“I told Brinker this morning,” I began in a voice treacherously shaking, “that I thought this was
the worst—”
“And I said,” Brinker’s voice was full of authority and perfectly under control, “that for Finny’s
good,” and with an additional timbre of sincerity, “and for your own good too, by the way, Gene,
that we should get all this out into the open. We don’t want any mysteries or any stray rumors
and suspicions left, in the air at the end of the year, do we?”
A collective assent to this rumbled through the blurring atmosphere of the Assembly Room.
“What are you talking about!” Finny’s voice was full of contemptuous music. “What rumors and
suspicions?”
“Never mind about that,” said Brinker with his face responsibly grave. He’s enjoying this, I
thought bitterly, he’s imagining himself Justice incarnate, balancing the scales. He’s forgotten
that Justice incarnate is not only balancing the scales but also blindfolded. “Why don’t you just
tell us in your words what happened?” Brinker continued. “Just humor us, if you want to think of
it that way. We aren’t trying to make you feel bad. Just tell us. You know we wouldn’t ask you if
we didn’t have a good reason ... good reasons.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Nothing to tell?” Brinker looked pointedly at the small cast around Finny’s lower leg and the
cane he held between his knees.
“Well then, I fell out of a tree.”
“Why?” said someone on the platform. The acoustics were so bad and the light so dim that I
could rarely tell who was speaking, except for Finny and Brinker who were isolated on the wide
strip of marble floor between us in the seats and the others on the platform.
“Why?” repeated Phineas. “Because I took a wrong step.”
“Did you lose your balance?” continued the voice.
“Yes,” echoed Finny grimly, “I lost my balance.”
“You had better balance than anyone in the school.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I didn’t say it for a compliment.”
“Well then, no thanks.”
“Have you ever thought that you didn’t just fall out of that tree?”