“Well, if you see, all right. Now there’s something else I want to get at. I want to know in what other ways you’ve been sneaky around school. Did you tell the Head that you had already told me about this letter?” “No.” “Did he ask you?” “No—not exactly—but I s’pose he thought I hadn’t from my manner.” “I see. Well let’s settle one or two other things, Jake. Remember the time that Kit Wilson kicked you out of his room last spring?” “Yes.” Finch was whiter than ever. “Well, was it true—no, I mean, was Kit right—did you go there to rough-house his room that night?” “Yes,” breathed Finch. “Had you been rough-housing his room and desk before, as he thinks you had?” “Yes.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Tony. “And you lied to me! You let me quarrel with Kit, just because I thought you were innocent and that he had been hard on you and unfair! You let me lose one of my very best friends, just because—by Jove, I don’t understand you. It’s too rotten bad.” “For God’s sake, Deering,” whimpered Finch, “don’t throw me over!” and then sat, biting the tips of his fingers. Tony, wavering between anger, disgust and pity, could scarcely trust himself to speak. At last he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me the truth that night when I asked you? Kit and I had already quarreled, but if I had known then what you had done to him, we could——Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” “I was afraid you’d throw me over.” Tony shuddered with an uncontrollable feeling of repulsion. “Why did you want to play such low tricks on Kit?” “I hated him.” “Why? Because he opposed your getting into the Dealonian?” “No, no, not that!” exclaimed Finch passionately. “I didn’t want to get into the Dealonian.” “Then, why?” Tony was nonplussed. “Because he had broke with you.” At last to his humiliation—it dawned on Tony, the depth, the tragedy, of Finch’s affection; the complexity of his twisted, dwarfed nature; and anger and contempt were swallowed up in pity. He stood for a long time before the miserable lad without speaking. “Well, Jake,” he said at length, “it is pretty bad—awful bad. I just hate to think of it.” “What can I do?” asked Finch piteously. “I don’t know what you can do. I want to think it all out before I talk with you any more. But if I were you I’d get down on my knees and ask God to forgive me.” Tony again put his hand on the doorknob. “I am going. I have got to think it out. I reckon you can see that you have been the cause of a lot of trouble. Don’t worry about me, though. I won’t throw you over in the way you think I might. But I can’t talk about it any more now. Good-night.” “Good-night,” said Finch, with a gulp.