CHAPTER XI

GERALD VISITS THE OFFICE

The next morning the S. P. M. dispersed. Dan, Gerald, Tom, Alf, and Arthur traveled together on the early train to New York; but as the train was pretty well filled with other Yardley boys, there wasn’t much chance to discuss the subject uppermost in their thoughts. It must be acknowledged, however, that none of them, not even Gerald, appeared greatly worried or cast down. As Alf put it with fine philosophy, “It’s by me, fellows. Meanwhile I’m going to have a good time.”

At New York they separated, Gerald waving good-by from the window of his father’s electric brougham to the others, who were negotiating with a cabman for a trip across town. Gerald’s vacation passed quietly. He had a fairly good time, especially when he visited Tom overnight; but being quite alone save for the servants, wasn’t very exciting. He ran up a good-sized telephone bill in calling up Dan and Alf every evening in Philadelphia and having long talks with them by wire. It was from them that he first learned of the success of their Broadwood joke.

“It was in the evening papers last night,” Alf told him over the telephone. “Nearly a quarter of a column in the _Bulletin_ here, and nearly that much in the others. It’s great. There isn’t anything about our being chased, though.”

“Do they know who did it?” asked Gerald, anxiously.

“Sure! That is, they know Yardley did it. ‘School Plays April Fool Day Prank on Rival,’ is the way the _Bulletin_ has it. Look in the New York papers, Gerald, and if you find it clip it out and bring it with you, will you?”

Gerald did and carried quite a bundle of clippings back to Yardley with him at the end of a week. The prank had tickled the risibilities of the editors, and there was scarcely a paper that didn’t make some mention of the incident. They had a fine time reading the stories aloud the evening of their return to school.

“Bet you Broadwood will try to get back at us for that,” chuckled Alf. “Hope they do. It’ll be fun.”

“Here’s a clipping that says that what you printed on the sign wasn’t original, Alf,” said Gerald, indignantly. Alf shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing is original in this age. All the good jokes have been joked and the songs sung,” he answered, lightly.

“What do you mean?” asked Dan. “Had you seen that somewhere?”

“Of course. Hadn’t you? I thought every one had heard that one. You have, Tom?” Tom nodded.

“I was brought up on it,” he drawled.

“The original form of it,” explained Alf, in response to Dan’s look of inquiry, “was something like this. ‘Father, may I go to college?’ ‘No, my son, your mother wants you to go to Yale.’ Not bad, what?”

“I suppose it was a Harvard joke,” grunted Dan, disgustedly.

“Yes; _Lampoon_. Oh, they say something cute now and then over there. Any one seen Collins since his return to the fold?”

Nobody had. “I think we’re safe,” said Dan. But Tom shook his head.

“Wait until after chapel in the morning,” he said. “Then, if none of us is requested to appear at the Office, I’ll breathe easy.”

“Gee,” murmured Dan, “if I get by this time I’ll never do it again!”

After that they told vacation experiences until it was bedtime, and Alf and Tom――the reunion had taken place in Clarke――rattled off downstairs. There were some anxious moments the next morning when, in chapel, Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, arose to read his announcements. But no one was summoned to the Office, and eight of the fellows, at least, experienced relief. That afternoon the baseball candidates and the track squad went back to work, and Yardley settled down into its Spring Term. Gerald was sent around the track at a fast jog for two miles, and, since he had done no running for more than a week, discovered that he was pretty well tuckered out at the finish. Andy, however, sent him off to the gymnasium with a word of approval that dispelled his weariness.

The school at large had learned of the Broadwood joke, and curiosity was rife. Strangely enough, and perhaps fortunately, too, the credit for the affair was popularly given to a First Class boy named Hammel, who was known to possess a veritable genius for practical jokes. Yardley was vastly elated over it and the question, “Father, is this a school?” with its appropriate answer, was heard on all sides, and in course of time became a school classic. Meanwhile the real culprits were congratulating themselves on a lucky escape. But, sad to relate, their satisfaction was short-lived, and ended the second day of the term.

“The following boys will meet me at the office at eight-thirty,” announced Mr. Collins at chapel: “H. L. Graves, Benton, Hale, and Pennimore.”

Gerald’s heart sank. When he glanced at Dan, that youth was frowning heavily at the scarred back of the settee ahead. Outside Dan and Alf awaited him. They went down the stairs together and out into the warm, foggy morning world, but no one said anything until they were half across to Dudley. Then,

“Of course he may want to see you about something else,” said Alf, with attempted cheeriness. “Think so?”

Gerald shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it can be anything else. I guess that gardener chap saw me.”

“But it seems funny,” Dan objected, “that he didn’t call you up yesterday.”

“That’s easily explained,” Alf replied. “Broadwood’s recess began and ended a day later than ours, and probably faculty over there forgot that and thought to-day was our first day of school.”

Tom was ahead of them in Number 7 when they arrived, and he looked quizzically at them and drew a finger suggestively across his throat. “Shall we pack now, Alf, or wait until after breakfast?” he asked.

“Pack?” said Dan, missing the point. “What for?”

“Because, Mr. Innocent Young Thing, I fancy we may be leaving these classic shades before long.”

“Oh, rot!” said Dan, uneasily. “They can’t do any more than put us on pro.”

“Anyhow,” said Gerald, “it doesn’t concern you fellows, Tom. He doesn’t know you were there or he’d have called you up.”

The other three looked at each other thoughtfully. Then,

“But of course he will find out,” said Alf, questioningly.

“Sure to,” Dan agreed.

“Will he, though?” mused Tom. “Who’s going to tell him?” Alf glanced at Gerald, and the latter flushed.

“That’s rotten, Alf!” he cried.

“Hold on, kid! I wasn’t thinking that, honest to goodness, I wasn’t!” declared Alf, earnestly. “You won’t tell, of course, but Collins will know that there were others――why, hang it, that wild Irish gardener saw us! He will tell them that there were a dozen or so of us, and Collins will ask you who we were, Gerald. What can you say?”

“Tell him he will have to find out,” replied Gerald, promptly. Dan groaned.

“Yes, and get fired like a shot!”

“I don’t believe so,” Tom objected. “Collins is pretty fair and decent that way. I don’t think he will make it any harder for Gerald if he refuses to tell on the rest of us.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell, any way,” declared Gerald. “He may do as he likes.”

“He will,” said Dan, moodily. “Don’t worry.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Alf jumped up.

“Well, let’s go to breakfast. There’s no use sitting here and borrowing trouble. Maybe it won’t be so bad, after all. I’m sorry I got you fellows into it, that’s all.”

“Pooh!” said Tom. “We went in with our eyes open, I guess. You didn’t kidnap any of us. We can take our medicine, eh, Dan?”

“Naturally; only――I wish Gerald had kept out of it!”

“I’m not scared,” answered Gerald, stoutly. “I think, though, I’d better get breakfast if I’m going to get to Office at half-past. They say Collins hates you to be late.”

“And say, Gerald,” Alf admonished as they went out, “whatever you do, don’t let him think you’re trying to be smart or fresh. He hates that, too. Now come on and eat all you can.”

“Yes,” murmured Tom, “eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.”

“Why to-morrow?” asked Alf, cynically cheerful. “What’s the matter with to-day?”

When Gerald entered the outer Office at precisely one minute before the appointed time, he found it occupied by seven persons. First, there was Mr. Collins, seated at his desk by the window; then Mr. Forisher, the secretary, settling down for his morning’s work; then three boys, Benton and Hale and Graves; and last but not least, occupying a chair in a corner, was a man of middle age with Irish features whom Gerald instantly guessed to be the Broadwood gardener. He was dressed immaculately and uncomfortably in his best black suit, and held a derby hat tightly in his lap. At Gerald’s entrance every occupant of the room looked toward him, but all removed their gaze after a second save the man in the corner. Long after Gerald had taken his seat, he was aware that the gardener was still regarding him triumphantly.

Presently Mr. Collins laid aside the work he had been occupied with and swung about in his swivel-chair. He glanced from one of the audience to another, and finally encountered the gaze of the man in the corner.

“Well?” he asked. “Is he here?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the gardener, decisively.

“Quite certain, Mr. Grogan?”

“Yes, sir, certain sure, sir.”

“Ah! And which of the young gentlemen is it, please?”

“It’s him, sir!” Mr. Grogan’s hand shot out at Gerald. Mr. Collins showed unmistakable surprise.

“What! Why――now, come, Mr. Grogan, isn’t there a chance that you may be mistaken? Remember that it was at night and, according to your own words, you didn’t see his face.”

“I seen his hair, Mr. Collins, and I seen the shape of him, sir, and _that’s him_.”

“Very well. Graves, you may go; you, too, Benton; and you, Hale. Sorry to have troubled you.” The boys filed out, unmistakable relief expressed on their features. And as they went Gerald understood for the first time why they had been summoned. Each of them had light hair, and each was about his own age and size!