Dan slept for two hours and might have slept longer had it not been that a little cool breeze began to find its way through the wide-open windows. It was after half-past three then, and he went downstairs and wrote a letter home. And finally, at a little before five, there was a terrific honking in the distance, followed presently by the appearance of a cloud of dust down the road and eventually by the arrival of the Pennimore car and the three conspirators. “Get in,” Gerald commanded. “We’re going for a ride before supper.”
So Dan went up and got into his coat and soon they were off along the twilight road. That was a ride to remember. They were gone one hour and covered forty-three miles by the speedometer. And if there were four hungrier lads in the length and breadth of the land than those four when they sat down to supper, I envy them! After supper they went upstairs to what a white-enameled plate on the door informed them was the Ladies’[279] Parlor and Ned strummed tunes on the old yellow-keyed piano and they all sang and made as much noise as they pleased. Still later they donned sweaters or coats and went down to the porch and put chairs along the railing and sat there with their feet as high as their heads and talked. The breeze had subsided and the night was still and quite warm for the sixteenth of November. A big lob-sided moon climbed up over the tops of the naked elms and flooded the porch with light. They talked of many, many things; almost everything, in fact, except football. To have listened to them one might have thought that there was never such a thing as football. Finally Gerald said:
“It was a night a good deal like this, Dan, that we paid our call on Broadwood last spring.”
And then, Ned urging, Dan, with Gerald interpolating at intervals, told the story of the famous joke on Broadwood perpetrated by the S. P. M. (“Society of Predatory Marauders,” explained Gerald.) And Kendall, who had never heard of the affair before, listened with open ears. And when Dan had finished Kendall burst out with:
“Then that’s why they tried to paint the flagpole!”
“Who? What do you mean?” exclaimed the others.
[280]
“Oh! Nothing! That is—!”
“Who tried to paint the flagpole?” Dan demanded. “What do you know about that, Burtis?”
“I—I thought maybe they did,” stammered Kendall.
“Broadwood? I never thought of that.” This from Dan.
“Nobody ever found out who did do that stunt,” said Ned thoughtfully. There was a moment’s silence. Then Ned asked suddenly:
“Wasn’t it about that time you went on pro, Curt?”
“It—it was a day or so afterwards,” replied Kendall.
“Hm. Nice weather we’re having.”
“What’s the point, Tooker?” asked Dan.
“Ask our friend, Mr. Bendall Kurtis.”
“All right, Burtis, you’ve got the floor. If there’s a story, let’s have it.”
“There isn’t; at least, there’s nothing I can tell,” replied Kendall.
“Oh, I thought you knew something.”
“What did you mean, Tooker?” asked Gerald. “Out with it.”
Ned’s chair came down with a crash on the porch and he pointed an accusing finger at Kendall. “There,” he declared dramatically, “is the[281] one man who can explain the Mystery of the Paint on the Flagpole!”
“Burtis? Nonsense!” Dan laughed. “Kick him, Burtis.”
“Then,” said Ned, folding his arms with dignity, “then ask him to explain why he was put on probation the next day.”
“Consider yourself asked, Burtis,” Gerald laughed.
“Answer!” commanded Ned. “We are all friends together and our motto is ‘Discretion.’”
“Why—why—” Kendall stammered. “It isn’t my secret. You see— Well, I do know about it, but I oughtn’t to tell. I refused to tell Mr. Collins, and that’s why he put me on probation. I didn’t want them to get into trouble.”
“Didn’t want who to get into trouble?” asked Ned with the manner of a Grand Inquisitor.
“Those fellows.”
“What fellows?”
“The fellows who—who did it.”
“You mean the Broadwood fellows?” asked Dan quietly.
“Yes—no—”
“Then Broadwood did do it!” exclaimed Ned triumphantly. “I knew it! Now tell us all about it. We all swear secrecy, Curt. By yon gleaming[282] orb we pledge ourselves to never divulge what we are about to hear! Proceed!”
And finally Kendall proceeded and told the whole story from the time he had overheard the conversation between the Broadwood boys in the drug store until he had gone out of the Office in disgrace. And he talked to three deeply interested hearers.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Dan when Kendall had finished.
“I’ll be double jiggered,” Ned declared. “Do you mean to tell me, Curt, that you were chump enough to let Collins put you on pro just to save those idiots?”
“I was afraid he would make trouble for them,” said Kendall.
“What of it? Don’t you know that Broadwood is our hereditary foe?”
“Shut up, Tooker,” said Dan. “He was quite right. Only I guess his—what-do-you-call-it?—martyrdom was unnecessary. I don’t believe Collins would have taken it up with Broadwood’s faculty. Old Toby might have, but not Collins.”
“And that’s why you gave up football!” marveled Gerald.
“Yes; he said I couldn’t play any longer,” replied Kendall regretfully.
Ned arose and brushed an imaginary tear from[283] his eye. “Curt,” he said in a voice that trembled with emotion, “you’re a hero!” He shook Kendall’s hand. “You’re a—a martyr to a principal! Get that, fellows? Principal with an ‘al.’ Good, what?”
“Punk,” laughed Dan. “Well, Burtis, I’m glad I got you back on the Second Team. I didn’t know why the dickens I was doing it at the time, but I see now that my instincts prompted.”
“I think Collins ought to know the truth of it,” exclaimed Gerald. “Someone ought to tell him. I will if no one else does.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Dan. “No use opening old sores. Collins did what he thought was fair; the evidence was all against Burtis. It’s over with now and nobody’s any the worse for it.”
“That’s right,” Ned agreed. “Let deeping slogs lie. I do wish I’d known you then, Curt; I surely would have liked to have been there when you flashed the torch on them! We needn’t say anything to Collin............