RGL e-Book Cover©
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover©
Boys' Life's, May 1924, with "The Honor System"
The Boy Scouts' Craig Kennedy, Harper & Brothers, 1925,
with "The Honor System"
"UNCLE CRAIG, we want you to play detective with us—for the honor of Fieldhurst!"
Kennedy and I were passing the new gymnasium building, a gift the year before of an old grad., a lover of Fieldhurst. With an older man Ken Adams had caught up with us. Ken had one more year in the Junior High School.
I recognized Professor Playfair known at Fieldhurst as "Math" Playfair. They knew him and liked him—in spite of that name. For, as professor of mathematics, Playfair's job was no light one. Not many boys like "math."
But the fellows made an ideal out of "Math" Playfair—outside the classroom. He was one of the youngest members of the faculty and he looked on athletics as a hobby, to keep fit physically so that one might be fit mentally, and found time to coach all the teams.
The remark by Ken sounded suspiciously like a new kind of undertaking for Craig. Evidently something touched the boy's heart so deeply that it touched Craig who could never forget his own days at Fieldhurst.
"What is it, Ken, this time—something gone wrong?" ho asked with a twinkle. "You see, Playfair, Ken often asks me to help him out in a little proposition. Then, almost before I know, it, I am involved in something with all the elements of excitement and chance. I hesitate to take on anything new with him."
"Something gone wrong?" repeated Ken. "I should say there was! Our whole baseball team's in danger—and the big championship game between Fieldhurst and Glenclair is only two weeks off. 'S awful!"
Even "Math" Playfair looked gloomy. But he seemed to want the boy to tell the story. He kept a sympathetic silence.
"Old 'Quamquam' has threatened—no bullying, you understand—just laid down the law."
Ken had almost forgotten the presence of "Math" Playfair. "Old Quamquam" was Dr. Walcott, headmaster, who used to be professor of Latin, hence the nickname.
"What has Quamquam threatened?" asked Craig.
"He says that the honor system here in the school must have been violated somehow in the last conditional exams. The axe is going to fall. I—we want it to fall on the right heads—and—"
"Suppose we stroll over to my study," suggested Playfair. "There we can talk over the situation without attracting so much attention from the other boys."
"Can you wait here a minute, Uncle Craig?" asked Ken. "We want to get some stuff out of the lockers before the Gym closes. Be right with you."
With his stick Craig was aimlessly tracing Ken's name in the hard pressed loam of a path near the Gym. I watched the ferrule of his stick.... "Ken... Capt."
He glanced over at me. "That's Ken's ambition for next year. I hope he makes good. A lot depends on that last game with Glenclair."
He was scratching deeper on the downward strokes, giving a sharp poke to the period after the "Capt," when a long shadow, the shadow of a boy, fell across the letters on the path and stopped.
We looked up quickly with a smile into the scowling countenance of a youth slightly older than Ken. He was staring insolently at Craig. Before we realized it, he had thrust an impatient foot forward and stamped out the word "Capt."
"Getting a little previous, aren't you? King is our captain. No mistake about that!"
"But King goes into the Prep School next year, doesn't he?" asked Craig.
Under Craig's cold glance the insolent eyes lowered. With a pull at his cap, a shrug of the shoulders, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, the boy left us, whistling defiantly.
"You see how it is. A boy is up against many of the same things that a man has to meet. Here Ken must rub shoulders with smart Alecks like that, learn how to meet and manage them as he will have to meet and manage them later."
I nodded. "That particular chap seemed to have a grudge against Ken—or he wouldn't have gone out of his way to interrupt us."
I contrasted the two boys we had just seen—Ken, bareheaded, his golden brown hair rumpled above a broad brow, cheeks aglow with color, eyes earnest, eager and open, slender of build, with the slenderness of a first baseman.
If was true the other boy, pugnacious though he had seemed, was decidedly good looking. But something about him suggested he knew it, was a bit proud of it, and made the most of it. He was broader than Ken. Boldness, even unscrupulousness, gleamed from eyes that had a trick of peering through interlacing lashes. He lacked that fineness that comes from a spirit that can stand the gaff rather than from a mere pair of hard-hitting fists.
We strolled over toward Playfair's study.
"Who was that fellow who spoke to us while you were in the Gym?" I asked. "Did you see him, Ken?"
"Yes; if it was the one going across the campus. That was 'Spike' Jewett, the pitcher. He hasn't much use for me, now."
Nothing more was said until we had settled ourselves in Playfair's study. Craig turned a questioning glance on his nephew.
"Of course you remember, Uncle Craig," began Ken slowly, "Fieldhurst has the honor system?"
Kennedy nodded. "I ought to. They put it in while I was here. I was on the first Student Committee."
"Well, some of the boys who have not done so well in their work during the year have just surprised everybody by getting marks in the conditional exams that would have done credit to the grinds and the polers in the class. And these fellows are all on the baseball team. It looks funny."
Ken looked at us a bit sheepishly. "I don't want to preach—but, then, there is an agreement in the I.S.L. that—"
"What's the I.S.L.?" I asked.
"The Interior Scholastic League of the State. Fieldhurst has agreed with the other schools that no fellow may play on a team who hasn't passed all his exams. It doesn't seem like clean sport, fair play to those other schools, either, if there has been anything crooked going on. That's what I want you to do—help us find out—please." He had turned toward Craig.
"What makes you think there's anything wrong?" Craig asked. "Those boys might all have studied hard, made up their work."
Playfair shook his head, interrupting Ken for the first time. "It isn't usual for boys hovering at fifty per cent, or so to come up suddenly and gloriously this way to nearly a hundred—not one of them, but five of them."
Ken shook his head solemnly. "I wouldn't feel so worried, Uncle Craig, if you'd take a hand and find out that everything's all right. But without Cap King we'll lose the game, sure—to say nothing of the other fellows. With them all gone, I'm afraid we're sunk." He paused. "But we've got to be honest, first. There's nothing in winning the series if we know down in our hearts we haven't come clean."
"Who are the suspected fellows?" inquired Craig.
"There's 'Spike' Jewett, pitcher, and 'Tubby' Hmvell, substitute pitcher, to start with. Then there's 'Shorty' Hench, short stop, 'Buck' Haynes, left fielder, all maybe in it, as well as 'Cap' King, third base. You can see what a mix-up we're in if there's anything to it," concluded Ken dismally. "About half the team!"
"What do the fellows themselves say?" I asked.
"Nothing; they admit nothing," put in Playfair.
I recalled that on entering an examination at Fieldhurst everybody wrote on the first page of his examination pad: "I pledge my honor as a gentleman that I have neither given nor received assistance in this examination." Then the boys were left to themselves, with no surveillance.
"You know it is no light thing to go back on the pledge," went on Playfair gravely. "Clean sport and the honor system are what cause parents to send the finest fellows to this place."
"How did you come out in the exams?" Craig asked Ken.
"Just made it. I passed all my mid-years. So did the others on the team, except the fellows I mentioned."
Playfair had been looking at Craig. "No, Ken was not in the scandal, if there is one. He couldn't have been. We've taken him into our confidence, the faculty committee has, because we feel that if there has been dishonesty among the fellows Ken is one boy who has the confidence of the others, ought to be able to find it out, help clean it up. You're on the Student Committee, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"How do those fellows sit in class and in exams?" asked Craig. "Close together?"
"We're seated alphabetically," returned Ken. "Haynes, Hench, Howell, Jewett, King—all sit close together."
Craig elevated his eyebrows at this bit of circumstantial evidence. Then he turned to us. "The first thing is for me to see the Headmaster. I want to ask him a few questions, get his sanction to proceed and," with a smile, "keep my eye on some of these boys."
WE left Playfair in his study, sent Ken home, and went across
to the Headmaster's house.
"Quamquam" Walcott was seated at his desk reading some reports as we entered. His face lighted up as he shook hands with Craig.
"In the spring your fancy turns back to old Fieldhurst? Glad to see you, Kennedy. Is it interest in that nephew of yours—or just old memories?"
"Both, I think. I have just been hearing the story from Playfair—and I am offering my services. I feel, with all of you, that the honor of the school must be upheld. Ken has taken it on himself to ask me to help. And I am willing to do it—if you have no objections."
Dr. Walcott was a man well along in years. Years of experience with boys had only increased his love for and interest in them. His was a quiet, dignified nature. No one in the whole history of his activities at Fieldhurst had ever heard him shout at a boy. But many had flinched and felt mighty uncomfortable under the fiery glances of those flashing dark eyes of his, set deep in his massive head. He made the perpetrators of misdemeanors feel small. He could take all the thrill and glory and satisfaction out of actions not according to rule. "Quamquam" Walcott was Fieldhurst.
"You are one of us, Kennedy." He looked at Craig thoughtfully from under his bushy brows. "I shall accept!"
"I'm glad of that, Doctor. The whole thing has hit me. I want to help—for the honor of Fieldhurst ."
"May I ask where the examination papers were printed?" inquired Craig directly to the point.
"At the newspaper office. The Sentinel does all the job printing for the town. You know Harvey Simpson, the proprietor? Perhaps I would better write you a note to him."
ARMED with Quamquam's letter of introduction to the owner of
the Fieldhurst Sentinel, we strolled through the town to
the newspaper office on Main Street.
It was nearly six o'clock, but Simpson was in and as easy to meet as most country editors. He cleared old newspapers from a couple of chairs and invited us to be seated.
"How many copies of those conditional examination papers were printed?" inquired Craig.
Simpson swung about to his record book. "There were fifty ordered." He stopped, a light flashing quickly over his face. "When I come to think of it, just before I sent them over to Dr. Walcott, I counted them myself. There were six short. I thought they must have been counted incorrectly the day before. I had the pressman run off six more, and the type was distributed. Then I sent the fifty over."
"I see." Kennedy was thinking.
The Sentinel building was on an alley. There was a window back of Simpson's desk, two others out in the printing shop itself. Simpson leaned back, looked through the door into the composing room.
Kennedy tilted his chair back, too. Surely there was a noise in that little alley that ran the depth of the building. Craig jumped up, peered into the composing room and the press room back of it. The compositors and the pressmen had gone. There was no one there. But there had been a noise. I turned to the front door, looked up and down the street, saw no one but townspeople shopping. Then I walked over quickly and looked down the alley. There was no one there—now.
"I thought I heard someone at a window." Simpson brushed back his hair, thoughtfully.
"So did I," returned Kennedy, "someone listening."
Kennedy was examining the windows along the alley. He paused suddenly at the rear window. "Someone has shoved a case knife up between these sashes—turned that old-fashioned catch."
"What would anyone want to get in here for, now?" Simpson was perplexed.
"Not now. This was done several days ago. The condition of the scarred wood shows it. Not recent. Not old. Get in for? It looks as if there was something in this suspicion. Half a dozen papers evidently missing—five boys displaying unexpected brilliance!"
"What next?" I asked as we left.
"You are as bad as Ken, Walter. You both have an insatiable curiosity. Just now I'm going to dinner at my sister's. We can telephone the station to have our bags sent over to Coralie's. Then we can talk to Ken without setting the school ablaze."
We learned many things about the five boys but one thing that interested Craig was where they lived. Cap King, Buck Haynes and Spike Jewett roomed in one dormitory of the school. Tubby Howell and Shorty Hench lived in a boarding house in the town.
I could see what a temptation it must have been to the lads if they had cribbed their way through the exams. I felt sorry for them, too. The desire to win had been stronger than their desire to win right. In the world the penitentiaries are full of such people.
IT was late when we returned to the house. In Ken's window we
could see a light still burning.
"Ken must be working overtime to keep up," I observed.
"Yes, and this responsibility thrust on him, so to speak, by 'Math' Playfair and the other faculty members of the Athletic Advisory Committee, has taken up some of his day time when he might be studying. He's getting a taste of the midnight oil. I'm glad Ken sees the gravity, the seriousness of it. But Ken was always a good scout. It hasn't been all tying knots and following trails with him. He has been doing the hardest thing—living clean."
We did not disturb the boy, but sat down in the living-room to read a while, though we were disturbed by the barking of a dog at the door of the solarium.
"Sounds like Ken's new Irish terrier, Patsy," said Craig.
Just then we heard footsteps running through the hall and went out. By this time Ken was opening the door before which the eager pup was barking furiously.
"It's Patsy. I don't know how he broke loose, but he's here, all right. I'll let him in. Don't let him get up those stairs."
Like a tawny whirlwind Patsy bounded through the doorway. He wanted to greet everybody at once but could greet only one at a time. He jumped about, with short, happy barks. Rugs were scrambled about until Ken made a quick lunge and caught him by the collar. He almost fell flat. Ken was laughing, Patsy barking and straining to get away.
Suddenly Ken stopped laughing, looked at us and pulled Patsy over to the foot of the stairs where there was a light. Then I saw what it was. Fastened to the dog's collar was a tag and on it was something written. Ken untied it, held it up to the light in one hand as he held Patsy with the other.
"Somebody's getting cold feet! Read it. Someone's tied it to the dog's collar, let him loose, knowing he'd come right to me."
We read:
Ken Adams:
What's the matter with you? Do you want Fieldhurst to lose the championship? Call off your Uncle before someone knocks you for a goal!
Ken stood under the light a moment, anger uppermost, and bitterness. There was no fear; only defiance.
"Don't take it to heart so, Ken. You'll snap out of this all right—on top."
"But, Uncle Craig, you'd think it was I that was bringing dishonor on Fieldhurst. Do you think the fellows look at it that way? I can't help it. When those papers were stolen, then Fieldhurst was dishonored. Now I've got to go on and fight it out!" Ken's head was up.
"Do you recognize this printing?" asked Craig.
"It looks something like Tubby Howell's. He's yellow—looks yellow. Tubby will smoke, even when he's in training, if he thinks he won't get caught. Other times his fingers are yellow with nicotine. And you can't trust him. He sneaks out of bounds, too, to go with town girls to the movies. I've known him to—and there's a rule against that, without permission."
WE could not, or at least Craig decided the next day that we
had better not, pursue the investigation during school hours in
such a way as to interfere with class work. Nevertheless he had
determined to gather all the suspected boys in Playfair's study
that afternoon. During the morning Kennedy telephoned to an
insurance office in the city and a messenger arrived on the noon
train with a package for him.
One more thing Craig conceded. He would not interfere with baseball practice, either. We walked over to the athletic field.
"Playfair tells me all the boys will be playing," remarked Craig. "He has shaken them up, put some of the regulars on the scrub, and some of the scrub with the first string. It will be interesting. I want to keep my eye on Ken, too, after that threat last night."
IT seemed as if the whole school was down at that practice.
They realized what the situation was. It was not a question of
the development of the regular team; it was what there was in the
second team, those whose names were not involved in the scandal.
Everything would depend on them if five important positions were
left wide open.
As we came on the field, Tubby Howell, substitute pitcher, was pitching for the second team and the shaken up first team was at bat. Ken happened to be in the batter's box. Tubby was elaborately winding up as if to deliver one of his fadeaways.
Suddenly he let go. It went wide of the plate, so wide that Ken could not jump back out of its swing far enough or quick enough to avoid it. He had jumped and turned and ducked. But it caught him on the shoulder with a sock that resounded all over the field. Ken dropped the bat, staggered a bit....
But Ken was game. He took his place on first, apparently his old pep back, as he edged out for a start for second.
Tubby gave a signal to the catcher. I fancied it was to pull something to lead Ken on to steal second. At any rate it was a chance that few seasoned base runners would have passed up. Ken started.
"He's off!"
I marvelled at the boy's speed. For an instant I fancied he'd make it easily. But the thing had been a trap. Wheeler, second base, backed up closely by Shorty Hench, short stop, converged on second. Even Buck Haynes ran in "from left field in case of a wild throw to second. Tubby was there, too. There was a massing of players.
"Slide!"
Ken went down in a cloud of dust, trying to make it.
"What's that—football?" growled Kennedy at my side, leaping to his feet.
It was all so sudden and in such a cloud of dust that it was well-nigh impossible to see what had happened clearly. But when the dust cleared and all had picked themselves up, Ken's feet were on the bag. Wheeler had dropped the ball, too. Ken was safe. But he did not get up. Someone had spiked him.
"Math" Playfair ran out from the coaching box.
I saw Craig's face flush with indignation. "Some dirty work, there!" he muttered.
We watched the little group out at second carefully. Ken was still sitting on the ground as Playfair pulled off his sock, began binding up his leg. I saw Ken shaking his head. He was vehemently asserting he did not know who had "spiked" him.
It soon changed to Ken's earnest refusal to quit the game. Finally he had to give in to Playfair. Another player went in to run for him and two fellows, one on either side, helped him limping to the field house.
Others had interpreted the little drama at second base much as we had. There was a cheer for Ken, a spontaneous "Ray! Ray! Ray! Adams!" as he limped off.
Kennedy sauntered over to the field house where the doctor was dressing Ken's leg.
"I'm better, now," he said briefly with a smile.
"Two shocks in one inning is going a little strong, don't you think?" put in Craig.
But Ken looked at his uncle with clear gaze and did not bat an eyelash. "Oh, accidents will happen," he stuck to it.
"I've called Haynes, Hench, Howell, Jewett and King, the five, you know, to meet me after practice at Playfair's study."
Ken looked up, almost alarmed. "I hope you're not going to ask me to be there."
"I'm afraid I shall have to, Ken. I have something for Mr. Jameson to do, something for Professor Playfair and a job for you."
CRAIG, Ken and I reached "Math" Playfair's study first.
To each of us Kennedy assigned a duty before we reached
the room.
Playfair arrived before the boys. Craig was placing chairs about the room so that he could see the faces of the boys plainly.
Ken sat apart. He didn't like this job. Anything to pass the time until it was over.
"Math" Playfair was troubled, too. Hands behind him, he paced up and down. Finally he turned to Kennedy.
"I want to find out the truth of this matter we are taking up with the boys—of course," he said slowly. "But, somehow, if these instruments"—he nodded at the package on the table—"are accurate and register against the boys—well—I almost hope they get out of order, Kennedy! What I want is for the boys to come through—clean."
"I wish you could be satisfied," answered Craig. "But that little bit of ball playing I saw this afternoon leads me to think you will be disappointed."
We could hear someone coming down the hall. Playfair took his seat at his desk. Craig was standing near a small table drawn up in front of the chairs on which the boys were to sit with Ken seated near by.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
It was Cap King who entered. He ignored us entirely. Ken received a curt nod which was worse than no greeting.
"Seems as if I have more courage than some of the Others. I'm first here."
Playfair smiled at the boy's attempt to be jocular. Yet his smile was forced.
We could hear others approaching. As they got nearer the door, they tried not to show signs of worry, if their voices meant anything. The footsteps stopped a few seconds outside the door. Then the door was thrown open none too gently and Spike Jewett and Tubby Howell entered with bravado in manner and action.
Tubby looked with curiosity at Ken. "How are you feeling now?" he asked bluntly.
Playfair frowned at the tone. Craig scowled. Ken colored but answered quietly, "All right."
"Thought you'd be in the Infirmary by now." There was a tone of hostility and sarcasm as Spike Jewett waited for no reply but sat down on one of the empty chairs and became engrossed in a little memorandum book that he pulled out of his pocket as if to hint that this was taking time out from his studies.
Tubby sat next to him, slightly nervous and restless.
The last arrivals were Shorty Hench and Buck Haynes. The latter entered with a swagger and an air of nonchalance that would have done credit to the royalist nobles on their way to the guillotine during the French revolution.
Hench was silent, furtive, on the alert for anything. His shifting eyes saw everything. He was deeply interested in the package with which Craig was toying. He fidgeted with disappointment when Craig left the package after undoing the strings. His neck stretched a little and he frowned darkly when Craig passed a paper and a pencil to Ken.
Playfair rose to speak to them. He hesitated as he began, for his was a nature that desired to trust his fellow men above all things.
"My boys—you are my boys, after all those afternoons out on the field. There is no need to tell you the reason for this meeting. You know the situation without my dwelling on it. Mr. Kennedy is here to prove you innocent—if that is the truth."
I thought how diplomatic "Math" was—"to prove you innocent." If that were the case, they had nothing to fear.
In spite of the assurance, the faces of all the boys were serious. They knew what it was all about. There was grim determination on each face. Playfair, Craig, Ken might be fighting for the honor of Fieldhurst. But these boys were going to fight first for their own safety.
Slowly and deliberately now Kennedy drew out of the package five peculiar instruments. Each looked like a sort of round leather cuff, with a dial attached to it on a tube.
Then he went to work just, as slowly and deliberately, strapping and fastening one to the forearm of each boy. I could almost determine the nature of each youth by the way he reacted to this fastening of the instrument on his forearm.
Cap King took it most calmly, stoically.
Buck Haynes resisted slightly. "Look here, Professor Playfair. I come to this school to be educated—not to have strangers pull things like this on me. I don't care if it is an old grad. I've a good mind to get up and go out. This is an insult to every one of us!" His face was red with wrath and it needed only slight encouragement from some other boy for him to have carried out his threat.
"If you leave this room, Haynes, you leave the team and the school," cut in Playfair coldly. "The highest official in this country stands trial when he is charged with an offense. You are not above the President!"
Once the instruments were securely fastened, the curiosity of the boys was irresistible. I could see that it amused Craig in spite of himself.
"These things are a form of what is known as the sphyg-mo-man-ometer." Kennedy repeated the word slowly, dividing the syllables as if in a primer of science. "Later, if you go to college and study psychology—that is, experimental psychology, in the laboratory—you will no doubt see them. Anyhow, some day when you are older and apply for life insurance, you may find the insurance doctor using them on you—to see how good a risk you are."
"What's this—er—sphyg—sphyg—well, you know—what is it for?"
"To find your blood pressure," smiled Kennedy. "Call it the blood pressure register, if that's easier."
"What's blood pressure got to do with the honor of Fieldhurst?" Spike Jewett demanded scornfully.
"We'll see," answered Craig quietly. "Now here I have a split second watch, a stop watch, something like you use in track meets. I am going to ask Professor Playfair to take charge of that. He is familiar with it. And those, Ken, are some papers on which I have printed a list of words in a column. You will see there are two other blank columns that follow the list. I want you to write down in the first blank column the word that each boy answers—and the boy's initials after it, so we can tell who he is. I'm going to ask Mr. Jameson to put the words to the boys—and go slow enough for Ken to get the answering words down."
Kennedy paused a moment. "Now, boys, let your minds run free.... Relax.... Put all thoughts out of your heads."
Cap King turned to Tubby Howell. "That's easy for you, Tubby. You never had any."
"Answer the first word that comes into your head after Mr. Jameson shoots a word at you, each in turn," ignored Kennedy. "It's a game. Now, for instance, if I say 'honor system,' the first word that would occur to many people would be 'Fieldhurst.' That's the word to say, then. You see the way of it? Now, don't stop and think. If you do, if you change the word you say from the first word that came into your head to some other word that you think up—that will show something.... Are you ready? I have about a hundred words in my list. Let's pep it up."
The boys looked half derisively at me, yet showed the uneasiness that resulted from secret apprehension.
I started around the boys, picking them at random, Cap King first.
"Gym," I repeated the first word on the list.
"Dumb-bell."
There was snickering from the others, but King never moved a muscle of his face to show that he intended it.
I turned quickly to Tubby Howell. "Math."
"Flunked."
At Tubby's answer there were more snickers. Tubby had a habit of flunking in mathematics. Kennedy paid no attention to the snickers. Nor did I. But I met each eye squarely. Kennedy was moving about silently and vigilantly looking at the dials, making notes.
"Now," I said sharply, turning to Shorty Hench, "Baseball."
"Championship."
"Dormitory."
Buck Haynes answered quickly, "Upper House." That was the name of his dormitory.
"Glenclair."
"Rival." Spike Jewett handed it back belligerently.
"Headmaster." I was going quicker at them now.
"Quamquam." Cap King answered it as if bored beyond measure by the apparent childishness of the experiment.
Through the list I went. There were first of all words that seemed innocent of meaning in the case. They were for the purpose of disarming suspicion as well as to accustom the boys to the thing. At the same time they enabled Playfair to figure out with his stop watch what was a normal time for a boy to answer.
But by and by I began to see, and so did the boys, that there was a greater proportion of incriminating words. Also they came closer to the facts. It was like a game, as Craig had said. "Getting warmer!" They knew it. They were more guarded, sharper. These were bright boys, above the average.
"Pledge." I said it with more surprise than some other words.
"Honor system." Tubby mumbled back. The words were getting closer to what no one wanted to say.
"Terrier." I had turned to Shorty Hench.
"Dog," he drawled with affected superiority.
"Tag," I had turned suddenly back on Tubby again, unexpectedly.
Ho seemed surprised for an instant, stopped, then with a smile came back, "You're it!"
At this there was another ripple of amusement that passed about the boys. But I asked myself why had Tubby halted? Was that flippant answer only a camouflage for something? I had remembered, too, that Ken had said the night before that the printing on the tag on Patsy's collar resembled somewhat that of Tubby.
By this time the boys were more attentive to this hurling of words at them. They had begun to wonder what was coming next. Words that before were simple and innocuous, now seemed freighted with meaning, charged with some dangerous quality of suspicion against them.
Was it all my imagination that I should think I saw plainly manifested fear and uneasiness? Positions of long, growing legs were constantly shifted, hands were busy, neckties must be fumbled with, as if too tight or not tight enough. Occasionally a lip was moistened. And Tubby was showing those symptoms, I thought, more than any of the rest.
I was prepared to announce the next word when Craig looked up from his examination of the blood pressure instruments to me, with a nod, and raised a warning hand. He had suddenly taken the job from me for some reason. He made no explanation. Only his business-like concentration explained the interruption. He did not need the list. He had prepared it himself that morning, had it fresh in mind. As for me, I was not averse to giving up my job. Ken seemed surprised, though, and looked up from his own list of words with the initialed answers.
"Go right on, Ken, the same way." Stern and quiet, Craig had the situation well in hand. All humor had disappeared, now. "Make these answers snappy, boys—if you can."
I had given different words to different boys in rotation. Craig changed that method, pausing a moment before beginning.
"I may go around again. You may get the same word you got before. Remember—any change you make, any hesitation, will be significant!" He paused. "This is my scientific third degree!"
There was tension in the room. You could hear the clock on Play fair's desk tick. Every sound, even of breathing, was noticeable. The boys were keyed up with the realization that something was about to happen.
"Tag!" Craig repeated it to Cap King.
"Game."
"Tag!"
Shorty Hench answered, "Run."
"Tag!"
Spike Jewett muttered, "Out of breath."
"Tag!"
Buck Haynes, seeking to be different from the others, growled, "Catch."
Craig was keeping a careful watch of the blood pressure dials as he went around. This surveillance of the unknown was nerve-wracking. That was the worst part of it: their failure to comprehend what it was all about.
"Sentinel."
Tubby answered, "Newspaper."
"Sentinel." To Cap King who came back, "Simpson."
"Sentinel." Spike Jewett replied weakly, "Soldier."
Without waiting to repeat the word, Craig swung about to Shorty Hench and Buck Haynes. Their answers were not so glib; mere repetitions. "Newspaper." "Simpson."
Craig gave no moment for thought or breath. Sharply came the word, "Knife!"
Tubby stumbled. He must have thought of his work in French, which was alarming both to his professor and to his parents at the end of each month. "C-couteau!"
Ken smiled in spite of himself at Tubby's supreme mental effort. Kennedy went right on.
"Cut," was King's icy contribution.
"Steel!" Shorty Hench gave forth.
There was a nervous gasp among the boys. It all depended on how you spelt that word—steel or steal.
"Blade," replied Buck Haynes with an effort.
"Handle." Spike Jewett tried to be glib.
Kennedy had been examining the sphygmomanometers. Then he looked over Ken's list of words, as if to make sure of something in his recollection. Next, to make doubly sure, he glanced at Playfair's rapidly increasing list of reaction times, with the initials. He made a hasty calculation. Then he looked up.
"Psychologists, men who study the way the human mind works, call this thing the association word test. Professor Playfair has taken the reaction times, as they are known—the length of time it takes for your minds, each, to receive the impression, through the ear, of the word given you, plus the time for your mind to associate another word with it, plus the time it takes to telegraph along your nerve wires to your tongue to speak it.
"That time is slightly different in different persons. Some people are quicker than others. But everybody takes some normal time, for himself, to do it. That is what is known as the 'personal equation'—whether it is fast or slow, half a second, say, or a fifth of a second, whatever it may be, normally for you. Then, whatever time plus that personal equation, you have taken to answer the word you said came first into your head, well, that means something to one who has studied it, means whether it was the first word, whether you had to change it. And why did you have to change some words?"
Craig stood a moment quietly before the wondering boys, letting the significance of the remarks sink in—incrimination in mere words and fractions of seconds. What would he do next? What could he get from that list of words and answers, and studying those dials, that would hurt them? Their own inability to answer these questions troubled them, now.
"I don't think I need to tell you about blood pressure. You all know how your heart acts when you are under emotion—fear, anger, hatred, all the feelings. The blood pressure register tells all that to the trained eye—especially fear!"
Craig placed his hands on the back of an empty chair and leaned forward suddenly. Glancing at the boys, then at his recent records, he said earnestly, "This combination is what I call my liar catcher! But I don't like to catch liars. I would prefer the foolish ones to see their foolishness, gain what they can by admitting it." Standing straight and tall, he added, "I'll give anybody here a chance to come clean!"
Again that intense silence. No one moved. I saw we need not expect any dramatics in that line from them. Every one of the boys wore an expression on his face as if he said, "I won't bite that bait. I'm no sucker."
Once more Craig leaned forward. He was through waiting. He had given them their chance. His eyes were fixed on one face.
"You, Buck Haynes, started this thing!"
I almost gasped with surprise myself and I thought that even Ken and Playfair had hardly expected that name.
"You thought you were mighty clever that night when you stole the papers from the Sentinel office."
"I did not! What're you giving us? It's a lie!" Haynes shouted while his color mounted higher.
"No, Haynes, we don't need any more blood pressure to show it. It was you who stole the conditional exam papers from the printer, broke into the office of the Sentinel job print through the window in the rear of the alley. Your answers, the time you took, and the blood pressure show it."
The five boys were plainly frightened. They refused to look at each other.
"Then, Haynes, you must have got the rest together. They fell for it. And all passed."
Buck Haynes was still defiant. "I think you're looney!" he cried impudently.
Kennedy turned his back on him. "Tubby, why did you go over to Ken's last night and let the dog loose?"
Tubby's teeth chattered. "I di-didn't—I only wrote the tag."
Buck Haynes looked at Tubby scornfully. "You simp! You blockhead! Look now what you've let yourself in for!"
Tubby's eyes were wide open. "Who was with you, Tubby?" Kennedy; demanded.
"I—can't—tell."
Cap King's eyes were roving toward the door as if he were uncomfortable and wanted to seek safety in flight.
"Was it King?"
Tubby refused to answer.
"Did you send Ken's terrier to the house last night, King?"
The boy was silent for a few seconds. Then as Kennedy moved again, he blurted out, "I'll only let Tubby stand for what he did.... I untied Patsy." His head was down. He refused to look at either Playfair or Craig. He was sick of the whole mess, ready to have it over.
"You had one of the stolen papers, Tubby."
Tubby squirmed and nodded.
"And you, King."
"I did, Mr. Kennedy."
"Where did you get it?" demanded Craig.
"Spike Jewett gave it to me," he avoided.
"Did you take the exam papers from the Sentinel, too, Spike?" shot out Kennedy, wheeling quickly.
"I didn't steal any papers. Why are you accusing me? You told Buck Haynes he did it—and you're right."
"Squealer—you low-down squealer—to hang something on another fellow when you get caught! Hey! Professor Playfair, he watched outside the Sentinel building while I was inside—there!"
Playfair's face was a study. Wounded love for his boys showed in it. The dishonesty, the lying grieved him sorely. He turned to Ken. "Go after Dr. Walcott, please. Ask him to come here immediately."
As Ken went out, Playfair turned quickly to the other boys. "Who spiked Ken at second base this afternoon? Did you do that, too, Haynes?"
"No, I didn't. But I felt like it. If his uncle hadn't come down here from the city none of this would have happened. I thought you only died from blood pressure. I neyer thought it would convict anyone of something. Ken meddled. He deserved something, we thought."
"You did!" exclaimed Playfair. "Who hurt Ken?"
"Oh, everything else is known. You'll get this. I might as well spill the part I did." Shorty Hench had spoken up. "We agreed last night that I'd do it."
The boys seemed to know they were in for something. Their anxiety was deep. No one spoke. All stared straight downward, or away.
NOR was the tension relieved when Dr. Walcott strode in. It
was intensified. There was a sadness in his face, I thought, but
a fire in his deep eyes. He faced Craig wearily but firmly. "I
thank you, Mr. Kennedy. Please tell me what you have found."
It did not take long to tell.
For a full minute Old Quamquam stood in silence. Then he turned to them. "Boys, if there is something in your make-up that excuses and allows misdeeds such as you have committed to go unchallenged, unconfessed—this experience may be a good thing for you. You can't get far away from right without being found out in some way or other. This experience may open your eyes to the folly of all wrongdoing. But it is not good for Fieldhurst—and honest boys."
He looked sternly about him. "For the honor of Fieldhurst which you have so grossly violated, for the welfare of the other boys, for the sake of my duty to the parents, toward Fieldhurst, and the team, I must tell you that you are dismissed from this school."
Each word was falling with a decisive finality. "Fieldhurst has always been clean, will remain clean. It is what our system is founded upon—honor."
He stopped. Cap King opened his mouth but stammered back into silence as he met Quamquam's eyes.
"A surgeon when he finds the diseased part of a bone, hammers it out with his little mallet, doesn't leave a trace. Or the whole bone will become diseased and the body die. So I must hammer out dishonor whenever it shows itself at Fieldhurst."
"Ha-have we no chance?" asked Tubby.
Quamquam shook his head. "Only this. I'll not be relentless. I wish you boys nothing but good, happiness, success—but it must be elsewhere than at Fieldhurst. No mention of this will be made to any school which you enter. But that does not apply to Haynes, in this regard. In his case, if a record is asked for, I must admit the truth. Only I will not go out of my way to spread it. You are dismissed from Fieldhurst. That is final!"
Glenclair 12; Fieldhurst 1.
Fieldhurst had to reorganize the team. By mutual consent Ken
Adams was chosen acting captain. It was a terrific job. Kennedy
and I stayed down a good bit of the time to help Playfair, while
old grads flocked back to help in the coaching. The school spirit
had never risen higher.
But the handicap was too great. Fieldhurst lost the championship to Glenclair after it had been fairly within her grasp.
Glenclair did no snake dance around the diamond that June. Instead, after a moment of silence, the Glenclair boys flocked across the field. What had happened had got about. They gave a cheer for Fieldhurst, then, "Ray! Ray! Ray Ken Adams!"
There was a mass meeting of the school on the campus that night after the team had elected Ken captain for next year. There were cries for Kennedy to speak. They put him up.
"Boys!" he shouted over their heads, "you have won one of the greatest championships you'll ever win! Honesty and clean sport! You have learned the rule of the game of life. Fieldhurst leads the League in that! Fieldhurst may have lost the baseball championship—but there is not a mucker on this team!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.