And now the watchers moved about restlessly, and Joel found his heart in his throat. But West gripped his wooden putter firmly and studied the situation. It was quite possible for a skillful player to hole out on the next stroke from Whipple's lie. West, on the contrary, was too far distant to possess more than one chance in ten of winning the hole in one play. Whether to take that one chance or to use his next play in bettering his lie was the question. Whipple, West knew, was weak on putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent's weakness. While West pondered, Whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for an occasional nervous whisper.

Then West leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball. It was the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but West was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted him. His mind was made up. Gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on the shaft and bending far over, West slowly, cautiously swung the club above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant goal. Then there was a pause. Whipple no longer studied his own play; his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently against the grass. Joel leaned breathlessly forward. Professor Beck muttered under his breath, and then cried "S–sh!" to himself in an angry whisper. And then West's club swung back gently, easily, paused an instant–and–

Forward sped the ball–on and on–slower–slower–but straight as an arrow–and then–Presto! it was gone from sight!

A moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that moment Professor Beck announced:

"The odd to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-three."

Then the group became silent again. Whipple addressed his ball. It was yet possible to tie the score. His face was pale, and for the first time during the tournament he felt nervous. A better player could scarce have missed the hole from Whipple's lie, but for once that youth's nerve forsook him and he hit too short; the ball stopped a foot from the hole. The game was decided. Professor Beck again announced the score:

"The two more to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-four."

Again Whipple addressed his ball, and this time, but too late to win the victory, the tiny sphere dropped neatly into the hole, and the throng broke silence. And as West and Whipple, victor and vanquished, shook hands over the Home Hole, Professor Beck announced:

"Thirty-two to thirty-five. West wins the Cup!"

CHAPTER IX.
AN EVENING CALL

The last week of October brought chilling winds and flying clouds. Life at Hillton Academy had gone on serenely since West's victory on the links. The little pewter tankard reposed proudly upon his mantel beside a bottle of chow-chow, and bore his name as the third winner of the trophy. But West had laid aside his clubs, save for an occasional hour at noon, and, abiding by his promise to Joel, he had taken up his books again with much resolution, if little ardor. Hillton had met and defeated two more football teams, and the first eleven was growing gradually stronger. Remsen was seen to smile now quite frequently during practice, and there was a general air of prosperity about the gridiron.

The first had gone to its training table at "Mother" Burke's, in the village, and the second ate its meals in the center of the school dining hall with an illy concealed sense of self-importance. And the grinds sneered at its appetites, and the obscure juniors admired reverently from afar. Joel had attended both recitations and practice with exemplary and impartial regularity, and as a result his class standing was growing better and better on one hand, and on the other his muscles were becoming stronger, his flesh firmer, and his brain clearer.

The friendship between him and Outfield West had ripened steadily, until now they were scarcely separable. And that they might be more together West had lately made a proposition.

"That fellow Sproule is a regular cad, Joel, and I tell you what we'll do. After Christmas you move over to Hampton and room with me. You have to make an application before recess, you know. What do you say?"

"I should like to first rate, but I can't pay the rent there," Joel had objected.

"Then pay the same as you're paying for your den in Masters," replied West. "You see, Joel, I have to pay the rent for Number 2 Hampton anyhow, and it won't make any difference whether I have another fellow in with me or not. Only, if you pay as much of my rent as you're paying now, why, that will make it so much cheaper for me. Don't you see?"

"Yes, but if I use half the room I ought to pay half, the rent." And to this Joel stood firm until West's constant entreaties led to a compromise. West was to put the matter before his father, and Joel before his. If their parents sanctioned it, Joel was to apply for the change of abode. As yet the matter was still in abeyance.

Richard Sproule, as West had suggested rather more forcibly than politely, was becoming more and more objectionable, and Joel was not a bit grieved at the prospect of leaving him. Of late, intercourse between the roommates had become reduced to rare monosyllables. This was the outcome of a refusal on Joel's part to give a portion of his precious study time to helping Sproule with his lessons. Once or twice Joel had consented to assist his roommate, and had done so to the detriment of his own affairs; but the result to both had proved so unsatisfactory that Joel had stoutly refused the next request. Thereupon Sproule had considered himself deeply aggrieved, and usually spent the time when Joel was present in sulking.

Bartlett Cloud, since his encounter with Joel on the field the afternoon that he was put off the team, had had nothing to say to him, though his looks when they met were always dark and threatening. But in a school as large as Hillton there is plenty of room to avoid an objectionable acquaintance, so long as you are not under the same roof with him, and consequently Cloud and Joel seldom met. The latter constantly regretted having made an enemy of the other, but beyond this regret his consideration of Cloud seldom went.

So far Joel had not found an opportunity to accept the invitation that Remsen had extended to him, though that invitation had since been once or twice repeated. But to-night West and he had made arrangement to visit Remsen at his room, and had obtained permission from Professor Wheeler to do so. The two boys met at the gymnasium after supper was over and took their way toward the village. West had armed himself with a formidable stick, in the hope, loudly expressed at intervals, that they would be set upon by tramps. But Remsen's lodgings were reached without adventure, and the lads were straightway admitted to a cosey study, wherein, before an open fire, sat Remsen and a guest. After a cordial welcome from Remsen the guest was introduced as Albert Digbee.

"Yes, we know each other," said West, as he shook hands. "We both room in Hampton, but Digbee's a grind, you know, and doesn't care to waste his time on us idlers." Digbee smiled.

"It isn't inclination, West; I don't have the time, and so don't attempt to keep up with you fellows." He shook Joel's hand. "I'm glad to meet you. I've heard of you before."

Then the quartet drew chairs up to the blaze, and, as Remsen talked, Joel examined his new acquaintance.

Digbee was a year older than West and Joel. He was in the senior class, and was spoken of as one of the smartest boys in the school. Although a Hampton House resident, he seldom was seen with the others save at the table, and was usually referred to among themselves as "Dig," both because that suggested his Christian name and because, as they said, he was forever digging at his books. In appearance Albert Digbee was a tall, slender, but scarcely frail youth, with a cleanly cut face that looked, in the firelight, far too pale. His eyes were strikingly bright, and though his smiles were infrequent, his habitual expression was one of eager and kindly interest. Joel had often come across him in class, and had long wanted to know him.

"You see, boys," Remsen was saying, "Digbee here is of the opinion that athletics in general and football in particular are harmful to schools and colleges as tending to draw the attention of pupils from their studies, and I maintain the opposite. Now, what's your opinion, West? Digbee and I have gone over it so often that we would like to hear some one else on the subject."

"Oh, I don't know," replied West. "If fellows would give up football and go in for golf, there wouldn't be any talk about athletics being hurtful. Golf's a game that a chap can play and get through with and have some time for study. You don't have to train a month to play for an hour; it's a sport that hasn't become a business."

"I can testify," said Joel gravely, "that Out is a case in point. He plays golf, and has time left to study–how to play more golf."

"Well, anyhow, you know I do study some lately, Joel," laughed West. Joel nodded with serious mien.

"I think you've made a very excellent point in favor of golf, West," said Digbee. "It hasn't been made a business, at least in this school. But won't it eventually become quite as much of a pursuit as football now is?"

"Oh, it may become as popular, but, don't you see, it will never become as–er–exacting on the fellows that play it. You can play golf without having to go into training for it."

"Nevertheless, West," replied the head coach, "if a fellow can play golf without being in training, doesn't it stand to reason that the same fellow can play a better game if he is in training? That is, won't he play a better game if he is in better trim?"

"Yes, I guess so, but he will play a first-class game if he doesn't train."

"But not as good a game as he will if he does train?"

"I suppose not," admitted West.

"Well, now, a fellow can play a very good game of football if he isn't in training," continued Remsen, "but that same fellow, if he goes to bed and gets up at regular hours, and eats decent food at decent times, and takes care of himself in such a way as to improve his mental, moral, and physical person, will play a still better game and derive more benefit from it. When golf gets a firmer hold on this side of the Atlantic, schools and colleges will have their golf teams of, say, from two to a dozen players. Of course, the team will not play as a team, but the members of it will play singly or in couples against representatives of other schools. And when that happens it is sure to follow that the players will go into almost as strict training as the football men do now."

"Well, that sounds funny," exclaimed West.

"Digbee thinks one of the most objectionable features of football is the fact that the players go into it so thoroughly–that they train for it, and study it, and spend a good deal of valuable time thinking about it. But to me that is one of its most admirable features. When a boy or a man goes in for athletics, whether football or rowing or hockey, he desires, if he is a real flesh-and-blood being, to excel in it. To do that it is necessary that he put himself in the condition that will allow of his doing his very best. And to that end he trains. He gives up pastry, and takes to cereals; he abandons his cigarettes and takes to fresh air; he gives up late hours at night, and substitutes early hours in the morning. And he is better for doing so. He feels better, looks better, works better, plays better."

"But," responded Digbee, "can a boy who has come to school to study, and who has to study to make his schooling pay for itself, can such a boy afford the time that all that training and practicing requires?"

"Usually, yes," answered Remsen. "Of course, there are boys, and men too, for that matter, who are incapable of occupying their minds with two distinct interests. That kind should leave athletics alone. And there are others who are naturally–I guess I mean-unnaturally–stupid, and who, should they attempt to sandwich football or baseball into their school life, would simply make a mess of both study and recreation. But they need not enter into the question of the harm or benefit of athletics, since at every well-conducted school or college those boys are not allowed to take up with athletics. Yes, generally speaking, the boy who comes to school to study can afford to play football, train for football, and think football, because instead of interfering with his studies it really helps him with them. It makes him healthy, strong, wide-awake, self-reliant, and clearheaded. Some time I shall be glad to show you a whole stack of careful statistics which prove that football men, at least, rather than being backward with studies, are nearly always above the average in class standing. March, you're a hard-worked football enthusiast, and I understand that you're keeping well up with your lessons. Do you have trouble to attend to both? Do you have to skimp your studies? I know you give full attention to the pigskin."

"I'm hard put some days to find time for everything," answered Joel, "but I always manage to make it somehow, and I have all the sleep I want or need. Perhaps if I gave up football I might get higher marks in recitations, but I'd not feel so well, and it's possible that I'd only get lower marks. I agree with you, Mr. Remsen, that athletics, or at least football, is far more likely to benefit a chap than to hurt him, because a fellow can't study well unless he is in good health and spirits."

"Are you convinced, Digbee?" asked Remsen. Digbee shook his head smilingly.

"I don't believe I am, quite. But you know more about such things than I do. In fact, it's cheeky for me to argue about them. Why, I've never played anything but tennis, and never did even that well."

"You know the ground you argue from, and because I have overwhelmed you with talk it does not necessarily follow that I am right," responded his host courteously. "But enough of such dull themes. There's West most asleep.–March, have you heard from your mother lately?"

"Yes, I received a letter from her yesterday morning. She writes that she's glad the relationship is settled finally; says she's certain that any kin of the Maine Remsens is a person of good, strong moral character." When the laugh had subsided, Remsen turned to West.

"Have you ever heard of Tommy Collingwood?"

"Wasn't he baseball captain a good many years ago?"

"Yes, and used to row in the boat. Well, Tommy was a good deal better at spinning top on Academy steps than doing lessons, and a deal fonder of playing shinney than writing letters. But Tommy's mother always insisted that Tommy should write home once a week, and Tommy's father wrote and explained what would happen to Tommy if he didn't obey his mother; and as Tommy's folks lived just over in Albany it was a small thing for Tommy's father to run over some day with a strap; so Tommy obeyed his parents and every week wrote home. His letters weren't long, nor were they filled with a wealth of detail, but they answered the purpose in lieu of better. Each one ran: 'Hillton Academy, Hillton, N.Y.,' with the date. 'Dear Father and Mother, I am well and studying hard. Your loving son, Thomas Collingwood.'

"Well, when Christmas recess came, Tommy went home. And one day his mother complimented Tommy on the regularity of his correspondence. Tommy looked sheepish. 'To tell the truth, mother, I didn't write one of those letters each week,' explained Tommy. 'But just after school opened I was sick for a week, and didn't have anything to do; so I wrote 'I am well' twelve times, and dated each ahead.'"

Digbee accompanied the other two lads back to the yard, and he and March discussed studies, while West mooned along, whistling half aloud and thrashing the weeds and rocks with his cudgel, for the tramps refused to appear on the scene. He and Digbee went out of their way to see Joel safely to his dormitory, and then Joel accompanied them on their homeward way as far as Academy Building. There good-nights were said, and Joel, feeling but little inclined for sleep, drew his collar up and strolled to the front of the building, where, from the high steps, the river was visible for several miles in either direction. The moon was struggling out from a mass of somber clouds overhead, and the sound of the waters as they swirled around the rocky point was plainly heard.

Joel sat there on the steps, under the shadow of the dark building, thinking of many things, and feeling very happy and peaceful, until a long, shrill sound from the north told of the coming of the 9.48 train; then he made his way back to Masters, up the dim stairs, and into his room, where Dickey Sproule lay huddled in bed reading The Three Guardsmen by the screened light of a guttering candle.

CHAPTER X.
THE BROKEN BELL ROPE

Joel arrived at chapel the following morning just as the doors were being closed. Duffy, the wooden-legged doorkeeper, was not on duty, and the youth upon whom his duties had devolved allowed Joel to pass without giving his name for report as tardy. During prayers there was an evident atmosphere of suppressed excitement among the pupils, but not until chapel was over did Joel discover the cause.

"Were you here when it happened?" asked West.

"When what happened?" responded Joel.

"Haven't you heard? Why, some one cut the bell rope, and when 'Peg-leg' went to ring chapel bell the rope broke up in the tower and came down on his head and laid him out there on the floor, and some of the fellows found him knocked senseless. And they've taken him to the infirmary. You know the rope's as big as your wrist, and it hit him on top of the head. I guess he isn't much hurt, but 'Wheels' is as mad as never was, and whoever did it will have a hard time, I'll bet!"

"Poor old Duffy!" said Joel. "Let's go over and find out if he's much hurt. It was a dirty sort of a joke to play, though I suppose whoever did it didn't think it would hurt any one."

At the infirmary they found Professor Gibbs in the office.

"No, boys, he isn't damaged much. He'll be all right in a few hours. I hope that the ones who did it will be severely punished. It was a most contemptible trick to put up on Duffy."

"I hope so too," answered West indignantly. "You may depend that no upper middle boy did it, sir." The professor smiled.

"I hope you are right, West."

At noon hour Joel was summoned to the principal's office. Professor Wheeler, the secretary, and Professor Durkee were present, and as Joel entered he scented an air of hostility. The secretary closed the door behind him.

"March, I have sent for you to ask whether you can give us any information which will lead to the apprehension of the perpetrators of the trick which has resulted in injury to Mr. Duffy. Can you?"

"No, sir," responded Joel.

"You know absolutely nothing about it?"

"Nothing, sir, except what I have been told."

"By whom?"

"Outfield West, sir, after chapel. We went to the infirmary to inquire about 'Peg'–about Mr. Duffy, sir." The secretary repressed a smile. The principal was observing Joel very closely, and Professor Durkee moved impatiently in his seat.

"I can not suppose," continued the principal, "that the thing was done simply as a school joke. The boy who cut the rope must have known when he did so that the result would be harmful to whoever rang the chapel bell this morning. I wish it understood that I have no intention of dealing leniently with the culprit, but, at the same time, a confession, if made now, will have the effect of mitigating his punishment." He paused. Joel turned an astonished look from him to Professor Durkee, who, meeting it, frowned and turned impatiently away. "You have nothing more to tell me, March?"

"Why, no, sir," answered Joel in a troubled voice. "I don't understand. Am I suspected–of–of this–thing, sir?"

"Dear me, sir," exclaimed Professor Durkee, explosively, turning to the principal, "it's quite evident that–"

"One moment, please," answered the latter firmly. The other subsided.–"You had town leave last night, March?"

"Yes, sir."

"You went with Outfield West?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time did you return to your room?"

"At about a quarter to ten, sir."

"You are certain as to the time?"

"I only know that I heard the down train whistle as I left Academy Building. I went right to my room, sir."

"Was the door of Academy Building unlocked last night?"

"I don't know. I didn't try it, sir."

"What time did you leave Mr. Remsen's house?"

"A few minutes after nine."

"You came right back here?"

"Yes, sir. We came as far as Academy Building, and West and Digbee went home. I sat on the front steps here until I heard the whistle blow. Then I went to my room."

"Why did you sit on the steps, March?"

"I wasn't sleepy; and the moon was coming out–and–I wanted to think."

"Do you hear from home very often?"

"Once or twice a week, sir."

"When did you get a letter last, and from whom was it?"

"From my mother, about three days ago."

"Have you that letter?"

"Yes, sir. It is in my room."

"You sometimes carry your letters in your pocket?"

"Why, yes, but not often. If I receive them on the way out of the building I put them in my pocket, and then put them away when I get back."

"Where do you keep them?"

"In my bureau drawer."

"It is kept locked?"

"No, sir. I never lock it."

"Do you remember what was in that last letter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was any one mentioned in it?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Remsen was mentioned. And Outfield West, and my brother, and father."

"Is this your letter?" Professor Wheeler extended it across the desk, and Joel took it wonderingly.

"Why, yes, sir. But where–I don't understand–!" Again he looked toward Professor Durkee in bewilderment.

"Nor do I," answered that gentleman dryly.

"March," continued the principal, as he took the letter again, "this was found this morning, after the accident, on the floor of the bell tower. Do you know how it came there?" Joel's cheeks reddened and then grew white as the full meaning of the words reached him. His voice suddenly grew husky.

"No, sir, I do not." The words were spoken very stoutly and rang with sincerity. A silence fell on the room. Professor Wheeler glanced inquiringly at Professor Durkee, and the latter made a grimace of impatience that snarled his homely face into a mass of wrinkles.

"Look here, boy," he snapped, "who do you think dropped that letter there?"

"I can't think, sir. I can't understand it at all. I've never been in the tower since I've been in school."

"Do you know of any one who might like to get you into trouble in such a way as this?"

"No, sir," answered Joel promptly. Then a sudden recollection of Bartlett Cloud came to him, and he hesitated. Professor Durkee observed it.

"Well?" he said sharply.

"I know of no one, sir."

"Humph!" grunted the professor, "you do, but you won't say."

"If you suspect any one it will be best to tell us, March," said Professor Wheeler, more kindly. "You must see that the evidence is much against you, and, while I myself can not believe that you are guilty, I shall be obliged to consider you so until proof of your innocence is forthcoming. Have you any enemy in school?"

"I think not, sir."

The door opened and Remsen appeared.

"Good-morning," he said. "You wished to see me, professor?"

"Yes, in a moment. Sit down, please, Remsen." Remsen nodded to Joel and the secretary, shook hands with Professor Durkee, and took a chair. The principal turned again to Joel.

"You wish me to understand, then, that you have no explanation to offer as to how the letter came to be in the bell tower? Recollect that shielding a friend or any other pupil will do neither you nor him any service."

Joel was hesitating. Was it right to throw suspicion on Bartlett Cloud by mentioning the small occurrence on the football field so long before? It was inconceivable that Cloud would go to such a length in mere spite. And yet–Remsen interrupted his thoughts.

"Professor, if you will dismiss March for a while, perhaps I can throw some light on the matter. Let him return in half an hour or so." Professor Wheeler nodded.

"Come back at one o'clock, March," he said.

Outside Joel hesitated where to go. He must tell some one his trouble, and there was only one who would really care. He turned toward Hampton House, then remembered that it was dinner hour and that Outfield would be at table. He had forgotten his own dinner until that moment. In the dining hall West was still lingering over his dessert. Joel took his seat at the training table, explaining his absence by saying that he had been called to the office, and hurried through a dinner of beef and rice and milk. When West arose Joel overtook him at the door. And as the friends took their way toward Joel's room, he told everything to West in words that tumbled over each other.

Outfield West heard him in silence after one exclamation of surprise, and when Joel had finished, cried:

"Why didn't you tell about Cloud? Don't you see that this is his doing? That he is getting even with you for his losing the football team?"

"I thought of that, Out, but it seemed too silly to suppose that he would do such a thing just for–for that, you know."

"Well, you may be certain that he did do it; or, at least, if he didn't cut the rope himself, found some one to do it for him. It's just the kind of a revenge that a fellow of his meanness would think of. He won't stand up and fight like a man. Here, let's go and find him!"

"No, wait. I'll tell Professor Wheeler about him when I go back; then if he thinks–If he did do it, Out, I'll lick him good for it!"

"Hooray! And when you get through I'll take a hand, too. But what do you suppose Remsen was going to tell?"

Joel shook his head. They found Sproule in the room, and to him West spoke as follows:

"Hello, Dickey! You're not studying? It's not good for you; these sudden changes should be avoided." Sproule laughed, but looked annoyed at the banter. "Joel and I have come up for a chat, Dickey," continued West. "Now, you take your Robinson Crusoe and read somewhere else for a while, like a nice boy."

Sproule grew red-faced, and turned to West angrily.

"Don't you see I'm studying? If you and March want to talk, why, either go somewhere else, or talk here."

"But our talk is private, Dickey, and not intended for little boys' ears. You know the saying about little pitchers, Dickey?"

"Well, I'm not going out, so you can talk or not as you like."

"Oh, yes, you are going out, Dickey. Politeness requires it, and I shall see that you maintain that delightful courteousness for which you are noted. Now, Dickey!" West indicated the door with a nod and a smile. Sproule bent his head over his book and growled a response that sounded anything but polite. Then West, still smiling, seized the unobliging youth by the shoulders, pinioning his arms to his sides, and pushed him away from the table and toward the door. Joel rescued the lamp at a critical moment, the chairs went over on to the floor, and a minute later Sproule was on the farther side of the bolted door, and West was adjusting his rumpled attire.

"I'll report you for this, Outfield West!" howled Sproule through the door, in a passion of resentment.

"Report away," answered West mockingly.

"And if I miss my Latin I'll tell why, too!"

"Well, you'll miss it all right enough, unless you've changed mightily. But, here, I'll shy your book through the transom."

This was done, and the sound of ascending feet on the stairway reaching Sproule's ears at that moment, he grabbed his book and took himself off, muttering vengeance.

"Have you looked?" asked West.

"Yes; it's not there. But there are no others missing. Who could have taken it?"

"Any one, my boy; Bartlett Cloud, for preference. Your door is unlocked, he comes in when he knows you are out, looks on the table, sees nothing there that will serve, goes to the bureau, opens the top drawer, and finds a pile of letters. He takes the first one, which is, of course, the last received, and sneaks out. Then he climbs into the bell tower at night, cuts the rope through all but one small strand, and puts your letter on the floor where it will be found in the morning. Isn't that plain enough?" Joel nodded forlornly. "But cheer up, Joel. Your Uncle Out will see your innocence established, firmly and beyond all question. And now come on. It's one o'clock, and you've got to go back to the office, while I've got a class. Come over to my room at four, Joel, and tell me what happens."

Remsen and the secretary were no longer in the office when Joel returned. Professor Durkee was standing with his hat in his hand, apparently about to leave.

"March," began the principal, "Mr. Remsen tells us that you were struck at by Bartlett Cloud on the football field one day at practice. Is that so?" Joel replied affirmatively.

"Does he speak to you, or you to him?"

"No, sir; but then I've never been acquainted with him."

"Do you believe that he could have stolen that letter from your room?"

"I know that he could have done so, sir, but I don't like to think–"

"That he did? Well, possibly he did and possibly he didn't. I shall endeavor to find out. Meanwhile I must ask you to let this go no further. You will go on as though this conversation had never occurred. If I find that you are unjustly suspected I will summon you and ask your pardon, and the guilty one will be punished. Professor Durkee here has pointed out to me that such conduct is totally foreign to his conception of your character, and has reminded me that your standing in class has been of the best since the beginning of the term. I agree with him in all this, but duty in the affair is very plain and I have been performing it, unpleasant as it is. You may go now, March; and kindly remember that this affair must be kept quiet,"

Joel turned with a surprised but grateful look toward Professor Durkee, but was met with a wrathful scowl. Joel hurried to his recitation, and later, before West's fireplace, the friends discussed the unfortunate affair in all its phases, and resolved, with vehemence, to know the truth sooner or later.