"O Dan, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did. I was just boiling up, and had to bust out, I guess. And when he lectured us about being gentlemen, I told him I didn't aim at anything like that. I wasn't made for it, as I knew; but I was made to be a man, and I was going to hold up like one, and stand no shoving."

"O Dan!" gasped Freddy, breathlessly. "And--and what did he say?"

"Nothing," answered Dan, grimly. "But from the looks of things, I rather guess I'm in for a ticket of leave. That's why I'm up here. Couldn't go off without seeing you,--telling you how sorry I was I let you get that fall off my shoulders. I oughtn't to have dared a kid like you to fool-tricks like that. I was a big dumb-head, and I'd like to kick myself for it. For I think more of you than any other boy in the college, little or big,--I surely do. And I've brought you something, so when I'm gone you won't forget me."

And Dan dived into his pocket and brought out a round disk of copper about the size of a half dollar. It was rimmed with some foreign crest, and name and date.

"An old sailor man gave it to me," said Dan, as he reached over to Freddy's bed and handed him the treasure. "He was a one-legged old chap that used to sit down on the wharf sort of dazed and batty, until the boys roused him by pelting and hooting at him; and then he'd fire back curse words at them that would raise your hair. It was mean of them, for he was old and lame and sick; and one day I just lit out a couple of measly little chaps and ducked them overboard for their sa.s.s. After that we were sort of friends, me and old 'Nutty,' as everyone called him. I'd buy tobacco and beer for him, and give him an old paper now and then; and when he got down and out for good Aunt Win made me go for the priest for him and see him through. He gave me this at the last. He had worn it on a string around his neck, and seemed to think it was something grand. It's a medal for bravery that the poor old chap had won more than forty years ago. Ben Wharton offered me a dollar for it to put in his museum, but I wouldn't sell it. It seemed sort of mean to sell poor old Nutty's medal.

But I'd like to give it to you, so you'll remember me when I've gone."

"Oh, but you're not--not going away, Dan!" said Freddy. "And I can't take your medal, anyhow. I'd remember you without it. You're the best chum I ever had,--the very best. And--and--"

The speaker broke off, stammering; for a second visitor had suddenly appeared at his bedside: Father Regan who had entered the infirmary unheard and unseen, and who now stood with his eyes fixed in grave displeasure on the daring Dan.

III.--A JUDGMENT.

"Dan Dolan!" said Father Regan, as the reckless interloper flushed and paled beneath his steady gaze.

"Dan Dolan!" echoed Brother Tim, who had come in behind his honored visitor. "How ever did he get past me! I've been saying my beads at the door without this half hour."

"Swung in by Old Top," ventured Dan, feeling concealment was vain.

"You dared Old Top at this height, when scarcely a bough is sound! You must be mad, boy. It is G.o.d's mercy that you did not break your neck.

Don't you know the tree is unsafe?"

"Yes, Father," answered Dan. "But--but I had to see Freddy again, and they wouldn't let me come up. I just _had_ to see him, if it killed me."

And there was a sudden break in the young voice that startled his hearer.

But a glance at the dizzy and forbidden height of Old Top and Father Regan was stern again.

"Why did you have to see him, if it killed you?" he asked briefly.

"Because I wanted to tell how bad I felt about letting him get hurt, because--because he has been better to me than any boy in the school, because--because--" (again Dan's tone grew husky) "I just had to bid Freddy good-bye."

"O Father, no, no!" Freddy burst out tremulously. "Don't let him say good-bye! Don't send Dan away, Father, please! He won't fight any more, will you, Dan?"

"I am not promising that," answered Dan, st.u.r.dily. "I won't stand shoving and knocking, not even to keep my place here."

"O Dan!" cried Freddy, in dismay at such an a.s.sertion. "Why, you said you would work day and night to stay at Saint Andrew's!"

"Work, yes," replied Dan, gruffly. "I don't mind work, but I won't ever play lickspittle."

"And is that the way ye'd be talking before his reverence?" broke in Brother Tim, indignantly. "Get out of the infirmary this minute, Dan Dolan; for it's the devil's own pride that is on yer lips and in yer heart, G.o.d forgive me for saying it."

"We'll settle this later," said Father Regan, quietly. "Go down to my study, Dan, and wait for me. I have a message for Freddy from his uncle."

"O Dan, Dan!" (There was a sob in the younger boy's voice as he felt all this parting might mean.) "I'll--I'll miss you dreadfully, Dan!"

"Don't!" said Dan, gripping his little comrade's hand. "I ain't worth missing. I'm glad I came, anyhow, to say good-bye and good-luck, Freddy!"

And he turned away at the words, with something shining in his blue eyes that Father Regan knew was not all defiance.

It was a long wait in the study. Dan had plenty of time to think, and his thoughts were not very cheerful. He felt he had lost his chance,--the chance that had been to him like the sudden opening of a gate in the grim stone wall of circ.u.mstances that had surrounded him,--a gate beyond which stretched free, sunlit paths to heights of which he had never dreamed. He had lost his chance; for a free scholarship at Saint Andrew's depended on good conduct and observance of rules as well as study; and Dan felt he had doubly and trebly forfeited his claim. But he would not whine. Perhaps it was only the plucky spirit of the street Arab that filled his breast, perhaps something stronger and n.o.bler that steadied his lip and kindled his eye, as he looked around the s.p.a.cious, book-lined room, and realized all that he was losing--had lost. For Dan loved his books,--the hard-earned scholarship proved it. Many a midnight hour had found him, wrapped in his worn blankets, studying by the light of a flaring candle-end stuck perilously on his bedpost, after good Aunt Win had thriftily put out the lamp, and believed Danny was sound asleep preparatory to a start on his beat at break of day.

"One of the brightest, clearest, quickest minds I ever knew," Dan's teacher had told Father Regan when awarding the scholarship,--"if he can only keep the track. But he has a bold spirit, and it will be hard on him among all those 'high-steppers' of yours at Saint Andrew's. He is likely to bolt and break away."

But Dan had been too busy with his books all the year to mind "high-steppers." His patched jacket kept the head of the cla.s.ses, and his stubby-toed shoes marched up every month to get the ticket, and he had helped more than one heavy-witted "high-stepper" through conditions that threatened to put him out of the race. Most of the Saint Andrew's boys were manly youngsters, with whom jackets and shoes did not count against brain and brawn; and strong, clever, quick-witted Dan had held his place in schoolroom and playground unquestioned. But there were exceptions, and Dud Fielding was one of them. He had disliked the "poor scholar" from the first. Dud was a tall, handsome fellow, filled with ideas of his own importance; and Dan had downed him more than once in field and cla.s.s-room, to his great disgust. Worst than all, in appreciation of his careful costuming, Dan had alluded to him as "Dudey,"--a boyish liberty which, considering the speaker's patched jacket, Master Fielding could not forgive. It was the repet.i.tion of this remark, when Dud had appeared garbed in a summer suit of spotless linen, that had precipitated yesterday's fight.

Altogether, with all the restraints and interests of school time removed, vacation was proving a perilous period to the "left-overs" at Saint Andrew's. Dan realized this as, turning his back on the book-lined room, with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking gloomily out of the broad window that opened on the quadrangle, he stood awaiting "judgment." He expected no mercy: he felt grimly he had no claim to it. Maybe if he had a rich father or uncle or somebody grand and great to speak up for him, he might be given another chance; but a poor boy who, as Dud Fielding said, ought to be "ditch digging"--Dan choked up again at the thought that, after all, perhaps Dud was right: he was not the sort to be pushing in here. He ought to be out in his own rough world, working his own rough way. All those fancies of his for better, higher things had been only "pipe dreams."

But jing, it would be hard to give up! Dan looked out at the quadrangle where he had led so many a merry game; at the ball field, scene of battle and victory that even Dud Fielding could not dispute; at the long stretch of the study hall windows opposite; at the oriel of the chapel beyond. All spoke to him of a life that had been like air and sunshine to a plant stretching its roots and tendrils in the dark.

And he must leave it all! He must go back again to the old ways, the old work! He was big enough now to drive a butcher's wagon, or clean fish and stuff sausages at Pete Patterson's market store; or--or--there were other things he could do that a fellow like him must do when he is "down and out." And while he still stared from the window, the grim, dogged look settling heavier upon his young face, Dan caught a footstep behind him, and turned to face Father Regan.

"I've kept you waiting longer than I expected, Dan, but I had great news for Freddy,--news that took some time to tell." The speaker sank into the tall stiff-backed chair known to many a young sinner as the "judgment seat." "Now" (the clear, keen eyes fixed themselves gravely on the boy) "I want to have a talk with you. Things can not go on in this way any longer, even in vacation time. I must say that, after the last year's good record, I am disappointed in you, Dan,--sorely disappointed."

"I'm sorry, Father," was the respectful answer, but the grim, hard look on the young face did not change. "I've made a lot of trouble, I know."

"You have," was the grave answer, "and trouble I did not expect from you.

Still, circ.u.mstances have been against you, I must confess. But this does not alter the fact that you have broken strict rules that even in vacation we can not relax,--broken them deliberately and recklessly. You are evidently impatient of the restraint here at Saint Andrew's; so I have concluded not to keep you here any longer, Dan."

"I'm not asking it, Father." Dan tried bravely to steady voice and lip.

"I'm ready to go whenever you say."

"To-morrow, then," continued Father Regan,--"I've made arrangements for you to leave to-morrow at ten. Brother Francis will see that your trunk is packed to-night."

"Yes, Father," said Dan, somewhat bewildered at the friendly tone in which this sentence was delivered. "I'd like to see Mr. Raymond and Mr. Shipman before I go, and thank them for all they've done for me; and Father Roach and Father Walsh and all of them; and to say I'm sorry I made any trouble."

"Good gracious," laughed Father Regan, "one would think you were on your dying bed, boy!"

"I--I feel like it," blurted out Dan, no longer able to choke down the lump in his throat. "I'd rather die, a good deal."

"Rather die!" exclaimed Father Regan,--"rather die than go to Killykinick!"

"Killykinick!" echoed Dan, breathlessly. "You're not--not sending me to a Reform, Father?"

"Reform!" repeated the priest.

"For I won't go," said Dan, desperately. "You haven't any right to put me there. I'm not wild and bad enough for that. I'll keep honest and respectable. I'll go to work. I can get a job at Pete Patterson's sausage shop to-morrow."

"Reform! Sausage shop! What are you talking about, you foolish boy, when I am only sending you all off for a summer holiday at the seash.o.r.e?"

"A summer holiday at the seash.o.r.e!" echoed Dan in bewilderment.