Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute

“Can’t believe what?” demanded Socrates, impatiently; “if you have any clew, out with it!”

“I hardly like to tell, Uncle Socrates, for it implicates one of the boys.”

“Which?” asked Mr. Smith, eagerly.

“I will tell you, though I don’t like to. Half an hour since, I was coming upstairs, when I heard a door close, as I thought, and, directly afterward, saw Hector Roscoe hurrying up the stairs to the third floor. I was going up there myself, and followed him. Five minutes later he came out of his room, looking nervous and excited. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I now think that he entered your room, took the wallet, and then carried it up to his own chamber and secreted it.”

“Hector Roscoe!” repeated Mr. Smith, in amazement. “I wouldn’t have supposed that he was a thief.”

“Nor I; and perhaps he isn’t. It might be well, however, to search his room.”

“I will!” answered Socrates, with eagerness, “Come up, James, and you, Mrs. Smith, come up, too!”

The trio went upstairs, and entered poor Hector’s room. It was not unoccupied, for Ben Platt and Wilkins were there. They anticipated a visit, and awaited it with curious interest. They rose to their feet when the distinguished visitors arrived.

“Business of importance brings us here,” said Socrates. “Platt and Wilkins, you may leave the room.”

The boys exchanged glances, and obeyed.

“Wilkins,” said Ben, when they were in the corridor, “it is just as I thought. Jim has set a trap for Roscoe.”

“He may get caught himself,” said Wilkins. “I ain’t oversqueamish, but that is too confounded mean! Of course you’ll tell all you know?”

“Yes; and I fancy it will rather surprise Mr. Jim. I wish they had let us stay in there.”

Meanwhile, Jim skillfully directed the search.

“He may have put it under the mattress,” suggested Jim.

Socrates darted to the bed, and lifted up the mattress, but no wallet revealed itself to his searching eyes.

“No; it is not here!” he said, in a tone of disappointment; “the boy may have it about him. I will send for him.”

“Wait a moment, Uncle Socrates,” said Jim; “there is a pair of pants which I recognize as his.”

Mr. Smith immediately thrust his hand into one of the pockets and drew out the wallet!

“Here it is!” he exclaimed, joyfully. “Here it is!”

“Then Roscoe is a thief! I wouldn’t have thought it!” said Jim.

“Nor I. I thought the boy was of too good family to stoop to such a thing. But now I remember, Mr. Allan Roscoe told me he was only adopted by his brother. He is, perhaps, the son of a criminal.”

“Very likely!” answered Jim, who was glad to believe anything derogatory to Hector.

“What are you going to do about it, uncle?”

“I shall bring the matter before the school. I will disgrace the boy publicly,” answered Socrates Smith, sternly. “He deserves the exposure.”

“Aha, Master Roscoe!” said Jim, gleefully, to himself; “I rather think I shall get even with you, and that very soon.”

CHAPTER XIX. A DRAMATIC SCENE

It was generally after vespers that Mr. Smith communicated to the school anything which he desired to call to their attention. This was to be the occasion of bringing our hero into disgrace.

The boys assembled, most of them quite ignorant that anything exceptional was to occur. Hector himself, the person chiefly interested, was entirely unconscious that he was to be made “a shining mark” for the arrows of suspicion and obloquy. If he had noticed the peculiar and triumphantly malicious looks with which Jim Smith, the bully and tyrant, whom he had humiliated and deposed, regarded him, he might have been led to infer that some misfortune was in store for him. But these looks he did not chance to notice.

There were two other boys, however, who did notice them. These were Ben Platt and Wil-kins, who had very good reasons, as we know, for doing so.

“I believe old Sock is going to pitch into Roscoe at vespers,” said Ben, in a whisper, to his roommate.

“So do I. There’s a look about him like that of a tiger about to pounce on his prey.”

“Or a cat with murderous designs on a mouse.”

“We must expose the whole thing.”

“Of course.”

“Won’t Jim be mad?”

“Let him! He won’t dare to thrash us while Roscoe is round.”

There was, indeed, about Socrates Smith an air of mystery, portentous and suggestive. He looked like one meditating a coup d’etat, or, perhaps, it might better be said, a coup de main, as the hand is with schoolmasters, generally, the instrument of attack.

When the proper time arrived, Mr. Smith cleared his throat, as he always did before beginning to speak.

“Boys,” he said, “I have an important, and I may say, a painful, communication to make to you.”

All the boys looked at each other in curiosity, except the three who were already in the secret.

“You know, boys,” continued Socrates, “how proud I am of this institute, how zealous I am for its good reputation, how unwearied I am in my efforts for your progress and welfare.”

Mr. Smith’s unwearied efforts were largely in the line of making out and receipting bills for tuition, and it may be said that this was to him by far the most agreeable of the duties he undertook to perform.

“I have been proud of my pupils,” continued the principal, “and it has given me pleasure to reflect that you all reflected credit, more or less, upon my teaching. I have, also, sought to form your manners, to train you to fill the positions which Providence may have in store for you. In a word, while from time to time you may have indulged in little escapades, slightly-culpable, I have felt that you were all gentlemen.”

“What in the world does he mean?” thought more than one puzzled boy. “What is all this leading to?”

Among those to whom this thought occurred, was Hector Roscoe, who was very far from conjecturing that all this long preamble was to introduce an attack upon him.

“But,” proceeded Socrates, after a pause, “I have this afternoon been painfully undeceived. I have learned, with inexpressible pain, that Smith Institute has received an ineffaceable stigma.”

“Old Sock is getting eloquent!” whispered Ben Platt.

“I have learned,” continued Socrates, with tragic intensity, “that I have nourished a viper in my bosom! I have learned that we have a thief among us!”

This declaration was greeted with a buzz of astonishment. Each boy looked at his next door neighbor as if to inquire, “Is it you?”