“I’ll tell you what to do. Go to the old man and play the penitent. Tell him that you’ve done wrong, and that you’re going to study hard from now on. If you can put it up to him strong enough, he’ll fall on your neck and forgive you. You’ll have to make a good bluff at work for the next two or three weeks until you get your reputation up, but it won’t hurt you any to do that. Some of the fellows out there at Adams’s will give you a lift. There’s Hardie, now; he’s a good-natured fellow and a pretty good scholar; he’d help you out if he knew what you’re up against.” “I guess not,” said Dunn, hopeless. “He’s always been down on me.” “I don’t believe it. He got you that invitation last fall for the dancing school. I don’t see why he shouldn’t help you now.” “It wasn’t Hardie. Ben Tracy got it,” corrected Dunn, quickly. “Ben Tracy nothing! It was Hardie. I heard Sumner talking about it at the time. It was Hardie that did it. He isn’t so conceited as some of that crowd. If you go at him right, he’ll help you. Now do as I say, and see what comes of it.” This news concerning the invitation to the dancing class—he had not forgotten his anxiety at the time—set Dunn’s thoughts in a new direction. The more he recalled the circumstances, which included Ben’s clumsy disclaimer, the more he was inclined to believe that Stover was right. For the first time during the year Dunn clearly perceived that he had been in some respects a silly fool. For the first time it dawned upon him that some of these fellows whom he had been so ready to disparage might be in reality better and more deserving of honor than he. He was honest enough to recognize that if he had been in Hardie’s place he would have acted in a far different way. Following Stover’s counsel, he went to Mr. Westcott with an artificial penitence on his lips; but there was already a half-formed, half-real penitence in his heart. By what means Mr. Westcott pierced his shell and made this half-penitence wholly real, we may not inquire. The head-master had a skill in such interviews, the product of much experience and a genuine desire to help rather than to punish; and Dunn’s career offered few points capable of defence, when considered with frankness and honesty. That his repentance was indeed real, and his resolution to face about, was, for the moment at least, genuine, is proved by two circumstances: first, he acquiesced, though sadly, in Mr. Westcott’s decision that if he was to regain lost ground, he could not afford the time and the thought which school baseball required; secondly, he confessed, unsolicited, many of his misdeeds, including his part in the episode of the sand bath. “I suspected it,” said Mr. Westcott, “but we won’t consider that now. That belongs to the past. We start anew to-day.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER XX IN THE PAIR-OAR