ut he is a good old fellow and wants to do right by all."

"I'd like to know what Jack is going to do about it," thought Dick. "He
won't let it rest. I have an idea who did this for it was just his
clumsy way of working that betrays him but I won't say anything."

When the forenoon recess arrived, the boys generally went out upon the
campus but Jack went straight to the cellar where the negro coachman and
general caretaker was at work cleaning up.

"What do you do with the papers and stuff you sweep up of a morning,
Bucephalus?" asked Jack.

"Ah gather them in a receptickle fo' de puppose, sah, and den Ah
communicate dem to de fiah, sah," answered the man.

"Have you done so as yet?"

"Ah have not yet consigned the rubbish to the fiah, sah. Dere it is in
dem baskets yondah. You done lose something, sah?"

"No, I want to find something," replied Jack.

He went over to the waste paper baskets standing on the floor in one
corner and began to turn out their contents.

"The fellow may have torn out the fly leaf before," he thought, "but it
looks like a fresh tear. If so, and he did not keep the leaf or throw it
away somewhere it will probably be here."

Turning out the bits of torn paper, old exercises and other things, Jack
looked carefully at every scrap in search of the missing fly leaf.

"It's only a fool who would put his name in a translation, to betray him
at any time," he mused, "but there are just such fools in the world."

There were many bits of paper which were obviously not the one he wanted
and he passed them over rapidly and threw them aside.

He came upon more than one crumpled bit and picked them up but upon
smoothing them out found that they were not the thing he wanted.

At length he saw a tight ball of crumpled paper which he was about to
pass over as being nothing and then took up and unrolled carefully.

Smoothing it out he saw that it was a piece of book paper and was
written on.

When it was nicely smoothed out and laid upon the inside of the book
found in his desk and now produced from his pocket, he read the
following inscription written in a scrawly hand:

"This book is the property of Peter Herring, Hilltop. Don't steal."

The torn edges fitted perfectly and the letters remaining on the inner
edge of the leaf were followed regularly by those on the other side.

"That accuses Peter Herring all right," said Jack. "This is his book and
if he did not put it in my desk who would? A