No sooner had the noise from the fight died down in the school, and the scrapes only just begun to heal and old grudges to be forgotten, than fate turned its thorny, unkind side to the boys once more. It seemed Providence itself had decided to test their friendship.
Archie McCallum had seen how Tommy Savage got into trouble because of that fight on the schoolyard, and his heart ached at the unfair punishment. After all, everyone had fought, but only Tommy was punished. He wasn't a hero, hadn't fought like Larry, but he had his own stubbornness, the kind that defends a point of view no matter what. And he decided: if a comrade was in trouble, you had to stand by him to the end, like a blood brother. Without hesitation, Archie promptly announced to Mr. Burns that he too would stay after lessons — to help Tommy learn the church verses.
So now they sat together in the empty classroom until evening. The air was thick, steeped in the eternal smells of childhood: chalk dust, the acrid slurry of ink, and echoed only by the dry crackle of wood in the hot stove. The single kerosene lamp, hung from a beam, cast gigantic, dancing shadows on the walls, while beyond the grimy windowpanes the early autumn dusk was rapidly thickening.
It was slow going. Tommy had never shone in his studies before, and now, tired after lessons, he was completely muddled. Words jumped in his head like fleas on a yard dog, got tangled, and refused to arrange themselves into the even, mournful lines of the hymns. But as soon as Archie sat down beside him, an open prayer book before him, things went much better.
"Don't try to memorize it word for word," Archie advised, adjusting the lamp's wick, which briefly flooded the room with bright light. "Think about what you're reading. Or you'll say 'liver and tribulation' again instead of 'sorrow and tribulation.' Mr. Whitaker won't appreciate that."
And Tommy, frowning, ran his finger along the lines, slowly but surely hammering the alien, solemn words into himself. When he finally had the required four stanzas memorized, Archie listened, sitting straight and nodding with the serious air of a little teacher. If all was well, Tommy went for his check with the principal, and Archie waited for him, watching the last ray of sun gild the tip of the church spire.
One such Saturday, closer to evening, when long shadows already stretched from the school to the very fence, Archie suddenly noticed something was wrong with Tommy. He sat staring at the book, but his gaze was empty, wandering somewhere far beyond the classroom, as if over the river where a milky, cold mist was spreading. He kept moving his lips endlessly but couldn't pull even the first line from his memory. He aimlessly twirled a slate pencil in his fingers, then sighed so heavily the lamp flame shuddered.
Time dragged on, the sun was already setting, but they made no progress.
"Let me read, and you repeat after me," Archie offered, losing patience. "Maybe that'll work."
Tommy nodded sullenly and tried. But again, it was all nonsense — words got mixed up, syllables transposed. The trip to Mr. Whitaker ended quickly and sadly. The principal, without even listening to the end, waved his hand:
"Start over, Savage! And make it perfect!"
When Tommy returned to the classroom, Archie moved closer again, ready to keep helping his friend. But this time Tommy pulled sharply away.
"Don't. I'll manage on my own. It's late, you need to get home."
"You won't learn it without me!" Archie flared up. "What's wrong with you today, Tommy? Does your head hurt?"
But Tommy just shook his head, and something flashed in his eyes that made Archie fall silent. Not stubbornness, but rather… preoccupation. Deep and unchildishly serious.
"It's fine," Tommy grumbled. "Just go."
Archie gave him a long, searching look, then sighed, gathered his books, and left, quietly closing the creaky door behind him. He suspected something far more important than church hymns was churning in Tommy's head now.
On Monday morning, St. Peter's School lived its usual, measured life. During the first lesson, English grammar, a low hum filled the classroom — the squeak of slate pencils on boards, the rustle of turning pages, and Mr. Burns's monotonous voice parsing difficult cases. Archie, stealing glances at Tommy sitting two rows over, could see he wasn't himself today. Tommy kept looking out the window at the empty schoolyard, and his fingers nervously worried the corner of his canvas bag.
The lesson's idyll was shattered by a sharp knock at the door. Entering, Pastor Geoffrey seemed so tall and dark in the doorway, it was as if the shadow from the church spire itself had fallen on the classroom threshold. He exchanged a few quick words with Mr. Burns, and the teacher's face suddenly darkened and grew concerned. He nodded, scanned the class, and spoke clearly, enunciating each word:
"Tommy Savage. Come here."
A silence fell in the classroom, the kind that usually comes before a storm. Tommy slowly rose. Without slouching, his head held high, he walked between the desks to the exit. The door to the principal's office closed behind him, swallowing him up, and a long, oppressive pause ensued. What was happening behind the thick oak door panels remained a mystery to all. But when Tommy returned about twenty minutes later, his face was still impassive. No fear, no anger, only a stony, detached reserve.
And then, like a spark to dry tinder, a whisper spread through the class. It was started by Will Fry, the eternal crybaby and collector of all sorts of rumors, this time beaming with a strange, almost gleeful excitement. He leaned toward his neighbors, and his squeaky whisper reached the farthest corners:
"Did you hear? Tommy… he sank the raft! That fancy one the rich boys ride on! The whole raft! By himself!"
Where he got this nonsense was unknown. But the rumor, as usual, needed no proof. It began to live its own life, quickly acquiring incredible details. Hearing it, Archie felt his fingertips go cold. His heart dropped somewhere into his boots and froze there, a heavy, icy lump.
At recess, he caught up with Tommy by the exit to the yard, grabbed him by the shoulder, and, ignoring the curious looks, pulled him aside.
"Tommy! For heaven's sake, what did they want from you?"
At first, Tommy kept silent, trying to look somewhere past him, as if studying the pattern on the log wall. But then, clenching his teeth, he finally hissed:
"They say… I sank their damned raft."
"Sank it?" Archie's voice broke for a second at the madness of the rumors proving true. "You? It takes five men just to budge it! The logs are thick as an ox! That's not a raft, it's a floating barn!"
Tommy was silent. His cheeks burned with a deep blush, his ears glowed like poppies, but his gaze was stubborn and direct.
"And what made them think you did it in the first place?" Archie pressed on.
"Their cook… Mrs. Louise. Swears she saw me at the river on Saturday, near the dock."
Archie cursed to himself, his lips twisting.
"A lie! Or she saw something in the fog. You were at school!"
"Maybe the raft sank by itself?" Tommy muttered gloomily. "That happens sometimes."
When Archie made to leave, feeling the conversation was getting nowhere, Tommy suddenly turned sharply and grabbed his sleeve. His grip was iron.
"Listen… if they ask… tell them we left for home together then."
Archie looked him straight in the eyes, bewildered. In those dark eyes, usually so calm, he saw a plea and even something like fear.
"And you definitely left right after me? On Saturday?" Archie asked quietly.
"Yeah. Right away."
Archie heaved a heavy sigh, feeling an invisible but very heavy burden settle on his shoulders.
"Alright," he said. "I'll tell them."
Tommy nodded silently.
Returning to class after that recess was like returning to a battlefield. The air thrummed with suppressed whispers and furtive glances from all sides. Usually, Mr. Burns appeared exactly when the break ended, but now time dragged on painfully long. Ten, fifteen minutes passed — and still he wasn't there. The boys began to fidget, whisper louder and louder, like a swarm of agitated bees.
Finally, the door opened. But it wasn't just Mr. Burns who entered. With him were Pastor Geoffrey and Mr. Whitaker himself. The three grown men stood by the lectern, and at the sight of them the last sounds died in the classroom. The principal's appearance was especially telling — his face was the color of an overripe plum, and the veins on his forehead bulged and pulsed as if he'd just been running against the wind.
"Tommy Savage!" Whitaker's voice struck the silence like an axe hitting an empty barrel. "To the board. Immediately."
Tommy stood up. His footsteps on the creaky floorboards echoed hollowly and alone. He stopped before the tribunal of adults, not lowering his head and looking them straight in the eye.
"Tell the truth, boy," the principal began, drilling him with his gaze. "Was it you who sank the raft the pastor's pupils ride on?"
"No, sir," Tommy answered clearly, without a tremble in his voice. "It wasn't me."
"And on Saturday evening, were you alone at school?"
"No. Archie stayed with me, sir."
"Ah, McCallum!" The pastor turned, and his gaze, soft yet inexorable, found Archie in the third row. "Come here, my child."
Archie's legs instantly turned to jelly, but he forced himself to stand and walk forward. His heart hammered somewhere in his throat.
"You were with Tommy on Saturday?" the pastor asked, leaning toward him.
"Yes, sir. We were learning the church hymns."
The pastor raised thin eyebrows.
"How's that — learning? He was supposed to learn alone, as punishment."
Archie felt his face burn, but his voice, to his own surprise, came out evenly:
"It's easier for him to learn that way, sir. When someone's listening, he remembers better. I was just sitting nearby."
The pastor nodded, and something resembling respect flashed in his eyes.
"That's a good deed, boy. A Christian one. And tell me… do you remember any of what you were learning?"
Archie lifted his chin. Everything inside tightened, but his memory, honed by evenings at the desk, worked precisely. He began to recite one of the longest stanzas from memory, the very one Tommy could never get right. The words flowed evenly, without a stumble, filling the resonant silence of the classroom.
When he finished, the pastor smiled approvingly and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Good, son. Very good. I see you didn't labor for show."
It already seemed the storm had passed, but there was one man determined to see the matter through. Mr. Whitaker wasn't about to give up so easily. His gaze returned to Tommy, growing even harder.
"Right, Savage. If you were in the classroom the whole time… did you step out even for a minute? To the well, for example, for a drink? Or… to the river?"
"No, sir," Tommy repeated confidently.
"And you left for home together?"
The unexpected question hung in the air. Archie felt a cold sweat run down his back. He saw Tommy's eyelashes flutter. A second of silence stretched into an eternity. The pastor watched him attentively, expectantly.
"Yes," Archie finally forced out, his voice sounding slightly hoarse. "Together."
He blushed so deeply even his ears grew hot, as if they'd just been boxed. The pastor looked at him for another second, then slowly nodded.
"Alright. Sit down, child."
But Whitaker was already bearing down on Tommy again, peppering him with questions like a fisherman casting a net — cunningly, intricately, trying to find the slightest crack in his defense. But Tommy stood his ground, monotonously repeating only: "No, sir," "I don't know, sir," "It wasn't me, sir." It seemed a little more of this pressure from the principal and he'd break.
But then Mr. Burns intervened. Until now, he'd been silently leafing through his battered history textbook, but now he set it aside with the air of a man who had lost his last shred of patience.
"With your permission, gentlemen," he said calmly, but in a tone that made everyone turn to him attentively. "Let's proceed from common sense. One boy, even one as sturdy as Mr. Savage, could not single-handedly sink a moored raft made of thick, solid logs. That would require either a winch or ten other rascals like him. And we have neither in this story."
The teacher's logic was irresistibly simple. The pastor and Mr. Whitaker exchanged glances, reluctantly acknowledging he was right. But a shadow of suspicion still hung in the air, thick and sticky. And the accusers had one more card to play — a witness.
This witness was Mrs. Louise, the cook from the pastor's school, a woman of imposing size and even more imposing confidence in her own rightness. They brought her into the classroom, and she immediately filled the space with the smell of fried onions, herbs, and something sour-milky. She wiped her hands on her greasy apron and fixed Tommy with a heavy, unfriendly stare.
"Well, Louise," said the pastor. "Is this the very boy you saw by the river on Saturday evening?"
"That's him, sir," she grunted without blinking. "Plain as day."
"But he claims he wasn't there. And his comrade confirms it."
Mrs. Louise snorted so hard her cheeks trembled.
"So I shouldn't trust my own eyes, is that it? I saw what I saw, sir. They can say what they like."
"Tell me, was the raft still in its place when you saw this boy?" the pastor tried to clarify.
"Seemed to be… or maybe not. I wasn't staring right at it. Your rafts — always here today, gone tomorrow."
"And where exactly was Tommy standing?"
"At the dock, on our side. The Clarkville side."
Pastor Geoffrey frowned so deeply a crease formed between his brows. He turned to Whitaker.
"That's odd… That day, the raft should have been moored on the opposite bank, by the old willow. If Mr. Savage sank the raft on the other side of the river, why would the boy cross over to our side?"
This was a serious discrepancy. But Mrs. Louise, sensing doubt in her testimony, decided to bolster her words.
"And that bell-ringer, Johnny Tucker, was hanging about there too!" she added triumphantly. "Drunk as a lord, as usual. Yelling something about cosmic injustice and how the river ought to be dammed up… build some kind of dam. Shouting that the miller was profiting off people and he'd get his lesson if the water wheel stopped. Maybe he did something to the raft?"
This admission only muddled things further. Johnny Tucker as a witness was worse than if he were absent altogether. The pastor just waved his hand in irritation.
"Thank you, Louise. You may go."
The cook, throwing a last triumphant glance at Tommy, departed, leaving behind a trail of kitchen aromas and a heavy sense of utter confusion.
Silence fell in the classroom. Mr. Whitaker and the pastor withdrew to a corner and began to whisper, from time to time casting sharp, distrustful looks at Tommy. There was no evidence against him, and the sole witness was confused in her testimony. The only other "source of information" — the half-drunk bell-ringer — was completely unreliable. Meanwhile, teacher Burns still sat at his desk, again buried in his book, but his posture and sharp movements betrayed his anger — a whole lesson wasted for nothing, and the raft business threatened to drag on forever.
Suspicion, heavy and unjust, hung in the air, refusing to dissipate. But it was impossible to convict Tommy Savage without proof. Justice, even schoolyard justice, required facts, and those, it seemed, were precisely what were missing.