“No, but I sub-rent half the store, and--”
“Not so far as I know,” acknowledged Russell.
“Of course not! Very well then!” The Chief was once more affable and was herding them toward the door. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Pulsifer. The matter will be allowed to drop, and so, of course, I trust that neither you nor Mr. Emerson will discuss it with others. I have the boy’s promise, and his father’s, that nothing of the kind will happen again. Good morning!”
Saying good-by to the florist, Russell hurried back to school and an eleven o’clock recitation. At twelve he mounted to Number 27 and found Stick anxiously awaiting his account of the interview. Russell told what had happened, and Stick snorted. “Ha, that’s old man Crocker,” he said. “I suppose he’s got enough influence to get Billy off if he committed murder! J. Warren’s a spineless shrimp, if you ask me. Didn’t intend any mischief! Oh, no, not a bit! If J. Warren hadn’t been there those two would have put the place on the blink, I’ll bet! Maybe they wouldn’t have swiped anything: I don’t believe they meant to: but they’d have ruined a lot of our stock.”
“Do you think the other fellow was Throgmorton, Stick?”
“Sure! Why not? Billy was mad because he couldn’t get my share in the business and he made up his mind to get square. Throgmorton’s a chunk of cheese, if you ask me, and Billy probably made him think it was just a sort of lark. Well, Crocker got a crack on the head and a couple of hours in jail, and he ought to be satisfied!” Stick’s expression became more mollified. “I guess we might as well be satisfied, too, Rus. The laugh’s on our side, all right. Billy’s in bad with faculty, you see, and out of football-- Gee, that reminds me!”
Stick stepped to the table and rummaged amongst the litter.
“Out of football!” exclaimed Russell. “Gee, that’s tough, Stick!”
“Tough?” Stick laughed unfeelingly. “I don’t see it. Where the dickens is that-- Oh, here it is! That crazy guy Johnson left this a few minutes ago.”
Russell took the folded sheet of paper and read the hastily scrawled words amazedly.
“Emerson: Report at training table at twelve-thirty. HY. JOHNSON, Mgr.”
Afterwards Russell believed that he didn’t get his breath again until, at ten o’clock that night, he put the light out and crawled into his bed. Things had happened swiftly after the reading of that note from the first team manager. There had been dinner at the training table in the corner of the dining hall, a dinner of which Russell ate little. His appearance had evoked only few greetings and had been accepted in a surprisingly matter-of-fact fashion. Coach Cade was absent from table and it had been Johnson who had indicated his chair and briefly explained matters, talking across Rowlandson in an aside that probably reached the entire table.