start a good blaze. Now sit ye there and warm yourselves. I'll be back in a minute or two," and the kindly woman put down her knitting and bustled out of the room.

"This is fine!" said Tom Shealey. "We are in luck for sure."

"I wonder where she has gone," ventured Ernest Winters, in a whisper.

"Gone? Um! um! don't you know, youngster?" said Jack Beecham, with a shrug, and a stage whisper. He was a terrible tease. "Better keep your eyes on your skates and overcoat, Ernest. Of course she has gone to gather all the hired men on the farm who will soon be here to drive us off the premises. The ogre of this castle won't stand for any such invasion as ours. You can see it in her eye."

But Ernest was not to be caught a second time.

"You can't fool me this time, mister. I think--but hush! here she comes."

She came. With her came two of her maids bearing with them eatables--sweet homemade bread, apparently created to make a hungry schoolboy's mouth water, delicious pats of golden butter, red cheese, and an enormous pitcher of new milk--what a lunch for hungry boys!

"I am very glad you came," again remarked the dear old lady. "To-day I give the farmhands and the dairy maids a sort of Christmas week feast. It is a holiday in this house to-day. We don't have dinner to-day until after two o'clock, and as that is late and you must be hungry with your long walk already--my! it's nigh onto eight miles to the big school, isn't it--you had just better take a snack before dinner-time. Come, sit up to the table, my dears; that is if you are warmed enough."

The young fellows did not need a second invitation. Hunger is a good sauce. Growing boys are always hungry and the sweet, wholesome farmhouse fare was extremely enticing. Such butter! No oleomargarine there. Were it not, as mentioned before, that boys have a perpetual appetite, I am afraid that the amount of bread, cheese, butter, and milk disposed of would have seriously interfered with the enjoyment of the forthcoming dinner. At all events it wanted considerably over two hours to dinner-time.

Chapter XI

An Afternoon'S Fun

If the writer of these veracious chronicles knows anything about boys--and he has been accused of having that knowledge--he is sure that his boy readers, and his girl readers, too, for that matter, will expect an account of that famous farmhouse dinner. Well, we can not delay the story by merely describing what people eat; yet it was a gorgeous feast for our friends. The enjoyment was greatly enhanced by the complete unexpectedness of it all. Not the least part of this enjoyment was the hearty, extraordinary welcome given to a troop of boys who had never been to the house before and were entire strangers to the good people who entertained them so royally.

A few minutes after two o'clock the farmer took from a shelf in the common living-room a large seashell and went to the porch and sounded it lustily, much to the astonishment of George McLeod, who had never seen a shell put to such a use before.

"How did you do it?" he asked.

"Just blew into it. Try it yourself," said the farmer. McLeod tried and tried again, but could not produce a sound.

"What is it for?" he inquired.

"To call the hands to dinner. We have no bells or whistles out here in the country, so we use a horn, or a big shell, which is the next best thing, and I believe it sounds farther. On a still day I have heard this shell five miles away."

"Come, boys; wash for dinner," called the motherly housekeeper. They were not allowed in the kitchen while the maids were dishing the dinner. They were taken to a side porch and there shown a rain-barrel and several tin pans and soap. A large round towel hung on a nail close by. The boys enjoyed this primitive method of performing their ablutions.

The dinner was a surprise even to those boys who were not unused to occasional big dinners at home. George McLeod said that never in his life had he seen so large a turkey, but it was found none too large after it had passed the guests and traveled to the end of the table. And the stuffed ham! And the mince pies, and tarts, and rosy apples and nuts, and that old-fashioned plum-pudding! Well, we must stop: it is not fair.

There were two wings in the rear of the house which the boys had not noticed when descending the hill in front of the dwelling. To one of these all the maids of the large household retired after dinner, and the farmhands went to the other, where they spent the rest of the afternoon in smoking and enjoyment until it was time to feed and water the stock, milk the cows, and do the other necessary daily farm chores.

Roy Henning and his companions, after the dinner, were invited to sit around the blazing yule log. The old lady sat in the center of the group in an old-fashioned armchair whose back reached some twelve inches above her head, and which had large, broad, comfortable arms. It was well padded and comfortable, and was covered with a serviceable chintz of a soft green color. She sat in the midst of her guests, before the blazing logs, a very picture of content and matronly dignity. Her husband sat next to her, and their guests were arranged on either side.

With fine tact she drew out each boy and made him appear at his best. Although, owing to the generous welcome given them, all reserve and bashfulness had vanished long before the dinner, yet the coziness of a winter afternoon indoors made them chatty and even confidential. They told her of the play the night before and of its success. They found interested listeners in host and hostess.

"I should so like to have been there," said the old lady. "I am so fond of good dramatic productions. Providing the tone is correct there is no more elevating form of amusement than the drama."

"Hold on there, mother," said the husband, "grand opera is finer. In that we get all that dramatic presentation gives, with the addition of excellent music."

"You know, my dears," said Mrs. Thorncroft, for that was the old lady's name, "my husband is an enthusiast in matters musical."

"So is Ernie Winters," said his friend George McLeod.

"Is that so?" said Mr. Thorncroft, enthusiastically. "Is that so? Well, well! Now I wonder, mother, whether these young gentlemen could not sing some songs for us. Wouldn't that be fine, eh?"

"Jack Beecham can sing, ma'am," said George again.

"Oh! you keep quiet, youngster," said Jack.

"I won't. He sings first rate, sir."

"Capital! Anybody else?"

"Yes," said Beecham, "George McLeod there, who is so fond of getting other people into difficulty, can sing, too."

McLeod shook his fist at Jack. But it was well known that he had a good voice.

Then, to the infinite delight of the musical farmer, songs and glees and madrigals and rounds were sung. It was an impromptu concert, but of no mean order, for the lads were well trained and had a good stock of songs. They wished, properly, to make a return in some way for the kindly treatment they had received and were still receiving. "Holy Night" was given, and "Good King Wenceslaus," and "God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen," "Angels We Have Seen and Heard," and many others. Then followed the college songs, and the concert was closed with the old favorite of St. Cuthbert's, the "O Sanctissima."

When the singing had ceased there was a momentary silence, during which the six boys exchanged signals and glances. Suddenly there were two very startled people in the company around the ingle nook. The old lady half arose from her chair in consternation and amazement. Her husband stared in wonder when he heard such a vociferous and unexpected sound. Had the boys gone crazy? Certainly the old people, kind and hospitable as they were, for at least one minute thought so. Such an unearthly noise! It resembled nothing so much as a wild Indian warcry.

After all it was only the college yell.

In the school-days of Mr. and Mrs. Thorncroft no such thing had ever been dreamed of. Living now in seclusion out in the country amid plenty and a certain rustic refinement, this elderly couple had never heard that modern accomplishment of a college man--the yell. It may be exhilarating to the college man; its use may be within the modern bounds of propriety, and it may, among the coteries of the more advanced, be considered the correct thing; but it is certain that the old lady, who had been educated in a French convent in her youth, hearing the yell for the first time did not think so. Her unformulated idea, judging from her looks, was that it was an indication of atavism--a going back, in one particular--to man's former state of savagery.

The boys were amused at her surprise. She then saw that it was something done for her entertainment. They evidently thought it was something very fine. These lads lacked, just now, what one may call perspective. They lacked the proper appreciation of the correctness, or fitness, of things. They knew the college yell was the most enthusing thing on earth to them when used on the campus in a grand rush to victory, but they did not think, or realize, that the same yell given in a small room might be startling and even offensive to an elderly lady.

"You must excuse me now, boys, for a little while," said the farmer. "I must go and look after my men. I will be back soon. Mother"--he always called his wife by that name--"are all the walnuts gone?"

"No. Dear me! I never thought about them. I will get some."

She returned with a large dish of walnut and hickory nuts. In lieu of the usual table nut-crackers she brought a flat stone and two hammers. While the boys were busy cracking and eating nuts she said:

"You do not know, my children, what an unexpected pleasure your visit has been to me. Would you like to know the reason? Very well, I will tell you," she seated herself comfortably again in her green chintz-covered chair.

"I love boys because somewhere in the world there are wandering two of my own dear children. Both left home when they were about the age of you four big boys, and I love to remember them as such even now. They were fine lads, with rosy healthy cheeks, and they were good. You lads with your bright eyes and clear skins, and good pure faces make me see my own two darlings once again. Do I long to see them? Ah, yes. Oh, how much, how much!--once again before I die. But I am not grieving about them. No. Every night I commend them to the keeping of our blessed Mother, and I feel that wherever they may be a mother's prayers for them must be heard. I am sure that Our Lady is taking care of them."

"Why did they leave home?" asked Henning sympathetically.

"Ah! the wanderlust. The desire to see the world. But you boys must come and see me again and I will tell you the story. There is no time now, as I see my husband coming from the cattle-shed."

"Mother!" said the cheery voice of Roland Thorncroft a moment later, as he opened the door, "would not these young gentlemen like a good skate on the meadow pond? It has been swept by the wind, and is capital ice."

Jack Beecham looked at his watch. It was already four o'clock.

"We are thankful," he said, "but I am afraid we must do without that pleasure. It is quite time we started for home."

Husband looked at wife. She nodded, and then he nodded. Something was settled between them.

"Don't you like skating, boys? I thought you did, seeing each had a pair of skates along."

"Very much, sir," said Tom Shealey, "but we must be starting now."

"Come along, then. Bring your skates. There is no wind and it is not nearly as cold as it was this morning. You will not want your top-coats."

The boys looked puzzled. The host saw the look of mystification on their faces. He burst into a merry laugh.

"You simple children!" he said, as soon as he could. "Do you think that after being our guests all day, and singing for us as you have done, we are going to let you walk home! No, no. You just get your skates and come along with me. I'll show you the finest piece of ice in the country. You can skate there for an hour or an hour and a half. By that time coffee will be ready, eh, mammy? And a bobsleigh. We are going to have just the finest, most musical sleighride this evening you ever saw, or heard. You had better come along, mother, too."

"Really, I have half a mind to."

"Do, do, do, Mrs. Thorncroft; do, do!" chorused the boys.

"I will see by the time you return for supper."

When the time came for starting, however, she decided to stay at home. She had prepared a lunch for the journey, for there was no time now for a formal supper. After each boy had taken a bowl of steaming coffee, she bade them adieu. Such handshakings! Such good-byes! The jolly lads subdued their merriment momentarily when she kissed each one a farewell on the brow. It was a beautiful moment in each one's life and was never forgotten by any of them.

They had a glorious ride in the moonlight and the frost. And so it happened that six merry boys came joyously into the college yard at about seven o'clock, happy, tired, excited, and chattering like magpies about the unexpected good time they had enjoyed.

"I am glad the plan worked," said Mr. Shalford to himself. The boys never learned that the dinner at Thorncroft's was a prearranged affair. As soon as he had decided to send Henning and his companions out for a day's change, the prefect had told one of the farmhands to get a fast horse and arrange with the Thorncrofts for the boys' entertainment. He had suggested to Tom Shealey and Jack Beecham the best route to take without arousing their suspicions, and everything had happened just as he had planned. Some men are positively ingenious in their charity.

Chapter XII

Reports

Perhaps it was not the wisest course to have pursued, after all, on the part of the prefect, to have allowed all the boys who were present at the discovery of the theft to be absent for the whole day. Twelve hours was ample time for a number of rumors to be born, grow strong, and become, in the minds of some, established facts. There were, unfortunately, all too many willing to believe, not maliciously but thoughtlessly, the wildest and most absurd report. A few were anxious to find something more than a mere misfortune in that which had befallen the treasurer. These did not hesitate to sit in judgment on their fellows, to discuss and impute intentions which with knowledge any less than omniscient they could not possibly possess.

Almost as soon as the discovery had been made, the news spread like wildfire through the yard. Excited boys gathered in groups and discussed the situation. It was certainly the biggest sensation St. Cuthbert's had witnessed in many a day--more exciting than the Deming affair. The rumors were legion and as contradictory as numerous.

"Hi! Jones; have you heard the news?" asked Smithers, about half an hour after the discovery.

"No. What?" asked Rob.

"Haven't heard of the robbery?"

"No. What robbery? No one has stolen our costumes, have they?"

Rob Jones was full of the play of the night before, and just at this moment he considered the costumes, if not the most valuable, at least the most attractive things for a thief to make away with.

"Costumes! Not much! It's cash. Hard-earned cash; at least cash subscribed by other people. The delectable and very pious Henning has managed to lose seventy-two dollars which the boys had already subscribed for the cage."

"Managed to lose! I don't understand. Speak plainer."

"I mean, then, that Roy has lost that money and the report is that he was robbed of it."

"You miserable cur!" said Rob Jones.

In a flash he saw Smithers' motive. There had evidently been a robbery. No matter how, or when, or where, without knowledge of any of the details whatever, Rob Jones was as sure as he was sure of his own existence that Roy, big, generous, noble-hearted Roy, was guiltless of the least shadow of complicity. As soon as he realized that Smithers, in the mere telling of the event, was so coloring the facts by innuendo and sneer that Roy's name would probably suffer, Jones became furiously angry.

"You miserable cur!" he repeated, and made a spring for the other's throat. Luckily the high collar he wore saved Smithers to some extent, or he might carry to this day some ugly marks. Jones fairly shook him, as a mastiff would shake a whelp.

"You cur! Is this the way you would blacken one's reputation! I tell you Roy is innocent, and you shall apologize to him for your dastardly insinuations. Come with me, come with me, I say," and he began to drag the now frightened boy across the yard to where he thought Henning was. Smithers, trembling, began to say something, but it was unintelligible, which is very likely to be the case when another has a strong hold on the speaker's throat.

"Hold on there, Jones. You can't find Henning. He's gone out. I saw him and several others leave about half an hour ago," said John Stockley. A crowd had now gathered about the two.

"A fight! a fight!" was the word that ran around the yard.

Rob Jones relaxed his hold, but did not release the boy. Holding his fist close to his captive's face he said:

"Now take it back, or I'll thrash you till you can't see."

"Wha--what did I say?" asked Smithers.

"You know very well what you said. You said that the delectable and pious Henning had managed to lose seventy-two dollars of the boys' money. That's a lie. Take it back, or I'll----"

"It isn't a lie," whimpered the choking Smithers. "Didn't he have charge of the money? And hasn't it been stolen?"

"But did he, as you say, manage to have it stolen? That is, is he implicated in the theft, as you imply, or is he not? Speak out, man, if you have a spark of honor in you. Speak out, or I'll thrash you if I have to leave here to-morrow."

Generous Rob! There were few boys at the college at this time who knew that this same Rob Jones once played the role which Smithers was so unsuccessfully attempting. He had repented of that long ago, but never had there come a time, for which he had often wished, when he could safeguard another's reputation, as a species of reparation for the damaging of Howard Hunter's in the long ago.

Irrespective of the idea that actuated him, Jones was quite convinced, even without knowing the simplest details, that Roy Henning must be free from all moral blame. Roy Henning was a boy whom Jones honored and loved. All these circumstances must be considered when we pass judgment on the vehement burst of passion which put young Smithers in danger of strangulation. He muttered some kind of apology to the absent Roy, and Jones with a positive grunt of disgust flung the frightened boy as far as he could send him. He stumbled along for several paces before regaining a steady footing. Mumbling something inaudibly, he slunk away, but more than one of the students saw an ugly, ominous look on his face as he went.

"I hear all sorts of reports," said Stockley; "tell us the true story, somebody."

There was no lack of talkers, and almost as many theories. Few versions of the affair agreed in substantials. In the course of the morning all sorts of foolish rumors were flying around. One was, that Roy Henning had been caught in the act of pocketing the money and had been instantly expelled. In confirmation of this, the question was asked: "Where is he? No one has seen him since the discovery!" Another busy rumor had it that six boys were implicated and had been summarily dismissed.

"Did not the President see six boys off the premises this morning?" was advanced as a reason for this wild guess. Robert Jones, the absent boy's champion, happened to hear this last stupid remark.

"You set of babbling geese! You lot of old women! Here you go and jabber away people's reputations as easily as--Oh! you make me sick! Look here, you fellows, those six boys, and Henning among them, are out for a day's holiday. I say the President would rather send home six dozen dull-heads such as you fellows, than these six. They have been given a privilege that you ninnies would never get if you were here fifty years. Mark my words! To-morrow morning I shall call upon some of you brainless gossips--some of you silly babblers--to repeat before them what you have the impudence to say behind their backs."

In this manner Rob Jones did much to keep down the public excitement, and to reduce all stupid talk to a minimum. Mr. Shalford, also, had put something of a quietus on many senseless and ugly remarks which some malicious or thoughtless boys had set afloat. While admitting that the loss of the money was to be deplored, he did all in his power to exonerate Henning.

"Although the loss is severe," he said, "yet after all no one individually suffers much. It is true that, probably, we shall not be able this winter to purchase the much-wished-for cage. Well, we have never had one yet, and we can wait a little longer. The whole affair might have worn a much worse aspect than it does. Suppose it had been one of our own boys that had been guilty! I shudder to think of such a thing! Now do not spread idle and useless conjectures as facts. We shall endeavor strenuously to discover the thief, and until he is discovered it were better to make no rash surmises. Especially must we refrain from accusing any one of the crime until we have positive proof of his guilt, and until he is discovered it were better and safer to make no surmises. Some very stupid rumors have already reached me. Pray do not lose all credit for common-sense. Let every boy act with moderation and justice. No one has a right to constitute himself a judge of his fellows. If any well-grounded suspicious circumstance comes to light, I am the one to be consulted and no other."

With such sensible remarks, and Rob Jones' generous defense of his absent friend, much of the excitement had died down before the return of the six excursionists.

When they arrived, wrapped in buffalo robes and hoarse from singing on the way, all the boys had assembled in the college theater to hear a burnt-cork minstrel entertainment and to listen to the orchestra. Supper was prepared for them in the infirmary, and they were told that they might occupy beds there "for one night only" if they wished to avail themselves of that privilege.

Thus it happened that Roy Henning and his friends met none of the boys that night. They had no opportunity of judging the public pulse until the next morning. Tired as Henning was from the exercise and the strain and excitement of the day, he could not sleep. After tossing from one side to the other for an hour he got up, and, throwing a blanket around him, sat at the window and began to do the worst possible thing under the circumstances. He began to think and brood.

Chapter XIII

What Henning Remembered

There was much in Roy Henning's disposition to make him a creature of temperament. Had he not been so strong and muscular one would sometimes be inclined to imagine that he was possessed of the peculiarly feminine accomplishment, yclept "nerves." For the least reason, and sometimes apparently for none, he was all exhilaration and enthusiasm. On such occasions everything was the brightest of bright rose-color, and the failure of a project in hand was not even to be dreamed of.

Should anything go ever momentarily wrong in a pet scheme, he became the veriest pessimist. All would go wrong; all the world was conspiring against him. If it rained at such times, even nature herself was in league against him.

While he was to a large extent a creature of temperament, it must not be supposed that he had not a high appreciation of manly qualities. None, perhaps, at St. Cuthbert's, certainly none of his day, had loftier ideals. With these and with his splendid physique he represented as fair a type of Catholic early manhood as could be found.

Henning had one peculiar trait, and to this may be traced much of the trial and vexation to which he had already been subjected, and much of which was to fall to him for the remainder of his time at St. Cuthbert's. He remained too much self-centered. This was frequently an occasion of trouble to him. An instance: it will be remembered that he was told by his director not to tell any one save his parents of his intention of entering the ecclesiastical state. He took this advice as absolute, and on it molded his conduct, with what inconvenience to himself we have already seen.

It is not to be wondered at, then, that he kept his thoughts and his fears and troubles arising from the loss of the money to himself. All that day, except that first burst of grief, he made no outward manifestation of what he was feeling or suffering. Of course he was thus depriving himself of the sympathy and help which his friends were only too ready to offer. Actuated by the highest of supernatural motives, he nevertheless deprived himself in his difficulties of the guidance and assistance of a faithful friend. Roy had yet to learn that troubles told into sympathizing ears are more than half healed. Small wonder then, with this habit of reserve, if the circumstances in which he found himself on this holiday night of Christmas week paved the way for a very gloomy meditation.

He recalled his early school-days. Why had he been so unlike other boys at school and at college? They were always full of self-assertiveness and self-reliance; he had always been timid and retiring. Perhaps it was the reflection of that timidity he had always felt in the presence of his father. Had his college life been a happy one? Unfortunately, for the most part, no. Not until last year--one year out of seven--when he had the company and full sympathy of such noble characters as Howard Hunter, Claude Winters, Harry Selby, Frank Stapleton, and others. With such characters as those he could not help being happy. But all these had gone; passed out of his life. Oh, if some of them were here now to help and show him what to do!

Those dear boys! And oh, that visit to Rosecroft, and that nearly fatal accident when he so narrowly escaped being struck by the chute boat! There was this consolation, that if the clouds thickened around him he would get Ambrose Bracebridge to take him over to Rosecroft Manor. There was Mrs. Bracebridge there, who would understand him and who could always help and direct and encourage him.

Thinking of her, Roy became more cheerful. I have said that he was a creature of temperament. Here it served him in good turn. He began to take a brighter view of the trials he knew awaited him on the morrow. Was he not entirely innocent? Who would dare to impugn his character? He would face all bravely, explain how he discovered the theft, and blame himself publicly for his imprudence in keeping so much money locked in a common table drawer. Then who would dare to say a word against his integrity! All would pass over soon. He would write a full account to his father, who would doubtless make good the loss.

"By the way," he suddenly thought, half aloud, "am I responsible? Must I make restitution of the lost money?" This was a puzzling question which he could not decide. He determined to consult his spiritual director the first thing in the morning. But wouldn't he like to catch the thief!

This last thought led him to a mental survey of all persons who might possibly be guilty. To his credit, he spurned the idea that any one of the college boys could be the culprit. No St. Cuthbert boy could do such a thing, and if by chance it should happen to be a student, were they not all Catholic boys? Would not the first confession the thief made result in a full restitution of the ill-gotten goods? He had little hope that any such thing would occur, but he had not the slightest idea that any college student would prove to be the delinquent.

He endeavored to imagine a way the theft could have been accomplished. It must have been committed between seven o'clock on Wednesday night and six on Thursday morning, when the boys rose. It could not have been done later than a minute or two after six, because it was the custom of a number of boys who were in training to use the playroom as a kind of indoor running-track immediately upon rising and before they took their shower bath.

He remembered that the door of the committee-room had been locked by himself in the evening just before the play began. It is true that the only window of this room was not fastened, but there were iron bars on the outside. He remembered now that one of these bars--they were half above ground and half in a window well which was covered by an iron grating, that one of these bars was loose, for he now recalled the fact that yesterday he had seen a boy move one of them with his foot as he stood on the grating. Could the thief have gone through the window?

Henning suddenly clutched his chair in the greatest excitement. There had flashed into his memory an incident which he had witnessed the night before, but which until this very moment had not come to his memory.

He remembered now that after the play last night he stood at the Philosophy classroom window, and across the yard he had seen a boy crouching down at these very bars. He had paid little attention at the time, as his mind was full of the _Richelieu_ he had just played. The electric light in the yard was so located that it put the boy, the window, and one-third of the sidewalk in deep shade. The other part of the sidewalk was very bright. He now remembered that when he first saw the boy he was in a crouching position. He had not paid much attention, and other things occupying his mind, he soon forgot all about it. What was that other thought? Ah! now he remembered. It was that wretched attempt to spoil the second scene of the play. He now recalled that for some time he forgot all about the boy at the grating but when he did think of him again he remembered seeing the boy as if he were just rising from his knees, which, as he stood, he brushed with his hand. At the time the boy received very little attention from Roy, who now remembered having vaguely wondered why any one was out in the yard when all, except the players, were in the chapel at evening prayers. Chapel bell had sounded immediately after the play, so the actors could not divest themselves of paint and disguises in time to attend.

Who could that boy have been? Last night Henning was not interested enough to find out. To-night he would give a great deal to know. He remembered now that the person, whoever he was, wore a black soft felt hat, which was pulled down well over his eyes and hid a great portion of his face. A soft felt hat would not identify any one. There were dozens of them in the yard. Oh, if he could only remember how the boy was dressed!

"Great heavens!" he ejaculated aloud in sudden, intense excitement.

He arose and clutched the blanket around him and folded his hands across his breast. His face was very white. He trembled. He began to pace the floor, muttering as one demented, or at least as one under the strongest stress of excitement. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. At one time he thought he was going to faint. He had made a discovery, and the discovery sickened him.

The boy he saw at the window grating had worn a blue sweater!

"No, no, no, no!" said Roy to himself many times. "I can't--I won't believe it. I must be mistaken. It can not be he! No, no! Yet no one else has a sweater of that color!"

By this time he had left his room and was excitedly pacing up and down the lengthy corridor. Luckily he was barefooted, or he would have disturbed everybody. The more he thought over his discovery the more he became convinced of the identity of the burglar. His conviction and wretchedness grew in proportion.

"It can not be! It can not be! Impossible! Impossible!" he muttered, as he strode up and down. "Andrew is mean in many things, but not a common felon! It can not, can not be true!" and he was hoping against hope for his family's sake.

Henning was never so excited in his life. For a long time he walked up and down on the cocoa-matting. His blanket trailing behind him, often caught the leaden binding of one of the strips of matting. This would be raised about a foot and fall with a bang; his excitement prevented him from noticing the noise he was making.

Not so the old infirmarian, whose room was at the end of the corridor. Peering out, he at first thought he saw a ghost. But ghosts do not trip on cocoa-matting. He followed the disturber of his repose. Henning, still under pressure of strong excitement, walked the whole length of the corridor. He turned suddenly to encounter the angry infirmarian.

"Oh, it's Henning! What are you doing at this unearthly hour of the night, disturbing my sleep?" said the old man in an unusually sharp tone for him, for he was generally mild and kindly. The official at first thought it was an ordinary case of somnambulism, but he soon found Henning to be very wide-awake.

"I've found it--the secret. I've got it," exclaimed Roy in excitement.

"I guess you have--bad," said the old man with grim humor. "Well, if you boys will fill yourselves up with rich plum-pudding and cake in the daytime, you must expect to suffer at night. There now, get back into bed, and don't disturb the whole house with your nonsense."

"Oh, if I were only sure, I would settle the whole thing to-morrow," muttered Roy. It is doubtful if, in his excited condition, he had seen the infirmarian at all.

"I'll settle you in the morning if you don't get back to bed at once. Get now."

But Roy did not move. He had lapsed into a thoughtful mood. He stood, with his chin on his hand, motionless.

"Do you hear me, boy? It's time to stop this Indian ghost-dance business. There's no sense in breaking an old man's rest. Get to bed."

The infirmarian was fully persuaded that the whole affair was only a practical joke, such as even sick boys, or those, at least, who sometimes get passed into the infirmary on the plea of sickness, are not always above playing. Seeing that Henning did not move or pay any attention to his words, the infirmarian took hold of his shoulders and gave him a vigorous shaking. This operation had the effect of bringing the distracted boy down to the knowledge of mundane things at once.

"Eh! oh, ah!" he said in a bewildered, sheepish way. "I've made--a horrible--discovery!"

"You'll make another very unpleasant one in the morning if you don't get into bed at once. Don't cause any more disturbance."

Without another word Henning went back to his room, and softly closed the door. He did not get into bed, but continued his ruminations.

"Andrew! Andrew!" he moaned, "I did not think it would come to this!"

He dropped his head on the window-sill and thought for a long, long time. It was in some degree a contest between self-interest and family pride. It was a long struggle, and the result of these cogitations he announced to himself as he threw the blanket from his shoulders across the bed. They were comprised in two short sentences:

"I must keep silence! I _will_ keep silence!"

The decision may have been fanciful, or it may have been heroic. We shall see later. It led him into complications, the nature of which he little dreamed.

Chapter XIV

Facing The Boys

When Roy Henning entered the college chapel at half-past six to attend Mass, his movements from the time he appeared at the door until he had taken his seat were watched by many scores of pairs of curious eyes. To even the small boys, who came near the big fellows only in the chapel, Roy was an object of deep interest, for by some means the reports and rumors of the big yard had seeped through to the small division, and the most wonderfully distorted stories had been circulated. Henning had been attacked, fought desperately, conquered and bound, three men single-handed. He had been captured and carried away by burglars (wasn't he absent all day?) to their cave, and gained his liberty by the most daring feats of skill and bravery! Young imaginations are active, and young tongues more so.

The Philosophers--Henning's class--occupied the front benches in the chapel. When Bracebridge and Henning came in they had as yet met no boys since the public knowledge of the discovery of the robbery. Roy was in some peculiar way quite conscio