"Might not the writer, whoever he is, have seen Rushton hide the package, and chosen this method to tell on him?" queried the doctor.

"I would go further than that," said the other slowly. "I believe that the writer of this note deliberately stole the package and put it in Rushton's locker, in order to bring disgrace on him."

"It's hard to think that there is such a despicable wretch as that in Rally Hall," said Doctor Rally, bringing his clenched fist down on his desk.

"So it is," replied the other, "but to believe that Fred Rushton stole them is harder yet."

"Who, in the whole body of students, do you believe is capable of such a thing?" asked the doctor.

"Only one," was the cautious answer, "but, in the total absence of proof, it wouldn't perhaps be fair to name him."

"I think I know whom you have in mind," rejoined the master. "Here,"

tearing two bits of paper from a sheet on his desk, "in order that our guess be independent, you write a name on this piece of paper and I will write on this. Then we will compare."

The professor did so. Then they laid the papers side by side.

Each bore the same name, "Shanks."

"He's a poor stick," mused the doctor, "but I'd hate to think that he'd sink as low as this. And, of course, so far, it is purely guess work. He may be as innocent as the driven snow. Has he ever had any trouble with Rushton?"

"Not that I know of," was the answer, "although at one time I came upon them when they seemed to have been having words," and Professor Raymond narrated the affair on the campus.

"Well," Doctor Rally wound up the discussion by saying, "for the present, we suspend judgment. Keep a sharp eye on both Rushton and Shanks. I'll not rest until I have probed this thing to the bottom."

In the meantime Fred had gone to his room utterly crushed and despondent. The whole thing had come on him like a thunderbolt. In half an hour, from being one of the happiest boys in the school he had become the most miserable.

It seemed to him as though all his world had fallen into ruins. To be accused of theft, to be, perhaps, driven in disgrace from Rally Hall, to have all his relatives and friends know of the awful charge against him!

For a time, he felt that he would go crazy.

Teddy, who was the only one in whom he could confide, was studying when Fred dragged himself in.

"Oh, Ted," he groaned, as he threw himself down on his bed.

"What's the matter, Fred?" exclaimed Teddy, leaping to his feet in alarm, as he saw the blank misery in his brother's eyes.

"They think I'm a thief," moaned Fred.

"Who thinks so? What do you mean?" and Teddy fairly shouted.

"Doctor Rally and Professor Raymond," was the answer. "They think I stole the examination papers."

"Stole! _Stole!_" roared Teddy. "Why, they're crazy! What makes them think anything like that?"

"They'd been taken from Professor Raymond's desk, and they found them in my locker."

He blurted out the whole story and Teddy was wild with grief and rage.

But in the absence of the slightest clue, they were unable to do anything but await events while they ate their hearts out in silence.

A week went by without results. The winter had set in in earnest, and the lake was coated with ice, thick enough for skating.

Fred had been looking forward to hockey and skating, in both of which he took great delight. But now, he had little interest in them, and kept as much as possible to himself.

The boys, of course, saw that something had happened, and did all they could to cheer him up.

"You've simply got to come to-day, Fred," said Melvin, one bright December day, bursting into the room, his eyes dancing and his cheeks glowing with the frost. "It's just one peach of a day, and the ice is as smooth as gla.s.s.

"Nothing doing," he went on, as Fred started to protest. "Come along, fellows, and we'll rush him down to the lake. A bird that can skate and won't skate must be made to skate."

"I never heard of a bird skating," objected Fred, but yielded, as the whole laughing throng closed around him and hurried him out of doors.

Once on the ice, with the inspiring feeling of the skates beneath him, with the tingling air bringing the blood to his cheeks, and the glorious expanse of the frozen lake beckoning to him, the "blues" left him for a time, and he was his natural self again, all aglow with the mere delight of living.

He had gone around the lower end of the lake, and was making a wide sweep to return when he pa.s.sed Andy Shanks and Sid Wilton. They shot a malicious look at him as they pa.s.sed, and he saw them whisper to each other.

Once more he made the circuit of the lake, with long swinging strokes, his spirits steadily rising as the keen air nipped his face and put him in a glow from head to foot.

At the northern end of the lake was a bluff about twenty feet high. As there had been two or three heavy snowfalls already that winter, the top of the bluff held a ma.s.s of snow and ice that was many feet deep. The wind had hollowed out the lower part of the drifts so that the upper part overhung the lake for some distance from the sh.o.r.e.

A group of boys, including Andy Shanks and his toady, Sid Wilton, were playing "snap-the-whip." Shanks had put his "valet," as the boys called him, at the extreme end, and, although this was the most dangerous point and Wilton had little relish for it, he had not dared to object to anything that Andy wanted.

As Fred approached, the "whip" was "snapped"

Skating at full speed, the long line straightened out and Wilton was let go. He shot away from the others, trying to skirt the edge of the ice so as to avoid the sh.o.r.e and sweep out into the open. But the s.p.a.ce was too narrow and he went into the bluff with a crash.

He scrambled up, jarred and bruised, and just as he did so, Fred saw the great overhanging ma.s.s of snow on the top of the bluff sway forward.

"Jump!" he yelled. "The snow! Quick! For your lives!"

The other boys looked up and skated from under. Sid made a desperate lunge forward, but too late. With a sullen roar the snow came down and buried him from sight.

There were exclamations of fright and horror. Andy skated away, panic-stricken. Most of the boys lost their heads. Two or three shouted for help.

Fred alone remained cool. With one motion, he unclamped his skates and threw them from him. The next instant he had plunged into the tons of snow and his arms were working like flails as he threw the ma.s.ses aside.

"Quick, fellows!" he shouted. "Go at it, all of you! He'll smother if we don't get him out right away!"

Inspired by his example, the others pitched in, working like beavers.

Other boys coming up aided in the work of cleaving a way to their imprisoned schoolmate.

Their frantic energy soon brought results.

"I touched him then, fellows!" cried Fred. "Hurry, hurry," he added, as he himself put forth redoubled efforts.

A few minutes more and they had uncovered Sid's head and shoulders. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be unconscious.

"We're getting him," exulted Fred, forgetful of his hands that were torn and bleeding from tearing at the ice mixed with the snow.

He grabbed Sid under the arms.