CHAPTER XVIII

TOM’S TEMPTATION

“Are you really going to sell it, Frank?”

“Is this a fake?”

“What’s the upset price?”

“Honor bright, now! It isn’t a joke; is it?”

These were only a few of the questions that were put to the Big Californian, as a crowd of boys filed into the gymnasium the next day after the auction notice had been posted.

“Oh, it’s straight all right,” answered Frank. “The davenport, which is as new as heart could wish, will be sold to the highest bidder. We--er--that is I--bought it by mistake. We didn’t need it. Our old sofa has been fixed up.”

“Oh, but I say Frank,” expostulated Tom, when he got a chance to speak to his chum privately. “You could send this back to the store, and get nearly all you paid for it. You won’t get half what it’s worth, at auction.”

“I don’t give a hang. I’m going to sell it this way. It will be fun. Besides, whatever is realized is going into the athletic fund, anyhow. That’ll make bidding higher.”

“Maybe it will. But say, you must have struck it rich to blow in all that cash.”

“Oh, not so much. I got the davenport at a bargain, anyhow, and I thought it would be just the thing for our room. But I can see, now, that it isn’t. Say, there’s a good crowd coming, all right.”

“There sure is. Have you got it here.”

“Yes, I saw Prexy, and explained how it was. He said I could auction it off. Proc. Zane put up a stiff kick, though, but Moses overruled him, and it’s going on. I guess the janitor has the old shebang on hand.”

“Yes, there it is,” answered Tom, as he and his friend entered the gymnasium, and caught sight of the new davenport, supported on two leathered-covered “horses.”

The crowd, laughing, talking, chaffing each other and the inseparables, filed into the big room, until it scarce could hold any more. Frank took his place in front of the piece of furniture, and soon the bidding was under way.

It began low, but was spirited enough. Sid, Tom and Phil refrained from raising the bids, but there was no lack of others. By small advances the price crept up to seven dollars. There it hung for a while.

“Seven-fifty!” sung out Shambler.

“Seventy-five!” came from Joe Jackson.

“Eighty,” put in another voice, and Phil whispered to Tom:

“The Jersey twins are bidding against each other, and they don’t know it. This is rich! Frank will get more than he paid if this keeps on!”

The bidding became more spirited, being confined chiefly to Shambler, and the two twins, the latter, being in separate parts of the big auditorium, not knowing that they were whip-sawing one another.

Finally, when the price reached fourteen dollars and thirty-five cents, the davenport was knocked down to Shambler, who ordered the piece of furniture taken to his room.

“It will do to stretch out on when I come in from a run,” he remarked to some of his intimate friends. And, though Tom had no special interest in what became of Frank’s “surprise,” as it had been dubbed, still the pitcher felt himself wishing that someone else besides Shambler had secured it.

The new student seemed to feel that the purchasing of the davenport from one of the inseparables entitled him to a closer acquaintanceship with them. For, a few days after the auction, he called at their room, and made himself rather at home.

“Cosy place you’ve got here,” he remarked, blowing cigarette smoke about in clouds. “Quite a collection of antiques.”

“Yes, we like old things best,” remarked Tom significantly, wondering whether the lines about “old books, and old friends,” would recur to Shambler. But it did not seem to.

“Well, it won’t be long before we have the Spring games,” went on the visitor. “I’ll be glad of it, too, for I’m training hard, too hard, I guess. I’m going to have a little recreation to-night. Some friends and I are going in to town. Don’t some of you want to come along?”

None of the inseparables accepted the invitation.

“I’m taking chances, too,” went on Shambler. “I’ve been caught two or three times, lately, and Zane warned me that the next time would mean suspension. But I’ll chance it. A fellow has to have some fun. Any of you smoke?” and he extended his box of cigarettes.

“It’s bad--when you’re in training,” remarked Phil. “Count us out.”

“You, too, Parsons?” asked Shambler. “Say, by the way,” he went on, “I met a friend of yours the other night. Miss Tyler, of Fairview. At least she said she knew you. Fine girl.”

“Yes,” half growled Tom, the blood flushing his face. “I’m going to see if there’s any mail,” he added quickly, as he left the room.

“Anything wrong?” asked Shambler of the others. “Have I been poaching on his preserves?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” replied Phil, with significant glances at his chums.

“Not much!” exclaimed the visitor. “I have a notion he has a hasty temper. But aren’t any of you coming to town for a lark?”

No one was, evidently, and Shambler soon took his leave. It was some time before Tom returned, and he had no letters. His chums did not bring up the subject of his going out.

Tom, in preparation for the examinations, had permission that night to spend some time in the rooms of a senior who had volunteered to coach him on some points wherein our hero was a bit behind in his class. The senior’s room was in another dormitory from where Tom and his chums roomed, being across the campus.

It was after midnight when the tall pitcher was on his way back to his own particular part of the college, and, as he was about to open the dormitory main door, with a pass key with which he had been provided, a dark figure hurried up the steps from the shadow of a statue on the campus, and stood at his side.

“I say!” came in a cautious whisper. “Let me in with you, will you? I overstayed in town, and I don’t want to be caught.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, wondering for a moment who was speaking, and then he recognized Shambler’s voice.

“It’s Parsons!” whispered the new student, evidently much relieved. “I’m in luck! I’ve been waiting here half an hour hoping Zane’s light would go out, and that I could bribe one of the janitors, or a monitor, to let me in. But the old Proc. is staying up infernally late. But it’s all right now. You have a key; haven’t you.”

“Yes,” answered Tom shortly, as he inserted it in the lock.

“Talk about luck!” exulted Shambler, as he slipped in ahead of Tom, who stood back to let him pass in first. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

Tom did not answer. A wave of revulsion against this lad seemed to sweep over him, and he recalled a certain day in the woods when he had seen the fellow with Madge Tyler.

Shambler, not seeming to notice the grouchiness of his companion, passed hurriedly along the dark corridor toward his room. Tom walked more slowly, having made sure that the door was locked after him. He had not gone half a dozen steps, before the door of the proctor’s office opened, and Mr. Zane stepped out.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Parsons,” replied our hero. “I had permission. I was studying with Morrison.”

“Oh, yes, I recollect. Who came in with you, Parsons?”

“In with me?” repeated Tom, for he had hoped that this question would not be asked.

“Yes, I heard the footsteps of two, and you were the only one in this dormitory who had permission to be out to-night. Who came in with you?”

“I--er--that is--I don’t wish to tell, Mr. Zane.”

“I demand to know,” said the proctor sternly. “You let someone in; did you not?”

“Yes, sir, but----”

“And you won’t tell who it was?”

Tom hesitated for a moment, but it was only a moment. There came an instant of temptation. He recalled what Shambler had said about the probability of suspension if he was caught again.

“And it would be a good thing if he did go,” thought Tom bitterly. “Good for Randall--good. But then the games! We need him!”

Then he knew that it was a selfish motive that was urging him to take advantage of the chance thrown in his way.

“No! No! I--I can’t do it!” he cried within himself.

“Well,” asked the proctor sharply.

“I--I can’t tell you,” answered Tom simply.

“You mean you won’t?”

“If you prefer to put it that way--yes, sir.”

“Very well. I will see you in the morning,” and, turning on his heel, the proctor went back into his office.