Left End Edwards

R >> Ralph Henry Barbour >> Left End Edwards

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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. "Are you
ready?"

He found his cap and followed Tom. In the corridor the latter glanced
back. "Better turn out the light," he said. "They've been after the
fellows lately about leaving it burning."

Grumblingly Steve stepped back and snapped the switch. "Who's monitor
here, anyhow?" he asked.

"Upton," answered Tom. "And they say he's right on his job, too."

"He would be," growled the other. "He's a regular teacher's pet." As
they went down the stairs Steve said: "I came across Eric Sawyer in the
hall when I went down to find 'Horace'."

"Really?" asked Tom. "Did he--say anything?"

"No. I didn't want any trouble with him to-night and so I made believe I
didn't see him."

"That's the stuff," Tom approved. "I guess if we leave him alone he
won't bother us."

"I'm likely to bother him before I get through with him," replied Steve
darkly as they left the building. "He can't shove me around as he did
and get away with it!"

"Oh, come, Steve!" expostulated Tom patiently. "You know very well you
shoved him first. What's the use of being sore about that?"

"He bumped into me," denied Steve. "I didn't shove."

"Well, you gave a mighty good imitation of it," replied Tom drily.
"Seems to me it was about an even thing, and I'd forget it, Steve."

"Maybe you would," muttered Steve, "but I don't intend to."

CHAPTER XVII

THE BLUE-BOOK

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.

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