"See!" he exclaimed. "We are almost home. We have talked 'ships and sealing-wax' for hours."

"It hasn't seemed for hours," retorted Stephen, springing to collect his luggage.

"Nor to me, either."

"Some time I'd like to hear about the ocean liners," ventured the boy.

"You must get Mr. Ackerman to tell you that story when he comes to visit us Thanksgiving," was the reply, "if he _does_ come. That part of it seems to be up to you and d.i.c.k."

"I mean to do my part to get him here," Steve announced. "I hope d.i.c.k will plug, too."

"I rather think you can trust him for that," was the quiet answer.

CHAPTER XVI

AGAIN THE MAGIC DOOR OPENS

A change of trains and a brief hour's journey brought the travelers safely to Coventry where Havens met them with the automobile.

"This will be our last ride this fall," observed Mr. Tolman, as he loitered on the platform while the luggage was being lifted into the car. "We shall have to put the motor up in a day or two. It will not need much of an overhauling in the way of repairs this season, I guess, for it is comparatively new and should be in pretty good condition.

There may be a few slight things necessary but nothing much. Isn't that so, Havens?"

"It is badly scratched, sir."

"Scratched!"

"Yes, sir--both inside and out. I wonder you haven't noticed it. Still you wouldn't unless you got it in just the right light. I did not myself at first. There are terrible scratches everywhere. You would think ten men had climbed all over it. Look!"

"Oh, it can't be so bad as all that," laughed Mr. Tolman good-humoredly, evidently not taking the chauffeur's comment seriously. "The car was new in the spring and we have not given it very hard wear. What little luggage we have carried has been carefully put in; I have seen to that myself. Only a short time ago I thought how splendidly fresh the varnish looked. In fact, I examined it just before you were ill. It can't have become very much defaced since then for we have not had the car out of the garage except for one short excursion."

Havens' brow darkened into a puzzled frown.

"I don't understand it at all, sir," he replied. "I could swear the scratches were not there when I went away. If you didn't tell me yourself the car hadn't been used much I'd stake my oath it had had a great deal of knocking about while I was gone. Look here, Mr. Tolman!

Look at that, and that, and that--great digs in the paint as if people with boots on had climbed over the sides."

Mr. Tolman looked and so, with a sinking heart, did Stephen.

"Mercy on us! I never noticed all this before!" cried Mr. Tolman, in consternation. "What in the world--" he stopped as if he could find no words to voice his amazement. "Look at this!" He placed a finger on a broad, clearly defined line that extended from the top of the tonneau to the bottom. "You would think somebody had dug his heels in here and then slid down until he reached the ground! And this! What on earth has happened to the thing, Havens? It looks as if it had been used for a gymnasium."

Hot and cold by turns, Steve listened. The marks to which his father pointed told a truthful story. Somebody had braced his heels against the side and then slid to the ground; it was Bud Taylor. And that other jagged line indicated where Tim Barclay had scrambled over the edge and made his hurried exit. The history of the whole miserable adventure was etched in the varnish as vividly as if it had been traced there in words. Stephen gasped with horror when he saw how plainly the entire story stood out in the sunlight of the November day. Why, the most stupid person alive could read it! Every moment he expected that his father or Havens would wheel on him and ask accusingly:

"When was it you carried all those boys to Torrington?"

He could hear his heart thumping inside him and feel the beat of the blood that scorched his cheek. He had not pictured a dilemma like this.

The affair had gone off so smoothly that he had flattered himself every possibility of discovery was past, and in this comforting knowledge he had basked with serenity. And now, behold, here he was at the brink of peril, and just when he had had such a glorious holiday, too!

"How do you solve the riddle, Havens?" he heard his father asking.

"I ain't solvin' it, sir," was the drawling answer. "Maybe Steve could give you a hint, though," he added slyly.

The lad stiffened. He and Havens had never been friends. They had been through too many battles for that. The chauffeur did not like boys and took no trouble to conceal the fact, and as a result he had been the prey of many a mischievous prank. It was through his vigilance that Stephen had more than once been brought to justice and in the punishment that followed Havens had exulted without restraint. As a retaliation the boy tormented him whenever opportunity presented, the two carrying on a half-bitter, half-humorous feud which was a source of mutual gratification.

Had not this been the case the confession that trembled on Stephen's tongue would doubtless have been uttered then and there. But to speak before Havens and afford him the chance to crow and rejoice,--that was not to be thought of. Therefore, drawing in his chin and holding his head a trifle higher than was his wont, he replied with hauteur:

"I've no solution at all to offer. How could I have?"

For the fraction of a second Mr. Tolman looked sharply at his son as if some new thought had suddenly struck him; then the piercing scrutiny faded from his eyes and he turned away.

"Well, I guess we shall have to drop the matter for the present, anyway, and be getting home," said he. "It will do no good for us to stand here in the cold and argue. We shall be no nearer an answer. Come, jump in, Steve!"

With a strange sense of reluctance the boy obeyed. He felt the door to confession closing with finality behind him; and now that he saw all chance for dallying on its threshold cut off, he began to regret that it should so completely close. Once again the opportunity to clear his conscience had come about in an easy, natural manner; confession had been gently and tactfully invited and he had turned his back. Never again, probably, would he have such a chance as this. Without any ignominious preamble he could have spoken the few words necessary and been a free man! But alas, he had hesitated too long. His father followed him into the car, banged the door, and they shot homeward.

Perhaps, temporized the lad as they rode along, he would say something when they reached the house. Why wasn't it better anyway to wait until he and his father were quiet and alone? Who could blame him for not wanting to confess his misdemeanors before an audience? His father would understand and forgive his reticence, he was sure. Having lulled his conscience to rest with the a.s.surance of this future reparation he sank back against the cushions and drew the robe closer about him. There was no use in letting the ride be spoiled by worry. He did not need to speak until he got back, and he needn't speak at all if he did not wish to. If no favorable opening occurred, why, he could still remain silent and wait a better chance. He had taken no vow, made no promise; nothing actually bound him to act unless he chose.

It was surprising how his spirits rose with this realization. He even ventured to talk a little and make a joke or two. These overtures received only scant response from his father, however, for Mr. Tolman's brow had settled into a frown and it needed no second glance to a.s.sure Stephen that the happenings of the past half-hour had put the elder man very much out of humor. How unfortunate, mused the boy, that this mood should have come upon his father. It would take more than an ordinary measure of courage to approach him now. Why, it would be braving the lions, actually tempting fate to go to him with a confession when he looked like this. Would it not be much wiser to wait?

With a sharp swerve they turned in at the gate and rolled up the long driveway; then the front door burst open and from it issued not only Mrs. Tolman and Doris but with them the girl with the wonderful hair, Jane Harden, whom he had seen at Northampton. A hubbub of greeting ensued and in the interchange of gay conversation all thought of confession was swept from Stephen's mind.

Nor in the days that followed, with their round of skating, hockey, snow-shoeing, and holiday festivities, did the inclination to revert to the follies of the past arise. The big red touring-car was sent away without further allusion to its battered condition and with its departure the last link with the misfortunes that tormented him seemed destroyed. Once, it is true, when he overheard his father telling his mother that the bill for repainting and varnishing the car was going to be very large, his conscience smote him. But what, he argued, could he do? Even were he to come forward now and shoulder the blame it would not reduce the expense of which his father complained. He had no money.

Therefore he decided it was better to close his ears and try and forget the entire affair. His father had evidently accepted the calamity with resignation and made up his mind to bear the consequences without further demur. Why not let the matter rest there? At this late date it would be absurd to speak, especially when it could not alter the situation.

In the meantime letters came from Mr. Ackerman and from d.i.c.k. The latter was very happy at the New Haven school and was making quite a record for himself, and it was easy to detect between the lines of the steamboat magnate's epistle that he was much gratified by the progress of his protege. Thanksgiving would soon be here and if the Tolmans still extended their invitation for the holidays the two New Yorkers would be glad to accept it.

"I'll write Ackerman to-day," announced Mr. Tolman at breakfast. "The invitation has hung on Stephen and d.i.c.k, and I am glad to say they each have made good. How fine that that little East Side chap should have turned out so well! I don't wonder Ackerman is pleased. Everybody does not get appreciation in return for kindness. I know many a parent whose children repay what is done for them only with sneaking, unworthy conduct and utter ingrat.i.tude. d.i.c.k may not have been born into prosperity but he is a thoroughbred at heart and it shows in his actions. He is every inch a gentleman."

At the words Stephen's blood tingled.

What would his father think of him if he knew what a mean-spirited coward he was? Well, it was impossible to tell him now. It would upset the whole Thanksgiving party.

CHAPTER XVII

MORE STEAMBOATING

The night before Thanksgiving Mr. Ackerman and d.i.c.k arrived at Coventry and it was difficult to believe the change wrought in the New York boy.

Not only was his face round, rosy and radiant with happiness but along with a new manliness had stolen a gentler bearing and a courtesy that had not been there when he had set forth to school.

"Why, you must have put on ten pounds, d.i.c.k!" cried Mr. Tolman, shaking hands with his young guest after greeting the steamboat magnate.

"It is eleven pounds, sir," laughed d.i.c.k. "We have bully eats at school and all you want of them."