Poor Finch meanwhile was undergoing excruciating agonies. Not a line of the Greek penetrated his consciousness, even the familiar _ἐντεῦθεν ἐξελαῦναι_ was to him as the inscription on a Babylonian tablet. His own careless folly and stupidity had brought about a catastrophe, a frightful situation, in which he could see his hero was apt to suffer more grievously than himself. But in reality that was not possible. Finch was suffering vicariously with an intensity that Tony could never realize, that in such connection he could never share. And at the end of the period he fearfully approached the master’s desk. As though divining the petition trembling on his lips, Mr. Roylston bade him sternly go out with his form, adding sharply, “I shall return the paper myself when I have had the opportunity of enjoying its promising humor.” At recess Finch found Deering eating his bit of luncheon in the Fifth Form common room. He drew him aside. “Well, Jake, headache gone?” began Tony. “What did you think of the Soft-toed Sammy? Why, what’s the matter?” Finch was white as a sheet. “Oh, Deering,” he gasped, “an awful thing has happened. I—I was reading it—like a fool—in First Study—and—and—Mr. Roylston swiped it.” Tony paused in the midst of taking a bite from his bun, and looked at Jake in consternation. “Gumshoe swiped it?” “Yes, Deering.... I’m sorry.... You don’t know ... I wish I was dead.” He leaned against the lintel of the doorway and hid his face in his hands. Tony pulled himself together with an effort. “I guess you’ve done me,” he began. Then, as he saw Finch wince under his words, he went over quickly to his side, and put his hand on his shoulder. “There, cheer up; I was a beast to say that. It’s all my own fault. It was a darn fool stunt to write such things.” After a time he calmed the unhappy lad, and got from him the details of the incident. At last he went off to report the matter to Jimmie. Lawrence naturally was inclined to say harsh things of Finch, but he too realized that they themselves were to blame for the predicament. “Hate to deprive you of the honor, old chap,” he said, “but honesty forbids me deny the authorship and responsibility for _The Spectacle_. The horse is on me.” “The horse!” exclaimed Tony. “It will be a ton of bricks. But it’s rot, Jimmie, to say you’re responsible. I’ll be hanged if I think sticking an adjective here and there, sprinkling commas about, and tinkering with a few mixed tenses, makes you the author. ‘Tis true it’s but a beastly paraphrase on Addison,—but ‘twas my best and, so to speak, my own.”