CHAPTER III.
AN IMPERTINENT PETITION.
Brightly was speechless.
He looked from one to the other of the persons present in unfeignedastonishment. Beginning to recover his presence of mind, he took up thepapers and examined them. Surely enough, there was the erasure, andthere the substitution. The work had not been neatly done, either. Theoriginal figures were still discernible.
He laid down the lists, more perplexed than ever. He was sure he hadnot made the alterations himself, and he could not understand why anyone else should have made them,--especially why they should have beenmade in his favor. Glancing around again on the occupants of the room,he noticed that Colonel Silsbee and Finkelton were looking steadfastlyat him, but that Brede sat with his eyes turned away.
In the next moment the explanation was suggested to Brightly's mind.He knew that Brede had handled the reports that day; he knew thatBrede would go any length to injure him. The plot, its conception, itsobject, its fulfilment, were as plain to him now as sunlight.
A sudden hatred flared up in his heart against the author of socowardly a scheme,--such a hatred as impels the hand of the assassin.Hot words came to his lips; an indignant denial was on his tongue, apassionate charging of malice and crime against his implacable enemy.
But in the midst of his wrath he took counsel of his judgment, andchecked the utterance. What would Brede care for his anger or hisarraignment? He would have anticipated that. He would only curl hislips more scornfully than usual, and invite proof of the accusation.That would not do.
Suddenly a new thought flashed into Brightly's mind. It was theconception of a scheme completely to checkmate his enemy,--a schemeso bold and novel and unprincipled that it swept conscience like afeather before it, and impetuously floated its lie to the lad's lips.
For one moment he hesitated; then he placed his finger on the alteredlist, and said: "These figures are correct. That is my true standing."
"THESE FIGURES ARE CORRECT. THAT IS MY TRUE STANDING."]
Brede turned in his chair and started to his feet, gazing upon thespeaker incredulously. The lie was so unexpected, so deliberate, soaudacious, that it staggered him.
"Why!" he exclaimed impulsively, "I--" Another word would have betrayedhim hopelessly. He saw his mistake in time, checked himself, anddropped into his chair in red-faced confusion.
Colonel Silsbee waved his hand toward the door.
"That is all, Brightly," he said. "The figures will stand as they are.You are excused."
Brightly bowed, left the office, and returned to his place inthe schoolroom. A few minutes later Brede came out also. Hiscountenance had greatly changed. Instead of the scornful smile ofself-satisfaction, his face bore marks of humiliation and of bitterdisappointment. He shot one angry glance at the enemy who had outwittedhim, and passed to his seat. But his books were nothing to him; he hadbeen baffled, crushed, out-Heroded. He smarted and writhed with a senseof ignominious defeat.
The night passed and the morning came, and the days went by; but thisfeeling remained with him,--he could not shake it off.
To know that his intended victim had been guilty of an offence soenormous that its mere disclosure would bring down upon the offenderpunishment and permanent disgrace, and yet to be powerless, to seethis unblushing liar go scot-free from the penalty of a crime which hedid not dare to bring to light, hurt him, galled him, exasperated himalmost beyond endurance.
It made him careless at drill, neglectful of his studies, violent intemper. He spoke lightly of rules; he sought the society of boisterousfellows; he fraternized with the ruder and disorderly element. Hisdemoralization was so marked and rapid that it became the talk of theschool.
He never spoke to Brightly; he tried to ignore him; but whenever thesetwo met in those days, whether in the drill-hall, the classroom, or thecorridor, each felt that the other knew to a certainty the guilt ofboth.
And Brede, measuring his enemy's feeling by his own, had no conceptionof the true state of Brightly's mind.
Had he known what this young fellow suffered, he might have asked nogreater revenge. The lie was scarcely cold on the lad's lips before heregretted having spoken it. Within ten minutes from the time he utteredit he would have given much to be able to recall it; but that wasclearly impossible. He felt that it would only make the matter so muchthe worse.
His exultation at Brede's discomfiture was short-lived. After thatnight it never gave him a moment's pleasure. He sought to drown thememory of it in idle thought, in boisterous fun, in hot discussion withhis fellows; but all expedients were vain. It was a veritable Banquo'sghost. He lost strength, hope, courage, ambition. Before the utteranceof that fatal falsehood he had not thought but that he should soonregain his office, his honor, and his old position in the school. Nowhe did not even wish to do so.
But of Brede he had scarcely a thought now, except the occasionalflashing up of that old hatred and disgust in his heart. They werelittle more to each other than strangers.
Once they met and exchanged words. It was in the drill-hall, whilethey were waiting for supper. There was a small boy at the school whowas called by his companions "Apache," or, more briefly, "Patchy." Hehad come there from an army post in the far West, where his father,a government officer, was stationed; and it had pleased his fellowsto pretend that they supposed him to belong to the Apache tribe ofIndians.
Brede was annoying this boy, who liked play well enough so long as itwas not too boisterous, but who felt that he was being handled a littletoo roughly now, and who called, still half in fun, to Brightly, whowas passing at the time, to come to his aid.
Brede had not intended to hurt the lad, and would not have done so;but this appeal to his enemy angered him, and he gave the child's arma twist that caused the little fellow to cry out with a pain not nowassumed.
Brightly had stopped for a moment, uncertain whether to respond; butwhen the cry came, he advanced a step toward the two, and said toBrede, "Let the boy alone."
The captain loosed his hold of Patchy, who immediately made his escape,and thrusting his hands in his pockets, stared for a moment in feignedcontempt at his adversary.
"I don't take orders from disgraced officers!" he said.
Brightly answered, trying to be calm, "A person who has been guilty offorging records shouldn't talk to others about disgrace."
Brede's face grew white with passion. "Nor do I take advice from commonand contemptible liars," he responded scornfully.
It is uncertain what would have been said or done next, had not Harpleseized Brightly's arm and hurried him away. He had chanced to noticethe two boys in conversation, had hurried across the hall in time tohear the last words, and, acting on the urgent necessity of the moment,now rescued his friend from further trouble by removing him from thescene.
Harple had made it his business during these days to be with or nearhis chum as much as possible. He felt somehow that Brightly was nolonger responsible for his own conduct, and that some one should be onhand to keep him from bringing further disgrace upon himself. In thiscase, at least, his vigilance had been amply rewarded. He shuddered tothink what the result would have been if the quarrel with Brede hadgone on.
But Harple suffered much by reason of his anxiety for his friend. Itpained him deeply to see Brightly sinking into such a deplorable state;he was beginning to feel that he was powerless to save him. He hadexhausted his powers of logic, of entreaty, even of abuse. He could donothing now except to stand by and extend such aid and comfort as hemight. Brightly was still as friendly with him and apparently as fondof him as of old; but he would not listen to reproof or advice.
Harple watched with alarm the demoralization also of Brede. He feltand knew that there were strong and co-operating influences at work onthese two long-time rivals and enemies that were dragging them both,surely and rapidly, to degradation; but what these influences were hecould not even guess.
Almost every movement made by either was an act of retrogression.Perhaps the
change was more marked in respect to the society theychose than in any other way. Boys with whom Brightly had had nothingin common in the better days, and whom Brede had utterly disdained,appeared now to be the friends of both.
Colonel Silsbee's hope that the deepening spring-time would put torest the spirit of unquietness and discontent among his boys was notrealized. There was neglect of lessons; there were breaches of militarydiscipline, infractions of academy rules, private quarrels, boisterousconduct.
A half-dozen of the older boys had been discovered one day in asecluded nook smoking cigars and pipes, and had been promptlydisciplined. There had been an incipient riot in the upper dormitoryat night after taps, the participants in which had been severelypunished. Half the school was on delinquency, and of half that numberthe delinquency was perpetual.
The principal and teachers were quite at a loss what course to pursue.One thing only seemed feasible, and that was to draw the lines withstill greater strictness, and to compel the utmost obedience by theseverest discipline.
Thus matters stood at the close of a beautiful May day. It was one ofthose languid, luxuriant days on which every lover of Nature longs tobe in the woods and fields, breathing without stint air sweetened bythe touch of bursting buds and growing leaves and springing grass.
It was after supper and before the time for the evening session. Theboys were strolling about the grounds, playing quiet games, or loungingon the lawn. A group of them, however, had gathered near the easternporch of the building, and were shouting and singing boisterously. Someone had composed a few doggerel verses containing little of eitherrhyme or metre, and had entitled them "The Noble Army of Delinquents."It was the chorus of this song that the members of the little groupwere shouting out with rude vigor. They tired of this finally, and thenone, Fryant, spoke up.
"What we want and need, fellows," he said, "is a holiday. It's a shamefor Old Sil to put us on delinquency and keep us shut up here such aday as this."
"True enough!" responded Belcher. "Last year we had a holiday longbefore this time. The old man's trying to spite us because we happento belong to the noble army of delinquents. That's what's the matternow, and I, for one, don't propose--"
"Let's petition him to go to-morrow," broke in a third speaker. "Thewoods are splendid now; Beach and Valentine were over the riveryesterday, and they said so."
"Yes, let's petition him!" exclaimed two or three at once.
Some one threw up his cap and cried out, "A holiday! holiday!"
In a moment others took up the cry, and sent it out through thetwilight. Boys, separately and in groups, came hurrying toward thelittle party, attracted by the unusual sound. When they heard what theproposition was, they were mostly in favor of it.
It had been the custom of Colonel Silsbee to give his boys a holidayevery spring. They usually went in a body to the groves across theriver, taking luncheon with them, and spending the day in rowing, inathletic games, or in roaming about the woods.
Such a day could not fail to have charms for any boy; but for thesedelinquent lads, who were not allowed to leave the grounds, save asthey were marched discreetly to church on Sunday mornings and evenings,the very thought of pleasure like this was intoxicating.
The holiday idea was infectious; it spread like a swift contagion.Everybody was shouting for it now.
Some one turned to Brightly, saying, "Here, Bright, you draw thepetition; you can do it."
"Yes," cried some one else, "let Bright draw it; he's literary; he canput it in better shape than any other fellow in school."
Now Brightly was not averse to compliments; and in no way was hisvanity more easily flattered than by favorable comment on his literaryability, which, indeed, was not slight.
Moreover, he felt a certain grim pleasure in the fact that althoughhe had been suspended and disgraced by the authorities, yet whenanything was to be done requiring peculiar mental skill and art, he wasunanimously selected by the boys of the school to do it. So, followedby a score or more of them, he led the way to the vacant schoolroom,intent on the accomplishment of their desires, thoughtless and carelessof what the result might be to himself.
Hastily scribbling what he considered a good form for a petition, heread it to the boys.
"'Taint strong enough," said one.
"We don't want so much beggarly humility in it," said another. "We'vegot a right to a holiday, and we'd best let him know't we know it."
"Put it to him fair and square, Bright," said Fryant. "There's no usemincing matters; he's bearing down heavy on us, and we've got to meethim on his own ground."
Thus conjured, Brightly made another effort, this time apparently withbetter success; for when he read what he had written, they all cried,"Good! that's good! now copy it!"
Six months before he would never have thought of writing such a paperat the dictation of this lawless crowd; but now, with jealousy stinginghim, with conscience torturing him, with disgrace hanging over him,he had only his self-respect to fall back upon,--and that, alas! wasalready following in the wake of hope and ambition, both of which hadleft him weeks ago.
When the petition was copied, it read as follows:--
TO COL. JONAS SILSBEE,
_Principal of Riverpark Academy_.
The petition of the undersigned cadets and students of Riverpark respectfully represents:
That, whereas it has been the custom yearly to devote one day of the spring season to a whole holiday for the entire school, with games, lunches, etc., in the groves across the river, and whereas the time has fully come when such holiday should be enjoyed;
Now, therefore, we, the undersigned, designate to-morrow, the tenth day of May, as the day of our choice for said holiday; and we herewith make known our proposition for celebrating the same, to the end that the proper arrangements may be duly made and the programme carried out according to the usual custom.
(Signed) ______
At the moment when the paper was ready for signature, Brede entered theroom.
"Here!" cried a dozen boys at once. "Brede, captain! sign the petition!"
"What for?" asked Brede, surlily.
"A holiday! We're going to have a holiday; sign the petish!"
The captain took the paper and read it.
"Haven't you put it pretty strong?" he asked.
"It's got to be strong," was the reply, "or we won't get the holiday."
Plumpy, the fat boy, waddled hastily toward the group, crying out inhis falsetto voice: "A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a mule!"
"Plumpy wants a mule!" shouted Patchy, hilariously. "What you want amule for, Plumpy?"
"To cross the raging Helles-py-ont and picnic in the groves of doodledell," responded Plumpy, in mock heroics.
"Oh, shut up!" cried some one, but Plumpy continued: "Why, then,without a mule, I'll swim the raging flood me selluf to bask--"
"Oh, shut up! shut up!" sounded a chorus of voices. "Put him out! Siton him!"
This last suggestion was promptly acted on; a half-dozen lads pouncedon the unfortunate fat boy, dragged him to the floor, rolled him overand over like a bulging barrel, and smothered his squeals by placingtheir combined weight on his elastic body. But they did not hurt him.Indeed, it seemed almost impossible by any course of treatment to givePlumpy more than the suggestion of physical pain.
Brede was still scanning the petition.
"Oh, come, captain!" said some one at his elbow, "sign the petition. Ifyou don't sign it we won't stand a ghost of a show."
"And if you do," continued another, "we'll have a dead sure thing."
Brede's vanity was flattered.
"Well, I don't care," he said sharply. "What's the use? If a fellowgets into trouble, all he's got to do is to lie out of it, andSilsbee'll coddle him back to virtue. There's no use trying to bedecent here any more. Where's your pen?"
The pen was given to him, and he signed his name. His was the firstsignature to the petition. Then Harple was s
ought; but he could notbe found, and there was no time to be lost, so others affixed theirsignatures without regard to the order in which they came.
Brightly signed the paper, of course. He could do no less after havingdrawn it. Not that he cared about the holiday; but he had become tooweak and indifferent to resist any pressure, or to count the cost ofany action.
The evening session interfered with a further circulation of thepetition; but before tattoo was sounded there was another opportunityto sign it, and at reveille on the following morning it was again onits rounds.
At inspection a committee of two was appointed to present it to theprincipal. These two, Robinson and Miller, had been selected onaccount of their popularity and their high standing; one of them,indeed, was an honor-grade man.
They selected the time immediately after breakfast to approach ColonelSilsbee with the petition. He was in his office, and they went there.They were gone but a few moments. When they came out, they weresurrounded by a group of eager questioners.
"What did he say?" "Are we going?" "Did he read it?" They were allasking at once.
"Keep still a minute," said Robinson, "and I'll tell you. He took thepaper and just glanced at it, and then he folded it up again. He saidhe'd take the matter into consideration, and whatever he conceived tobe for the best interests of the school, that he'd do. He said he'dlet us know at the opening of the session. Now that's as near as I canremember it. Isn't that about what he said, Miller?"
"Just about. It's as close as you can get to it, anyway. I tell youwhat, boys, he looked mighty favorable."
"Do you think we'll get it, honest?" asked an eager bystander.
"Yes," replied Miller, "I do."
"Hurrah for the holiday!" shouted an enthusiastic delinquent. "We'regoing to get the holiday! hurrah!"
The good news spread, and as it passed from lip to lip, the holidaywas spoken of as an assured fact. Indeed, many of the boys hastened totheir rooms to make preparations for going.
As the long file wound up into the schoolroom at the usual hour for themorning session, the flow of good feeling was manifested by so muchgood-natured mischief that the officers found it difficult to keeporder in the ranks.
The morning was beautiful. Nature was propitious; there was not a cloudto be discovered either in the blue sky or on the bright hopes of thestudents. Everybody was jubilant. Even Brightly had awakened to anunusual degree of enthusiasm, and Brede was smiling and swaggering withmuch of the old-time manner.
Colonel Silsbee entered the room, read the Scripture lesson as usual,and offered the morning prayer. Then, seating himself again in hischair, he looked down for a moment on the bright and expectant facesbefore him. In that look, kindly but stern, his pupils discovered thefirst cloud upon the horizon of their hopes.