"I won't," Leslie whispered. "Good night."

"Good night, my dearest." Strand put down the phone, reassured that all was well, at least with Leslie. He put on the lights, then went back to the telephone and considered it. Should he call Hazen now? He leaned over to pick up the instrument, then let his hand drop. He felt too tired to answer the questions he knew Hazen would put to him. He knew he should go into the common room and see what the boys were up to and answer their questions, too, but decided to let it wait until the morning. If he had to face Hitz again that day, he had the feeling that he would finally hit him.

He heard the peals of the chapel bell for dinner and suddenly realized he had eaten nothing all day.

He went into the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator. There was nothing much in there, just some eggs and bacon and a half container of milk. But it would have to do. Dinner at a table full of boys in the crowded dining hall was an ordeal to be avoided, even if it meant going to bed hungry. And he was not up to the long walk into town, where he might be recognized by someone who had been in the courtroom that morning. He was frying the bacon when the telephone rang again. He took the pan off the fire and trudged back into the living room and picked up the phone.

"Allen?" It was Hazen.

"Yes, Russell. How are you?"

"I just got in from Washington and I was told you called this morning."

"Are you standing, Russell?"

"Yes, I happen to be standing. Why do you ask?"

"Because it's a long, complicated story and you'd better be comfortable when you hear it."

"What's wrong?" Now he sounded alarmed. "Is Leslie all right?"

"She's fine. She's at Linda's. She decided she wanted to go to Paris after all," Strand said. "It's Romero. Have you sat down yet?"

"I'm down."

"We had just gotten back from New York-were just in front of the house-when two boys came running out the door," Strand said. "One was chasing the other. The one who was doing the chasing was Romero and he had a knife in his hand..."

"Goddamn fool," Hazen said. "They'll kick him out of school for that."

"And the boy who was being chased was young Hitz..."

"Christ," Hazen said, "I hope I never hear that name again for the rest of my life..."

"You will, Russell, you will..."

"The old man has given some added lurid details to the Justice Department and that's why I had to go down to Washington. But tell me the whole story. Don't leave out any of the details."

When Strand told him that three hundred and seventy-five dollars had been stolen from the box in Romero's room, Hazen exploded. "Three hundred and seventy-five dollars! Where in hell did he get three hundred and seventy-five dollars?"

"Hitz says he ran a crap game in his room several nights a week after lights-out."

"And you knew nothing about it?" Hazen said incredulously.

"Not a thing."

"What in blazes goes on in that school?"

"I imagine the usual."

"Go on," Hazen said icily. He broke in again as Strand was telling him that Romero said that he had reason to believe that it was Hitz who took the money. "What reason?" Hazen asked.

"He wouldn't say. He said it was confidential."

"Confidential," Hazen snorted. "If I'd been there, it wouldn't have been all that confidential, I assure you! Not for five minutes. Do you have any clues?"

Strand thought of Mrs. Schiller's pleading, tear-choked voice. "None," he said. He didn't mention her story about finding the letters. If Hazen wanted to come down to the school and try to break Mrs. Schiller or Romero down, he would get no help from him. "You want me to go on with the rest of the story?"

"I'm sorry," Hazen said. "I'll try not to interrupt again."

It took fifteen more minutes before Strand came to the last scene in the courtroom and he was telling Hazen about Romero's refusing to testify in his own defense.

"The school lawyer, a Mr. Hollingsbee, pleaded with him," Strand went on. "But he just stood there and refused to change his mind. He told the judge he didn't recognize the jurisdiction of the court."

"Mr. Hollingsbee must be one hot lawyer," Hazen said ironically, "if he can't even argue an eighteen-year-old kid out of making a horse's ass of himself like that. No wonder he can't get out of that little hick town. Where's Romero now?"

"In jail," Strand said. "The bail is ten thousand dollars." He heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.

"That's damn steep," Hazen said. "But in the judge's place I'd have made it twenty. That kid deserves to have the book thrown at him, if only for ingratitude. I hate to say this, Allen, but I'm afraid you've been a little remiss in disciplining that boy and at least making sure he couldn't get his hands on any weapons."

"I'm sure you're right," Strand said, not showing that he was offended by the rebuke and the tone in which it was uttered. "I've been remiss about many things and undoubtedly will be remiss about many more. But it's stretching the point a bit to call a pocketknife a weapon. But that's past history. Right now, a boy whom we plucked out of his own environment and put here..."

"With the best of intentions," Hazen said loudly.

"With the best of intentions," Strand agreed. "But he's behind bars now, with no family to look to for help, and unless someone with a charitable turn of mind"-he knew Hazen wouldn't like this, but continued-"and the ability to raise ten thousand dollars comes up with the money, he'll stay there till the trial, which may be months from now, and..."

"Are you suggesting, Allen, that I put up the money?" Now Hazen was frankly angry.

"I'm in no position to suggest anything."

"That's wise," Hazen said. "Because you'd be suggesting that I act like a damned idiot. If you had the money would you do it?"

"Yes." He was surprised that he had said it. The sleep had erased his anger and all he remembered was Romero, small and defenseless, being led down the courthouse aisle by the policeman.

"Then it's a good thing you're poor, because you'd be plucked naked in less time than it would take the ink to dry on your I.O.U. I've been in the business world since I was twenty-three and one thing I've found out is that anyone who throws good money after bad is a fool."

"Russell," Strand said, "I don't like to do this, but I'm asking you to lend me the money. I understand why you feel it's not up to you. If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have known Romero was alive. If the burden is on anybody, it's on me. I'm just as mad as you are, but I still feel responsible. I'll repay the money one way or another. We can save more than we've been doing and Leslie's parents would probably be good for some part of it and Jimmy's got a good job..."

"As a friend, Allen," Hazen said, "I'm going to refuse. You know what that miserable little gutter rat would do if he was turned loose-he'd vanish. You'd never see him or your money again. Nor would the police. He'd disappear into the ghetto like a ghost, with a million of his countrymen ready to swear that they never even knew him."

"I'd take that chance," Strand said quietly.

"Not on my money. And I hope not on yours. I think this conversation has gone on long enough."

"So do I, Russell. Good night."

It sounded as though Hazen had smashed down the telephone on the other end of the line.

One thing is certain, Strand thought as he went into the kitchen, there'll be no Hamptons this Christmas. He put the bacon back on the fire and broke two eggs into another pan. Tomorrow he would ask Mrs. Schiller to do some shopping for him. He didn't know when Babcock would insist that he go back to his regular duties, which included dining in the hall with the boys assigned to his table, but he knew he was in no hurry to take up the routine again and he knew he would not volunteer. And no matter what else might happen, he had to eat.

After he had finished his meal he was still hungry and for a moment he thought of going up to Rollins's and Romero's room and raiding Rollins's cache of cookies, but, he thought, grimly, there had been enough crime recently to last the school through the year.

He was reading in the living room when there was a tentative knock at the door. He opened it and saw Rollins standing there, bullnecked and wearing the tie and jacket that was compulsory apparel for the evening meal at the school, a condition of which Strand, who had been annoyed for years with his son's haphazard style of dress, approved. Rollins's brown, dark, fine-down athlete's face, which always seemed too small for the massive shoulders and the thick neck, was grave. "I don't like to disturb you, Mr. Strand," he said, his voice low, "but if I could talk to you for a moment..."

"Come in, come in," Strand said.

In the living room Rollins folded his long thick legs under him as he sat in a chair facing Strand. "It's about Romero." It seemed to pain the huge boy to get the words out. "He acted foolish and if he'd have woke me up I'd have taken care of it and there wouldn't've been any cutting. I know Hitz and a little threat from me would have settled matters satisfactorily to all concerned without any knives. There might have been a slap or two, but folks don't go to jail for fighting or get expelled or anything like that. But I know Romero and he's a good man, Mr. Strand, whatever he's done he don't deserve jail. I went down there to see him but the man said only family. Well, I'm the only real family that boy has, according to some of the stories he's told me about his mother and father and sisters and brother, they ain't even worth a telephone call and they'd gladly leave him to rot until he's old and gray. You're a smart man, Mr. Strand, you know what jail'll do to a boy like Romero. When he came out he'd be on the streets for the rest of his life and he won't be satisfied with any knife, either, not where he'd been hanging out, he'd have a gun in his belt and God knows what sort of dust in his pocket and he'd be better known to the cops than their own mothers.... You know as well as I do, jails don't turn out citizens, they manufacture outlaws. There's too much to that boy to make him into an outlaw, Mr. Strand..." He was pleading earnestly, speaking slowly and solemnly, an underlying tone of desperation in his voice.

"I agree with you, Rollins," Strand said. "When it first happened I was angry with him, very angry..."

"He knows how much you've done for him, Mr. Strand," Rollins said. "He's told me time and time again, even though I know he hasn't told you. He's not a thank-you kind of boy. It goes against his character, I imagine you guessed that."

"I guessed it," Strand said dryly.

"But he was grateful just the same. Deeply grateful."

"He has a queer way of showing it."

"Hitz beat up on him. Over two hundred pounds. I'm not saying I go along with knives, but Romero-well-the way he was brought up, the places he was brought up, the things he had to do keeping from being thrown off a roof or being found dead in the river, he was-well-he has a different code from the gentlemen here. I'm sure you could find it in your heart to forgive him."

"It's not up to me to forgive him, Rollins," Strand said gently. "It's the headmaster and the faculty and Mr. Hitz's father and Hitz himself and finally the Board of Trustees."

"Man," Rollins said, "they sure bring in the heavy guns when somebody like him gets into trouble, don't they?"

"I'm afraid we have to expect that," Strand said. "There's nothing much I can do."

"I hear they put the bail at ten thousand dollars."

Strand nodded.

"They sure laid it on him, didn't they?" Rollins shook his head.

"The judge was an old man." Strand didn't know why he said that.

"One thing he should have learned-stay out of the white man's court." For the first time, Rollins let his bitterness show.

"I don't think it would make any difference in this case."

"That's what you think." There was a derisive twist on Rollins's lips. "Him and me, we don't read the same books as you folks." Strand noticed that he had become increasingly ungrammatical, as though the stress of the moment had erased his education and uncovered a more primitive level of speech.

"As I said, I would like to help, but..." Strand shrugged.

"I understand," Rollins said quickly. "There's no way you'd have ten thousand dollars laying around loose."

Strand refrained from smiling at Rollins's assumption that all school teachers were impoverished.

"No, it happens that I don't."

"What I was thinking...Mr. Hazen..." Rollins said, glancing sideways at Strand as he brought out the name, testing. "He's a nice man from what I've seen of him and what Romero has told me. And with that big Mercedes and the chauffeurs and all..."

"Rollins," Strand said, thinking that at the moment, no matter how else he would describe Russell Hazen, he would hardly use the word "nice," "if Romero tells you of any hopes he has in that direction, tell him to forget them."

Rollins frowned, the lines creasing in his forehead. "You mean you talked to Mr. Hazen and he turned you down."

"You could say that."

"Well, then-" Rollins stood up. "No use talking here. We got to look somewhere else." He paced up and down, the old boards creaking under his weight. "Would it be okay if I took the day off tomorrow? My schedule's light on Tuesday and I'm up in all my courses. It'd be different if the football season was still on. The coach wouldn't let you off of practice if you had raging pneumonia and a temperature of a hundred and five. Classes're different." He grinned and looked five years younger than when he had come into the room. "I'm not what you might call an absolute necessity in the classroom."

"May I ask what you expect to accomplish in one day?"

Rollins's expression changed. His face closed down. "I thought I'd take a little trip to my hometown, Waterbury, and look around a little. There's folks I know have some experience in this kind of thing."

"I don't want you to get into any more trouble," Strand said. "You're in plenty of trouble as it is-after all it's known the crap games took place in your room, too."

"Mr. Strand, that ain't even a pimple on my nose," Rollins said. "There been crap games in this here school since the day it opened. Maybe they'll put me in the kitchen doing the dishes for a week, maybe they won't do nuthin'. Is it okay for the day?"

"I'll tell the headmaster I gave you permission."

Rollins put out his hand, and Strand shook it. "Mr. Strand, this place needs more people like you, that's for sure. I never told this to any teacher before, but I enjoy your classes and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't learning something I think is important for me in them. A lot more important than blocking and tackling and you can tell the coach I said so."

"I'll tell that to the Board of Trustees the next time I come up for a promotion."

"You tell them that," Rollins said. "You tell them Rollins said so. And if you see Romero, you tell him he's got friends. Now I better leave you alone. I took up enough of your time as it is. And don't worry, there won't be any more crap games in this house while you're here."

Strand walked him to the door, wished he could say something more to the boy, something to encourage him, a word to let him know that he admired his forthrightness and loyalty, but he felt it would embarrass Rollins, so he kept silent and closed the door behind him.

After a late breakfast the next morning, prepared for him by Mrs. Schiller, who was looking even more mournful than she had the day before, Strand heard the telephone ring.

It was Babcock. "Have you read the newspaper yet?"

"No."

"Good. Don't."

"That bad?"

"The news story was bad enough. The editorial was worse. The editor of the paper has always been on our back." Babcock's voice took on a nasal, back-country ring. "The idle scions of the rich in an anachronistic enclave of valuable town land, pampered by a low tax rate, encouraging the vices of a selected group of spoiled children, scouting the law, hostile to the tax-paying, hard-working citizens who make up the population of our town, a dangerous example to our high school students, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." He returned to his own soft diction. "He has Romero's picture on the front page, accompanied by his lawyer, on the school's payroll, as the caption helpfully points out, being taken into a squad car by a policeman after the arraignment. The picture makes him look like a hit man for the Mafia, or at least the way they look in the movies. And next to it there's one of us coming out of the courtroom. Somehow it seems as though we are smiling. Do you remember smiling?"

"No."

"Did you see any cameramen outside the courthouse?"

"No."

"They must have used a telephoto lens. The wonders of modern photography." Babcock laughed shortly. "I called the paper and told the editor Romero had already been expelled from the school, but it was just throwing a bone to the lions. The article promises that they will follow the case closely. Every boy at breakfast and every teacher had a copy of the paper. They had all the facts on Romero. The reporter interviewed Hitz. At length, obviously. That Romero was here on a scholarship. Free ride for criminals, they call it. The misguided sentimentality of New York bleeding hearts, exporting their problems to the innocent, old-fashioned countryside. They didn't mention Hazen, but they spelled your name correctly. As a final blow to your reputation, they mentioned that you spent your summers in East Hampton, a haunt of wealth and dissipation. The editor must have gotten his degree in journalism from a correspondence school in Hollywood. It was on the Hartford morning TV news, too. A somewhat more sympathetic treatment, but still nothing to make parents rush to enroll their boys at Dunberry. Sometimes, I must admit, I regret the advances in our communications systems."

Strand could imagine him sitting at his desk, struggling with his pipe and forgetting to keep it lit and pushing his glasses up and down distractedly.

"By the way," Babcock said, "did you speak to Hazen?"