Sometimes when he was alone and thought of the incident, the hot tears would well up in his eyes and blind him. Bitter thoughts likewise would rise up in his soul and overwhelm him. He sometimes felt he could not stick it out for the year. But then, what else could he do? He could not think. He was absolutely dependent upon Doctor Forester, and he was not of the caliber to act rashly, go bravely out and face the hostile world. And the world seemed hostile to him—the very elements, these biting winter winds and prolonged northeast storms—seemed to beat against him. Hated alike by masters and boys, as he thought, he indeed was miserable. And, alas! save for his ardent affection for Deering, he began to hate bitterly and maliciously in return. Life had taught him to be sly and silent, but heretofore beyond a furtive manner and an intense reserve, the quality of slyness had not shown itself. But now his malice seemed to demand expression, impelled him to action, and he began, first in little ways, afterwards by more systematic plans to torment his tormentors. But so secretly, so cautiously, that, though his sting was felt, his victim was ignorant whence it had come. The principal objects of his hatred were Mr. Roylston and Kit Wilson, the latter only after he learned of Kit’s breach with Tony. Mr. Roylston began to be afflicted with a series of annoying and inexplicable incidents; anonymous letters were slipped into his mail-box, threatening him with dire calamities unless he speedily exhibited a change of heart; his books, his papers were misplaced, to be found in out-of-the-way places; twice or thrice his study was disordered; and once, at night as he was crossing the field, mud was thrown at him and his immaculate clothes were sadly bespattered. But so carefully did the culprit destroy all clues to his identity that the master had no redress. For once he was baffled. Never, so contemptuous an opinion did he hold of Finch’s spirit, did it occur to him even to suspect the poor worm whom daily he ground beneath the brazen feet of his sarcasm in the classroom. He took little Beverly into his confidence as they sat late one night over a comfortable fire in the masters’ common-room. “These things,” he remarked, “have been going on now for a number of weeks, and for the first time in my experience I do not discover the slightest clue to the culprit.” “Of course, however,” was Beverly’s comment, made partly to display his omniscience, partly to flatter an older colleague, “of course, you have your suspicions?” “Of course,” responded Roylston dryly, “that goes without saying. I have suspected both Deering and Wilson, whom indeed several times before have I discovered in misdemeanors of a similar character; but, if you chance to have been observing of late, you will have noticed and wondered that those two charming youths no longer consort together.”