to take up the story where ralph and ben carver dropped out, we must return to the evening after the final examination.

they had come to their room early, as all the scholars had, to pack for their camp trip. ben pulled out the valises from the closet, and began to stir up the contents of his trunk to make a selection of the thickest and oldest garments to take with him.

"there's a jacket in the sear and yellow leaf, but it's warm; in she goes. those trousers, i don't know about them. there's a pretty big hole in them; but yes, they'll do to fish in. come, ralph, get your clothes together," exclaimed ben, seeing that his room-mate had thrown himself down astride of a chair, and with his head supported by both hands, looked like a third-rate tragedy actor.

there was no answer, and ben went on packing and talking.

"i'm going to take more things this time. i know i hadn't anything fit to wear last year. camp-life is very hard on clothes and shoes."

there was no response from ralph, and ben, pausing in his packing, exclaimed,--

"what's the matter, drayton? you look as glum as a catfish with a hook in his gills!"

"i feel just as i look, then."

"come on, boy, we've got to start right after breakfast, and there'll be no time to pack then."

"i don't care."

"nonsense! come, here's your valise gaping at you."

"i'm not going, carver."

"fiddlesticks! you are too. there's the foot-ball and your fishing-tackle. i'll get your things together for you."

"no. i tell you i shan't go. i've let this thing go on far enough. i absolutely haven't courage to go with the rest of the crowd to that island, where i can't get away, if i feel ever so much like running."

"the supply of courage has given out, has it?" asked ben laughing. "there has been a pretty heavy drain on it, i will admit."

"yes, it has given out," and ralph laughed in spite of his melancholy.

"that's bad; but come, old fellow, you'll feel better after we get off."

"and leave joe chester behind?"

ralph got off the chair that he had been torturing, and, putting his hands deep in his pockets, paced to and fro.

"no, ben; i'm a pretty mean lot, but i declare it's getting beyond my depth. the next thing i shall go all under."

"and drag me too," added ben, casting a sidelong glance at his friend.

"yes, you too. i have been dragging you along in the same mire, until, to accommodate me, you've got in about as deep as i have."

"don't mind me, drayton. it doesn't trouble me one bit," said ben carelessly. "my lies have all been in the cause of friendship. come, cheer up, old fellow. we'll both reform after this, and never again tell lies."

"if i ever do tell another, i'll be a fool," said ralph emphatically. "it doesn't pay; besides, it is mean work."

"yes, but what could you do? confess to that job with the books? that was enough to expel you; don't you know it was?"

"i don't care; that would be better than living a lie here day after day, and seeing those eyes of joe chester's on me day and night. no, sir! i'm not going to the island and leave him behind. you are mistaken in me. i've got to the end of my rope."

ben whistled dolefully; went and drummed a funeral march on the window; then coming back, and dropping into a chair, rested his elbow on the table, and his cheek on his hand, looking up meanwhile at his companion.

"what's the next thing on the bill of fare, then?"

"i'm going to cut," answered ralph deliberately.

"what good will that do?"

"i'll leave a note for bernard, confessing about the books, and then joe chester can go. even if the master did not get the note till after the boat started, he would come back for joe."

"now, ralph, if you do this i am set adrift too, you see. i have told as many lies as you have, and if you tell on yourself it will come out somehow,--that i know."

"no, it won't, ben."

"it will, as sure as anything. anyhow my courage is gone too. i don't want to face mr. bernard and the other fellows. no, sir! i shall stick by you. give us your hand, old fellow. 'sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish,' we'll stick together. what's the use of a chum that won't stick? now, where shall we go? that's the question."

"that's the question," repeated ralph, beginning to throw things into his open trunk, to be left till called for, because he expected this was to end his school-days at massillon academy.

"if we start off now on foot we shall be tracked, for mr. bernard will not rest till he gets news of us."

"that's so. and if we wait and go by train in the morning, all the town will know it. that will never do."

both meditated a while, and then ben said, waving an imaginary hat around his head, "i tell you! let's go over to the cape and see if we can't find a vessel bound out. father sent me ten pounds for the camp out, and we'll hire a passage."

"agreed!--the very thing! what shall we want to take?"

"we will wear these school-suits, and pack up some rough clothes, our blankets, and just about what we would take to camp, for we may have to work our way to get the fellow to take us."

ralph was about to throw his fishing-rod into the closet with his foot-ball and base-ball, when he exclaimed, "hold on; i will make my will, and leave that rod in the hall for joe chester. here, give me a card! 'for joe chester.' there, that will please the little chap, and let him know i remember him. now i must write to bernard. where's my portfolio? oh, here. well, now, what to say to him? that's a puzzler. shall i say anything about you, ben?"

"i suppose you'll have to; but i am not anxious to be remembered to him," was the laughing reply, as ralph dipped his pen in the ink and wrinkled his brow, trying to think of the proper thing to say. "tell him i'm just as bad as you are, and we thought we had both better get out from such a high-toned crowd."

"well, it is a good crowd, ben--a splendid set of boys, take them all together. you know it is. no; i am going to do the right thing, and confess without any nonsense. he won't think me any meaner than i think myself. i'll just say that you knew about it, and so thought you had better go too."

after dipping his pen and scowling again, he wrote hastily:--

"mr. bernard,--i can't go with you. let joe chester go, please. i did the mischief, and was afraid to tell. ban carver knew about it, but did not do it. we are going off together. please send our fathers word that we are safe.--respectfully yours,

"ralph drayton.

"p.s.--i was never sorrier in my life, mr. bernard."

"there, ben, how does that sound?" he asked, throwing the letter across the table to his companion.

ben laughed as he read it, and said, "nothing could be better. i couldn't have done it so well myself."

"seal it then, please. i don't want to read it over."

"now, shall we start, or go to bed for an hour or two?" asked ben, as the arrangements were all completed.

"i am afraid we would oversleep, and not get away till daylight, if we lie down. let's sit up and talk till after midnight. we want to start before the first streak of light."

"all right."

they chatted a while, and then grew sleepy. so after finding himself nodding a number of times, ralph said, "let's just take a short nap, ben."

"so i say."

folding their arms on the table for a pillow, the boys dropped their heads upon them, and were speedily sleeping soundly. they might have slept till the rising-bell rang, only ralph was awakened by a fearful dream, in which he thought mr. bernard had seized him, and was trying to hold him under the water as a punishment for lying, to wash off the sin of it, ralph thought. he started up so violently that he nearly fell over backward.

"what! what's the matter?" cried ben in alarm.

"nothing but a dream," said ralph laughing. "but it is lucky i had it, for it is getting toward morning, and we may as well be stealing out. we had better take our boots in our hands and just crawl, those confounded stairs squeak so!"

taking their valises, the boys, with a parting glance around the room to see if they had left anything, opened the door softly, and crept downstairs cautiously, waiting long after each step; for, as ralph had said, they did creak unmercifully, as if in a league to betray them.

they knew the boys, their schoolmates, were too soundly sleeping to be disturbed, and if mr. andrews, whose room was at the farther end of the hall, did not hear them, they were safe.

they were down at last; and, unlocking the outer door, they stepped outside, and closed it carefully behind them.

"good!" whispered ben. "now put on your boots, and away you go."

the moon was down long ago, and only the stars gave light to the runaways as they hastened through the academy garden and over the fence into the field leading to the shore, feeling that every bush by the way might have some one behind to arrest them.

everything on the cape was quiet.

there were several vessels at the wharf, but if manned at all, it was by a sleeping crew. they crept under the outside stairs leading to the second story of a sail-loft, and waited impatiently and uncomfortably for daylight.

"it seems like a graveyard or a funeral. i hate things so still," whispered ben, as if whispering were necessary in such stillness.

"it is an hour yet before daylight," said ralph, looking at his watch.

"we may as well have a nap."

"if we can get one. oh, how cold it is down here!"

the boys crept closer together for warmth, and with their heads on their knees tried to sleep; and after much turning and twisting, and grumbling at the hard seat, and shivering in the cold night air as it blew across the water, they at last fell asleep.