5

During the weeks leading up to Christmas break and the semester examinations which shortly followed it, two minor, almost secretive currents ran through the school - certainly through the freshman class. The first of these was Laker Broome's private search for the thief of the glass owl. The week after Dave Brick had been interrogated for three hours, Bob Sherman was summoned away from Latin class just as Brick had been. This time there were none of the immediate assumptions that had been made about the unfortunate Brick; only a few boys, Pete Bayliss and Tom Pinfold and Marcus Reilly among them, assumed that now the theft had been cleared up and could be forgotten. They were athletes and could not stand Sherman, who did not even pretend to respect Paul Hornung and Johnny Unitas.

As Brick had been, Bob was sitting in the cold outside the rear entrance to the Upper School when the rest of us came back from lunch. He looked tough and cynical and tired, and a little abashed to play the role of celebrity.

'Congratulations,' I said.

'He needs his head examined,' Bob said. 'If I wanted to grab something valuable, I'd kidnap Florence and never have to think about money again.'

Two days before Del was called into Broome's office for his own three-hour session, the applications were due for club proposals. That was the second underground stream which went through our class in the weeks before Christmas break. Most of the school treated the idea of clubs as a joke, and proposed a Gourmet Club (which would eat in restaurants instead of the dining room), a Loafers' Club, a Playboy Club, a Hardy Boys Club (devoted to discussion of the works of F. W. Dixon), an Elvis Presley Club (more or less the same thing). The frivolous applications were weeded out by Mr. Weatherbee and the other form advisers, and I think only a handful reached Mr. Broome. He gave his approval to three, and one of these, a J. D. Salinger Society, never met - the two seniors who proposed it identified too closely with Holden Caulfield to submit to meetings. Morris Fielding's Jazz Society was passed, and in time a drummer and a bassist with more enthusiasm than skill were discovered in the sophomore class. Broome undoubtedly saw in the club a cheap source of entertainment for school dances. Tom thought that Broome approved the Magic Circle because it sounded like a harmless diversion, even after Del told him about his interrogation in Broome's office.

One circumstance - really an image - suggests otherwise: after Del had been called from Thorpe's class in the usual manner, the first thing he saw in the artfully bookish office was the proposal he had typed six days before - it lay alone on the polished desk. Del immediately assumed that Broome wanted to talk to him about it, and most of his fear left him. After all, why would anyone think that he, of all the boys at Carson, would want to steal a glass bauble?

'So your interest in magic g-s deeper than card tricks,' Broome said, smiling enigmatically.

'Much deeper, sir,' Del replied.

'Just how deep d-s it go?'

Del thought he was being honestly questioned, that Broome was interested in him. He said, 'It's what I care about most.'

'I see.' Broome leaned back in his chair and put the soles of his sh-s on the edge of his desk - the model, in his striped shirt sleeves, horn-rims, and posture, of a concerned academic and administrator. Even the dozing dog beside the chair fitted this picture. 'It's what you care about most. Do you intend to pursue a career in that rather, uh, unusual field?'

'I'd really like to,' Del said. 'I'm pretty good already.'

'Yes, I bet you are.' Broome smiled. 'And what do you think about magic - about tricks and all that?'

'Oh, it's a lot more than just tricks,' Del answered happily. 'It's entertainment, and it's surprises, and… ' He hesitated. 'And it's about a whole way of looking at things.'

'I see that you are indeed serious,' Broome said. He took his feet off the edge of his desk and pushed the proposal a half-inch to one side. 'Have you been happy here, during this first semester?'

'Pretty happy,' Del said. 'Most of the time.'

'I gather that you've been given an unfortunate nickname.'

'Oh, well,' Del said. 'It's pretty bad, yes, sir.'

'I could think of better ones for you.'

This put Del off guard, and he asked, 'What are they, sir?'

'Thief. Sneak. Coward. Wasn't that clear?'

From this point the questioning proceeded in the familiar manner.