CHAPTER XII

MR. CRANE'S WORDS

"What are you doing here?" said Tim angrily, as soon as he recovered from his surprise.

"I came over to stack your room."

"You did? You did?" said Tim, as if he could hardly believe what he had heard.

His astonishment arose not from the fact that Ward should have come for the purpose which he so calmly expressed, but from the fact that he should have stated it so boldly. The one part Tim could readily understand, but the other was something he could not comprehend. To him there was but one explanation, and that was that Ward was somehow openly defying him, and Tim's anger was correspondingly increased.

With all his faults Tim Pickard was no coward, as the word is ordinarily used. That is, he had no fears of a physical contest, and as he stood in the doorway before him Ward readily perceived what a fine specimen of young manhood in its bodily form Tim was. Tall, with broad shoulders and with the fire and force of vigorous health manifest in every phase of his bearing, he would not be an antagonist whom most boys would care to meet.

Ward himself was no weakling. Though he was not so large as Tim, his compact and well-knit frame betokened physical powers of no mean order. And his quiet bearing served to increase the impression of his fearlessness too, and for a moment the two seniors stood quietly facing each other, each being conscious of the fact that a contest between them would be no light affair.

"Well, why don't you stack it then?" said Tim at last with a sneer. "Here's the room and you've got my full consent to go ahead--if you can."

"I'm not going to stack it," said Ward quietly.

"Oh, you're not? Well, that's kind of you, I must say," laughed Tim. "Well, if you're not going to stack it, will you leave or shall I put you out? I don't want any sneaking hypocrite prowling around here."

"I shall leave, but you won't put me out," replied Ward, his face flushing as he spoke.

"Well, leave then, will you? You can't do it too soon to suit me."

Ward did not stir.

Tim's face flushed with anger and he advanced a step nearer the table, and Ward braced himself for the conflict which now appeared to be inevitable.

Before anything could be done, however, the door was suddenly pushed open and Jack burst into the room. A hasty glance at the two boys revealed at once to him the condition of affairs, and taking a position between the two, he said:

"Here now, quit this, will you?"

"You don't suppose I'm going to sit down quietly and let a fellow go to work stacking my room, do you?" said Tim. "This sneak says that was just what he came for."

"No, I don't believe you'd do any such thing," replied Jack; "neither do I think you would think Ward Hill would be likely to do any such thing, either. If he came over here to stack your room, it's no more than you deserve, and he'd be only paying off old scores."

"I never stacked his room," replied Tim evasively.

"No, you never had the nerve to do that openly, but you can set such fellows as Ripley and Choate and a lot of others up to it. Oh, you needn't beg off, Tim Pickard. I know you through and through, and so does Ward Hill too; and if he came over here to set your room up, he knows, and I know, and you know, and I know you know that we know, you're only being paid off in your own coin."

Tim was silent, and Jack quickly perceiving his advantage, went on. "Now, look here, you fellows. You can't get into any scrap here, not so long as I'm in the room. The first thing you know Ma Perrins would be at the door, and you know she would report the thing at once to Doctor Gray. Then what would happen? You, Tim, aren't in very good shape for receiving an invitation to come up and confer with him about 'the best interests of the school,' as he puts it. You know what would follow mighty sudden. And Ward here isn't in just the best position in the world for a faculty meeting, though I think he'd be in a good deal better one than you, Tim, for he's only trying to protect himself. Even a worm will turn, and I don't believe Doctor Gray would blame a fellow too much for taking the law into his own hands and trying to put a stop to having his room stacked every day of his life."

"But I haven't stacked his room, I'm telling you," interrupted Tim.

"Oh, give that ancient and antiquated aphorism a period of relaxation, will you, Tim? That doesn't work here, let me tell you. I know what I'm talking about."

"But I don't see what this sneak thinks he's going to gain by stacking my room," persisted Tim. "I shouldn't have to set it up again myself. I'm no West Hall pauper. I don't have to take care of my own room. Thank fortune, I've got some one to do my dirty work for me."

"Yes, that's what you're always doing, Tim Pickard," retorted Jack angrily, as he saw Ward flush at the brutal words; "you're always getting some one to do that for you. But let me tell you one thing, this stacking of Ward's room has got to be stopped."

"Who's going to stop it, I'd like to know?" replied Tim boldly.

"Oh, there's more than one way of doing that," replied Jack quietly. "Now, if you don't want to be sent home again for good and all, you'll see to it that Ward Hill's room isn't troubled again. That's all I've got to say about it."

"What'll you do? Go and report it to Doctor Gray?"

"I'm not telling what'll be done, but I am telling you that it isn't going to happen again. I know you and you know me, and you know too that I don't talk for the fun of hearing my own voice. Come on, Ward," he added, "you'll not be bothered any more after this. Good-bye, Tim," he called out as he and Ward together left the room.

But Tim made no response.

Neither of the boys spoke until they were in front of East Hall, then as Ward turned to go to his own room, Jack said, "What was the trouble? You had time enough to rip the carpet apart, to say nothing of upsetting everything in the room."

"I can't explain it, Jack; I don't know just why I didn't, but I couldn't do it, and that's all there was about it. When I got into the room, it all came over me what a mean, contemptible thing it was, and how I felt toward Tim for his work in West Hall; and on his table was a picture of his dead mother appearing to look reproachfully at me. It seemed to me that I couldn't do it, and if I did I'd be doing the very thing that set me so against him. And so I couldn't, and that's all there is about it."

"You're a queer chap," said Jack thoughtfully. "I thought I knew you pretty well, but I've got to give you up, I'm afraid. Ma Perrins came out into the hall while I was on guard there, and as I saw she looked a little surprised to see me, I went into the parlor with her just to quiet her fears and give you a chance to put in your fine work. I was horrified when I saw Tim rush into the house like a young whirlwind, and before I could call to him he was up the stairs as if he'd been shot out of a gun. You'd better believe I cut short my interview with Ma and made a break for Tim's room. I was half afraid I'd find only a few small pieces of you and Tim left, and that I'd have to beg the loan of one of Ma's platters to bring you home on. But I can't make you out, Ward. I hardly know now why you didn't fix Tim's room so that it would have been a living monument of your ability in that line. That's what I'd have done."

As Ward made no reply, Jack added: "Well, never mind, old fellow! Perhaps it's just as well. Tim won't bother you again, that is, I mean you won't have your room stacked again. You can rest easy about that."

"Thank you, Jack. You've been a good friend to me, and I need friends too."

"Don't mention it," replied Jack impulsively, as he reached forth his hand and shook Ward's warmly. "Good-night."

"Good-night, Jack."

When Ward, returned to his room, Henry was there and working over his lessons. At first he was tempted to tell his room-mate all about his experience, but fearing that Henry like Jack might misunderstand him he remained silent, and soon took his seat at his own table and began to work on his lessons.

It was some time, however, before he could bring his mind to bear upon his task. The scene in Tim Pickard's room kept rising before him. His anger and the part Jack had taken were still vivid. What a good fellow Jack was, Ward thought, and he appreciated his aid the more when he realized what it might mean for the impulsive lad to bring upon himself the anger of the "Tangs." And yet how fearless he had been, and in what a manly way he had taken his stand. Even then Ward could almost hear his words as he told Tim that the trouble in West Hall must cease. Would Tim heed? Somehow Ward felt that he would, at least in so far as the stacking of his room was concerned; but in other ways doubtless he would be made aware that Tim had not forgotten him. And Tim was one who never forgot.

At last he succeeded in banishing from his mind for the time, the recollection of the scene in Mrs. Perrins' house, and gave himself wholly to his work. On the following night Ward started to go to Mr. Crane's room. Somehow he dreaded the interview, and yet go he must. Mr. Crane he knew would expect him to come, and that scene in Ripley's room must be explained to his satisfaction.

Ward had thought over the matter many times, but as yet had arrived at no satisfactory course for him to follow. One thing was certain, and that was that he could not tell Mr. Crane about Tim Pickard. That was against the school's code of honor, and Ward's own feelings forbade it as well.

He was still undecided what to do when he rapped on Mr. Crane's door and was at once admitted by the teacher himself.

Apparently Mr. Crane had not changed, nor did he seem in any way suspicious of the boy before him. And yet that very quietness was most impressive to Ward, and had ever been the one element in the teacher's character and bearing which had most influenced him.

After a few general words Ward felt that he could bear it no longer, and breaking in somewhat abruptly, he said:

"Mr. Crane I want to put a case before you."

"Yes?" said Mr. Crane, lifting his eyes inquiringly, but not otherwise changing his manner.

"I want to know just what you would do. You seem to understand boys so well."

"I don't just know what I should do, if I didn't understand a little more clearly than I do now what was expected of me," answered Mr. Crane, smiling slightly as he spoke.

"Well, it's just this way. Suppose a fellow--I mean a boy--had come up to the Weston school, and was here a year. Suppose too, that he hadn't done very well. He'd neglected his work and was a great disappointment to his father and mother, and to his teachers, to say nothing of himself. Then suppose he'd fallen in with a set of the fellows--I mean boys--who were up to all sorts of mischief and he'd gone in with them, though all the time he didn't feel right about it. Then suppose he'd failed in his examinations at the end of the year, but that he tried to make them up during the summer. We'll say he came back to school and was able to go on with his class. When he came back he tried to break off with his old associates, but he didn't find it a very easy thing to do. They wouldn't believe in him, and when at last they found he really was trying to do differently, then they tried to make his life a burden to him."

Ward stopped a moment as if he expected some kind of a reply, but as Mr. Crane was silent he resumed his story.

"Well, if it didn't sound too much like telling tales, we'll suppose these fellows--I mean students--tried to do all they could to make life a burden for the boy. They put him off from the nine, they prejudiced the minds of the new boys against him, and some of the old ones too. But that wasn't all. They played all kinds of tricks on him, and worst of all they began to stack his room. I don't know that you understand what that means?" added Ward quickly.

"I think I understand," said Mr. Crane quietly.

"Well, this boy--I mean fellow--no, I don't, I mean boy--would find his room all upset every day. His carpet would be torn up, he'd find that water had been poured on his bed, and sometimes the oil from his lamp would be added too. The fellow--boy I mean--really wanted to study, but he had to take lots of his time from his lessons to set his room to rights. Finally he went at it and found out who was doing the mischief. He discovered that some one had a key to his room, but he found out too, that the fellow--I mean boy--who had the key wasn't the one who was stacking his room. He kept out of it himself, but set other fellows--I mean boys--up to it. And the worst of it all was that they were picking on Little P--I mean on a little fellow who rather looked up to this boy for help.

"Well, finally the boy fixed a trap and caught the one who was trying to get into his room that day. He went over to his room and started to make him give up the key--but--but--he was interrupted, and somehow he didn't do it. Then he went down to the fellow's room--the one at the bottom of it all--and was going to stack his room well, so as to let him know how it felt. But when he got there he somehow couldn't bring himself to do it, and while he was hesitating, the fellow in whose room he was came back and there was a great row.

"No, there was no fight," he hastily added, as he saw the question in the teacher's eyes; "but the fellow didn't know but the boy was trying to stack his room. Now, there's the story, Mr. Crane. I wish you'd tell me what you would do if you were that boy."

For a few moments Mr. Crane was silent, but at last he said: "Hill, I'll try to be entirely frank with you. In the first place, I think I should honor the boy who had gained the victory over himself in that fellow's room. He couldn't afford to do the very same thing he despised in the other fellow."

Ward's face flushed with pleasure, for he felt that praise from Mr. Crane was praise indeed.

"I'm not done yet," resumed Mr. Crane quietly. "Then, if I were that boy, I think I should begin to question myself and see if there was any just cause for the school being down upon me. It may have been that that boy was somewhat conceited, and a little selfish. He was all the time perhaps thinking how the school ought to appreciate everything he did, and he did not have quite the necessary courage to face calmly the results of his own misdeeds."

"But, Mr. Crane," protested Ward, "the fellow knew he'd done wrong. He wasn't trying to crawl."

"Perhaps so, but it is also possible that he thought he ought to be praised unduly for simply turning about and doing his duty. In the main, Hill, boys are just; and while doubtless injustice creeps in at times, it is still true that if a fellow has trouble, he ought not only to think of that, but of what he may be doing to bring it upon himself."

"Then you think the boy ought to keep still and let his room be stacked every day, do you?"

"Not at all; I want him to cure that in the right way, but I want him also to think not only of the stacking, but of the reason for its being stacked."

"It was stacked because he broke with the fellows he'd been going with," said Ward bitterly.

"In part, yes; but in part, no. Think it over, Hill, and come and see me again in a week."

"Good-night, Mr. Crane," said Ward somewhat abruptly, as he left the room.

He felt hurt and humiliated. Somehow he had thought Mr. Crane would speak very differently. Was that to be the reward for trying to do better? It seemed to him that he had been abused and misunderstood, and in no very amiable frame of mind Ward walked back to West Hall.