“Well, it will never happen now,” said Shultz, with a low, bitter laugh. “The jig is up, anyhow. I hardly thought Ned would agree when I proposed it, but he almost jumped at it. I believe he’d been thinking of the very same thing. There’s class to his people, and he’s a gentleman, so, when he did agree, it seemed all right to me.” In this manner he sought to excuse himself. He recalled how he had scoffed at Oakdale, the school and the old professor. He had even dreamed of resorting to various harassing methods in order to make Professor Richardson’s task so difficult that, unable to govern his pupils with a stern hand, he would withdraw from his position to let it be filled by a younger and more efficient instructor. Yes, having instilled some of his own spirit into his associates, Shultz had started a campaign of nagging and annoyance and disregard for what he called old-fashioned rules, which had certainly given the principal no small amount of worry and trouble. “I suppose,” he half laughed, as he walked slowly past the building, “the old relic thinks I’m a bad egg. What do I care what he thinks! What do I care what anybody thinks!” But for the first time in his life he did care. At this hour the center of the village seemed dark and deserted. Only an occasional light was to be seen shining dimly from a window. Nevertheless, the boy hesitated about passing through the square, fearing that some one might see him, know him, and wonder what he was doing prowling about so late. This fear led him to turn from Lake Street and cross lots toward the rapids below the upper dam. In this manner he stole down the slope at the rear of the stores and houses which lined the western side of lower Main Street. The water was gurgling and grumbling around the rocks which thrust themselves upward in the channel. At intervals, as Shultz passed, it hissed, like a living creature expressing scorn and hatred. At the bridge he climbed upward to the roadway, where he stood for a few moments, peering and listening. “I seem to be the only one alive in this old burg.” The thought brought Hooker to his mind—Hooker, dead, perhaps. Cross Street, which ran back of the town hall and along the shore of the lower pond, would bring him into Lake Street again, near Willow, upon which was the home of the Hookers. He had almost reached Lake Street when he stopped short, halted by the sound of echoing footsteps, which were approaching from that part of the town he had avoided. In a moment he was pressing his body against the bole of a big tree. The footsteps came nearer. The person began to hum a tune. Here was some one abroad with a light heart and fearless of observation. “It must be Tuttle,” thought the boy by the tree. “Yes, it is. Why don’t he let his eternal peanuts stop his mouth?”