'As Gold in the Furnace' Part 9

"There! I have left my keys in my desk. Wait a moment, boys, and I'll be back," and he started for the cla.s.sroom.

"What a dastardly thing that attempt last night was," said one of the company.

"I guess Roy knows who it was well enough," remarked Tom Shealey, "but cousin or no cousin, if he did such a thing to me, I would have to get a very satisfactory explanation, or by the nine G.o.ds he would pay dearly for it."

"But Henning is too generous to take any further notice of it," said a boy named White, "but I wonder whether Mr. Shalford will move in the matter at all."

"Haven't the least idea," said Shealey. "I do not see what he could do exactly. It seems to me it were better to let the matter drop, and I am sure that is Roy's wish too. Treat it with the silent contempt it deserves."

Which speech shows that Shealey was not always consistent.

Ambrose agreed with him, although at the time he was furiously angry.

As _Joseph_ in the play he was close to Richelieu, and beneath the disguising grease-paint on Henning's face he saw the hot flushes of pa.s.sion rise, for a moment. Ambrose thought that Roy was going to address the interrupter, but he saw him check himself in time to save a scene that would indeed have been memorable.

"Go on, Roy," Ambrose had whispered. "A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander."

Henning took the cue from Ambrose, and although trembling with suppressed indignation his friend knew the play was saved.

"Where on earth is that Roy all this time?" asked Beecham.

Just at that moment that young man reappeared, red, and out of breath.

"Oh! I say, fellows, forgive me for keeping you waiting so long, but Mr. Shalford caught me in the yard, and--and, really, he was very complimentary."

"Is he going to find out who attempted the interruption last night?"

asked young McLeod.

"Not if I can help it, George," replied Roy.

CHAPTER IX

WHO?

"Have you your keys, Roy?" asked Bracebridge.

"Yes, here they are."

Henning moved to the end of the table where the drawer was, and picked out the key which was to unlock the table drawer.

By this time all were engaged in a general discussion as to the kind of pitcher's cage which should be procured.

"I can not make up my mind," said Roy, as he inserted the key into the lock, "whether to recommend the committee to get a wire backstop, or a canvas one." He had now opened the drawer and was feeling mechanically for his subscription book.

"I think a canvas one will be better because it will not be so hard on the b.a.l.l.s, and be less noisy, too. Why! where is my book--Ah! here it is."

He drew out from the drawer the book containing the list of donors. In the back of the book Henning had made a rough sketch of what he supposed was wanted as a pitcher's cage. He showed it to the boys.

"Who's the artist?" asked Jack.

"Your humble servant," replied Roy.

"H'm! Perspective all out. It looks two miles long. I guess the grease-paint man of last night could do better than that."

"That's what you say, Jack," answered Roy good-naturedly; "I would like to see you do as well, anyway."

Jack Beecham was not in earnest. Henning had caught him winking to the others while decrying his work.

"Well," continued Roy, as he put his hand again into the drawer, "I would not ask Mr. John Beauchamps--to draw--for me--a--a barn door--Great heavens! Where's that money! I can't feel it anywhere in the drawer!"

All this time Henning's forearm was in the drawer and his fingers were nervously searching for the bag.

"Give yourself more room. Open the drawer wider, you goose," said Beecham.

Henning pushed back his chair so suddenly that it fell. He pulled out the drawer to its full length. Then taking out the contents of the drawer he put them excitedly on the table. There was a large leather blotter, with pouches, a pad of athletic club letterheads, a lot of spoiled half sheets of foolscap, about a quire of clean paper, and a few small miscellaneous articles.

"Did you have the money in a purse?" asked Bracebridge, who could not keep his anxiety out of his voice.

"No; it was in one if those yellow bank canvas bags."

"Look again through the pile of papers and be sure it is not there."

They all searched. The money was gone.

Those who saw Henning at that moment pitied him from the bottom of their hearts. For a few seconds he stood as one dazed. When he realized the force of the catastrophe which had happened to him he turned ghastly pale. His lips became livid. Around them were distinct white lines.

For a moment the six boys stood in perfect silence. Ambrose Bracebridge seemed afraid to look at his friend.

Henning stood as one dazed, not at present seeming to realize all of the untoward thing that had happened to him. It seemed to him as if he were under water and could not breathe. He panted for breath. A moment or two later a reaction set in and the blood rushed to his head, making his sight waver and his temples throb, and reddening his face to crimson. He felt as if he were falling forward, yet he remained motionless.

"Fetch Mr. Shalford, Ernest, but tell him nothing. Say we want him at once," whispered Bracebridge to young Winters. The boy slipped out noiselessly and it is doubtful if any one except the last speaker noticed or knew of his departure. In half a minute Mr. Shalford came in. As he pushed the door open he saw the standing group, and began to laugh.

"High tragics, eh? Are you all posing for a tableau? Where's the camera? What! What on earth is the matter with you boys? Speak some of you; what has happened?"

They certainly did look a lot of frightened boys. Suddenly Roy regained the power of speech. With a full realization of his own predicament he threw up his hands in a despairing att.i.tude.

"Oh, oh, oh! I shall be branded as a thief!"

Then he dropped on his knees and buried his face in his arms on the table.

"That's quite dramat----" again began Mr. Shalford, but suddenly checked himself. He now saw there was something woefully wrong.

A moment before Roy Henning had a strong inclination to burst out laughing at his ridiculous position, but his self-control was too great to permit him to give way to the nervous hilarity of misfortune.

Just as Mr. Shalford entered the room the thought flashed across his mind of the consequences at home for him. What would his stern father say! Then a momentary thought of his mother's grief--and he gave way.

Who can blame him? Roy was as yet only a boy, after all. At present he lacked the stability and poise of later years. Fifteen or twenty years later he would have borne the crash of a financial misfortune with a certain kind of equanimity. But he was young yet, living in boy-world, with all a boy's thoughts and feelings. And he wept. Do not blame him.