It was almost half-past nine when they got back to the room. An hour in the society of Roy and Harry had done wonders for Steve's spirits, and on the way upstairs he cheerfully announced that he intended to tackle that geometry before he went to bed. As Tom switched the light on, Steve's glance encountered a piece of paper on the floor. It had evidently been slipped in under the door.

"Who's this from?" he muttered as he bore it to the table. "Someone was too lazy to open the door and come in."

"What is it?" asked Tom, bending over Steve's shoulder.

"It's from that idiot Durkin," chuckled the latter. "'Got just what you fellows need. Shoe-blacking stand, two brushes, all complete. Cheap. Come and see it. P. Durkin.'"

"A shoe-blacking stand!" laughed Tom. "Say, he must have seen your shoes, Steve."

"Must have seen yours, you mean!" Steve crumpled the note up and dropped it in the basket under the table. "I guess we don't want any more of Mr. Durkin's bargains."

"Still, this 'Morris' chair turned out pretty well," said Tom, settling himself in it with a book. "And perhaps if we had that thing you'd keep your shoes looking better."

"Well, there's one thing about my shoes," returned Steve good-naturedly, "and that is the heels are blacked. Which is more than you can say of yours, my smart young friend."

Tom was about to deny the imputation when footsteps sounded in the corridor and there came a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Tom very politely. That step could only be Mr. Daley's, he thought. And when the door opened he found his surmise correct. Mr. Daley looked more nervous and embarrassed than usual as he entered.

"Good-evening, boys," he said. "I—er—I wonder if I might speak to you just a moment, Edwards."

"Certainly, sir."

"I'll get out, Mr. Daley," said Tom, rising.

"Er—well, if you don't mind, Hall; just for a minute. Thank you so much."

Tom went out, closing the door behind him, and Mr. Daley cleared his throat.

"Will you sit down, sir?" asked Steve.

"Er—thanks, yes, just for a minute. I—er—I believe you called this evening when I was out, Edwards."

"Yes, sir, about eight."

"Yes, yes. Sorry I was not in. I wonder if—if you happened to see a blue-book on my table when you were there, Edwards."

"Yes, sir, there was one there," replied Steve after an instant's hesitation.

"Ah, then Upton was not mistaken. He says he left one. Unfortunately, I am not able to find it, Edwards. You—er—you don't happen to know where it is, Edwards?"

"I, sir!" Steve's tone was incredulous. "Why, no, Mr. Daley. It was on the table when I left, and–"

"Er—just a moment!" Mr. Daley held up a hand, smiling nervously. "I don't mean to suggest that you carried the book off intentionally, Edwards, but it occurred to me that possibly you might have—er—taken it up by mistake, absentmindedly, so to say, and—er—brought it up here with you."

"No, sir, I didn't." Steve looked at the instructor questioningly. "I don't see why you'd imagine that, sir, either."

"Er—well, I knew—that is, someone told me that you were in my room, Edwards, and I thought—that possibly—quite by accident—you had—er–"

"I was in your room, Mr. Daley, and I waited two or three minutes for you; maybe longer; and the blue-book was on the table when I went in and it was there when I came out."

"You—you had a blue-book in your hand, however, did you not, when you—er—left?"

"A blue-book? No, sir."

"Oh! That is strange, Edwards. You are certain you didn't take down a blue-book of your own and bring it back again?"

"Absolutely sure, sir."

"But—er—someone saw you leave my room, Edwards, with a blue-book in your hand."

Steve flushed and his voice held an angry tremor as he answered: "Someone was mistaken, Mr. Daley, whoever he was. Seems to me, sir, if the book is missing, you'd better ask that 'someone' about it."

"Um; yes; maybe." Mr. Daley blinked embarrassedly. "I—er—I thought that perhaps you had brought down your French composition and had possibly, in leaving, taken up Upton's book with your own by mistake. You—er—you're quite sure that didn't happen, Edwards?"

"I'm positive, because I haven't done my composition, sir."

"Haven't done it?"

"No, sir," replied Steve a trifle defiantly.

"But—er—it's pretty late, and you know they are to be handed in to-morrow, Edwards. You are having trouble with it?"

"I—I haven't started it yet. I—I just can't do it, Mr. Daley. I never could do original things like that. That's why I went down to see you. I wanted to ask if you'd let me have a couple more days for it. You see, sir, I've been having a pretty hard time with Latin, and—and there hasn't been any time for the composition, sir."

"I see." Mr. Daley viewed Steve dubiously. "I'm sorry, Edwards. I'm afraid you are not—er—trying very hard to accomplish your work these days."

"I am trying, sir, but—but the Latin—" Steve hesitated. "Mr. Simkins is awfully hard on me, Mr. Daley, and–"

"And I am not?" Mr. Daley smiled sadly. "And so you thought you'd trust to my—er—good-nature, eh? Really, Edwards, you are asking a good deal, you know. You've had nearly ten days for that composition; a scant twelve hundred words on any subject you liked; and it seems to me that if you had really wanted to do it you could have found the time. I don't want to be hard on you, but—er—I'm afraid I shall have to insist on your handing in that composition not later than to-morrow noon. I have been very lenient with you, Edwards, very. You—er—you must see that yourself. But—er—this sort of thing can't go on all the term. You really must get down to work."

"If I could have another day for it," begged Steve, "I could get it done, sir."

"You have had ten days already; to be exact, nine and a half, Edwards. I don't think I should make any exception in your case. I'm sorry."

Steve stared at his shoes, a somewhat mutinous expression on his face. After a moment, "It isn't fair to say I'm not trying," he broke out. "I am trying, but things are too hard here. They ask too much work of a fellow. Why, if I was to get B's in all my courses I'd have to study eight hours a day! A fellow wants to do something beside stick in his room and grind, Mr. Daley. He wants to get out and—and play sometimes. If you're on the football team you don't have any time in the afternoons and then, when evening comes, you're tired and sleepy."

"But you have time between recitations in the morning, Edwards, to do some studying, do you not? Other boys manage to both work and play. Why can't you? Look at your room-mate. I believe that he is—er—on one of the football teams. He seems to get his lessons fairly well. I presume that he has written his composition?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of course. It is probably here somewhere." Mr. Daley's eyes inspected the pile of books at his elbow, and the corner of a blue-book met his gaze. "This is doubtless it." He drew it forth. "It doesn't look such a herculean task, Edwards. Here are seven pages, rather more than required, I'd say, and–"

Mr. Daley ceased abruptly, and, after a moment, Steve, who had been gloomily regarding the floor, looked across. The instructor was observing him strangely.

"Do you know whose book this is, Edwards?" he asked.

"I suppose it's Tom's. It isn't mine," he added moodily.

"It is Carl Upton's."

"Carl–" Steve stared bewilderedly.

"It seems that you must have—er—taken it after all, Edwards."

"But I didn't, sir! Tom will tell you that–"

He faltered, and a puzzled look came into his eyes as he regarded the book in the instructor's hand.

"Well, really, Edwards,"—Mr. Daley spoke lightly, but his countenance was grave—"you mustn't expect me to put it down to a miracle. If you didn't put the book here on your table, who did? Unless Hall knows something about it? Was he in my study this evening?"

There was a bare instant of hesitation. Then, "No, sir," replied Steve steadily.

"Er—you are sure? He might have called on me when you were out."

"We were together all the evening, Mr. Daley."

"Then–" The instructor cleared his throat nervously.

"I guess—I guess it's up to me, sir," said Steve.

Mr. Daley sighed. "I think it must be." There was silence for a moment. Then, "Why?" asked Mr. Daley gently.

"I don't know, sir."

"You couldn't have thought of—er—making unfair use of it?"

"I–" Steve hesitated again. Finally, "Perhaps I did for a moment. But—I shouldn't have, sir," he added earnestly.

"I hope not, Edwards. But—why did you take it? You—er—must have known that it would—er—be missed."

"I"—Steve seemed to be searching for an answer—"I just took it to—to get even with Upton."

"To get even with him? He has—er—done something, then, to—er—annoy you?"

"Yes, sir. That is, well—I don't like him."

Mr. Daley observed Steve dubiously. At last, "I wish I could believe that explanation, Edwards," he said. "As inexcusable as such—er—such an action would be, it would still be preferable to—to what I am forced to suspect. But the whole thing is beyond me." The instructor spread his hands in a gesture of despair. "I can't understand it, Edwards." After a minute, "It must have been an accident," continued Mr. Daley almost pleadingly. "You—er—you perhaps mistook the book for your own–"

"I didn't have any," muttered Steve.

"Well." Mr. Daley cleared his throat. "I—I must think it over. I—I scarcely know what to say, Edwards. I'm sorry, very sorry." He arose and moved to the door. "Come and see me to-morrow noon, please. We—er—must talk this over again. Good-night, Edwards."

"Good-night, sir." Steve stood up until the door had closed and then sank back into his chair again, a very miserable look on his face.

"What a crazy place to hide it!" he murmured.

The door opened and Tom came in, Tom with an expression half troubled and half humorous. "What's up?" he asked in a low voice.

"Oh, nothing," replied Steve carelessly, avoiding Tom's eyes. "He jumped me because I hadn't done my comp. Says I must turn it in by noon to-morrow."

"Is that all?" Tom heaved a sigh of relief. "When he asked me to get out I thought it was something pretty serious."

"Isn't that old composition serious enough?" asked Steve with a laugh that didn't sound quite true.

"Yes, I suppose so. Look here, Steve, if you'll tackle it now, I'll help you all I can with it. It won't take long. What time is it?"

"Have you done yours?" asked Steve.

"Yes," replied the other unenthusiastically. "It's done, but—but I guess it's pretty rotten. If I get a C on it I'll be doing well. I thought maybe I'd go over it again, but—I guess it'll have to do."

"Where is it?"

"Here somewhere." Tom searched at the far end of the table and drew a blue-book to light. "Want to see it?"

Steve took it and glanced over it, a puzzled frown on his forehead.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom. "Don't you like it? I guess it is pretty punk, though."

"It's all right, as far as I know," answered Steve, returning the book. "Only—I don't understand–"

"Don't understand what? Say, you're as mysterious as—as—Sherlock Holmes!"

"Nothing. By the way, a funny thing happened." Steve wandered toward the window, his back to Tom, "When I went down to find 'Horace' I picked up a blue-book that was on his table and brought it up here. It was Upton's. I—I hadn't any recollection of doing it, but he found it lying on the table. Of course I felt like a fool."

"Oh," said Tom after a moment. "That—that was funny. I didn't see you bring it in with you." There was a note of constraint in his voice that did not escape Steve.

"I don't remember bringing it in," he replied. "I saw it on the table down there and—and looked at it, had it in my hand, but I don't remember bringing it up."

"Funny," said Tom lightly. "Did—did he say anything?"

"Oh, no. Of course I denied it at first, said I couldn't have taken it, but he said I must have, unless—unless you had. He asked if you were in his room and I said no."

"But I was!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't you remember? I went down just before we went out. But there wasn't any blue-book on his table then. At least, I didn't see any."

"Well, it doesn't matter. I told him you hadn't been there. I—I'd let him think so, anyway. There's no use having any more bother about the old thing."

"Well, but—you're sure he wasn't waxy? Of course I didn't take the book; you can prove that I didn't have it when I came back; but if he's acting ugly about it, why—I'll tell him I was in there too. He can lay it on me if he wants to. I—I think I'll tell him, Steve."

"You keep out of it," answered Steve roughly. "What's the use of having any more talk about it? He's got the book and there's no harm done."

Tom considered a moment. Then, "You're certain?" he asked.

"Certain of what?"

"That—that it's all right, that he doesn't blame you for it."

"Oh, he knows I did it, but he doesn't mind. What time is it?"

"A quarter past ten. What are you doing?"

Steve was ripping his bed to pieces. "I want a couple of blankets," he said. "Haven't we some thumb-tacks somewhere?"

"Table drawer," replied Tom. "What's the game?"

"I'm going to do that rotten composition." Steve climbed to a chair, and with the aid of push-pins draped one of the blankets over the door and transom. Then he pulled the window-shade close and hung the second blanket inside the casement. "There! Now if anyone sees a light in this room they'll have to have mighty good eyes. You tumble into bed, Tom, and try to imagine it's dark."

"Bed? Who wants to go to bed?" asked Tom, smothering a yawn. "I'm going to help you with it."

"No, you're not," replied Steve doggedly. "I'm going to do it and I'm going to do it all myself if it takes me until daylight. Now shut up."

CHAPTER XVIII
B PLUS AND D MINUS

At half-past ten the next morning Mr. Daley hurried into the class-room where French IV was already assembled, stumbled over the edge of the platform—the boys would have gasped with amazement had he neglected to do that—and took his seat. On one corner of the table in front of him was a pile of blue-books. He drew it toward him and ran a hand along the edges of the books.

"Has everyone handed in his composition?" he asked.

There was no reply and he seemed surprised. "I—er—I am to understand, then, that you have all turned your books in?"

Still no dissenting voice. Mr. Daley's gaze travelled over the class until it encountered Steve at the rear of the room. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, cleared his throat and finally pushed the pile of books aside.

"Very well," he said. "I shall mark these this evening. You will—er—kindly get them to-morrow. Now then, 'Le Siege de Paris'; we left off where, Upton?"

At a few minutes past twelve Steve knocked at Mr. Daley's door, and, obeying the invitation, entered. The instructor was seated at his desk, a litter of blue-books in front of him and a pipe in his mouth. The latter he laid aside as the boy appeared.

"You said you wanted to see me, sir," said Steve.

"Er—yes, Edwards. Sit down, please." The instructor took up his pipe again, hurriedly put it aside, seized a pencil and jotted nervously on the back of a book. Finally,

"I—er—find your composition here," he said. "When did you write it?"

"Between half-past ten last night and two o'clock this morning."

"Hm!" Mr. Daley swung around in his chair, viewed the oblong of landscape framed by the window for a moment and swung back again. There was a faint smile about his eyes. "Edwards, you—er—are a bit disconcerting. I presume you know that the rules require you to be in bed with lights out at ten-thirty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm! And you—er—deliberately transgressed that rule?"

"I didn't see anything else to do, Mr. Daley. You said I must turn that in by noon and there wouldn't have been time this morning to do it."

"Logically reasoned, my boy, but–" The instructor shook his head. "You mustn't expect me to compliment you on your performance, Edwards. To perform one duty by neglecting another is hardly—er—commendable. If it were not that you had transgressed a rule of the school, Edwards, I might compliment you quite highly. Your composition—I—er—I've been glancing through it—is really very good. I don't mean that you have not made mistakes of grammar, for you have, lots of them, but—er—you have written a well-constructed and—er—well-expressed narrative. What I—er—especially like about it is the subject. You have written of something you know about, something close at home, so to say. I—er—I am not much of a swimmer myself, but I presume that the instructions you have laid down here are—er—quite correct. In fact, Edwards, I'll even go so far as to say that I fancy one might take this composition of yours and—er—really learn something about swimming. And—er—if you have ever tried to learn anything of the sort—golf, rowing, tennis—from a hand-book you will realise that that is high praise."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"I had decided to mark your composition with a B, Edwards. Perhaps the many mistakes in grammar would ordinarily indicate a C, perhaps even a C minus, but the—er—other merits of the exercise are so pronounced that, on the whole, I think it deserves a B."

"Thank you, sir."

"Er—just a moment." The instructor held up a hand. "I said that I had decided to give you a B, Edwards. That, however, was before I had learned when this was written. I shall now give it a D minus. You—er—you understand why, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry, but I—er—must take into consideration the facts in the case. And those facts are that you neglected your work until the last moment and then disobeyed one of the well-known rules of the school in order to perform it. There is one other thing I might do. I might credit you with a B on your exercise and report you to the Office for disobeying the rules. But—er—I think, on the whole, that the first method is the more satisfactory. You understand, of course, that anything under a C in this test is equivalent to failure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm; exactly. Therefore, Edwards, you will be required to make up nearly a month's work in French. I shall have to ask you to prove to me that you are in line with the rest of the class. But you will have a full week to do this and I—er—I suspect that you will not find it very difficult." Mr. Daley took up a blue pencil and marked a large "D—" on the corner of the blue-book. "You might as well take this now, Edwards. Bring me another composition not later than a week from to-day, please." The instructor fluttered the leaves of a memorandum-pad and made a note opposite a future date. "I have not corrected it, but, as you have it to do over, that is not necessary."

Mr. Daley leaned back in his chair and gazed for a minute at the table. Then,

"There is one other thing, Edwards," he said hesitantly. "About last night, you know; the—er—the misappropriation of Upton's blue-book. Have you—er—thought that over?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Hm! I should like to ask you one question and receive an absolutely truthful reply, Edwards."

"Yes, sir."

"When you took that book to your room did you intend to—er—make a wrong use of it?"

"No, sir. I saw the book on your table, Mr. Daley, and—and it did occur to me that it would be easy to copy it out in my own writing and—and turn it in as my work, sir. I read a little of it and put it back on the table. But I don't at all remember seeing it again after that, sir, and that's the truth. I haven't the slightest recollection of having it in my hand when I left this room or of putting it on the table upstairs. And—and I'd like you to believe me, sir."

"I want to, Edwards, I want to," replied Mr. Daley eagerly. "And—er—to-day your story sounds much more plausible. I can imagine that, with the thought of your own composition in mind and doubtless worrying you, you might easily have—er—absentmindedly picked that book from the table here when you went out and taken it to your room without being conscious of the act. I believe that to be quite possible, Edwards, and I am going to think it happened just that way. I have never observed any signs of—er—dishonesty in you, my boy, and I don't think you are a liar. We will consider that matter closed and we will both forget all about it."

"Thank you, sir," replied Steve gratefully.

"But, Edwards, this seems to me a good time to tell you that—er—that your attitude toward—er—your work and toward those in authority has not been satisfactory. You have—er—impressed me as a boy with, to use a vulgar expression, a grouch. Now, get that out of your system, Edwards. No one is trying to impose on you. Your work is no harder than the next fellow's. What you lack is, I presume, application. I—er—I don't deny that possibly you are pressed for time when it comes to studying, but that is your fault. Your football work is exacting, for one thing, although there are plenty of fellows—I could name twenty or thirty with whom I come in contact—who manage to play football and maintain an excellent class standing at the same time. So, Edwards, the fault lies somewhere with you, in you, doubtless. Now, what do you think it is?"

"I don't know, Mr. Daley." Steve shook his head hopelessly. "I want to do what's right, sir, but—but somehow I can't seem to."

"When you study do you put your mind on it, or do you find yourself thinking of other things, football, for instance?"

"I guess I think of other things a good deal," replied Steve.

"Football?"

"I guess so; football and—and swimming and—lots of things, sir."

"There's a time for football and a time for study, Edwards. You will have to first of all—er—leave football behind you when you come off the field. Swimming, the same way. It won't work. I've seen it tried too often, Edwards. You—er—you wouldn't want to have to give up football, I suppose?"

"No, sir!" Steve looked up in alarm.

"But it might come to that, my boy. You're here to learn, you know, and we would not be treating your parents fairly—or you either—if we allowed you to waste your time. Football is an excellent sport; one of the best, I think; but it's only a sport, not a—er—profession, you know. All the knowledge of football in the world isn't going to help you when you leave here and try to enter college. By the way, I presume you intend to go to college, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then keep that in mind. Remember that you're getting yourself ready for it. Perhaps that will make your work seem better worth doing. How are you getting on with your Latin?"

"Very well, sir, just now."

"Better see that 'just now' becomes 'all the time,' Edwards. Why, look here! You can do the work set you and play football or baseball or anything else if you'll make up your mind to it. You're a bright, normal fellow, with the average amount of brains. Systematise, Edwards! Arrange your day right. Mark down so many hours for recitations, so many hours for study, so many hours for play, and stick to your schedule. You'll find after awhile that it comes easy. You'll find that you—er—you'll miss studying when anything keeps you from it. When you go out of here I want you to do that very thing, my boy. I want you to go right up to your room, take a sheet of paper and make out a daily schedule. And when you've got it done put it somewhere where you'll see it. And stick to it! Will you?"

"Yes, sir; that is, I—I'll do my best."

"Good!" Mr. Daley held out a hand, smiling. "Shake hands on it, Edwards. You may not believe it, but half of—er—doing a thing consists of making up your mind to it! Well, that's all, I think. Er—you'd better look me up this evening and we'll settle about that French. Good-bye. Hope I haven't made you late for dinner."

Steve drew a deep breath outside the door, puckered his lips and whistled softly, but it was a thoughtful whistle; as thoughtful as it was tuneless, and it lasted him all the way upstairs and into his room. Tom had gone, evidently having wearied of waiting for his friend to accompany him to dinner. Steve's own appetite was calling pretty loudly, but, having slipped the blue-book out of sight under a pile on the table, he dropped into his chair, drew a sheet of paper to him and began on the schedule. It took him almost a half-hour to complete it, and he spoiled several sheets in the process, but it was finally done, and, heading it "Daley Schedule," with a brief smile at the pun, he placed it on his chiffonier and hurried across to Wendell.