Dr. Fillmore, as may well be imagined, was surprised to see Luke at that late hour, for it was past eleven. He laid aside a book on the immortal Cæsar, looked over his glasses at the conscious-striken lad, and asked in his kind voice:
"Well, Fodick, what is it?"
"I—I—Doctor Fillmore, I've come to—confess. I put that telegram by the statue. Joe Matson didn't do it. He dropped it—I picked it up. He had nothing to do with pulling down the statue and doesn't know who did it. But he's got to play ball to-morrow or we'll lose the Blue Banner again. I'm the guilty one, Doctor—not of pulling the statue down—I won't tell who did that, no matter what you do to me. But I want Joe to play. Oh, I—I couldn't stand it any longer. I haven't slept, and—and—"
Poor Luke burst into a fit of weeping—hot, passionate tears of real sorrow—the best thing he had done in many a long day—and Dr. Fillmore, understanding a boy's heart as few heads of schools do, put his big arm over Luke's shoulder. Thus was the confession made, and of its effect you shall soon hear.
That night Luke slept soundly.
