"I guess what he will really do," he said on the Sunday afternoon following the Cherry Valley game when he and Harry Westcott were in Number 12 Billings, "is to decoy you both over to the Sound some fine day and drown you."
"Just how will he manage it?" asked Tom, who was tumbling everything in the room about in his search for a mislaid book.
"He will probably tie heavy weights to your necks and drop you into a deep hole in the ocean," replied Roy promptly. "Then you will be eaten by sharks."
"And what would we be doing all the time he was tying the weights to us?" asked Steve sarcastically.
"Nothing, because he'd chloroform you first," returned Roy triumphantly, much pleased with his readiness. "You'd be insensible."
"Meaning without sense," murmured Harry. "It wouldn't take much chloroform."
"Huh! Don't you talk!" said Steve. "You'll never have brain-fever!"
"Ha!" scoffed Harry. "Sarcasm, the refuge of small intellects!"
"Come on," said Tom. "It's nearly three-thirty. Bother Sawyer, anyway. He's not troubling me any."
"That's all right," replied Roy, as he got up from the window-seat, "but when you wake up some fine morning and find yourself bathed in your own life's blood you'll wish you'd listened to me."
"I can't help listening to you. You talk all the time. Besides, I shouldn't call it a fine morning if I woke up dead. I—I'd think it was a very disagreeable day! Are you coming, Steve?"
"I suppose so," replied Steve with a groan. "I wish practice was in Halifax, though. I'm tired to-day." He got up from his bed, on which he had been lying in defiance of the rules, and stretched himself with a yawn.
"You'll be tireder when the first gets through with us," said Tom grimly. "Robey will sick all his subs on us to-day, I guess; and subs always think they have to kill you just to show how good they are."
"If anyone tries any funny-business with me to-day he will get in trouble," growled Steve as he pulled his cap on and followed the others through the door. "I just hope someone will try it on!"
Tom's prediction proved correct. The first-string men were given easy practice and faced the second for only ten minutes in scrimmage. Then they were trotted off to the gymnasium and the 'varsity substitutes took their places. Steve relieved Sherrard at right end in the second period and played so poorly that he received more than one "calling-down" by "Boots." His temper seemed to be in a very ragged condition to-day, and he and Lacey, who played at left tackle on the first, got into several rumpuses in which hands were used in a manner not countenanced by the rules of football. Finally, Steve was sent off to make way for a second substitute, who played the position so well during the few minutes that remained that Steve became even more disgruntled. When practice was over he joined Tom, Roy and Harry—the latter pair having watched proceedings from the stand—and made his way to the gymnasium in a very poor state of mind. Roy, who didn't believe in humouring folks, tried to twit Steve on his "scrapping" with Lacey, but Steve flared up on the instant and Roy was glad to change the subject. After that, Steve was gloomily silent until the gymnasium was reached.
As chance had it, the first-string fellows had just completed dressing and begun to leave the building as the others arrived there, and Steve, leading the way through the big door, collided with a boy who was on his way out. There was really plenty of room for the two to pass each other, but Steve was not in a frame of mind to give way to anyone and the result was that the other chap received the full force of Steve's shoulder.
"Who are you shoving?" demanded an angry voice.
Steve turned and confronted Eric Sawyer. "Don't take all the room if you don't want to be shoved," answered Steve belligerently. Eric was accompanied by a younger fellow, who instantly withdrew to the safety of the further side of the hall. "You're too big, anyway," continued Steve. Tom and the others, at his heels in the open doorway, gasped and stared at Steve in amazement. Eric's countenance depicted a similar emotion for an instant, and I think he, too, gasped. Then he sprang forward and gave Steve a push that sent him staggering away from the door.
"You fresh kid!" he growled. "You keep out of my way after this or you'll get hurt. I've stood about all of your nonsense I mean to!"
Steve leaped back with clenched hands and flashing eyes, but Harry stepped between, while Tom and Roy caught hold of Steve.
"That'll be about all, Sawyer," said Harry quietly. "You can't fight a fellow a head smaller than you, you know."
"Don't you butt in," growled Eric. "I don't intend to fight him, but I'll give him a mighty good spanking if he bothers me any more. Come on, Whipple."
Steve, struggling against the grasps and pleas of Tom and Roy, strove to get between Eric Sawyer and the door. "Spank me, will you?" he said angrily. "You let me be, you fellows! Take your hands off me! I'll show him he can't push me around!"
"I won't push you the next time," laughed Eric contemptuously. "I'll turn you over my knee! You, too, you other freshie." He glared at Tom, but Tom was too busy with Steve to make reply. "You want to both of you keep away from me after this."
And, with a final scowl, Eric went out, followed by his companion who ventured a weak and ingratiating smile as he passed. By that time the hall was half-full of curious spectators, and Steve, finding his enemy gone, allowed himself to be conducted to the stairway.
"I'm not through with him yet," he declared. "I'll teach him to push me around like that!"
"Oh, cut it!" said Roy disgustedly. "Don't be a silly ass, Steve. You began it yourself and you got what was coming to you. A nice fight you would put up against Sawyer!"
"It's no affair of yours," replied Steve hotly. "No one asked you to butt in on it, anyway. You too, Tom! The next time you keep out of my affairs. Do you understand?"
Tom said nothing, but Roy shrugged his shoulders as they entered the locker room. "If you want to make a fool of yourself, all right, Steve. I won't interfere again. Don't worry."
"I'm no more of a fool than you are," responded Steve. "You fellows make me sick. Just because Sawyer's a little bigger, you let him kick you all over the shop."
"He's never kicked me," drawled Harry. "But if he tried to I'd run. I may not be a hero, but I know what's what! Put your head under the cold water tap, Steve."
Steve replied to that advice with a scowl, and Harry and Roy turned back to make their way upstairs again and across to Torrence.
"He acted like a silly kid," said Roy crossly.
"Yes, he was in a beast of a temper to-day, anyway. Wonder what's the matter with him. He's like a bear with a sore head. He had pluck to stand up to Sawyer, though. I'd have run."
"So would he, probably, if he hadn't been so mad," chuckled Roy. "You can be awfully brave if you get mad enough!" Then he added more seriously: "Sawyer will get him some day surely, after this."
"Oh, Sawyer isn't as bad as he's painted, I guess," replied Harry. "The trouble with Steve is that he's pig-headed or something."
"He fancies himself a bit," said Roy. "He will get over it after he's been here longer. You can't help liking him, though, and I'll be sorry if he gets out."
"Why should he get out?" asked Harry in surprise.
Roy shrugged. "Maybe he won't, but he will if he doesn't get a hunch and buckle down to study. 'Uncle Sim' has got it in for him hard. Some fine day Steve will get an invitation to the Cottage, Josh will tell him a few things, Steve will get lumpy and—good-night! You see if it doesn't turn out that way."
"Why the dickens doesn't he study, then?" grumbled Harry. "He's got brains enough."
"Oh, sure, he's got the brains," answered Roy as he held open the door at Torrence, "but he hasn't discovered yet that there's someone else to think of besides Steve. If he doesn't want to do a thing he won't—unless he's made to. Look at the way he played to-day! Just because he felt lumpy he didn't think it was worth while to do anything but scrap with that other chap. Folks won't stand for that very long and some day Steve will wake up with a bang!"
"You going over to swim?" asked Harry when they had reached their room.
Roy shook his head gently. "Not this afternoon, I think, thanking you just the same. I'd be afraid Steve would pull me under water and drown me!" Roy chuckled as he seated himself and, thrusting his hands in his trousers pockets, surveyed his shoes smilingly. "Poor old Steve! He's in for a heap of trouble, I guess, before he gets ready to settle down as a useful member of our charming little community."
"Seems to me," said Harry, "about the best thing you do to-day is predict trouble for folks. You're as bad as What's-his-name's raven; you croak."
"The gentleman's name was Poe," returned Roy sweetly. "But perhaps you've never studied American literature."
"I thought Poe was a football hero at Princeton or somewhere," laughed Harry. "What did he ever do for American literature?"
"American history was more in his line," replied Roy. "Football history. Find your ball and let's go down and pass. I won't croak a single, solitary croak, old thing."
CHAPTER XVI
MR. DALEY IS OUT
The reason for Steve's ill-temper was the receipt that morning of a letter from his father. Mr. Edwards wrote that he had just been informed by the principal that Steve's work was far from satisfactory. "He tells me," wrote Mr. Edwards, "that your general attitude toward your studies is careless and that in Latin especially you are not keeping up with your class. Now I can't be worried by this sort of thing. I give you fair warning that if you don't mend your ways you'll be taken out of school and put to work here in the office, and there won't be any more talk about college. If Mr. Fernald had said you were not able to do the work, that would be another thing, but he distinctly accuses you of not trying and not caring. I suppose the whole amount of the matter is that you're paying too much attention to football. If I get another complaint about you this year I shall write Mr. Fernald to forbid you to play football or any other game until you show that you mean business. If that doesn't bring you around I shall take you out of school. Fair warning, Steve."
Steve knew his father well enough to be certain that he would do just as he threatened, and the future looked particularly dark to him that day. Of course, if he had plenty of time he could master his Latin—and his Greek, which was troubling him less but was by no means a favourite course—as well as any other study, he told himself. But there was so much to be done! And try as he might, he could never seem to find time enough for study. If he gave up football it would, perhaps, be easy enough, but, he asked himself bitterly, what was the good of going to school and doing nothing but study? What was the good of knowing how to play football if he wasn't to have a chance to use his knowledge? It was all the fault of the faculty. It tried to get too much work out of the fellows in too short a time. But these reflections didn't help his case any. It was up to him to make good with Latin. Otherwise his father would write to Josh, as he threatened, and there'd be no more football. If he could get through the next month, by which time the football season would be at an end, it would be all right. After that he could give more time to lessons. He might, too, he told himself, give up those swimming lessons. But they came at an hour when it was terribly hard to get a fellow's mind down to study. And, besides, he enjoyed those lessons. The only thing to do was to stay at home in the evenings and keep his nose in his books. Tom didn't have much trouble, he reflected, and why should he? Sometimes he got thoroughly angry with Tom for the ease with which that youth mastered lessons!
To make matters worse, just at that time, there was due the last of the week an original composition in French, designed by Mr. Daley as a test for the class. French did not bother Steve much, although this was partly due to the fact that Mr. Daley had been very lenient with him, knowing that he was having trouble in the classical courses. But writing an original composition in French was a feat that filled Steve with dismay. What the dickens was he to write about? Mr. Daley had announced that the composition must contain not less than twelve hundred words. That approximated six pages in a blue-book. Steve sighed, frowned, shook his head and finally shrugged his shoulders. After all, there was no use worrying about that yet. There still remained three days for the composition, and the most important thing now was to make a showing in Latin. French could wait. If he didn't find time for the composition—well, Mr. Daley was easy! He'd get by somehow!
So Steve pegged away hard at his Latin for several days and made a very good showing, and Mr. Simkins, who had been contemplating harsh measures, took heart and hoped that further reports to the principal would be unnecessary. But what with Latin and Greek and mathematics and history and English, that French composition was still unwritten when Thursday evening arrived. It had been a hard day on the gridiron and Steve was pretty well fagged out when study hour came. He had told himself for several days that at the last moment he would buckle down and do that composition, but to-night, with a hard lesson in geometry staring him in the face, the thing looked impossible. Across the study table, Tom was diligently digging into Greek, his French composition already finished and ready to be handed in on the morrow. Steve looked over at him enviously and sighed. He hadn't an idea in his head for that composition! After a while, when he had spoiled two good sheets of paper with meaningless scrawls, he pushed back his chair. There was just one course open. He would go down and tell Mr. Daley that he couldn't do it! After all, "Horace" was a pretty reasonable sort of chap and would probably give him another day or two. In any case, it was impossible to do the thing to-night. He glanced at his watch and found that the time was ten minutes to eight. Tom looked up inquiringly as Steve's chair went back.
"I'm going down to see 'Horace,'" said Steve. "I can't do that French composition, and I'm going to tell him so. If he doesn't like it, he may do the other thing."
Tom made no reply, but he watched his chum thoughtfully until the door had closed behind him. Then he dug frowningly for a moment with the nib of a pen in the blotter and finally shook his head and went back to his book.
When Steve was half-way between the stairwell and Mr. Daley's door, the latter opened and Eric Sawyer came out. Steve was in no mood to-night to pick a quarrel and he passed the older fellow with averted eyes, dimly aware of the scowl that greeted him. When he knocked at the instructor's door there was no reply and, after a moment, Steve turned the knob and entered. At the outer door Eric had paused and looked back.
Mr. Daley's study was lighted but empty. Satisfying himself on the latter point, Steve turned to go out. Then, reflecting that, since the instructor had left the lights on, he was probably coming right back, he decided to await him. He seated himself in a chair near the big green-topped table. Almost under his hand lay a blue-book, and in idle curiosity Steve leaned forward and looked at it. On the white label in the upper left-hand corner he read: "French IV. Carl W. Upton. Original composition." Steve viewed that blue-book frowningly, envying Upton deeply. Upton, whom he knew by sight, was the sort of fellow who always had his lessons and who was forever being held up by the instructor to the rest of the course as a shining example of diligence. He roomed on the floor above Steve. It was, Steve reflected, just like Upton to get his composition done and hand it in in advance of the others. He wondered what sort of stuff Upton had written, and lifted the blue-book from the table.
"En Revanche!" he read as he turned to the first page. His lip curled. That was a silly title. He dipped into the story. It was something about a French soldier accused of cowardice by an officer. Steve, puzzling through the first page, grudgingly acknowledged that Upton had written pretty good stuff. But his interest soon waned, for some of the words were beyond him, and he idly tossed the book back on the table. He wished, though, that that was his composition and not Upton's. He wondered if Mr. Daley had seen it. Somehow the position of the book, in the geometrical centre of the big writing-pad, suggested that Upton had found the instructor out and had left the book. If he had that book upstairs it wouldn't be hard to copy the composition out in his own hand-writing. It would be a whole lot like stealing, but–
Steve looked fascinatedly at the book for a minute. Then his hand went out and he was once more turning the pages of neat, close writing. Of course, he wouldn't really do a thing like that, but—well, it would solve a mighty big problem! And what a hole that self-sufficient Upton would be in! He couldn't prove that he had left the book in Mr. Daley's study, at least not unless the instructor had seen it there; and somehow Steve was pretty sure he hadn't. Of course a decent chap wouldn't do a trick like that, only—well, it would certainly be easy enough!
Upstairs, Tom was still deep in his Greek, but he looked up as Steve came in. "Find him?" he asked.
Steve shook his head. "No, he was out. I—I'll go down again." Instead of reseating himself at the table, he fidgetted aimlessly about the room, looked out the window, sat down on the seat, got up again, went to the closet, returned to the table and stood looking down on Tom with a frown. Tom closed his book with a sigh of relief and met his chum's gaze.
"Going to tackle that composition now?" he asked encouragingly.
"I guess so," answered Steve carelessly. "Are you through?"
"Yes. I think I'll run over to Harry's a minute. I suppose you won't come."
"Not likely, with this pesky thing to do." Steve sank into his chair, picked up a pencil and drummed irritably on the table. "Maybe, though," he went on after a moment, "I'll get up early and do it. I don't feel much like it to-night."
"Just the same," returned Tom as he picked up his cap, "I'd do it to-night if I were you and get it over with."
"Oh, if you were me you'd had it done a week ago Tuesday," replied Steve with vast sarcasm. "I guess I'll go along."
"How about your math?" asked Tom doubtfully.
Steve shrugged. "I'll get by," he answered. "Anyway, I don't intend to stay cooped up here all the evening. I'll have a go at it when I get back, maybe."
"We-ell." Tom looked as though he wanted to advise against that course, but he didn't. Instead, "Do you mind waiting for me a minute?" he asked. "I want to run down and ask Mr. Daley about something, if he's back. Do you want to see him if he's there? I'll whistle up to you if you like."
Steve shook his head indifferently. "I'll see him when we come back," he answered. "Hurry up."
Tom was back in two or three minutes. "Still out," he announced as he put back on the table the French book he had taken with him. "He's getting a bit dissipated, I'm afraid, staying out after eight!"
"There's a faculty meeting to-night, I think," responded Steve. "Ar