“Hooray!  And when you get through I’ll take a hand, too.  But what do you suppose Remsen was going to tell?”

Joel shook his head.  They found Sproule in the room, and to him West spoke as follows: 

“Hello, Dickey!  You’re not studying?  It’s not good for you; these sudden changes should be avoided.”  Sproule laughed, but looked annoyed at the banter.  “Joel and I have come up for a chat, Dickey,” continued West.  “Now, you take your Robinson Crusoe and read somewhere else for a while, like a nice boy.”

Sproule grew red-faced, and turned to West angrily.

“Don’t you see I’m studying?  If you and March want to talk, why, either go somewhere else, or talk here.”

“But our talk is private, Dickey, and not intended for little boys’ ears.  You know the saying about little pitchers, Dickey?”

“Well, I’m not going out, so you can talk or not as you like.”

“Oh, yes, you are going out, Dickey.  Politeness requires it, and I shall see that you maintain that delightful courteousness for which you are noted.  Now, Dickey!” West indicated the door with a nod and a smile.  Sproule bent his head over his book and growled a response that sounded anything but polite.  Then West, still smiling, seized the unobliging youth by the shoulders, pinioning his arms to his sides, and pushed him away from the table and toward the door.  Joel rescued the lamp at a critical moment, the chairs went over on to the floor, and a minute later Sproule was on the farther side of the bolted door, and West was adjusting his rumpled attire.

“I’ll report you for this, Outfield West!” howled Sproule through the door, in a passion of resentment.

“Report away,” answered West mockingly.

“And if I miss my Latin I’ll tell why, too!”

“Well, you’ll miss it all right enough, unless you’ve changed mightily.  But, here, I’ll shy your book through the transom.”

This was done, and the sound of ascending feet on the stairway reaching Sproule’s ears at that moment, he grabbed his book and took himself off, muttering vengeance.

“Have you looked?” asked West.

“Yes; it’s not there.  But there are no others missing.  Who could have taken it?”

“Any one, my boy; Bartlett Cloud, for preference.  Your door is unlocked, he comes in when he knows you are out, looks on the table, sees nothing there that will serve, goes to the bureau, opens the top drawer, and finds a pile of letters.  He takes the first one, which is, of course, the last received, and sneaks out.  Then he climbs into the bell tower at night, cuts the rope through all but one small strand, and puts your letter on the floor where it will be found in the morning.  Isn’t that plain enough?” Joel nodded forlornly.  “But cheer up, Joel.  Your Uncle Out will see your innocence established, firmly and beyond all question.  And now come on.  It’s one o’clock, and you’ve got to go back to the office, while I’ve got a class.  Come over to my room at four, Joel, and tell me what happens.”