Paul and the Printing Press Part 28

"No, sir."

Then he added hurriedly:

"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Carter."

"That's all right," nodded the publisher, cutting him short. "I've always had the greatest respect for your father. Tell him from me that he needn't be ashamed of his son."

With these parting words he waved Paul out of the office and the door closed.

CHAPTER XVII

THE CLOUDS CLEAR

When, glowing with happiness, Paul turned into his gate late in the afternoon, he was surprised to find Donald Hall impatiently pacing the driveway before the house. The boy's bicycle was against the fence and it was evident that he had been waiting some time, for a bunch of lilacs tied to the handle-bar hung limp and faded in the sun.

"How are you, old man," Paul called jubilantly. "What are you doing here?"

"Hanging around until you should heave into sight. I must say you take your time. Your mother has been expecting you every minute since school closed."

"I had to go to the _Echo_ office and so got delayed."

"Did you tell Carter about the meeting?"

"Yes."

"How did he take it?"

"He was great--corking!"

"Really? I thought he'd cut up pretty rough."

"So did I; but he didn't. He's more decent than I gave him credit for being. I like Carter. He's all right."

"You're the first person I ever heard say so."

"Perhaps people don't know him," replied Paul warmly. "You can't judge a man hot off the bat. You've got to try him out."

Donald broke into a laugh.

"Oh, he's been tried out all right. People know him too well; that's the trouble."

Paul stiffened.

"Well, all I can say is that I've found Carter mighty kind. He's treated me white. If you knew as much about him as I do you'd say so too. In the meantime I'd thank you to remember he's my friend and not run him down."

There was an awkward pause. Donald dug the toe of his shoe into the gravel walk and fidgeted uneasily.

Paul waited a moment, then, attributing his chum's silence to resentment, he added in a gentler tone: "I didn't mean to pitch into you so hard, old chap; it's only that Carter has been so mighty generous that I couldn't bear to have you light into him that way."

Donald, however, despite the conciliatory tone, did not raise his head.

Instead he continued to bore holes in the walk, automatically hollowing them out and filling them up again with the tip of his boot.

Paul endured the suspense until at last he could not endure it any longer.

"I say, Don, what's fussing you?" he burst out.

The visitor crimsoned.

"What makes you think anything is?" he asked, hedging.

"Well, you wouldn't be loafing around here, digging up our whole driveway, unless there was," persisted Paul good-humoredly. "Come, out with it! You're the darndest kid for getting into messes. What's happened to you now?"

There was an affectionate ring in the bantering words.

Donald smiled feebly. It was true that he was usually in some sc.r.a.pe or other. It was not that he did mean or vicious things; Donald Hall was far too fine a lad for that. But he never could resist playing a prank, and whenever he played one he was invariably caught. Even though every other member of the crowd got away, Donald never contrived to. The boys declared this was because he was slow and clumsy. But the truth really was that he was wont, in unselfish fas.h.i.+on, to let every one else go first and was in consequence the unlucky victim whom the pursuers were sure to capture. The fleeing culprits were generally in too great haste to appreciate his altruism and he never enlightened them. He took his punishment, loyally refusing to peach on his chums. That was one reason Donald was such a favorite with his cla.s.smates. There was not a fellow in the school who had more friends. To be sure they called him "slow coach", "old tortoise", "fatty", and bestowed upon him many another gibing epithet, frankly telling him to his face that he was a big idiot.

Nevertheless they did not conceal from him that he was the sort of idiot they all loved.

Hence it followed that when Paul saw his chum in the present disturbed frame of mind he was much distressed and immediately leaped to the conclusion that for the hundredth--nay, the five hundredth--time Don had been caught in the snares of justice.

"Come, come, Tortoise," he repeated; "tell a chap what's up with you."

"Kip," burst out Donald with sudden vehemence, "I've done a mighty mean thing."

"You!"

"Yes, sir."

"Bos.h.!.+ You never did a mean thing in your life, kid."

"But I have now," smiled the lad wanly. "They say there always has to be a first time. I didn't start out to do it, though. Still, that doesn't help matters much, for it's ended that way."

"Going to let me in on it?" asked Paul, hoping to make the confession easier.

"Yes, I came over on purpose to tell you, Kip. It's the queerest mix-up you ever heard of. It's worried me no end. Sometimes, it's seemed as if I was going nutty."

"Fire ahead! Tell a man, can't you?"

"Well, you see a while ago my father sent me to deposit some money in the bank for him--a hundred-dollar bill. I put the envelope in my pocket, carefully as could be. I remember perfectly doing it. I didn't go anywhere but straight down town, either. Well, anyhow, when I got to the bank the money was gone! It wasn't in my pocket; it wasn't anywhere about me."

He stopped an instant.

"You can imagine how I felt. My father had cautioned me not to lose that money on my life. I hadn't the nerve to tell him. Somehow I thought that if I could just smooth the matter over for a little while the envelope with the money in it would turn up. I was certain I couldn't have lost it."

Again he paused.