.dt Making the Nine, by Albertus T. Dudley—A Project Gutenberg eBook
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MAKING THE NINE
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BOOKS BY ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY
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Phillips Exeter Series
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.
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FOLLOWING THE BALL.
MAKING THE NINE.
IN THE LINE.
WITH MASK AND MITT.
THE GREAT YEAR.
THE YALE CUP.
A FULL-BACK AFLOAT.
THE PECKS IN CAMP.
THE HALF-MILER.
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Stories of the Triangular League
Illustrated by Charles Copeland. 12mo. Cloth.
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THE SCHOOL FOUR.
AT THE HOME PLATE.
THE UNOFFICIAL PREFECT.
THE KING’S POWDER.
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LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON.
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Phil did not walk in from the field.–Page 321.
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[Illustration: Phil did not walk in from the field.–Page 321.]
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PHILLIPS EXETER SERIES
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MAKING THE NINE
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BY
ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY
AUTHOR OF “FOLLOWING THE BALL”
ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES COPELAND
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[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
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BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
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Copyright, 1904, by Lee and Shepard.
Published August, 1904.
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All Rights Reserved.
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Making the Nine.
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PRINTED IN U.S.A.
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To
GEORGE ALBERT WENTWORTH
KNOWN TO THE WORLD AS THE AUTHOR OF
A SCORE OF STANDARD TEXT-BOOKS
TO THE ALUMNI OF
THE PHILLIPS EXETER ACADEMY
AS
The Great Master of Boys
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PREFACE
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The cordial welcome given to Following
The Ball by boy readers and parents—severe
critics both, though from very different standpoints—has
led to the writing of this second
story, in which baseball has a sufficiently important
part to suggest the title.
The author’s purpose in each case has been
to produce a readable story true to the life of
a distinctly American school, true to athletics in
their better spirit and character, and teaching—not
preaching—a manly and reasonable ideal.
If he has not succeeded in this, the failure can
certainly not be charged to lack of experience
with athletics or school life or the ways of boys.
Hearty acknowledgments for expert advice on
the technicalities of baseball training and play
are due to Dr. Edward H. Nichols of Boston,
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who, as player, head coach, and graduate adviser,
has probably contributed more to Harvard
victories on the diamond than any other one
man. The play marking the climax of the
game described in Chapter XXVI is a historic
one, borrowed from a Yale-Harvard contest.
Its hero was Mr. George W. Foster, of a champion
Harvard nine.
.ti 15
ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY.
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CONTENTS
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Chapter | | Page
I | An Unwelcome Proposition. | #1:ch01#
II | On the Ice. | #13:ch02#
III | The Battle. | #25:ch03#
IV | Phil’s Resolution. | #38:ch04#
V | A Tough Problem. | #45:ch05#
VI | A Western Solution. | #57:ch06#
VII | In the Baseball Cage. | #71:ch07#
VIII | A Transaction in Books. | #82:ch08#
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IX | Burglary. | #90:ch09#
X | Mr. Moore’s Theory. | #98:ch10#
XI | Flanahan strikes out. | #110:ch11#
XII | Varrell explains himself. | #122:ch12#
XIII | The Spring Running. | #131:ch13#
XIV | Under Two Flags. | #146:ch14#
XV | About Many Things. | #156:ch15#
XVI | Phil makes his Début. | #168:ch16#
XVII | A Nocturnal Mystery. | #181:ch17#
XVIII | A Spilled Pitcher. | #191:ch18#
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XIX | The Coveted Opportunity. | #200:ch19#
XX | An Unexpected Blow. | #218:ch20#
XXI | A Gloomy Prospect. | #232:ch21#
XXII | The Decision of the Court. | #243:ch22#
XXIII | The Great Track Meet. | #261:ch23#
XXIV | The Hillbury Game. | #282:ch24#
XXV | On the Third Floor of Hale. | #300:ch25#
XXVI | A Double Assist. | #314:ch26#
XXVII | Conclusion. | #325:ch27#
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ILLUSTRATIONS
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Phil did not walk in from the field | #Frontispiece:i004#
The Western contingent were established among the pines on the right | #26:i043#
A Corner in Sands’s Room | #70:i089#
He heard voices,—at first indistinct, then somewhat clearer | #150:i171#
The Academy through the Trees | #190:i213#
In the Campus Woods | #242:i267#
He suddenly turned and pulled the ball down | #292:i319#
The Main Street of Seaton | #324:i353#
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MAKING THE NINE
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CHAPTER I || AN UNWELCOME PROPOSITION
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“How they do yell! Where’s your patriotism,
Phil, to be hanging round in this gloomy
crowd when all your friends are howling their
heads off outside? Don’t you know Yale won
the game? Why aren’t you out there with the
rest?”
Philip Poole looked up with a smile, but did
not reply.
“He’s comforting the afflicted,” said Dick
Melvin, who shared with Poole the ownership
of the room. “You don’t want to gloat over
us poor Harvardites, do you, Phil? Thank you
much for your sympathy.”
“That isn’t the reason,” said the lad, after a
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pause, with the sober look in his big, wide-open
eyes that made him seem serious even when
his feelings inclined in the opposite direction.
“I just don’t see any cause for such a racket.
A Yale football victory over Harvard is too
ordinary an occurrence to get wild over.”
The chorus of hoots and groans that greeted
this explanation brought a smile of satisfaction
to the boy’s face. He was the youngest of the
company, only in his second year at Seaton;
the others were mostly seniors. As Melvin’s
room-mate, however, and in a measure still under
the senior’s care, Poole was thrown as much
with the older students as with his own classmates;
and the intimacy thus developed had
served both to sharpen his wits and to give
him practice in self-defence.
Melvin himself had not been at Seaton much
longer than Phil. He had entered at the beginning
of the Middle year, an unknown boy,
green, sanguine, eager to win a scholarship and
so relieve his father of some of the expense of
his schooling. Soon, however, fascinated by football
and the glamour of the school athletic world,
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he had failed to subordinate his sport to the real
objects of school life. How he made the school
eleven and went down with it to defeat; how he
lost his scholarship; how the care of young Phil,
suddenly offered him by the lad’s uncle, sobered
and steadied him and enabled him to stay in
school; how he and John Curtis fought the long
uphill fight to develop a strong team, and finally
defeated the rival school,—all this has already
been told in another book, and can only be referred
to very briefly here. The great game
which marked the climax of the struggle was still
a recent event.
“You didn’t take it so calmly when Seaton won
the victory two weeks ago, and your beloved
Dick spent the afternoon kicking the ball over
the Hillbury goal-posts,” said Varrell, a tall, quiet
boy, with keen, restless eyes that followed the conversation
from face to face.
“That’s different,” replied Poole. “I’m first
for Seaton and afterwards for Yale. The college
can wait until I get there—and that will be a
long time yet,” he added ruefully, “if what I was
told in the algebra class to-day holds true.”
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The others laughed patronizingly, as befitted
those who had “points” to their credit on preliminary
certificates, and knew Cæsar and
algebra only as outgrown acquaintances—friends
they had never been.
“He’s playing off,” said Todd, suspiciously.
“I don’t doubt he drew an ‘A’ on his last
examination.”
For one member of the group, the conversation
was taking an unpleasant turn. John Curtis
talked as unwillingly about examinations or
entering college as the family of a convict on
prison discipline. John had been captain of the
football team, a player with a record, already
courted by college committees on the lookout
for good material for Varsity elevens. The
glory of victory still rested full and bright
upon him, but neither the adulation of comrades
nor his own consciousness of achievement
could make up to him for his failure to be
recommended for preliminaries at the last college
examinations, and his present gloomy outlook.
“Let’s see what they’re doing out in the
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yard,” he said abruptly, lifting his two hundred
pounds from a creaking chair.
Bang, bang, bump, bang! went a heavy object
down the stairs. Melvin jerked the door open
in season to hear a scurry of feet at the end
of the corridor, and the slam of two or three
doors.
“This thing must stop, do you hear?” he
shouted in the direction from which the sound
had come.
The corridor was silent. No one answered;
no one appeared. Yet behind the cracks of
doors ajar were uttered low chucklings that the
monitor rather suspected than heard. From a
door at the end emerged an innocent head
adorned with a green shade.
“Who are you bawling at, anyway? A
fellow can’t study in this place, however much
he tries. First a chump fires a bowling ball
downstairs, and then the monitor curdles your
blood with his Apache yells. I’d rather hear the
ball, a good sight. It isn’t so hard on the nerves.”
“You tell those fellows to stop that thing
right off, or I’ll report every one of them.”
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“Tell them yourself!” retorted the green
shade; “I’m not their grandmother.”
Inside Number 9 the company roared with
laughter. “There’s no more fun for the poor
fellows in this hall since Dick was put over it,”
said Curtis.
“No, he takes his duties seriously,” commented
Todd. “What did you do to them, Mr.
Monitor,” he asked, as the official returned, “put
’em on probation?”
“Warned them,” replied Melvin, with good
humor undisturbed.
“Who was that you were laboring with?”
“Tompkins.”
“What!” cried Curtis, “that wild-looking,
shaggy-haired man from Butte, who looks as if
he had just escaped from the menagerie?”
“That’s the one,” replied Dick; “though he
isn’t as bad as all that. He’s a bit freakish, I’ll
admit.”
“Not so much of a freak as he looks,” said
Todd. “You ought to have seen him open the
safe down at Morrison’s. They’d lost the combination,
and the clerks had been guessing, and
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twisting, and pulling at the knob all the morning.
Then this Tompkins happened in and took
a try at it. He had the door open in two minutes.
Just listened at the lock till he heard the
right sound.”
“Couldn’t have been much of a lock,” said
Curtis. “Come on; let’s see what’s doing outside.”
The big fellow went whistling downstairs,
followed by Todd and Poole. Varrell and Dickinson
the runner still remained, the latter too
much incapacitated by the sprain he had received
in the great game to make any unnecessary
movements, the former apparently uninterested.
The Harvard sympathizers had rallied, and,
making up in numbers what they lacked in
righteous cause, were shouting across the yard
to the Yale band, drowning cheers of exultation
with more vociferous cheers of loyalty.
“The fools!” exclaimed the misanthropic
Dickinson.
“Who?” cried Varrell, suddenly roused from
revery.
“Why, those fellows out there wasting their
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time and strength on something that does not
concern them at all.”
“Oh!” said Varrell, and sank back again
into his chair.
Dickinson and Melvin exchanged a glance of
surprise. They knew that at one time Varrell
had had serious trouble with his ears, and was
still a little deaf; but he got on so well, both
in the class room and among the boys, that it
seemed hardly possible that he was unable to
hear these boisterous shouts outside.
They sat a few minutes longer in silence,
listening to the cheers hurled back and forth
across the yard. Soon throats grew weary, and
the mood changed. The enthusiasts, beginning
to be conscious, as they stamped their feet and
dug their hands into their pockets, that the
November night was really cold, bethought
themselves of warm rooms and work still to
be done, and scattered to shelter. The scamper
of feet was heard on the stairs; good nights
were exchanged in the entries and shouted
from the windows. Then the natural quiet
again prevailed.
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“Dick,” said Dickinson at last, “you know
that Saville has left school.”
“Yes, I have heard so,” replied Melvin.
“He was your track manager, wasn’t he?
Who will take his place?”
“You,” answered Dickinson, calmly.
Melvin laughed. “I see myself in that
job.”
“I mean what I say,” went on Dickinson.
“When I took the captaincy of the track team,
it was only on condition that I should have no
trouble about business matters. So they appointed
Saville. Now that he’s gone, I must
have another man just as trustworthy.”
“That’s mere flattery,” replied Dick, still
jesting. “I’m too old a fish to nibble at that
kind of a bait.”
Dickinson grew indignant. “I’m not flattering.
I know that if you undertake the thing,
it will be well done.”
“But I don’t want it,” pleaded Melvin, serious
at last. “There are twenty fellows who
would be delighted to serve, who would do just
as well as I. Besides, I play football, and
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who ever heard of a football player acting as
manager?”
“I played too, didn’t I, but that doesn’t
release me from the captaincy. I’m sure I’d
like to get out of the thing as much as you.”
“A man who can do a quarter in fifty seconds
can’t expect to get out of it.”
“Say forty!” exclaimed Dickinson, angrily.
“You may as well.”
Dick laughed. There was nothing so certain
to arouse Dickinson’s ire as the assumption that
he was a marvelous runner whose records could
be counted on to move in a sliding scale downward
with no particular limit in sight. This
sensitiveness, due partly to the boy’s extreme
modesty, partly to his fear of disappointing such
high expectations, his comrades had played on
to their amusement more than once.
“I think I’ll get out altogether,” said the
runner, gloomily.
“You can’t,” said Melvin; “the school
wouldn’t let you.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I will do,” Dickinson
declared, giving the arm of the chair a blow
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with his fist. “I’ll insist that you run the mile
again as you did last year.”
“No, sir!” said Melvin, and set his lips.
“You’ll have to if I insist upon it. You
don’t play baseball, and you have nothing at
all to do in the spring. I can bring so much
pressure to bear upon you that you simply can’t
resist.”
To this Melvin made no immediate reply, but
quietly pondered.
“What do you think, Wrenn?” said Dickinson,
turning to Varrell, who had been a silent
witness to the conversation. “Isn’t he just the
man to hold the confidence of the school? And
he couldn’t be expected to run if he were manager,
could he?”
“Of course not,” replied Varrell, promptly.
“Then will you be my assistant and help me
collect the money?” demanded Melvin, turning
to the last speaker.
But Varrell was not easily caught. “You
don’t need any assistant,” he replied, with a
grin. “You’re equal to it all yourself. The
Athletic Association wouldn’t elect me, anyway.”
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“Don’t be too sure of that,” remarked
Dickinson.
The trio parted with the question still unsettled.
“That was great generalship,” said
Dickinson to himself, exultantly, as he limped
downstairs. “He’s scared as death of the mile
run. I guess I’ll land him.”
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CHAPTER II || ON THE ICE
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As Dickinson foresaw, Melvin yielded to
the pressure brought to bear upon him, and resigned
himself to the thankless task of managing
the track team. The election was held a week
after Thanksgiving, arousing but a lukewarm
interest. With fine ice on the river, and the
Christmas holidays close at hand, few had more
than a thought for the distant spring. Even
the problems of the baseball season were as yet
but lightly mentioned. There was a general
optimism in the air that year at Seaton which
carried everything before it, like the high tides
of confidence which sometimes sweep over the
stock-market. It made little difference who
were captains or managers; this was Seaton’s
year; the teams were bound to win. Only a
few of the wiser heads—perhaps not all the
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captains and managers themselves—understood
fully the danger of such a mood.
If the task of athletic manager proved to
Melvin for the time being a sinecure, another
office which was suddenly thrust upon him was
quite the opposite. No one knew exactly how
the hockey rivalry started, or who were the first
to fan it into flame. It was just the kind of
contest most likely to arise where boys gather
from every part of the country, each loyal to
his home and state, and each ready to boast
superiority, and defend the boast with tongue
and muscle. Dick had hardly been twice on
the ice when the hockey players began to pair
off into New England and Western teams. By
some natural agreement the Hudson River
was made the boundary line,—a rather unfair
division, as it afterwards proved, for the New
Englanders included considerably more than half
the skaters. At first the rivalry was general
and unorganized; then teams were more carefully
picked; and finally, as the victory wavered
from East to West in these miscellaneous
engagements, and enthusiasm and pugnacious
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patriotism spread, the school was sifted for
experts, champion teams were chosen, and a
day set for a single decisive contest. It was
then that Dick found to his surprise that he was
appointed captain of the Western team.
Sands, the captain of the school nine, who
lived in Chicago, brought him the news.
“How absurd!” cried Dick, aghast. “Why,
I’m no hockey player. There must be a dozen
fellows better than I.”
“They think you’ll be the best leader, anyway,”
returned Sands; “and as there’s no one
else eligible whom the fellows will follow, you’ll
just have to take it. When a man handles a
football as you did last fall, he’s supposed to be
capable of anything. Don’t try for the nine,
please. You can’t play ball on a reputation,
and I should hate to have to fire you from the
squad.”
Sands threw himself on the sofa, and waited
for an answer.
“There’s no danger of that,” replied Melvin,
unruffled. “I don’t play ball. As for the
hockey business, I’m quite willing to act as
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leader, if it’s understood that I make no pretensions
to being a crack.”
He pondered a moment and then went on:
“What material is there? Curtis and Toddy
don’t live in New England. That gives us four
solid men for a nucleus.”
“You’re out there,” Sands answered gloomily.
“Curtis lives in New York and Todd in Brooklyn,
and both are east of the Hudson.”
Melvin looked serious. “Then they’ll be on
the other side. I don’t like that. I’ve stood
side by side with John Curtis in so many hard
fights that it seems like treachery to play against
him. I really don’t want to do it.”
Sands laughed. “That’s you all over. You
tackle everything big and little in deadly earnest
as if you were fighting the battle of Gettysburg
all by yourself. This isn’t a Hillbury
game; it’s a kind of lark.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about that kind of a
lark. When you begin, it’s a joke; before
you’re through, it’s a fight for blood.”
“What do you think of my case?” replied
Sands. “I have one brother in Yale
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and another in Harvard, and both on the
teams.”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Melvin. “How
do they contrive to avoid scrapping?”
“They never discuss college matters at all.
When I’m with one, he urges me to go to Yale;
when the other gets hold of me, he talks Harvard;
when we are all together, they cut the
subject.”
Dick still meditated. Sands tried another
tack.
“The New Englanders are talking big. Curtis
says the Greasers will wish they’d stayed on
the plains when his team’s through with them.”
“Did he really say that?” asked Dick,
straightening up.
“He did, and Toddy told Marks the Yanks
would clean us off the ice so quickly you’d think
they’d used Sapolio.”
“He must consider us either sandless or
mighty green,” said Dick.
“And he’s more than half right, too,” replied
Sands, “as far as the greenness is concerned. It’s
one thing to play with a mob in the old-fashioned
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go-as-you-please way, and quite another to
run a regular team of seven, with complicated
rules, and lifts and shoots and body checks and
passes and on-side and off-side play, and all the
tricks of the new game.”
“I don’t believe he’ll find us as simple as we
look,” replied Melvin, as he opened a drawer and
took out a sheet of paper. “I’ll take the captaincy,
provisionally at any rate; and we’ll call
out candidates this very afternoon. I’ll post the
notice as soon as I can write it. See all the fellows
you can; tell them the Yanks are crowing,
and we’ll have a big push and lots of zeal. Do
you know any hockey experts on our side of the
river?”
“The only crack I’ve heard of is a fellow
named Bosworth, but he’s on the other side.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Melvin; “I don’t like
him.”
In answer to the captain’s call a score of enthusiasts
gathered on the upper river. Varrell
was among them, and Sands, and Burnett, and
several heavy men who seemed promising for
forwards, and a little, wiry, dark-haired fellow
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from Minneapolis named Durand, whom Dick
immediately picked out as likely to prove a
steady player on the second team. The first
task was to find who were well used to the
game, and who needed special instruction; the
second, to set the experienced to coach the inexperienced;
the third, to divide the men into
squads, set several games going, and watch the
work. Finally, the captain chose a trial seven,
gave the scrub an extra man, and tried a ten-minute
half.
Little Durand and Varrell, who had never impressed
his classmates as an athlete, found themselves
on the scrub. Varrell took coverpoint
and Durand put himself among the forwards.
The puck was faced and started on its erratic,
whimsical journey, darting like a wild thing
back and forth, up and down. Before the game
seemed really well begun, the circular piece of
rubber came within Varrell’s sweep, and clung
to the heel of his stick. He whirled to the right
to dodge Barnes, passed across to little Durand
when Melvin blocked his way, took the puck
again from Durand as the latter was stopped in
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his turn, and then, with a swing and a snap, shot
it hard at the posts. The goal-tender brought
his feet together as quickly as he could, but not
quite quickly enough; the puck was already
past him, flying knee-high over the ice like a
swallow skimming the ground.
“Centre again!” cried Melvin, surprised and
vexed at the ease with which the thing was
done. “Brace up, Sands,” he called encouragingly
to the goal-keeper. “Accidents will happen;
they won’t do it again.”
The first forwards did better for a time, driving
the puck down by sheer force through the
intimidated second defence. Twice they shot
for goal and missed, and then Varrell got a
chance again and with a kind of scoop with stick
directly in front, lifted the puck in a long beautiful
arch twenty feet high to the farther end.
Sands sent it back again with almost as good
a lift. A lucky second stopped it, passed it to
Varrell who nursed it along in a strange, wabbling
course, and delivered it safely to Durand.
The latter swept ahead in turn, and then while
Melvin was wondering in what direction Durand
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was going to wheel, Varrell took the puck again
and shot a beautiful goal right under the captain’s
own nose.
Sands and Melvin and Varrell trudged back
to recitation together. “Where did you learn
to play?” asked Sands. “You handle a stick
like a professional.”
“I spent last year at a Canadian boarding-school,”
answered Varrell. “There was good
ice for months, and hockey was about the only
game we had.”
“You and Durand played the whole game
for the second. What a squirmer the little
rascal is! He doesn’t weigh more than a hundred
and ten, and yet you can’t knock him over
to save you.”
“He checks low,” said Dick, “and is firm
on his feet. But he’s awfully light. I doubt
if he has much staying power.”
“I think you’re wrong,” said Varrell. “I’ve
seen that kind before; they never get tired.”
In the next day’s practice, Varrell and Durand
being on the scrub, the score at the end of the
first half was even. In the second half the two
.bn 038.png
.pn +1
men played with the first team, and the scrub
defence was kept so busy that the game seemed
to centre around their goal-posts, and Melvin
had finally to transfer Sands to the other
side to give him a share in the practice. To
furnish some test of endurance, the length of
the half was doubled. When time was called,
Durand was bobbing and twisting and checking
and shooting as busily as ever, while one of
the big forwards was obviously fagged, and
Melvin himself felt that his ankles were rebelling
at the unusual strain.
That settled the question of the team; Varrell
and Durand had earned their places upon
it. Two or three days later a meeting of the
team was held to receive Melvin’s resignation.
“I’ve got the team together,” he said, “and
with that my duty is done. The best captain
for us now is the man who knows most hockey
and can teach us the most; I’m not that
man.”
The players at first expostulated; then finding
that Melvin was in earnest, very sensibly
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
did what they knew he wanted them to do,—elected
Varrell captain.
“I think it’s a mistake,” said Sands to Barnes,
as they came down the dormitory stairs. “Nobody
knows Varrell. But there’s no use arguing
with Melvin about a thing of this kind.
He’s one of those obstinately honest fellows
who stand up so straight that they fall backwards.”
“You dropped the Greaser captaincy like
a hot shot,” quoth John Curtis on the way
out from chapel, as he grabbed Melvin by the
coat collar with the familiarity of an old crony,
and grinned in his face. “Knew you were going
to get licked, didn’t you? You’re a foxy
one.”
Dick looked up and caught a fleeting troubled
look on the face of Varrell, who stood eying
them intently some distance away. “I wasn’t
good enough,” he said aloud, as if Varrell could
hear him. “On a team like ours, I’m content
to fight in the ranks.”
As John did not understand this, he merely
uttered an incredulous “Oho!” and, giving his
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
classmate a slap on the shoulder to convey
the impression that he was not to be fooled,
went outside to consider the answer more fully
and wonder if the Greasers were really trying
to spring some new trick upon the Yanks.
Melvin swung into the Greek room and opened
his Homer with a chuckle of pride. “That
would pass for a Delphic response. He doesn’t
know what I meant. And he won’t know until
the game,” he added, with the old determined
look coming back into his face.
.bn 041.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch03
CHAPTER III || THE BATTLE
.sp 2
Varrell took to the management of the team
with a quietness and assurance that put hope
into the hearts of the small but determined band
which represented the great West. The few
days that were left for practice were used to the
utmost. In the morning the captain found time
to show individual players about shooting and
lifting and stopping shots. In the afternoon he
drilled the team in passing and dodging and
checking. There was a little murmuring when
a big forward was taken out of the game because
he was uncertain on his skates; and more still
when another was relegated to the list of substitutes
for playing his own game instead of fitting
into the scheme for team work. But Varrell’s
answer was conclusive: “Our only chance to
win is by team play. We have no stars, and on
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
their team are two or three men who have played
in the best city rinks. United we win; scattered
we lose.” The murmurers said no more.
That last Saturday before the Christmas holidays
was clear and cold. The course had been
chosen on the river where high banks ran nearly
parallel twenty yards apart. The snow, which
had been cleared away the day before, was piled
up behind the goal-posts, forming end barriers
sixty yards from each other, and completing,
with the river banks, a natural enclosure of
about the regular rink size.
.sp 2
.if h
.il fn=i043.jpg w=535px id=i043
.ca
The Western contingent were established among the pines\
on the right.—Page 26.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: The Western contingent were established among the pines
on the right.—Page 26.]
.if-
.sp 2
On the banks gathered the patriotic factions,—the
New Englanders in the open field on the
left, swaggering merrily about their fires and
hurling derisive cheers across the ice to the
Western contingent, who were established among
the pines on the right. This latter band of supporters,
though weaker in numbers, had, from
their position, a certain advantage which they
made the most of. They swarmed into the trees
with impromptu banners; when they were out-cheered,
they devised an unintelligible chant
which made up for lack of voices; and, finally,
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
Tompkins of Montana developed a weird, penetrating
yell, something between a whoop and a
scream, which no one on the opposite bank could
imitate or match, and which he uttered at impressive
intervals from the upper branches of the
tallest pine.
Yet, with all this show of patriotism, the
noisy rivalry seemed quite free from bitterness.
The gibes flew back and forth; there were cheers
and counter cheers and chants, and Montana
hoots from the pine tree, but the mood was of
frolic, not of fight. For the spectators it was a
lark, pure and simple; hardly any one really
cared at the outset what the result was to be.
On the ice the spirit was different. Dick
looked into John Curtis’s face and, behind the
patronizing grin, read very clearly a poorly
masked defiance. Todd, the Yank forward end,
fingered his stick nervously over the ice as he
waited for the call to places, and on his cheeks
appeared the telltale white spots which Dick
had seen before in the great football games
when Toddy had set his teeth and fought for
ground by the inch. Bosworth, the Yank coverpoint,
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
leaned scowling on his stick, eying his
opponents with sombre malevolence.
“They are fighters, not players,” said Dick to
himself, disapprovingly. “They seem to think
they’re out against Hillbury.”
And it did not occur to him that his own men
looked equally fierce and determined. Sands
stood ready at goal, but he had not a word for the
boy who was beside him waiting to take his
sweater when the game was called. Varrell was
moving about with the quiet confidence of a master,
which is more impressive to an opponent than
noisy display. And as for Melvin himself, one
did not need to be told that his whole heart was
in the contest. The school knew well that what
Melvin did, he did with all his might; a stranger
would have read determination in the open
face. Little Durand was about the only one of the
fourteen who seemed to share the mood of the spectators.
He flourished and circled about, chattering
gayly up to the very moment of beginning.
The preliminaries were soon arranged.
“Ready!” called the captains, and a moment
later, at the first sound of the referee’s whistle,
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
the two forwards were scraping and twisting
to secure the puck on the “face-off.” Curtis
got it, or thought he had; but before he could
really call it his, a Greaser blocked his play, and
Durand, dexterously picking out the puck, swept
it across to Rawle, who dribbled it along, passed
back to Durand, received it again, and lost it in
the crush at the Yank goal. In another moment
it came flying through the air on a lift, far down
in the Greaser defence field.
Dick succeeded in stopping it and sending
it on toward Varrell. The Greaser captain was
off-side; but he allowed his opponent just to
touch the puck, and then with a sudden swing
to one side he was off down the ice, sweeping
the puck with him. The first opponent he
dodged. Big Curtis, who was next in order,
made him pass; but the exchange gave him the
puck again, and after several quick diagonal
passes with Durand that brought them near the
Yank goal, Varrell gave his stick a sudden hard
flourish, and the puck shot like an arrow between
the goal-posts, grazing the goal-tender’s
knee as it passed.
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
It was all done so quickly, so unexpectedly,
that for a moment the Western supporters under
the pines and in the pines seemed unaware that
their team had scored. Then as the sticks of
the team brandished in air made the fact clear,
a confused mixture of cheers, screeches, whoops,
and catcalls gave proof that the West was both
patriotic and appreciative. On the New England
side indifference seemed to prevail.
“One!” said Sands with joy, as the puck
came back to the centre.
“The first one, you mean,” returned Dick, in
a low tone. “We’re not through yet.”
The next goal came hard. The Eastern team
was heavier and generally stronger, but the
members could not or would not play together;
and if they got the puck down near the Greaser
goal, they usually lost it before the goal was
really threatened. Once a hard shot close at
hand struck Sands in the pit of the stomach,
and the spectators cheered and jeered as the
gasping lad feebly lifted the puck away from
its dangerous proximity to the goal. He had
his breath again in a moment, however, apparently
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
none the worse for his experience. Soon
after, Curtis and Durand came together as both
rushed for the puck at the same time, and the
spectators under the trees cheered wildly as the
little fellow crouched low for the collision, and
the big football player sprawled over him upon
the ice. But Varrell was the objective point
of the strongest attack. Though he played
coverpoint, he had an arrangement with Brown,
one of the forwards, to exchange places on
signal; and the result was that he appeared now
in the defence, now in the attack, apparently
scenting the course the puck was destined to
take, and always equal to the need.
The Yanks grew rougher and more violent.
Todd took to body checking where it was not
necessary; Bosworth, when a Greaser got the
puck away from him, followed on at his heels
with ill-concealed malice, and banged away
viciously at the unlucky man’s shins, even
though it was apparent that the puck was
wholly beyond the pursuer’s reach. Such tactics,
unless checked, are usually the prelude to
rougher play; and Dick, for this reason, was
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
doubly grateful when, from the edge of the
mêlée around the Yank goal-posts, Rawle swiped
the puck through a second time. Play had
hardly been resumed when the referee’s whistle
announced the end of the first half.
As was to be expected, the jubilation under
the pines was earnest and loud. In the opposite
camp, where the neglected fires were dying
away in smoke, quite different conditions prevailed.
A few, with heroic repression of natural
sympathy, still pretended to regard the whole
matter as a joke, in which victory or defeat
meant little or nothing. The great majority,
however, unable to rise to this level, were distinctly
conscious of having in some way been
cheated. They had come out to be amused, and
part of the amusement was to consist in seeing
the impudent Greasers given a sound beating.
And here were their men, including such big
husky athletes as Curtis and Todd, and fellows
who had been glorified as city rink experts, like
Bosworth and Richmond, overthrown by a set
of amateurs.
“Rotten!” said Marks, the connoisseur of
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
sports, as he interviewed Curtis and Todd during
the intermission. “Perfectly rotten! Did
you get us up here to fool us?”
“I didn’t ask you to come,” returned Curtis,
trying to keep his good nature. “If you can
do much better, come out yourself.”
“Oh, I’m no athlete,” rejoined Marks, hastily,
“but I can see what the fault is better than you
do. That Varrell plays most of their game.
You’ve got to use him up. Give them a rougher
game. Push ’em hard. When two of you
start for the puck, let the puck go where it
pleases; just smash at the man. When the
man’s out of the way, you can take your time
about the puck. You’re heavy and have the
advantage.”
“That seems rather mean,” said Curtis.
“Mean!” exclaimed Marks. “Did you ask
a Hillbury man to excuse you when you tackled
him on the football field? I guess not.”
Curtis glanced around the group and read the
looks of approval. “Well, then,” he said finally,
“make it rough, but let’s have fair play,”—his
eye rested on Bosworth as he said this,—“and
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
no low tricks. Everything must be straight and
aboveboard.”
When the game began again, the new spirit
was immediately apparent. The Yanks got the
puck and tried to drive it down by weight, but
the off-side rule checked them. Durand still
stole the puck from behind their sticks and put
his shoulder so low that he could not be overturned;
while Varrell still hovered on the edge
of the scrimmage and drew the puck as a magnet
draws a scrap of iron. Despite the heavy
body checking, the play lingered about the Yank
goal, for the Yank forwards did not follow the
puck back closely on the defence, and Melvin or
Sands soon sent it into Yank territory again.
Rawle tried for goal, and failed. Durand missed
in his turn, and then Varrell got the puck thirty
yards away, and while his opponents were
watching for a pass, by a long beautiful shoot
made the third score for his side.
And now the Yanks’ patience gave out. Rules
or no rules, they were determined that their
opponents should make no more goals.
Again Varrell took the puck, and with his
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
familiar tricky movement of the wrist started
down the ice.
“Look out for Bosworth,” yelled Durand,
whom Todd was obstructing at the side-lines.
But Varrell’s dull ears served him ill. Bosworth,
who was close at the Greaser’s heels, thrust his
stick suddenly between Varrell’s rapidly moving
legs and threw him with a crash to the ice, right
under the feet of Richmond, who was speeding
up from another direction. Richmond went
down, too, tripping hard against the prostrate
form.
The Greasers hissed, the Yankees groaned.
John Curtis, be it said to his credit, ordered Bosworth
from the ice before the referee could interfere;
but the advantage of the “accident,” as
Bosworth called it, was on the side of the
Yankees. Varrell was helped off the scene,
barely able to lift his leg.
The teams went on with six men each. With
Varrell the Greasers had lost the mainspring of
their attack. Superior weight and superior
physical strength began to tell. The puck kept
returning to the Greaser defence. Then came a
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
scrimmage before the goal, a quick shoot from
the outskirts of the crowd, and the Yanks were
exulting over their first score.
“Only four minutes more,” pleaded Dick, skating
down the Greaser line. “Hold them that
long for Varrell’s sake. We can do it, if we will.”
And the weary six rallied once more. Durand
was knocked about like the puck itself, but he
stuck gamily to his work, and zigzagged and
circled and dodged as before. Sands saved one
goal with his hands, another with his feet. Dick
met body check with body check, and lifted high
and sure. But never before had he listened so
anxiously for the sound of the referee’s whistle.
When it came, and he knew certainly that the
game was won, he flung his stick into the air
and led the gathering Greasers in a long, hearty
cheer for Varrell, who, lying on the meadow
bank bedded in Yank blankets, was watching
the result with his heart in his mouth.
“Great work you did this afternoon,” said
Tompkins two hours later, popping his head into
Melvin’s room. “Any part of you that isn’t
black and blue?”
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
“I didn’t suffer much,” replied Melvin. “It
wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
“I hope not,” said Tompkins. “Do you
know what battle in Roman history the fray
reminded me of?”
Dick shook his head. “I don’t know any history.
I passed it off last year.”
“The battle of the Ostrogoths and Visigoths,”
replied Tompkins, wisely. “It’s a case of history
repeating itself. The Visigoths won both
times.” And then he added, “I don’t believe
the Goths would have been guilty of some of
the things I saw done on the ice this afternoon.”
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
CHAPTER IV || PHIL’S RESOLUTION
.sp 2
The Christmas holidays were over. Varrell
limped no more, and Dickinson, who had long
since discarded his cane, walked with quick,
elastic step as of old, apparently completely
recovered. A few new boys had entered school.
One of these, who was somewhat rough in appearance
and who struggled clumsily with the
lessons of a lower class, was said to be a
pitcher. He was older than most of the students,
in years rather a man than a boy. This
fact was not in itself remarkable, for there is
no age limit at Seaton, and many an honest,
earnest fellow who after his twentieth year has
conceived a longing for an education has
found opportunity and encouragement there.
But Flanahan seemed not entirely of this
class.
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
“What about him, Sands?” asked Dick.
“He looks suspicious.”
“Suspicious! What do you mean by that?”
demanded the captain. “He isn’t the youngest
fellow in school, of course; but he isn’t the oldest,
either. Why shouldn’t he have a chance for an
education as well as any one else?”
“He should if he really wants it,” replied Melvin.
“He looks as if he had knocked around
on a good many diamonds before coming here.”
“Do you mean that he’s a professional?”
“Yes, something of that kind,—semi-professional
would hit it better, I think.”
“If he’s a professional, I don’t know it,” said
Sands. “I didn’t get him here. He says he’s
an amateur, and he has certainly played on some
good amateur nines. He can pitch, and we need
a pitcher. That’s all I know about it.”
“And all you want to know,” said Melvin,
with a smile.
“Yes, all I want to know,” repeated Sands.
Melvin passed to another topic: “Phil would
like to try for the nine. Is there any chance
for him?”
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
“None at all,” replied Sands, promptly.
“That’s a fine way to choose a team!” retorted
Melvin. “You haven’t tried him and
yet you say he has no show. We searched
high and low for football material,—fairly
scoured the school, and here you are deciding
offhand against a fellow whose playing you’ve
never seen. No wonder the nine gets beaten.”
Sands’s face reddened: “I didn’t say I
wouldn’t try him. I’ll try anything that offers.
I only said that he hadn’t any chance.”
“Have you seen him play?”
“Yes; he can throw pretty well and field
fairly, but he isn’t old enough or big enough
or strong enough or experienced enough for the
school nine.”
“Well, he’ll grow, won’t he?” persisted Dick.
“Just give him a chance to work up.”
“I’ll give him just the chance I give any one
else and no more,” replied Sands, decisively.
“Every man who makes the nine this year has
got to earn his place, and the fact that Phil is
your chum and a friend of mine will simply
make me harder on him. When I say he
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
hasn’t a chance, I mean that he cannot meet
the standard. He may try as hard as he wants
to.”
They separated at the gymnasium door, each
going to his own part of the locker rooms to
dress. A few minutes later, as Dick was running
upstairs to his regular gymnasium work,
he caught the sound of Sands’s voice exhorting
the squad in the baseball cage. He paused a
moment with a smile of approval on his lips,
as he marked the steady, confident tones, and
recalled the captain’s sturdy resolve to hold to
the merit system in choosing the nine. Then
Flanahan’s lanky figure loomed up by the doorway,
and the smile on Melvin’s face died suddenly
away. He turned abruptly and went on
his way upstairs.
“Phil,” said Melvin that night, as the junior
came in after supper, “should you really like to
try for the nine?”
“Should I!” the boy’s eyes sparkled. “If
I had the ghost of a chance of being kept on
the squad till we got outdoors, I’d say ‘yes’ right
off.”
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
“What can you play best?” asked Melvin.
“I’ve always played in the out-field,” Poole
replied rather humbly. “I’m fairly safe on
flies, and could always throw a little farther
and a little straighter than the other fellows.”
“An out-fielder must be a good hitter or they
won’t keep him. Can you bat?”
“They used to say I had a good eye,” returned
Phil, who was not used to singing his own
praises. “I’m not heavy enough for long hits.”
“If you’re sure on the elements, go in and
try,” said Melvin, “but you must do your
level best. The only way for you to accomplish
anything is just to devote your whole
thought and attention out of study hours to
baseball and nothing but baseball. Do everything
you’re told to do and more. Study yourself
all the time. Get help outside that the
others haven’t. Hang to the squad till they
kick you off, and when that happens, organize
a nine of your own and keep up your practice.
If they call you a fool and a crank, just laugh
and keep on playing. Are you willing to do
all that?”
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
The color deepened on Phil’s cheeks as he
listened. “I’ll do more than that,” he cried;
“I’ll shack balls, I’ll tend the bats, I’ll carry
water, I’ll do anything they put upon me.
I’ll try this year and next and the year after,
but if there’s any baseball in me, I’ll make
the nine before I leave school.”
“Good!” exclaimed the senior, giving the
boy’s hand a squeeze that made the bones
crack. “I don’t know much about baseball,
but that’s the spirit that wins. Only don’t
talk about what you’re going to do. Think
a lot, but keep your thoughts to yourself.
When you play, play with all your might.”
They settled down to the work of the evening.
Occasionally Dick glanced with interest across
the table to see whether the hated Virgil lesson
or the excitement of the new resolution was to
possess Phil’s thoughts. For a time the lad,
with face still flushed, gazed vacantly up toward
the picture moulding. Then with a start and a
slam he opened his Æneid at the fourth book,
and ground away for two steady, patient hours
at the lovelorn wails of the unhappy Dido, in
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
whose fate he had about as much sympathetic
interest as a horse on a coal wagon feels for the
sufferings of the freezing poor.
“I’ll bet on him in the long run,” thought
Dick, as he eyed the determined plodder.
The next day Philip Poole’s name appeared
on the list of candidates for the nine.
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch05
CHAPTER V || A TOUGH PROBLEM
.sp 2
Melvin and Varrell returned from their Greek
recitation together.
“I don’t like the way things are going this
year,” Melvin was saying. “There’s too much
confidence. If the track team wins, it will
be just as expected, with no credit to any one;
if we lose, woe to captain and manager.”
“You’re right,” said Varrell, “but forewarned
is forearmed. Keep cool and reasonable
and see to it that you don’t lose.”
“If it weren’t for Dickinson,” went on Melvin,
“I shouldn’t have taken the thing at all.
You see, I feel a kind of responsibility toward
him because of the way in which I got him
to run last year, so I didn’t like to refuse him.”
“You know I wasn’t here last year,” said
Varrell.
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
“Why, of course! I keep forgetting that
you came this fall. It happened this way.
Martin discovered Dickinson,—you’ve heard
of Martin, haven’t you, of last year’s senior
class?”
Varrell nodded.
“Martin discovered that Dickinson could run,
and Curtis and I got him out for the sports in
the spring and stood sponsors for him until
he had courage enough to stand alone.”
“Won everything last year, didn’t he?”
asked Varrell.
“Quarter and two-twenty, hands down,”
answered Melvin; “but there’s no surety that
he’ll do it again. Besides, no one can say
yet what the effect of that ankle will be.
The doctor thinks it will be as strong as
ever, but I know a sprained ankle is very easy
to sprain again. Without Dickinson we shouldn’t
have much to brag of.”
Both boys turned to their work. Melvin, in
the quiet business-like way with which he had
learned to attack his lessons, opened his trigonometry
on the desk and in a moment was oblivious
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
to all else but the problem which was first
to be solved. Varrell’s stint was of a different
kind,—forty lines of “Macbeth” to be committed
to memory before twelve o’clock. As this involved
much repetition and possible interference
with the trigonometry problem, he retired to the
bedroom, where he could mutter at his ease.
They possessed two very different personalities.
Varrell was tall and slight, his limbs
hardly filled out to their proper roundness, with
a clear-cut, intelligent face and striking gray
eyes that were remarkable, not so much for what
they showed of the character behind them, as
for the power of sight which they seemed to possess.
Ever alert and observant, even when his
face was otherwise at rest, the eyes seemed the
aggressive part of the boy. Their direct glance
was like a ray of concentrated intelligence.
“I like Varrell,” said Tompkins one day, in a
burst of confidence, “except when he looks at
me hard, and then his eyes cut right through me,
and I feel as if he were counting the hairs on the
back of my head.”
Melvin was more substantially built. As he
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
sat at the table, the cloth of his coat sleeves drew
tight over the splendid deltoid and biceps, and
his square, blunt knees showed hardened muscles
rounding out beyond the knee-cap. If his face
lacked the alertness of look so noticeable in Varrell,
it yet had a composure and an air of self-reliance
and honesty that rendered it no less
attractive.
The learner of Shakespeare was restless. The
first five lines were mastered in a chair by the
window, the next five on Melvin’s bed, the third
on Poole’s bed, and the fourth on a second chair.
In the circuit of the room he had learned twenty
lines.
“Another lap and I shall have it,” he said to
himself, gleefully, as he took his place again by
the window.
The outside door opened and Poole came rushing
into the study. “I want to tell you something,
Dick, and I’ve just three minutes before
Latin to tell it in—Whose hat is that?”
“Varrell’s,” said Dick, who had risen from the
desk. “He’s in the bedroom plugging away at
Shakespeare.”
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
“Hello, Varrell,” said Phil, looking in at the
door. “Shakespeare plays havoc with the beds,
doesn’t he?”
“Get out!” cried Varrell, waving him off;
“you rattle me.”
Phil joined Dick on the other side of the
room. Through the open door they could see
the Shakespearean scholar doggedly muttering
over his book.
“Shan’t we disturb him?” asked Phil, hesitating.
“Speak low and there’ll be no danger,” said
Melvin. “His ears aren’t quick.”
The eleven o’clock bell soon broke in on the
conversation, and sent the younger boy flying to
his recitation. Dick sat down at the desk again
and tried to take up his work where he had left
it, but he was apparently in a very unstudious
mood. His pencil no longer moved steadily
over the paper; his gaze rested fitfully now here,
now there, on the various objects before him;
his flushed sober face showed that his thoughts
were hot within him. Finally, he threw down
his pencil in disgust, and sauntering over to the
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
window, leaned his head against the sash and
gazed moodily out.
“He’s a confounded rascal!” exclaimed Varrell,
who had been eying his agitated comrade
over the Shakespeare, “but it’s no fault of yours,
and why do you bother yourself about him?”
“Who?” said Dick, staring at him in amazement.
“Why, Bosworth, of course,” went on Varrell,
coolly; “if what Phil says of him is true, he’s
even a bigger rascal than I always thought
him.”
Dick was nonplussed. His conversation with
Phil had certainly been carried on in a tone too
low to be audible to Varrell in the bedroom.
“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
“Why, that he has been getting some of those
little fellows into his room to play poker and
fleecing them, especially that boy with a short
name with a ‘t’ or a ‘d’ in it.”
“Yes, Eddy,” replied Dick. “He’s in Phil’s
class.” And then, looking curiously at his friend,
he added, “Your hearing is growing surprisingly
good, I must say.”
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
“I’m sorry if I overheard what you meant I
should not know,” said Varrell, flushing. “If
that is the case, I shall certainly try to forget it.”
“Oh, I don’t mind your knowing it,” said
Dick, “I only wish you could tell what we ought
to do about it.”
The clanging bell again interposed its peremptory
summons.
“Twelve o’clock!” cried Varrell, as he made
a dash for his hat, “and only thirty lines. I’ll
bet I’ll be called on for the ten I didn’t learn.”
When Phil had time for longer explanations,
he gave Dick more details of the happenings in
Sibley 15, Bosworth’s room. Eddy, who had
given the information, was in Phil’s class, and
of about Phil’s age. Smarting under a sense of
ill-treatment and desperately perplexed as to
how he was to account for the lost money,
which had been sent him for purchases for the
winter, he had opened his heart to Phil, who in
turn had made haste to unburden himself to his
older and presumably wiser room-mate. Hardly
had he done this, when Eddy repented of his
confidences and tearfully besought his classmate
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
never to speak of it to a living soul. But the
murder was out, and the best Phil could do was
to urge Melvin to guard the secret.
“So, having stolen the fellow’s money, Bosworth
has made him promise not to mention the
fact,” said Melvin.
“Eddy said it was a matter of honor. The
money had been lost in fair play, and he had no
right to speak of it when it might get them all
into trouble.”
“So Bosworth says, I suppose,” said Melvin.
“Yes, that’s it; Bosworth says it’s just a personal
matter between them, and to tell about it
so that it might reach the Faculty would be
simply tale-bearing.”
“What kind of a boy is Eddy?”
“Not very good and not especially bad, but
just weak. He is terribly cut up about the
thing, doesn’t study any, and cries a lot in his
room. I can’t help pitying him, though I don’t
sympathize with him much.”
Dick smiled: “I suppose you’d do differently
in his place.”
Phil grew indignant. “I rather think I
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
should. To begin with, I shouldn’t be in his
place. I wouldn’t touch that Bosworth with a
ten-foot pole. But supposing that I did get into
the scrape, I’d take it as a warning to leave Bosworth
and gambling alone, and write home an
honest letter about the whole business.”
“And that’s the very thing Eddy ought to
do,” said Melvin, giving Phil’s shoulder a slap.
“Why didn’t you tell him so?”
“I did,” replied Phil, “but he is afraid to,
and he wouldn’t listen at all to my idea of telling
Mr. Graham about it without mentioning
Bosworth’s name.”
Dick grinned. Mr. Graham, the principal of
Seaton, ruled the school with a strong hand.
His was not a mailed fist in a velvet glove, but a
strong, dexterous hand gloved in velvet with a mail
back. The whole school saw the steel exterior;
few really appreciated the gentleness of the clasp.
“I suppose they’d be fired if it came out,”
went on Phil.
“They wouldn’t have time to say good-by, or
at least Bosworth wouldn’t. I’m not so certain
about Eddy.”
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
A knock at the door was followed by the
appearance of a head. Seeing that the visitor
was Tompkins, Phil opened his Greek Grammar
and plunged vigorously into study as if he had
no other interest in the world. Tompkins looked
from one sober face to the other, then gave a
glance over Phil’s shoulder at the page of the
open book.
“Metres of Aristophanes! Is that what they
give here to beginners in Greek? If it is, I’m
glad I began out West.”
Phil shut the book with a bang, and replied
half petulantly, half amused that he should have
betrayed himself so easily, “No, it isn’t; I was
thinking.”
“Unpleasant thoughts,” said Tompkins, with
another glance at Melvin’s face. “Well, I guess
I won’t bother you any more to-day.”
There was no reply to this, and the visitor
moved toward the door. As his hand touched
the knob a new thought struck him and he
turned suddenly on the boy.
“You haven’t been losing your money, too,
have you, Phil?”
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
Was it the warm sympathy in the Westerner’s
tone, or relief at finding that others knew the
secret, or natural indignation at an unwarranted
suspicion, that suddenly put to flight the boy’s
reserve? Philip himself could not have told.
“What do you take me for?” he demanded.
“Not on your life!”
“Glad to hear it. Your classmate, Eddy, got
bled pretty deep,” went on Tompkins.
“We were just talking about him,” said Dick.
“It’s a bad case.”
“An easy game for a card sharper,” said
Tompkins, coolly, “and a big piece of folly by a
little fool. Neither the sharper nor the fool
ought to be here,—one’s too dangerous and the
other’s too weak; but if I should go to Grim
and tell him about the thing, and let him do with
the fellow what he really ought to, I suppose I
should never dare to look a boy in the face
again.”
“You probably wouldn’t enjoy life much in
school afterwards,” said Dick, thoughtfully.
“I thought as much,” Tompkins continued in
the same tone. “If he stole or murdered, we
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
could complain to the authorities and have him
arrested; but as he’s only ruining the characters
of a few little boys, it wouldn’t be nice to tell on
him. Great thing, this school honor, when you
understand it! Well, so long!”
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch06
CHAPTER VI || A WESTERN SOLUTION
.sp 2
“Do you think Bosworth’s still keeping it up?”
asked Melvin, as he stood before the fireplace
in Varrell’s room in Hale a day or two later.
“I am sure he is,” said Wrenn. “You can
look right across from this room to his windows
in Sibley. His shades were down close all last
evening, and he doesn’t usually lower them,
even when he’s dressing.”
“Tompkins’s conduct is beyond me,” said
Melvin. “He seemed as indignant as any of
us when the story came out, but I’ve seen him
twice in the last two days hanging around with
that gambler, as friendly as if he had known
him for years.”
“I thought Tommy was a pretty decent fellow,”
mused Varrell. “There’s no counting on
these wild Westerners.”
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
“Well, what do you think?” questioned Dick,
returning to the matter that had brought him
over to Hale. “Are we bound to sit quietly
and see Bosworth play his faro tricks on these
little fellows? The next step will be to get
them all in debt to him, and then he can keep
bleeding them as they have money by promising
them a chance to get even again.”
“And that’s not all,” said Varrell; “they’ll
have to write lies to their families in order to
get extra money to pay up with; and when
they get used to lying about one thing, they’ll
lie about another, and keep on lying till there’s
no truth left in them. A little kid that’s tough
is about the meanest and most pitiable individual
you can find. He goes down hill like
a ball rolling down an inclined plane,—friction
disregarded.” The terms of physics occurred
naturally to Varrell, who took especial delight
in the study.
“Suppose we talk to the boys,” said Melvin,
tentatively.
“It would probably do no good. The little
fools don’t know enough to take advice.”
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
“Then we must deal directly with Bosworth,”
said Melvin, decisively. “It’s an awfully unpleasant
job to tackle,—makes you feel as if
you were interfering in another fellow’s private
affairs, and setting yourself up to be better
than any one else; but the thing must be
stopped.”
Varrell nodded in grave approval. “There’s
nothing else to be done, and you’re the man
for the job.”
“Why not you?” asked Dick, shortly.
“Because,” replied Varrell, with a smile of
satisfaction, “you are Richard Melvin, the President
of the senior class and the most famous
full-back that ever shed glory—”
“Cut that out!” interrupted Melvin, authoritatively.
“This is a serious matter, and we
can’t afford to have any confounded nonsense
mixed up with it.”
Varrell’s smile faded reluctantly away. “I
am serious. You can do the thing without giving
the fellow a chance to face you down or
put you in a ridiculous light with the rest of the
school, or advertise your cheek. You hold too
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
strong a position to run any risk. I’m a newcomer
and practically unknown.”
“Why shouldn’t both of us go?” said Melvin,
after an interval of consideration, still shrinking
from an odious task.
Again his friend had a decisive reply. “No,
he will take it better and it will do more good
if you go quietly by yourself, as if you alone
knew it.”
Dick looked at his watch. “I think you are
right, and if you are, the sooner the job is over,
the better; so here goes!”
With these words he clapped his cap on his
head and started for the door. Before Varrell
could raise himself from his armchair and get
across the room, he heard his visitor jumping
quickly down the stairs.
“Oh, Dick!”
“Well, what?” came from the landing below.
“Remember that he’s slippery. Give it to
him straight. Don’t let him lie out of it.”
“Never you fear!” called back Melvin, as
he plunged on down the stairs.
Bosworth was sitting at his desk with a
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
book open before him. His thoughts, however,
were not on his lesson, as was clearly shown by
the moody, fitful way in which his eyes wandered
from mantel to window. His face wore
a gloomy and bitter look, as if he were brooding
on some particularly disagreeable event of recent
occurrence that still rankled deep. His expression
brightened as Melvin opened the door in
response to the usual “come in”; for as Varrell
had said, the senior was a well-known man, and
Bosworth, who valued popularity far more than
the ordinary virtues, had a moment of gratified
vanity in the thought that Melvin was honoring
him with a call. The pleasure was of short
duration.
“No, I think I won’t sit down,” said the visitor.
“My business is a rather unpleasant one
which I can perhaps better attend to standing.”
Bosworth’s face hardened.
“I understand that you have been gambling
with some of the little boys and getting their
money away from them.”
“I’d like to know who says that!” exclaimed
Bosworth, indignantly. “It’s a lie.”
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
“I’m sorry to hear you deny it,” returned
Melvin, calmly. “The information was pretty
direct.”
“It’s a lie, just the same,” answered Bosworth,
fiercely, his pale face becoming in spots still
paler. “It’s no affair of yours, anyway.”
“That’s what I expected you to say. In one
sense it isn’t; in another it is not only my
affair but that of every fellow here who feels
any responsibility for the moral condition and
honor of the school. It’s a contemptible trick
to teach these little fellows to gamble. The
result can’t be anything but bad for them, even
if they don’t get into trouble from it here in
school. And you know what would happen if
the Faculty got on to it.”
“I suppose you’re on your way to let them
know,” sneered Bosworth.
“No, I’m not!” retorted Melvin, taking a
step forward with clenched fists, and then checking
himself a moment to master the indignation
that was boiling up in his throat. “But mind
you, I don’t say what I won’t do if you keep this
thing up. It’s not impossible that I may turn
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
tale-bearer, but first I’ll try an easier method.
Quit this thing, and quit it right off, or I’ll give
you the worst thrashing you ever had,—and I’ll
keep on thrashing you till you’re glad to sneak
out of town.”
“Huh!” said Bosworth, contemptuously, but
retreating to a safe position behind the table.
“I’m not the only one that gambles,” he added
significantly.
“I won’t discuss that,” retorted Melvin.
“You’re the leader, and that’s enough.”
He turned toward the door. “I hope I’ve
made myself clear. If you want to get hurt—badly
hurt—just try another game with the
little boys.”
With that, Melvin shut the door and shot
downstairs as if to put the whole scene as
quickly as possible behind him. He kept away
from Varrell’s room in order to avoid the necessity
of repeating the conversation, but with all
his efforts it insisted on repeating itself over
and over in his own mind, in exaggerated detail,
until he was finally left with the uncomfortable
impression that he had been ugly and had made
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
savage threats and said ill-considered things, and
that Bosworth had merely denied and sneered.
“It’s just as I thought last year,” he said to
himself, dismally, “when Grim was so serious
about the responsibility and the opportunity
which the older fellows have. I felt then it was
all nonsense; I know it’s so, now. The fellow
who undertakes to make things better in school
just renders himself unhappy and gets himself
disliked.”
And then he felt again the impulse of the
spirit that had carried him through so many
months of discouragement to the final triumph
of the great game. Unpleasant though it might
be, his course was right; and having started on
it, he would abide the consequences without
wavering or shrinking. With this feeling uppermost,
he marched off serenely to his recitation.
If he could have had a glimpse into Bosworth’s
room and seen there the most frightened boy in
school, he would not have wasted so much time
in misgivings. His visit had had its effect.
The next morning Phil did not return promptly
from his recitation. When he did come, there
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
was a glint of pleased excitement in his very
expressive eyes that aroused his room-mate’s
curiosity.
“What is it, Phil,” asked Dick. “Encouragement
from Sands?”
The boy’s countenance fell. “Not much! I’m
not likely to get encouragement from him. My
news is about something else. Eddy has got his
money back.”
For an instant Dick enjoyed a sweet vision
of a gambler, frightened into reform by bold
threats, making righteous restitution to his victims.
But the vision merely appeared and vanished,
like the landscape under a lightning flash
on a dark stormy night, leaving the boy more in
the dark than ever.
“Got his money back! You don’t mean that
Bosworth has given it back to him?”
“I’m not exactly certain about that,” said
Phil. “All I know is that Tompkins came to
him, asked him how much Bosworth had got
from him, took out the money, said it came from
Bosworth, and then made Eddy promise not to
play again, and gave it to him.”
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
Dick whistled. “What in the world had
Tommy to do with it?”
“Didn’t I tell you that I don’t know!” said
Phil, impatiently. “The main thing is that
Eddy’s got his money back and has promised to
keep out of such things in the future.”
“It’s mysterious,” said Dick.
“Mysterious!” echoed the boy. “I don’t care
about the mystery. It’s a low-down business,
and Eddy is mighty lucky to get out of the
hole. The worst thing about it is, that it will
do him no good. I can’t really sympathize
with the fellow. He hasn’t any moral backbone
at all.”
“You ought to try to stiffen him up,” said
the wise upper-class man.
“Stiffen him up! stiffen an eel!” returned
the disgusted junior. “The only way you can
do that is to kill it.”
If Phil was superior to curiosity, Melvin was
not and Varrell was not. Together they lay in
wait for the Westerner as he came whistling
upstairs, and in a trice had him in the room,
with the door held tight closed behind Melvin’s
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
square shoulders, undergoing a cross-examination.
But Tompkins proved a most unwilling witness.
He declared that he had no information
to give. When they threatened to choke him,
he gave them a bland smile; when told he
would not be let out for dinner, he averred that
he wasn’t hungry; when promised imprisonment
for all day, he announced himself wholly
content, as he had a lot of hard problems to do
in which he should be delighted to have Melvin’s
assistance. At last Varrell abandoned the
examination and began to talk athletics. Presently
he asked Melvin whether he had found Bosworth
in when he visited him the day before.
“Why, yes,” replied Dick. “Didn’t I—”
A wink from Varrell stopped him.
“Tell us about it.”
As Dick, prompted by Varrell’s shrewd questions,
launched out on a detailed account of
yesterday’s interview, Tompkins passed quickly
from assumed indifference to open interest, and
from open interest to self-forgetfulness. With
the end of the story he burst into a shout.
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
“Well, that’s what I call rubbing it in! and
the poor chap hadn’t a cent to his name!”
Varrell rose with solemnity. “Look here,
Tommy, that requires explanation. Whatever
he is, the man isn’t a poor chap in any good
sense. He doesn’t deserve any pity unless
because of the way in which he gave back
the money, and that you’re bound to tell us.
You’ve said too much now to keep the rest.”
Tompkins was bursting with merriment.
The secret he could keep, but not the joke.
“I’ll tell you two fellows, not because you’ve
made me, or because it’s any of your business,
but just because it’s so blamed funny that I can’t
keep it in, and you’re the safest people to trust
it to. I made up to Bosworth and got him to ask
me to play with him. I reluctantly consented,
and before we were through I’d cleaned him
all out and had the money to give back to the
kids. Then the very next day Dick pounced
upon him and threatened his life, and he hadn’t
a dollar of his ill-gotten gains about him. That’s
where the joke comes in. It’s rich!” and he
burst out again in a noisy laugh.
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
But neither Melvin nor Varrell seemed to
appreciate the joke.
“And that’s the way you got the rascal
to give back the money?” asked Melvin,
aghast.
“Yes, why not?” said Tompkins. “Tar the
devil with his own stick!”
Varrell looked at Melvin, and Melvin looked
at Varrell, and neither knew what to reply.
“How could you do it?” said Melvin, at last.
“Don’t you know that it’s totally against all
rules? They’d fire you without a moment’s
notice, if they knew you played.”
“They won’t know it,” said Tompkins, coolly.
“Bosworth isn’t going to tell them, and I’m not
and you’re not. Besides, I don’t play. This
was only a special emergency.”
“But how could you do it?” repeated Varrell,
who considered the practical side, as Melvin the
moral. “Bosworth must be an old hand at the
game.”
Tompkins was standing by the door which
Melvin had long since abandoned. He turned
on the threshold, and holding his head tightly
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
framed between jamb and door, he answered
with a patronizing air: “Oh, Bosworth plays a
pretty good game for a tenderfoot. But poker?
Why, they teach it in the public schools in
Butte!”
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.if h
.il fn=i089.jpg w=600px id=i089
.ca
A Corner in Sands’s Room.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: A Corner in Sands’s Room.]
.if-
.sp 2
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch07
CHAPTER VII || IN THE BASEBALL CAGE
.sp 2
The poker incident caused repeated discussions
between the classmates. Melvin was sure
Tommy’s method was wrong, though he could
not suggest a satisfactory substitute except to
thrash Bosworth until he made amends; while
Varrell, though disapproving of poker in general,
maintained that in this exceptional case the
means were excusable. Neither succeeded in
bringing the other over to his view.
It happened that Tompkins, who was not
bothered by scruples as to his course, was the
chief sufferer by it; for additional victims kept
turning up with sad tales to have their losses
made good by the generous restorer, until
Tommy had parted not only with his questionable
winnings, but with the surplus of his honestly
acquired quarterly allowance as well.
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
This latter fact he did not confide to his friends.
It seemed to detract somewhat from the excellence
of the joke.
Meantime the baseball practice in the cage
was taking the usual course. Besides Flanahan,
two or three other fellows were pitching, among
them Tompkins. The latter had been pulled
out of obscurity by some enthusiast who discovered
that he had had experience in the box,
and so reluctant Tommy was now forced to
take his regular turn in the cage with the rest.
Phil did his work with all the energy he possessed,
not because he had any real hope, but
because his heart and ambition were in the contest,
and even the prospect that the battle would
go against him did not take away his joy in the
fighting.
Flanahan had good sharp curves and high
speed. His best balls were a jump at the
shoulder and a fine abrupt drop. Tompkins
had fewer curves at his command, but he could
vary his speed in a most deceptive way, and he
showed an ability to put the ball where he
wanted it and where the batsman did not like
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
to have it come. Another advantage Tompkins
possessed lay in his coolness; gibes from batters
or spectators never hurried or confused him,
while Flanahan’s quick temper went to pieces
under slight provocation. Smith, the best class-team
pitcher of the last season, was a third
candidate, but ranked unquestionably after
Tompkins.
Flanahan’s curves were the delight and admiration
of the spectators, who would cluster
around the catcher’s end of the cage when
Flanahan was pitching, and express their appreciation
by manifold ejaculations. Such wonderful
rises and drops and shoots, the Hillburyites
would certainly find impossible to hit. And so did
the Seatonians, for that matter, though the result
was really due as much to the wildness of the
pitching, and the consequent fear of getting hit
on the part of the batsmen, as to the skill of the
pitcher. For the most part Flanahan preferred
to let some one else pitch for the batting, while
he practiced by himself.
The first time Phil came up to bat Flanahan,
he had the misfortune to get hit. Phil was a
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
right-hander who batted left, and Flanahan’s
wide out off the plate caught the boy in the
back as he turned to dodge, and inflicted
a painful bruise. The result was to give him a
scare that prevented his facing the pitcher for a
fortnight, and confirmed Sands in the impression
that he was too young and green to be of any
use on the school nine. As the cage practice is
necessarily limited to pitching, batting, sliding,
and handling grounders, and Phil as a candidate
for the out-field was not given much chance at
grounders, he seemed to have excellent prospect
of being dropped from the squad among the first.
It was Wallace who saved him from this
ignominy.
Wallace was the head coach for baseball at
the great university near by,—a graduate a
year or two out of college, with an enthusiasm
as unprofessional as his knowledge of the game
was complete and technical. He could pitch
and field and hit; he was a master of the ritual
of that mysterious coaching book in which are
written all possible details of play under all
possible circumstances, and on which the Varsity
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
candidates are examined for their positions
as a candidate for a degree is quizzed by the
specialists who sit in commission over him.
Indeed, Wallace was more of a master than the
original authors, for the supplement was of his
own making. Though not a Seatonian himself,
his baseball sympathies were wide, and his college
mates from Seaton had found no difficulty
in enlisting his help for the school nine.
He began with grounders which he made the
boys take with heels together and elbows between
the knees, bending slightly forward as
they settled. Some did this instinctively as the
most natural way, others went down on one
knee or tried to make the hands alone a substitute
for a solid wall of arms and legs. With
others, again, Wallace found fault for sinking
for the ball and rising before they got it. “Settle,
get the ball, then rise and throw” was, according
to the college expert, the right order of
movements for “gathering in” grounders.
After grounders came starting and sliding.
At first he put them through a series of standing
sprint starts, like the old-fashioned erect start
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
for short races, with first steps short to develop
immediate speed; then the double balancing
start that the base-runner uses as he poises off
first base ready to return instantly, or go down
hard to second, as the need may be. In sliding
he urged the slide head first as the college ideal, at
the same time adding that professionals generally
slide feet foremost for the sake of greater safety.
“Good sliding is fearless sliding,” he said, “and
the man who slides fearlessly is much less likely
to be hurt than the coward.”
When they came to the batting practice, the
first thing which the expert did was to moderate
the speed of the pitcher, who was sending in
hot balls to show his ability. “Only slow
pitched balls in the cage,” was his warning;
“the light is too poor for swift pitching. Moreover,
in a confined place like this, a batsman is
likely to become frightened at a swift ball as he
wouldn’t be out-of-doors.”
Then he made the batters stand firmly, watch
the ball closely, step straight out toward the
pitcher, and strike quickly at what they were
sure were good chances. “Don’t worry,” he
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
kept saying. “Don’t watch the pitcher too much.
The ball is the thing you are trying to hit.
Don’t commit yourself too soon; wait till you
know what is coming.”
Phil came up for his trial as nervous as a
young boy can be under the eyes of an admired
master whom he would give a month’s allowance
to please. “Steady, my boy, steady,” said the
kindly voice of the coach, who probably felt with
Sands that he was wasting his time on an impossible
candidate, but who, unlike Sands, was still
generous and glad to help.—“Don’t be frightened.
‘Step straight, hit late, watch the ball
and not the pitcher’ is the thumb rule for
good batting.—Less body and more arms.”
Phil gathered himself together and cracked
out a good wrist hit.
“That’s the way. I always like to see that!”
exclaimed Wallace, approvingly. “The wrist
hitters are the safest hitters.” With face
aglow with satisfaction Phil stole back among
the group of waiting players. “Step straight,
hit late, and watch the ball,” he repeated to
himself. “Why didn’t some one tell me that
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
before? I’ve been going contrary to every
part of that rule.”
It is to be feared that Phil’s lessons on those
two days of Wallace’s stay were somewhat
neglected. He certainly haunted the cage at
all vacant hours when Wallace was engaged
in instruction, and when the practice was over
he ran back to his room and put down in a
note-book snatches of baseball wisdom caught
from the collegian’s lips. Many of the notes
were doubtless futile, merely serving to give
the boy the satisfaction of doing something to
help himself on in his great ambition. Yet
many were of great value, not only for immediate
drill, but also for use later on in answering
questions that unexpectedly arose, when
the details of Wallace’s instruction were as
thoroughly forgotten by the boys as the teachers’
comments on their first translations.
Wallace’s view of the pitchers mystified Phil
a good deal. With Flanahan the coach made
short work, giving him only a few words of
general advice. Tompkins, on the other hand,
absorbed much attention.
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
“That man has the making of a great pitcher
in him,” the collegian remarked to Sands in
Phil’s hearing. “A couple of years of good
training would do wonders for him. He is cool,
knows what he is doing, and has the full arm
shoulder swing which not one amateur in twenty
ever gets.”
“What about Flanahan?” asked Sands.
“He hasn’t it,” returned Wallace, emphatically.
“His is a fairly swift arm throw with
good curves and poor command. He’s used to
playing, and probably knows a good deal about
the game, without possessing any great intelligence.
I should put him, at a guess, on
the edge of the semi-professional class. He has
reached his limit and is beyond instruction.
Tompkins, on the other hand, is good, improvable
material.”
“I guess Flanahan will do for us,” said Sands,
with a smug smile of confidence.
“It seems to me that I’ve met him before,”
mused Wallace, with his eyes fixed on Flanahan,
who was still pitching; “but I can’t now recall
where or under what circumstances. He certainly
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
isn’t the kind of man I like to see on
a school nine.”
“Oh, he’s all straight,” insisted Sands. “We
often have old fellows here who are anxious for
an education but have begun late.”
“I don’t doubt that,” replied Wallace, “but
none the less, semi-professional ball players don’t
belong on school teams.”
Perhaps it was this difference of opinion
regarding Flanahan that made Sands so lukewarm
in his praises of the coach. The boys
generally spoke of him with veneration, but
boy-like gave more attention to his appearance
and his prowess than to his directions. No
one profited more by these than the owner of
the note-book, who learned to stand firmly and
step out fearlessly; and as he really had a
quick, accurate eye, he was soon hitting with
the best. Sands was oblivious to all improvement,
but the others noticed it, and Smith went
so far as to warn him.
“You’re finding the ball right, Poole, but
don’t get a swelled head over it. Outside, you
may not be able to do a thing. There were
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
Baker and Lydecker last year, who couldn’t
hit a balloon in the cage, and yet used to swipe
out two and three baggers ’most every game.”
Then Phil went home and consulted the note-book,
rereading the quotation from Wallace
which Dick had said was the best thing his
room-mate had written down: “The good player,—and
the rare player,—is the one who can
analyze his own errors, and instead of giving
up discouraged when he fails, can discover and
remedy the fundamental fault.”
“I’m willing to be shown my faults,” said
Phil to himself, earnestly; “and if I stick to it
long enough and use my brains, I ought to
get ahead.”
And Phil was right. Those who use brains
do get ahead, in ball playing or anything else.
But brains unfortunately cannot be furnished
on demand, or ordered in advance, like a supply
of coal for the winter.
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch08
CHAPTER VIII || A TRANSACTION IN BOOKS
.sp 2
“Hello, Dick, may I use your French dictionary?”
Without waiting for a reply, Tompkins pounced
upon the book. It was the fourth time in the
last ten days that he had demanded the use of
this particular book, while on two other occasions
during the same period he had found it
convenient to prepare his English versions at
Melvin’s desk. If this had been all, Melvin
would not have thought of objecting. To some
boys ownership in books is but a continued
series of lendings and borrowings, mislayings,
losings, and findings. In Tompkins, however,
this borrowing habit was of sudden and violent
development. Similar tales of him had come
during the past fortnight from other rooms.
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
“Haven’t you any books at all?” demanded
the senior.
“A few,” replied Tompkins, with his nose in
the dictionary.
“Well, haven’t you a French dictionary?”
“If I had, do you suppose I’d want to use
yours?”
“You certainly had one once. What’s become
of it?”
“Gone,” replied Tompkins, resignedly, turning
back to the B’s to find the meaning of a
word which he had looked up only a moment
before,—“like the meaning of that long adjective
I just looked up.”
“Can’t you find it?”
“Maybe.”
“When did you use it last?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, where did you see it last?”
“At the second-hand bookstore.”
Dick stared. “Did some one steal it, or did
you lose it?”
“Neither,” replied the laconic Tompkins.
“Then you must have sold it.”
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
“Yes, I suppose I must have sold it,” sighed
Tompkins. “Any more questions?” he asked
after an interval, as Melvin gazed and wondered.
“I really ought to do this reading, you know.
I rather flunked on it yesterday, and I don’t like
to repeat the performance to-day.”
There was a half hour of silence in the room.
Then Melvin, squinting furtively out of the corner
of his eyes, caught Tompkins gazing out of
the window.
“You ought to have borrowed of me,” said
Dick, quietly. “You could have saved the
books, anyway.”
Tompkins shook his head. “I don’t like to
borrow, though I may have to do it yet.”
“What’s become of your term allowance?”
“Gone to those confounded little lambs that
Bosworth sheared,” said Tompkins, angrily,
throwing off his pretense of indifference.
“Eddy wasn’t the only fool, by any means.
First one would come to me and then another,
and every one of them would put up a mournful
whine, and promise never, never to do such a
thing again, and hold out his hand for his
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
money. They seemed to think that Bosworth was
having the games just to give them experience
and teach them profitable lessons, and that I was
his agent to pay them back when they promised
not to do it again. I wasn’t very careful about
the money, I suppose, and when I finally shut
down on the thing, a good part of my own was
gone. Then Dinsmore took the rest for a baseball
subscription which I’d promised to pay
early. He left me just seventy-five cents. Since
then the books have been going, and it’s a month
yet to pay-day. I have been a fool.”
With this last statement Melvin mentally
concurred. He had maintained from the beginning
that the only proper way of dealing
with Bosworth was to maul him until he disgorged,
and his first impulse was to tell Tompkins
that it served him right for having recourse
to questionable methods. But wholesome respect
for the generosity of the boy and sympathy
with him in his present predicament, effectually
prevented any such retort, and turned the whole
force of his disapproval against the original
offender.
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
“For straight meanness, that Bosworth is the
limit!” he exclaimed, with eyes aflame with indignation.
“He ought to be fired this very
minute!”
“He isn’t much of a fellow, I think myself,”
answered Tompkins, more calmly, “but we can’t
do anything about it. The firing isn’t in our
hands, or he’d go, and a good many fellows
would stay who now have to say good-by
pretty abruptly. It isn’t Bosworth that I’m
thinking of, but how I’m going to get through
the next month.”
“Why don’t you write the whole story home
to your father?” said Dick, to whom the
straightforward way always appealed.
Tompkins smiled wisely. “And have him
write back hot foot to Grim, and want to know
what kind of a school it is in which such ‘scandalous
performances’ go on under the teachers’
eyes. And Grim would hunt it to the ground
like a setter after a rabbit! No, I thank you,—not
that!”
A pause.—Then the inexorable recitation
bell broke in upon them. “How mournful that
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
bell sounds when you haven’t your lesson,”
groaned Tommy, as he picked up his book and
started for the French recitation. “It’s like the
thing they ring at funerals. Another flunk for
me to-day! I’ll be dropped by the end of the
term, if I don’t get this business off my nerves.”
“Come in after supper, Tommy,” shouted
Dick at the door, “and we’ll talk it over with
Varrell. His head is longer than mine, and he
may have something to suggest.”
That evening the three gathered before the
depleted bookshelves in Tompkins’s room in
solemn conclave. All agreed that to write to
Mr. Tompkins would be equivalent to carrying
the facts to the Principal.
“Can’t you write to your mother?” suggested
Melvin.
“That would be more dangerous still,” answered
Tompkins, dolefully. “She’d be sure
I’d gone to the bad.”
“Haven’t you a brother or an uncle or a
cousin that you could try?” asked Wrenn. “I’ve
money enough myself. I could furnish you what
you want as easily as can be, but I have to give
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
an account of all I spend, and of course I can’t
lie about it.”
“There’s Uncle George in Chicago,” said
Tompkins, brightening. “I’d thought of him,
but he’s a bit risky, too. He’d help me quick
enough, but I don’t know what else he might
do.”
“That’s the way out,” said Varrell, authoritatively.
“You’ve got to take some risk. Just
tell him the whole story frankly, and explain
why you don’t want to write to your father, and
I think he’ll be square with you; uncles usually
are pretty generously disposed. In the meantime
don’t sell any more books. I’ll lend you
all you need.”
To this course the council agreed. Tompkins
wrote the letter and waited six miserable days
for a reply, which arrived by the last mail of a
certain Saturday early in March. The date was
important to Tompkins, for it was the day
which brought relief from anxiety to a very
worried and unhappy boy. There was a check
in the letter, drawn for a larger amount than he
had requested; there was also some strong,
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
sensible advice; and finally there was a pledge
to be signed and returned before the check was
cashed, binding Master Tompkins not to play
again during the course of his education. This
the boy signed with eagerness, having already
of his own accord made up his mind to this very
course. With the pledge deposited in the post-office,
and the check safe in his pocket-book ready
to be cashed on Monday morning, with a feeling
of relief warming his heart as the bright
hearth-fire drives the chill from weary bones,
Tommy went to bed that night as nearly serious
and grateful as he had ever been in his life.
For another reason the date was important.
On the night of this Saturday, or somewhere
between the hours of six P.M. on Saturday and
two P.M. on Sunday, the registrar’s safe in the
basement of Sibley was broken into and plundered.
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch09
CHAPTER IX || BURGLARY
.sp 2
Mr. Graham was not in Seaton when the
incident occurred. He had just risen from a
rather serious attack of pneumonia and by the
doctor’s order was spending several weeks in the
South, in hope of more speedy convalescence.
Meantime, as Professor Anthony was spending
his sabbatical year abroad, Mr. Moore, the
teacher of German, an elderly man of strongly
pedagogic stamp, acted by virtue of seniority as
chairman of the Faculty and took the Principal’s
office hours.
The safe stood in the registrar’s little office in
the basement of Sibley. It was an old affair
which, before the vault had been put into the
school office, had held the more important books
and papers belonging to the school. Latterly it
had served as a kind of overflow strong box
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
for the less valuable papers, or smaller sums of
money which came in after the big safe was
closed or the day’s deposit had been made at the
bank. Miss Devon also kept in it her official
record books, and the smaller amounts of money
for the payment of wages and other minor bills
which were under her charge.
On Saturday at six Miss Devon had locked up
ninety dollars in cash and a check on a Boston
bank for fifty dollars. On Sunday afternoon
she went to the safe for a personal paper which
she had enclosed with the school property.
The safe was locked as usual and apparently in
the state in which she had left it the night
before, but the money and the check were missing.
Startled at her carelessness, for she felt that
she must have mislaid the money, Miss Devon
searched the compartments and drawers. The
money was not to be found. She locked the
safe door and opened it again. The lock was
uninjured, the safe showed no evidence of having
been tampered with. Trembling with
anxiety, the girl glanced about the room.
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
There were two doors leading into the office,
one from outside by which she had entered, the
other a rarely used door with an ordinary lock,
opening directly into the passage that led past
the store-rooms and the lavatories to the main
entry of the dormitory. Neither door showed
anything unusual in its appearance. She looked
at the windows and her heart set up a violent
throbbing. The shades were not in their usual
position, and the fastening on one sash was
open. While sure as to the unwonted height of
the shades, she could not recall that she had
altered them before leaving Saturday night, or
that she had given any especial attention to the
window fastenings. It was her habit to make
everything secure before she left the office, but
the labor involved in this had long since become
mechanical, and she had absolutely no recollection
of anything in connection with closing up
on the day before.
Now thoroughly frightened the girl sat down
and confusedly wondered what was to be done.
The money was gone, no one except herself
knew the combination of the safe, no one else
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
was responsible for the security of the office.
If she could only recall definitely that she had
locked the window! She must have done it,
for it was her regular custom; and yet she had
left rather early the night before to catch a car,
and it was possible, just possible, that she had
overlooked it. If this was the case, she had
really been negligent.
Her glance fell on the safe and brought a
comforting thought. She rose and wiped her
eyes. “It’s dreadful, but I am not at fault,”
she said to herself, resolutely, “and I won’t
worry. A man who could open the safe so
easily would get in anyway, whether the
window were locked or not. I’ll just report
the matter to Mr. Moore and let him take
the responsibility.”
Miss Devon let herself out and went in search
of Mr. Moore. Half an hour later both were
in the office,—Miss Devon collected and careful
of her words, Mr. Moore looking very solemn
and important and asking many questions. Together
they went through the safe again,
examined the windows and the outside door
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
and with the aid of the housekeeper’s key unlocked
the door into the passage, and scrutinized
it carefully. It had shrunk somewhat, leaving
a crack at the edge, but the lock was unharmed
and the jamb unscarred. All in all, besides
weariness and many useless questions, the investigation
yielded only two tangible results,
neither of which seemed to impress Mr. Moore
as of any special value: one, the discovery of
a drop of candle-grease on the floor before the
safe, which Miss Devon pointed out triumphantly
as a proof that the robbery had been
committed during the night by the light of a
candle; and the other, the fact that some one
had been present on Saturday morning while
Miss Devon was kneeling before the safe
struggling with the rebellious combination lock.
As the door finally swung open, the girl had
observed one of the boys standing behind her,
apparently taking a deep interest in her work.
It was a junior named Eddy.
At this statement Mr. Moore’s face took on
a superior smile. “How fortunate that it was
Eddy, and not some other boy!” he said. “I
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
gave him permission to leave by the eleven
o’clock train on Saturday to spend Sunday with
his cousins in Boston. His alibi is easily proved.
Had it not been for this circumstance, he might
have been subjected to a very unjust suspicion.
I should be very loath to believe that any
student had a hand in this.”
“Mightn’t Eddy have seen the combination
and told some one else of it?” suggested Miss
Devon, modestly.
“I think not,” replied Mr. Moore, with an
air of finality, but yet condescending to explain
himself. “If he saw anything,—and he probably
saw no more than that you were having
difficulty in opening the door,—you may be
assured that he forgot it immediately. The
prospect of going to Boston would exclude
almost anything else from his mind. He was
in my recitation at ten o’clock, and a more
absent-minded pupil I never had. I will question
him, however, on his return, and make
sure of the fact. I should rather be of the
opinion that we have here the work of some
clever professional who has found an unusually
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
good opportunity to ply his trade with safety
and profit.”
“We have never had burglars in town,”
murmured Miss Devon, not wholly convinced.
“I don’t see why this little safe should attract
their notice. Shall you put the matter in the
hands of the police?”
Mr. Moore hesitated. “That will require
consideration,” he answered. “We may consult
the police, but I doubt if we should be
willing to incur the notoriety of a public investigation
for so small a sum. The thief, I
am afraid, is secure in his plunder. At present
we had better say nothing about the
matter.”
They separated at the door and went their
respective ways, Mr. Moore calm in exterior
but much worried within, Miss Devon in a
condition of woe closely bordering on hysterics.
Under the teacher’s smooth, long words she had
divined an undefined suspicion that she might
be making much of unimportant incidents to
cover some carelessness of her own. The discovery
came upon her with a shock. If Mr.
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
Moore could harbor such a doubt, what might
not other people think and say when the story
came out,—the merciless, insatiate gossips of
the small town? With all her heart she longed
for Mr. Graham’s speedy return.
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch10
CHAPTER X || MR. MOORE’S THEORY
.sp 2
The story, or a distorted version of it, was
soon out. The housekeeper hinted at strange
doings at the office, and straightway rumor flew
that the big vault had been rifled of a thousand
dollars. Eddy came home and was examined
by Mr. Moore; and his account of the interview,
wormed out of him by zealous questioners, set
a new tale afloat so much worse than the truth
that the school authorities published the facts
in sheer self-defence.
The students seized upon the incident with
avidity. Petty thefts from gymnasium lockers
had been known in previous years. Here for
once was a real burglary in their midst, with a
mystery to be solved. The boys attacked the
problem tooth and nail, but their method was
one of hypothesis and discussion rather than of
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
investigation. Some pictured a masked burglar,
operating in the dead of night. Others held
dark suspicions of Miss Devon. Still others
advocated the view that it was a sneak student
who had in some way got into the room unobserved
and juggled with the knob of the safe
until it had opened. For several weeks after,
doors whose bolts had not been shot since the
year began, were very carefully locked when
bedtime came.
Among the first arguments introduced into
the discussion was the example of the safe at
Morrison’s which Tompkins had opened so easily
in the fall. This suggestion was followed up
among Tommy’s friends by a jocose reminder
that Tommy, who had been very short, was
suddenly flush again. Outside the circle of
friends, the statement was repeated without the
character of jest. By the time it had made the
circuit of the school, it had acquired the addition
that Tompkins was suspected of the robbery,
and that he was to be expelled as soon as Mr.
Graham returned.
Sands brought the new version to Melvin
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
with a worried expression on his face. Tompkins
was his second pitcher; he couldn’t afford
to lose him. Melvin carried the matter to Varrell;
together they waited on Mr. Moore.
The acting Principal received them with his
usual comprehensive smile,—a smile that was
typical of his general disposition. He was a
bland, benevolent, scholarly man, comfortably
content in the consciousness of his superior attainments
as compared with those of the pupils
under him, “an easy marker and an easy mark,”
and, of course, superficially popular.
“There’s a story going around the school
about Tompkins that we want to protest
against,” said Melvin. “It’s an absurd story,
but it might do him some harm.”
“What is the story?”
“Why, that he is suspected of breaking into
the safe. He opened a safe last fall at
Morrison’s when no one else could, and he’s
recently had a present of some money from his
uncle. I think that’s all the foundation there
was for the story. We just wanted to say that
we saw the check ourselves, and knew how he
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
came by it, and that he isn’t at all the fellow
to do such a thing.”
“Dear me!” said Mr. Moore, in real surprise.
“No, indeed! I never dreamed of such a thing.
I assure you, we haven’t the least suspicion of
Tompkins, or, indeed, of any other boy.”
“They say Eddy knew the combination,”
said Varrell, who now spoke for the first time.
“That is an unwarranted assumption,” replied
Mr. Moore, warmly, “and very unjust to
the boy. I have convinced myself by questioning
him that he did not notice the combination;
and he went to Boston immediately afterward.
He is a harmless little fellow, quite unequal to
any double dealing.”
“He associates a good deal with Bosworth,”
said Melvin, struck with this view of the harmlessness
of Eddy’s occupations.
“Does he, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Moore, in
a pleased tone. “I am very glad to hear it. It
always does a little boy good to come under the
influence of an older boy of the right kind.
Bosworth’s mother keeps a boarding-house for
students in Cambridge, and the son is very
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
anxious to be a credit to her and repay her for
her sacrifices. I do not know a neater, more
attractive boy in my classes, nor one who does
his work better.”
Melvin gasped in astonishment. A book
knocked off the table by Varrell’s hand fell
heavily to the floor, but it produced no effect
upon him. “He dresses pretty well for a poor
boy,” blurted Dick, not knowing what to say,
and yet feeling that he must make some protest.
This answer touched one of Mr. Moore’s
pet theories, and stirred up an immediate reproof.
“You will pardon me, Melvin, if I term that
a very unjust judgment. Neatness and care
with regard to one’s attire are habits decidedly
worth cultivating, whether one is rich or poor.
It often happens that a poor boy has friends
who give him clothes a great deal better than
he could afford to buy. It is manifestly unfair
and unkind to charge him with extravagance
until you know fully the facts in his case.”
“That’s very true, sir,” remarked Varrell,
promptly. The tone drew Melvin’s eyes to the
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
speaker’s face. In reply he got a fierce look
that shut him up like an oyster.
“Was that all?” inquired Mr. Moore, glancing
at the clock.
“Yes, sir,” replied Varrell, as the boys rose.
“We only wanted to tell you about Tompkins.”
“You may be reassured on that point.
Neither he nor any other boy is suspected.
The thief must have been a professional, but the
whole affair is a mystery which we shall probably
never solve. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Once outside, the conversation between the
two boys waxed warm.
“Dick, you certainly are the limit!”
“What now?” asked Melvin.
“What did you want to lug Bosworth into
the conversation for? Don’t you know he’s a
particular favorite of Moore’s?”
“No.”
“Well, if you took German, you would. Bosworth’s
mother was a German, and he knows
German ’most as well as he does English,—makes
rushes all the time.”
“I can’t be blamed for not knowing that.”
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
“Perhaps not, but you need not have connected
him with the robbery.”
“I didn’t,” protested Dick; “I just connected
him with Eddy.”
“Well, Eddy with the safe and Bosworth
with Eddy, it’s all the same,” returned Varrell.
“If Grim had been there, you wouldn’t have
got out of it so easily. He’d have turned you
inside out in no time.”
“But there wasn’t anything more inside me
than out,” said Dick, perplexed.
“No, I’m afraid not,” rejoined Varrell with a
sigh. “I say, Dick, who do you really think
took that money?”
“I don’t know anything about it. Perhaps a
professional, as Moore says.”
Varrell laughed aloud. “And he thinks
some rich friend probably gave Bosworth his
clothes. I know better. I saw the box in
which his last suit came at the express office,
and it was from one of the most expensive
tailors in Boston. It arrived two days after the
safe was broken into, and he paid the bill in
cash. What does that suggest to you?”
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
“Why, that as a deserving poor student he is
a fraud.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Supposing I add that the clothes were ordered
three weeks ago, before Tommy very unexpectedly
cleaned him out.”
Dick still looked puzzled.
“And when Tommy was through with him,
he had this suit coming, and probably other bills
too, and no money to pay them with, unless he
could get some suddenly.”
Melvin stopped and looked blankly at his
companion. “Do you really mean that you
think Bosworth broke into the safe?”
Varrell nodded.
“What an insane idea! How could he do it?”
“Every one seems insane to a lunatic,”
answered Varrell, sharply. “If you aren’t
crazy, you are at least too stupid to live with
sane people. Can’t you see how he might have
been able to do it? Just think.”
Dick pondered a moment and then lost his
patience.
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
“No, I can’t, nor any one else,” he answered
hotly. “Bosworth is a bad lot and a school
fraud and capable of almost any ordinary meanness,
but that doesn’t make him a burglar or a
murderer. Perhaps if he’d tripped me up in the
hockey game instead of you, I might have a
different opinion.”
Varrell laughed with the satisfied air of one
who knows that he has the better end of the
argument. “You’re wrong there, Dicky old boy,”
he said, clapping his irate friend cordially on
the shoulder. “You could forgive him far more
easily for tripping you than for tripping me. I
know you better than you do yourself.”
“All the same, I don’t see any connection
between Bosworth and the safe breaking.”
“Well, listen. Eddy stood behind Miss Devon
in the office when she was working on the lock.
He saw the combination and told Bosworth of
it when he was in Bosworth’s room about half-past
nine. I know he was there then, for I saw
him there from my window. This suggested to
Bosworth an easy way in which to make good
his losses and pay for the clothes,—as he certainly
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
did pay a few days after. That, I believe,
was the course of events, but I can furnish no
evidence, and I don’t see how any can be furnished,
unless Eddy can be made to squeal.”
“What about the check?”
“He probably burned that.”
They stood at the point at which their ways
parted. Melvin was thinking hard and kicking
the gravel recklessly with his foot. A squall of
dust and stones struck his companion in the
knee.
“Come, let up on that!” said Varrell, brushing
off his trousers with a show of indignation.
“Can’t you think without using your feet?
There are disadvantages in this football training
of yours.”
“Excuse me,” laughed Melvin. “You remind
me of Bosworth in your ‘care with regard to
your attire,’ as Moore put it. That last kick
quite cleared my mind. I don’t doubt that
Bosworth is bad enough to take money from a
safe, if he needed it and there were no chance of
being found out. If in this case he was able to
do it, and afterward had money to pay his bills
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
with, the presumption in our minds is against
him, and that’s all. We haven’t any proof and
aren’t likely to get any. Tommy isn’t suspected
and we aren’t suspected. So what business is
it of ours, or what could we do if it were our
business?”
“First answer me a couple of questions,” said
Varrell. “Why did you go to Bosworth and
threaten him as you did?”
“Because he was doing a lot of harm in
school, and that was the only way to stop it.”
“And now you’ve stopped the poker-playing,
do you think he’s a fit fellow to stay here?”
“No, he’s probably bad in other ways and
will do more harm before he’s through, but I don’t
know about that, and I did know about the
gambling with the little boys.”
“And I do know about this,” added Varrell,
decidedly. “In the first place, he’s got hold
of Eddy again and made him lie to Moore about
the safe combination. I saw him in Bosworth’s
room that Saturday morning talking about it.”
“There you go off the track again!” laughed
Dick. “You saw him in Bosworth’s room; you
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
guessed he was talking about the safe. The
only thing there of any consequence at all is
what you really saw.”
A look of annoyance settled on Varrell’s face.
“Look here, Dick,” he began, as if he had
something important to say. Then suddenly
changing his tone, he added significantly:
“You’re right, the only thing of consequence
is what I saw. Some people see more than
others,” and sheered off abruptly toward his
room.
“What a queer chap Wrenn is!” mused
Dick, as he lazily climbed the dormitory stairs.
“Sometimes he’s as keen as a razor; at others
he gets an idea fixed in his head, and you can’t
knock it out with a club. I hope he won’t get
his mind set on this safe business.”
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch11
CHAPTER XI || FLANAHAN STRIKES OUT
.sp 2
Mr. Graham was at home again, to the relief
of both school authorities and boys. He, of
course, heard the tale of the robbery of the
safe immediately after his arrival, and went
over the matter exhaustively with Miss Devon,
whose troubled mind was definitely comforted
by the Principal’s emphatic assurance that she
was wholly beyond suspicion. Later he was
given Mr. Moore’s version.
“I am sure we are making too much of the
matter,” said the teacher in conclusion. “We
have been a little careless, and are paying a
moderate fine for our offence.”
“The loss is to me the most unimportant
consideration,” said Mr. Graham. “I would
gladly sacrifice the money to learn how it disappeared.
If a professional burglar took it,
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
we are simply chance sufferers. If a boy took
it, the act was probably due to some desperate
distress and sudden temptation. That would
mean, according to my experience, either gambling
or a bad case of extravagance and debt.
These are not pleasant conditions to surmise, but
if they exist, I should like to know definitely
about them.”
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Mr. Moore, to whom
such a possibility had never occurred.
“Mind, I don’t say that a boy did it,” Mr.
Graham hastened to add. “I am merely explaining
why I want to know that he did not.
Eddy seemed to be very nervous when I questioned
him this morning.”
“He was probably frightened at being examined
twice,” said Mr. Moore. “I saw nothing
of it when I talked with him. Have you considered
the possibility that Miss Devon—”
“What?” asked the Principal, as the other
hesitated.
“May know more than she has told?”
“No, indeed!” replied the Principal. “Miss
Devon is as honest as the day and as methodical
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
as a machine. I have known her for years.
It seems to me an act of injustice even to discuss
the question.”
The Principal’s manner was not as sharp as
his words, but Mr. Moore, whose life experiences
had developed in him a goodly portion of caution,
if not many other mental possessions of a practical
character, felt no encouragement to continue
the argument.
“And to me an act of treachery to suspect
the boys,” he said good-humoredly, “and so we
are thrown back again on the hypothesis of
burglary; but I leave the problem with you.
It is a relief to drop the burden of it from my
shoulders.”
The Principal watched him as he trudged
down the walk to the street, a stout, square
figure marching sturdily and complacently, substantial
behind, benevolent of aspect before.
Mr. Graham was also cautious, and his thoughts,
as he stood at the window, he would never have
uttered; but they ran something like this:
“Poor gullible old Moore! The years go by and
leave with him more text-book knowledge and
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
more satisfaction in his attainments, but not
an additional jot of practical sense. Burglars
indeed! Miss Devon may not be sure that
she locked the window, but I am, and that to
me, at least, is of more consequence. When a
person of her systematic habits has done the
same thing daily for the last five years, it is
highly improbable that she forgot it on that
particular day. Therefore the open fastening
was a blind to make appearances indicate that
the thief entered through the window. Therefore
he did not enter by the window, but by one
of the doors. So far I have fairly satisfactory
reasoning behind me, but here I begin to jump
at conclusions. The thief came in by the
passage door, and was a student.
“Why a student? Because it was an enterprise
which a desperate student might very
possibly conceive, but the servants never. And
if a student,—then there certainly exists somewhere
in the school a plague-spot which must
be discovered and cleansed. What a delightful
prospect for a half-sick, nerve-worn man to
come home to!”
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
Up the path from the street came a youthful
figure of medium height, planting foot after
foot with an air of business and determination.
“Sands!” said Mr. Graham to himself.
“Another unpleasant task, but this at least will
soon be over.”
“You sent for me, Mr. Graham.”
“Yes, to talk with you about Flanahan. Are
you likely to want him on the nine?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy with a wondering
face. “He’s our best pitcher.”
“Then I am glad that I can give you such early
notice. He will probably not be allowed to
play.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because I am convinced from various facts
which I have learned that he is not a proper
person to play on our teams.”
“Do you think that we are hiring him, sir?”
said Sands, a flush of indignation burning on his
cheeks.
Mr. Graham looked at the student sharply.
On the boy’s face was an expression of bitter
disappointment and of indignation, but no sign
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
of guilt. “No, I do not,” he replied heartily.
“We haven’t fallen so low as that.”
“What is it, then, that you have against him?”
“Simply that he is not considered an amateur
above suspicion of taint. I made some inquiries
concerning him before my return, and the
results were, in my opinion, conclusive.”
“Are you sure about it?”
“Sure as to my opinion, which I may also say
is the opinion of Mr. Wallace, who helped me in
the investigation. The wisest course for Flanahan
would be to withdraw voluntarily from
the baseball practice and devote himself to the
work for which he says he came here.”
“Is this final?” came through Sands’s quivering
lips. “Isn’t he to have a chance to hear
the charges and defend himself?”
“Certainly, if he desires it,” replied Mr. Graham,
promptly. “You may come, too, and a few others
who are especially interested. I want to be fair
to you all, but my first duty is to the school.”
The news was quickly abroad, discussed in
every room and at every dormitory entrance.
The boys naturally favored the unjustly oppressed,
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
though some of the older fellows of influence, like
John Curtis, Dickinson, and Melvin, who were
not baseball players, sided with the Principal.
Sands was disconsolate, Flanahan furious. The
latter had talked with Mr. Graham, and returned
greatly excited and able to give only a most
incoherent account of the interview. On the
main subject the pitcher’s explanations were
not entirely satisfactory to his supporters. He
asserted wildly, denied sweepingly, and fortified
his statements by expletives which repelled the
decent-minded.
Sands himself was somewhat ashamed of his
protégé, as he led him into the Principal’s room
for the hearing and sat down at his side, near
the door. Mr. Graham had not yet come in.
Melvin and Varrell sat near his desk at the
upper end of the long room, opposite the door;
at the side were Curtis and Arthur Wheelock,
the manager, and several others.
The tension of the waiting seemed to be
telling on Flanahan’s nerves. His naturally
red face had taken on a deeper hue; his eyes
shifted rapidly from point to point; his fists
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
opened and closed and shook convulsively; his
head nodded in sudden jerks in emphatic support
of the whispered assertions which Sands
seemed to be rather combating than listening to.
“Did you hear that?” said Varrell, with his
eyes fixed on the pair.
“Of course I didn’t, nor you either,” said
Melvin. “I can’t hear whispers at that distance.
Sands looks like a man trying to hold a
fighting bulldog. I don’t envy him his friend.”
“Sh!” said Varrell, still staring at the two.
“The fellow’s wild. He’s just threatened to
smash Mr. Graham’s face. Sands can’t control
him. Quiet! I’ll repeat for you.”
Dick gaped in wonder. He could see Flanahan’s
fierce manner, his clenched fists and lips
excitedly moving, but not a single distinct sound
reached him. Varrell, with eyes glued on the
gesticulating man, began to repeat in phrases
which matched the pitcher’s agitated nods:—
“I’m no professional. Whoever says so is a
liar. If he tells me so again, I’ll smash his face.
Yes, I will; and I don’t care who he is, whether
he’s Principal of this old place or not. He’s no
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
better than me. I’ll take it out of him if he
gives me any lip,—just see if I don’t! I know
what he’s been up to. He’s been sneaking
around Brockville. What I got from Brockville
was too small to count,—hardly more
than expenses. Let me alone, I tell you. I can
take care of myself. ‘Fired?’ What do I care
about being fired! Just let him say a word and
I’ll baste him one in the jaw that he’ll remember.”—“I’ve
omitted the cuss words,” added
Varrell, in another tone.
Mr. Graham entered and walked toward his
desk.
“Did he really say that, Wrenn?” whispered
Dick. “Are you fooling or not?”
Varrell gave him an indignant look. “Of
course he said it, and he meant it, too. Do you
think I’d fool about a thing like this?”
“How’d you know?”
“Don’t ask that now, you idiot! Just watch
the Irishman and see that he doesn’t do anything
reckless.”
At Mr. Graham’s suggestion the boys took
seats near his desk. The Principal then read
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
aloud two or three letters, reported certain facts
which he had himself discovered, repeated the
opinion of Mr. Wallace, and then asked Flanahan
what he had to say.
“Most of those things are lies,” said the
pitcher, fiercely. “I ain’t a professional; if
they say so, they lie.”
“There’s a difference of opinion as to what constitutes
a professional,” said Mr. Graham, kindly.
“We will not argue about the name. The question
for us is, whether you satisfy our standard.
If you have ever received money for playing,
whether the sum was large or small, we
cannot allow you to play on our teams.”
“I tell you it’s just an attempt to blacken my
reputation as an amateur,” screamed Flanahan.
“I don’t care whether I play on this measly team
or not, but whoever says I’m not an amateur is a
liar.”
Mr. Graham rose. “You forget yourself,
Flanahan,” he said sternly.
Flanahan choked an instant; then, beside
himself with fury, burst forth in a flood of personal
invective and threats, aimed directly at the
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
Principal. So unexpected and so unparalleled
was the outbreak that most of the audience sat
silent and aghast, not knowing what to think or
do. There were three, however, to whom a few
expressions were warning enough. Melvin and
Varrell sprang forward, clutched the irate ball-player
by the arms and swung him about, while
Sands leaped to their support from the other
side. As Flanahan cursed and struggled, Curtis
and Wheelock came to their senses and lent
assistance. Together they hustled the furious
rebel out at the door, like a half-back driven
through a hole in the line on a tandem play. A
few seconds later Mr. Graham was standing in
the empty room conscious of a curious mixture
of feelings,—mortification that such a scene
should have been possible, but delight in the
unhesitating loyalty of the boys.
.hr 20%
Around the corner of Carter, Dick Melvin’s
two hands held Varrell’s shoulders hard pressed
against the brick wall. “No, you don’t! It’s
of no use to squirm, because I’m not going to
let you off. This thing has got to be explained,
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
and with it some other mysteries. The more I
think about it, the more there is to explain.
You knew what Phil and I were muttering
when you were out of hearing in the next
room; you heard what this blood-thirsty villain
was whispering to Sands twenty-five feet away;
you saw little Eddy in Bosworth’s room, talking
about the safe, and you knew what he said.
Sometimes you don’t know what is going on
right beside you; sometimes you hear what two
fellows are saying to each other across the street.
No juggling, now! Out with the secret, and be
quick about it, or I’ll—”
“You’re a fool, Dick,” retorted the smiling
Wrenn, “or you wouldn’t have to ask me. Let
me go, and I’ll come in after supper and tell
you. Let me go, do you hear?”
“Well then, till to-night! If you’re not on
hand by seven, I’ll come after you and squeeze the
life out of you,—like this,” he added, catching
poor Wrenn under the arms, and giving him a
hug that threatened to crush in all his ribs at once.
“No more of that!” gasped Varrell. “I’ll
come.”
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch12
CHAPTER XII || VARRELL EXPLAINS HIMSELF
.sp 2
“Here I am,” said Varrell, opening the door
of Melvin’s room just as the clock struck seven.
“You don’t deserve to see me, but I’m here.
Assault me like that again, and I’ll swear out a
warrant for your arrest.”
“A lot you know about warrants,” sniffed
Melvin; “though that may also be one of your
specialties. Whatever a warrant may be, it
won’t catch you as I’ll catch you in five minutes,
if you don’t make a clean breast of the whole
thing without any jollying.”
“Wind!” said Varrell, in good-humored contempt.
“You remind me of Tommy, when he
talks about Montana.”
“Come, Wrenn, this is a wrong way to begin,”
warned Melvin. “Get down to business! You
agreed to explain yourself. Now, out with it.”
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
“Where shall I begin? If you had any sense,
no explanation would be required.”
“And if I haven’t, it’s my misfortune and not
my fault, so don’t throw it at me. Begin at the
beginning.”
Varrell stretched himself out in an easy-chair.
“Well, you know that I am a little deaf.”
“I used to think so,” replied Melvin, “but
these things that have occurred lately don’t
seem to indicate it.”
“Three years ago I had the scarlet fever,”
went on Varrell, paying no attention to the comment,
“and it left my ears in bad condition.
There is no use in going into the details of the
case; it is enough to say that at one time the
outlook was pretty bad and there was a general
fear that I should become worse instead of better.
My mother was greatly worried about me and
consulted all sorts of people who are supposed
to know about such cases. Some said that the
deafness would increase, others that it might
decrease if my general health improved. As the
chances were apparently against me, they put
me through a thorough course of lip-reading with
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
the idea that if my deafness actually did increase,
it would then be harder for me to learn. Luckily,
my hearing gradually improved as I got better,
and an operation put me ahead still farther, so
that now I can hear, if not as well as you, at
least decently well.”
“And you still kept up the lip-reading?”
“I had to. Much that I was not quite clear
about, I could make out with the use of my eyes.
I finally got a kind of mixed sense; my eye
helped out my ear, and my whole impression
was due to them both. So I’ve used it right
along.”
“But is it a thing you can really count on?”
asked Dick. “I’ve always supposed that lip-reading
was a hit-or-miss guessing at what
people were saying.”
“It is guessing as reading print is guessing,
only in lip-reading there is greater chance for
mistake, for two very different words are sometimes
expressed with exactly the same appearance
of the lips. Still, I’ve seen some very clever
lip-readers. I knew a bank teller who had suddenly
lost his hearing, who was able in three
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
months to do all the work of his position in two
or three languages. That’s where I’m handicapped.
I’m used only to English. That’s why
I can’t do anything in Pearson’s classes when he
reads French aloud.”
“And Richardson’s mop of a mustache must
be an obstacle.”
“You bet it is. I loathe mustaches.”
At this point Melvin’s questions seemed to
have run out, for he lapsed into a meditative
silence which lasted at least a minute. Then he
suddenly jumped up, grabbed his quiet visitor by
the shoulder, and glared threateningly into his
eyes. “Come now, stop it and tell me the
truth! You’re just trying to jolly me.”
“It’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth,” said Varrell, nodding his head in
solemn accentuation of each phrase. “Go and
sit down!”
Melvin dropped back into his chair.
“Do you remember,” continued Varrell, “when
we went up to Boston together last week and I
suddenly burst into a laugh? You asked me
what was the matter, and I told you that a
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
funny story had just come to me. The funny
story was told by a drummer facing us three
seats ahead. You certainly can’t have forgotten
the time when we serenaded Masters, and he
came out on his front porch and spoke, with the
red fire playing on his face and the fellows yelling
and blowing tin horns? Wasn’t I the only
one who knew what he said?”
“That’s right,” said Melvin.
“And didn’t you see how I watched Flanahan
this afternoon? I had to, I can tell you; those
little short sentences are hard to get.”
“I suppose I’ll have to believe you,” said Melvin,
reluctantly.
“You would have done it long ago, if you
weren’t so blessed ignorant. Hello, Phil!”
Poole nodded cordially and sat down.
“Did you ever hear of lip-reading, Phil?”
“Why, yes. I know some one at home who
is pretty good at it. Can you do it?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve suspected you two or three times, but
I thought I’d better not say anything till you
spoke of it yourself.”
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
Varrell gave Melvin a reproachful glance.
“Dick here doesn’t believe in it. Did you
ever see the shadow trick?”
“No,” replied Phil.
Varrell got up. “Give us a big sheet of
paper,” he said. “That’s it. Come here.”
He pinned the white paper to the wall on a
level with Phil’s head, placed Phil near it and
adjusted the lamp on the shelf opposite so that a
sharp profile of the boy’s face fell on the paper.
Next he stationed Melvin two or three steps in
front of the boy; and then, having bound a
heavy handkerchief around his own ears, took
a place just behind Phil.
“Now, Phil, without moving your head and
in your ordinary tones, say something to Dick.”
Phil obeyed. Varrell watched the shadow
of the moving lips on the screen.
“Repeat!” commanded Varrell.
Phil repeated.
“Flanahan has been fired,” said Varrell.
“Right!” cried the boy, delighted. “Try
again!”
The experiment was repeated several times,
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
and with one or two exceptions Varrell read
correctly from the screen.[1]
.pm fn-start
A duplicate of this interesting experiment will be found
recorded in an article on lip-reading in the Century for January,
1897.
.pm fn-end
“Why, you’re a regular wizard!” cried Melvin,
pulling the bandage from his friend’s head.
“That’s the greatest stunt I ever saw.”
“It’s a pretty severe test. If I had known
what you were talking about so that I could
have had something to start with, I shouldn’t
have failed the last time. That’s the funny
thing about lip-reading; at one instant it’s a
blank, and the next you get the key, and the
whole thing flashes out clear.”
But even this amazing exhibition could not
distract Dick’s mind from the robbery. “Now
tell me, please,” he began, “what you really
know by this method or any method about what
Eddy said to Bosworth that Saturday morning
in his room.”
Varrell looked significantly at Phil.
“Oh, you can trust him,” Dick made haste to
say. “Phil is a lot safer than I am.”
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
“I hope you won’t think, Phil, that I’m in
the habit of eavesdropping. A good many times
I deliberately close my eyes to what people are
saying, so as not to understand things they don’t
mean me to know. But Bosworth is thoroughly
bad and ought to be shown up, and since he has
got hold of little Eddy again, I’ve kept my eyes
peeled. Eddy was walking about in Bosworth’s
room that Saturday morning before he went to
Boston. I can see pretty clearly from my east
window any one who comes near Bosworth’s
window, and I was sure that I caught the words
safe, door, and combination. The last I am positive
about, for it’s a long word and easy to catch.”
“Do you suspect Bosworth of breaking into
the safe?” asked Phil, quickly.
“Yes, I do,” answered Varrell; “but until it
can be proved I don’t want the subject mentioned.”
“How could he get into the room?” persisted
Phil, now deeply interested.
“By the passage door.”
“Do you think he got the housekeeper’s keys?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Varrell, “though it
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
wouldn’t have been impossible for any one to get
them. There was an easier way: the door opens
out and fits very loosely. He probably pried it
open.”
“With what?”
“With the flat ice-chipper that stands in the
corner next to the stairs. It is strong, and has
a wide blade that would not leave much of a
mark. But mind, I guess all this; I haven’t
any proof whatever.”
“Do you mean to try to get proof?”
“That’s exactly what I mean to do,” said
Varrell, smiling. “I say, Dick, you’d better take
lessons of Poole! He’s found out more in three
minutes than you have in a week.”
Varrell’s hand was already on the door-knob,
when he checked himself and turned: “By the
way, Phil, if you want to stand well with Sands,
be careful what you say about Flanahan. Sands is
awfully cut up about the whole business, ashamed
and mad and disgusted to think that he has
been pushing such a mucker. Just say nothing
to him about it, or you’ll get him down on you.”
“Thank you,” said Phil. “I’ll be careful.”
.fm lz=th rend=th
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch13
CHAPTER XIII || THE SPRING RUNNING
.sp 2
John Curtis clapped the book together with a
sigh of relief. “That’s the end. Much obliged
to you. Going home for vacation next week?”
“No,” said Dick. “Are you?”
“No, sir,” replied John; “no vacation for me.
Now that I’ve got into the grinding habit, you
can bet I’m not going to slacken up. Do you
know what I’ve been doing all winter?”
“Studying, I hope,” answered Melvin. “You’ve
not been here very often except on such errands
as this.”
“That’s right; and I’m doing a lot better
than I did. I’m getting on to a lot of things
that used to seem all shut up to me. The Dutch
phases me the most; I don’t know why it is,
but some way it won’t go down. I swallow
hard at it, too. I’ve dropped the Greek, and am
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
taking Latin over again. My French and
mathematics are pretty fair, and I’m a regular
shark at chemistry.”
Dick hooted; then checked himself suddenly.
“They are all sharks in chemistry, I
should judge by the reports the fellows give
me.”
Curtis smiled grimly. “I’m as good as any;
you ask some of them and see. It’s the first
thing that I’ve really done well since I entered
this old mill. The Dutch is the worst. I don’t
think old Moore is just square about it either.
He lays himself out on those fellows who know
it all, and just skims by us poor dopes who are
wallowing.”
“He’s good-natured and easy, isn’t he?”
asked Dick.
“That depends. He isn’t savage like Richardson,
nor satirical like Wells; but he lets a
lot of tomfoolery go on in his class and smiles
blandly at it all, and then suddenly gets wild
and drops on some one like a hodful of bricks
from the top of a ladder. As it’s usually the
wrong person, it makes trouble.”
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
“What fellows are in it?” asked Dick,
interested.
“Oh, various ones. Tompkins and Bosworth
are the worst. Bosworth isn’t often suspected,
because he is a kind of a favorite of the old man,
and always lies out if he’s caught. Tompkins
is smarter, and he won’t lie,—I like that
in him; but he has cheek like a mountain.”
“What does he do?”
“Oh, all sorts of things; I can’t remember
them. The other day he came running in from
the Gym without changing his clothes. He’d
just slipped his coat over his sleeveless shirt,
and buttoned it up high in the neck. He
unbuttoned it again in the class without thinking,
and Moore saw the low neck underneath.
‘I don’t want any half-dressed boys in my classroom,’
he said. ‘Tompkins, go and dress yourself
properly!’ Tommy went out and stayed
half an hour. When he came back, he had on
patent leather shoes with gaiters, a Prince
Albert coat, gloves, a standing collar, and a
silk hat. Where he got the hat, I don’t know.
He stopped a moment in the doorway and all
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
the fellows looked around; then he took off his
hat, and walked calmly up to his seat.”
“What did Moore do?” asked Melvin,—“fire
him out?”
“No, he just said, ‘Thank you, Tompkins,’
and went on. It was a great get-up, but some
way it didn’t seem to have the effect intended.
By the way, they say he’ll have to do the
pitching this year. Is he any good?”
“Phil thinks so; and Wallace, I believe,
spoke well of him.”
“You’d better warn him, then, to be careful.
He doesn’t do anything bad, and he seems a
nice fellow at bottom, but these little tricks
may get him into trouble. They’d fire the
pitcher on the nine just as quick as anybody
else. You remember they sent off one fellow
last year for putting a bonnet on the head of
that plaster Diana that stands in the hall.”
“That was for example,” returned Dick,
vigorously. “Those casts were the gifts of a
lot of the Alumni, and the fooling with them
had to be stopped.”
“They stopped it for that fellow, anyway,”
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
said Curtis, dryly. “Is this meeting on Saturday
going to be any good?”
“I hope so,” said Dick. “There’ll be the
usual indoor events and some short dashes on
the wooden track outside. We’ve given good
handicaps, and there ought to be some hard races.”
“Then it’ll have to be better than the Faculty
Trophy performance last month. That was
about as keen as a croquet match.”
“We’ll improve on that,” replied the manager,
confidently. “The fellows have been doing better
lately.”
There were practical reasons for the existence
of the March handicap meeting. It gave an
inviting opportunity for boys of every degree
of ability to appear without disadvantage in a
public contest, and so brought out new material.
It was likewise both a formal closing of the
winter’s athletic work, and the first account of
stock for the greater contests of the spring.
With Dickinson and Travers in the sprints, Todd
in the hurdles, and Curtis for the hammer and
shot, there was still in school a very substantial
remnant of last year’s winning team with which
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
to start the spring campaign against Hillbury.
Yet gaps remained to be filled, new seconds
and thirds had to be provided where firsts
seemed fairly safe, and better men had to be
found, if better men there were, for the most
strongly defended events.
In the jumps and the pole vault was an
especial dearth of good material. Melvin had
been practicing the high jump in the course
of his daily gymnasium exercise hours, though
without any idea of excelling in it. With legs
full of spring and some intelligence to direct
his efforts, the height at which he failed had
gradually lifted. A month before, at the Faculty
Trophy meeting, he had astonished himself by
doing five feet four to the school champion’s five
feet five. The practice possessed now for him
an additional interest. If he could keep on
gaining inches in the same steady way, the
spring contests would find him able to clear a
very considerable height. Varrell, too, had
caught the fever, and was toiling at the pole
vault with all the zeal and intelligence which
this peculiar boy possessed.
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
A considerable crowd gathered that Saturday
afternoon about the eighth-mile wooden track
which lies behind the gymnasium. For the
forty-yard dash the contestants came in a flock,
four men in a trial, heat after heat, in quick
succession; then the winners in sets of semi-finals,
and three men in the final heat. The baseball
candidates were here almost to a man, for
they had been practicing starts and dashes during
the winter for base running, and now had their
trying out. Dick watched with interest to see
what Phil would do with his three feet handicap,
and was delighted to see his room-mate get
off so sharply and take his heat so easily. The
first semi-final the boy ran against Sands, and
beat him without difficulty; the second he took
from Jordan by a narrower margin. Only in
the final heat did he fail, when Jones, a middler,
took first, and Travers second, with Phil a poor
third.
“Good work, Poole!” said MacRae, a middler
rooming in the same entry, who was just coming
out for the thousand yards. “I only ask
to do as well.”
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
But MacRae did better. He ran his race with
twenty yards handicap, and finished first, close
to the school record. The middlers grew enthusiastic.
“What a handicap!” said Dickinson reproachfully
to Melvin, as he took his place on the
scratch for the three hundred, and looked forward
to the front man standing well around the
curve. “I may as well not run.”
“It’s not too much for your best, old man,”
replied the manager, confidently. “You never
know what you can do till you try.”
Dickinson did not answer, for he was already
on his mark with the tense, serious expression on
his face which Dick liked to see. With the
pistol report he was off, making a splendid start—which
the manager, in a momentary flash of joy,
contrasted with the hesitancy of the year before,—and
whipping himself quickly into his stride.
He passed Lord on the back stretch, Sandford on
the straightaway at the end of the first lap, and
then pushed for Von Gersdorf, who had made
good use of his twenty yards start, and with his
short stout legs flying under him, easily doubled
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
the hard corners that delayed the pursuer. Von
Gersdorf struck the final curve with Dickinson
at his heels. On the curve short-legs gained.
The two plunged into the final stretch with four
yards of interval between them, short-legs panting
ahead with quick staccato strokes, long-legs
swinging again into the wide distance-devouring
stride that looked as easy and natural as the
piston motion of a fine engine, and yet was
challenging muscle and nerve and heart to their
utmost.
“Go it Gerty, go it!” shouted the middlers.
“It’s yours!” Determined to hold his lead a
second longer, Von Gersdorf dug his spikes into
the soft board, made a final frantic spurt, and
lifted his arms to meet the string with his breast—and
found no string to meet. Dickinson had
carried it away before him.
“What a race!” exclaimed Tompkins, as he
sat with Varrell on the wall. “That’s what I
call sport. I’d go miles to see that again!”
“What’s the time?” asked Curtis over the
shoulders of the men who held the watches.
“Beat it by two seconds? You don’t say so!
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
and he pretended he couldn’t do anything on
this track!”
Melvin helped the runner up the bank to the
gymnasium, and bothered himself with neither
the record nor the race. “How is the ankle?”
was his first anxious question. “Did you feel
it?”
“Not a bit!” stammered Dickinson, between
gasps. “But the corners—are terrible. They
stopped me—every time.”
The forty-five yard hurdles and the six hundred
yard run came next. Todd won the hurdles
from scratch: the six hundred went to Cary, a
middler, who ran a steady race from a good
start, Dickinson this time succumbing to the
corners and the handicap, and finishing third.
The scene now changed to the gymnasium,
where the last three events were to come off.
“You fellows want to do something,” said
Marks, coming over to the seat where Melvin,
Varrell, and Curtis were sitting, ready for their
events. “The middlers are beginning to crow
already.”
“It doesn’t amount to anything,” answered
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
Curtis, with a little sniff of contempt. “Anybody
can beat a scratch man, if you give him
enough handicap.”
“Of course,” rejoined Marks; “but they
always were a fool class. Some of their men
have done pretty well, too. It’s a bad thing for
middlers to have a high opinion of themselves.”
“It didn’t hurt us last year,” said Melvin.
The pole vault was started, and Varrell nerved
himself for his first public appearance. He
looked at no one, for he could feel that curious
questions were running among the spectators,
and he feared to surprise discouraging comments
on tell-tale lips. As he faced the bar in the
familiar position, this fear vanished. He took
his run, stuck his pole firmly into the soft plank,
rose with a fine nervous spring, and swung himself
lightly over. Even as he dropped, his courage
came again. Conscious that his form was
undeniably good, and aglow with the sense of
reserve force, he now faced the on-lookers
squarely, amused as he caught, on this lip and
on that, comments not meant for his hearing:
“Not bad, after all.” “Pretty, wasn’t it?”
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
“Corking good!” “Knows how, doesn’t he?”
“Too slick to last.”
Others followed. The bar went up, nine
feet, nine feet three. Varrell, who had three
inches handicap, and Dearborn, scratch man,
were now alone. Both men cleared nine feet
six, which was four inches higher than Wrenn
had ever reached. At nine seven he failed, and
Dearborn just touched. The event was Varrell’s
on his handicap.
“Fine, Wrenn,” said Melvin, giving his hand
a good grip as he sat down. “Think of the
little practice you’ve had compared with Dearborn.
Your form was bully, too, and that’s
important for improvement in pole vaulting.
Oh, we two may become great prize winners yet.
Here goes for my exhibition.”
He spoke with a smile on his lips, which made
it clear that his last words were uttered in jest.
Varrell looked after him rather enviously, as he
took a few confident steps and went lightly over
the bar at its first position. Melvin did not need
to consider what the spectators might think of
his audacity; nor to struggle to make a name
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
for himself in school. A man with his athletic
record and his rank and his general influence
could afford to speak slightingly of a prize in a
handicap meeting. To Varrell, who had hardly
yet divested himself of the notion that he was
still a stranger in the school, any prize that gave
distinction would have been welcome. To win
an important contest, to make a place for himself
on some school team, to earn and wear a
coveted “S,”—all this was a part of an unconfessed
ambition. So he envied Dick, not for
the honors which he had won, but for the ability
which had enabled him to win them.
The jump took its wearisome course. At
five feet the contestants began to drop out.
Benson, the scratch man, and Melvin were alone
able to clear five feet three. Both went over at
five four; then Melvin failed and Benson, with a
jump two inches higher, won first place.
“Another middler victory!” growled Marks,
whose class patriotism was strident.
“I should have won,” said Dick, contentedly
pulling on his sweater, “if I had taken the three
inches they were going to give me. As Dickinson
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
and I did the handicapping, we didn’t want
to be charged with taking any unfair advantage,
and so put ourselves down at scratch.”
“That’s well enough for Dickinson, but simply
suicide for you. You’re just learning and Benson’s
been at it ever since he’s been in school.”
“I should have liked to see him do six feet,”
said Melvin, calmly. Marks muttered something
unintelligible, and turned to Curtis.
“Don’t you fail us anyway!”
Curtis nodded and grabbed the shot. His
first put was close to the record, his second
touched it, his third went ten inches beyond.
That gave him a new record and the event, and
put Marks again in good humor.
“John Curtis is the man for my money, as
I’ve always said,” he announced significantly to
Melvin. “He never goes back on you.”
“Didn’t Varrell and Dickinson do the same?”
asked Melvin, amused for the instant at the
peculiar point of view of this non-athletic sport,
who was always prating athletic nonsense, and
swaggering as an expert.
“Ye-es,” answered Marks, unwillingly; “but
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
Dickinson balked in the six hundred. It’s all
due to his folly about the track ends; they
wouldn’t stop him if he wasn’t afraid.”
A look of indignation swept over Melvin’s
face. His lips parted to let out a savage retort,
but he suddenly checked himself, gave a sniff of
amused contempt, and replied good humoredly,
“Really, Marks, you ought to write a book on
athletics to leave to the school when we graduate.”
And Marks went off, furious and voluble, to
inform his listeners that Melvin’s athletic successes
had entirely turned his head; the fellow
was really nothing but a big chump after all.
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch14
CHAPTER XIV || UNDER TWO FLAGS
.sp 2
For an hour or two after the meeting was
over the elated middlers made a good deal of
noise with their yells and their cheering, to
which no one objected except those who happened
to want to study at this ill-chosen hour. Later
a few leading spirits cast about for some more
striking mode of proving their importance than
the threadbare and laborious fashion of cheers.
The class flag which the seniors, following a
precedent, had displayed on the Academy tower
very early on Washington’s birthday, had been
seasonably and ignominiously removed by the
conscientious boy who rang the Academy bell.
The middlers concluded that the cleverest thing
for them would be to hang their own class flag
aloft on the day when the school was to break
up for the spring recess,—the following
Wednesday.
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
Boys are proverbially unskilled in keeping
secrets. By Monday night the seniors knew
of the middlers’ plan. By Tuesday night the
middlers knew of the seniors’ plan, which was,
of course, to anticipate their friends on Wednesday
morning, and have the senior, not the
middler banner, wave a farewell to the scattering
school. The middlers then advanced the execution
of their scheme several hours. Early Tuesday
night instead of Wednesday morning, a
daring middler, Tompkins by name, scaled the
Academy roof, mounted the belfry, and fixed to
the weather-vane the banner of his class. Then
sliding down the lightning-rod again to the
main roof of the building, he settled himself
there for his hour’s vigil.
Report of this forward movement of the
enemy was brought to Sands’s room early in
the evening. He hastily summoned advisers;
Melvin, Varrell, Curtis, Dickinson, Waters, Todd,
and others whose names are not known to
this story, gathered to his call.
Waters proposed to storm the watch immediately,
change flags, and set a new guard. Melvin
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
and Varrell objected vigorously to the plan as
dangerous and foolhardy, and apparently were
supported by the others. Dickinson then suggested
that the wisest course would be to leave
to the middlers their flag, their night-watch, and
their victory.
“And have them gloat over us forever afterward?”
said Sands. “Not on your life!”
“We should never hear the last of it,” said
Todd, wondering how a fellow could be cold-blooded
enough to suggest such a course,—but
Dickinson always had been queer.
Marks and Reynolds now joined the company,
and heard a report of proceedings.
“I agree with Dickinson,” said Melvin, renewing
the discussion. “These class rows are
dangerous things to start, for you can’t tell what
the end will be. If we take down the middlers’
flag and put ours up, the middlers will set their
hearts on getting back at us, and then the thing
will seesaw back and forth until there’s serious
trouble. We had a good example of that last
year when Martin and his gang stopped the car.”
“If we let them get ahead of us in this,
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
they’ll be encouraged to try something else,”
remarked Curtis. “Hit ’em when you can, I
say, only be sure you don’t miss. It’s worse to
try and fail than not to try at all.”
“And on the other hand,” put in Varrell,
quietly, “if you let them entirely alone and pay
no attention at all to their doings, they will find
no special credit in the thing. The easiest way
to beat them is to let them alone.”
“What a sandless lot!” exclaimed Marks, in
disgust. “Why don’t you come out square and
say you’re afraid to do it?”
“Shut up, Marks,” ordered Sands, “or you’ll
get into trouble.”
“A valiant man like Marks might do it
alone,” said Melvin, stretching himself as he
rose to his feet. “I shouldn’t think of interfering
with his opportunity. Well, good night all;
I’m going home to bed.”
Varrell and Dickinson joined him at the door.
Curtis started to follow, but a significant wink
from Sands detained him. “Good night,” he
called after them, “I guess I won’t go just yet.”
Tompkins sat on the Academy roof, in coat
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
and gloves, waiting and musing and shivering.
The night was clear and moonless. The day
had been warm; it was freezing again now. At
eleven he heard below the welcome call of Benson,
the relieving watch, and scuttled down to
the ground as fast as his cold hands and stiff
legs would allow. At twelve o’clock Bosworth
took his turn. He got up with some difficulty,
as he was little used to climbing, and pulled up
after him by a string a voluminous ulster
borrowed of a larger classmate, in which he
rolled himself snugly, as he crouched at the base
of the belfry where the lightning-rod reached up
its side to the weather-vane above.
For a quarter of an hour complete silence
reigned. Then the lone watcher became conscious
of vague noises underneath, now at the
side, now in front. With heart beating in quick
heavy thumps, he freed himself from the
ulster and crept around the belfry to the ridgepole
that ran toward the front of the building,
and along this to the peak of the gable. Projecting
his head carefully over, he heard voices,—at
first indistinct, then somewhat clearer.
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.if h
.il fn=i171.jpg w=528px id=i171
.ca
He heard voices,—at first indistinct, then somewhat\
clearer.—Page 150.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: He heard voices,—at first indistinct, then somewhat\
clearer.—Page 150.]
.if-
.sp 2
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
Whatever the unknown persons were doing,
they were very deliberate in their movements.
Minutes had passed before he made out figures
on the roof of the porch below. They waited
here, and spent more time in muffled conversation,
apparently discussing the method of scaling
the wall above, which, as Bosworth said to himself
reassuringly again and again as he clung
shivering to the cold slates, was unscalable. At
last the frost penetrated to his bones, making it
obviously dangerous to lie longer in his cramped
position. He was just about to grope his way
back to his warm coat, when the figures on the
porch began to be active again. He heard distinctly—it
sounded like Curtis’s voice—“I say
we can’t do it. We may as well go home as
freeze here.”
A few minutes later the speakers seemed to
be on the ground again. Presently their voices
were lost in the sound of feet treading carefully
the board walk that led to the street. Soon
these sounds, too, had died away, and absolute
stillness reigned again.
Numb with cold Bosworth crept back to his
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
nook, and wrapped himself once more in the
great coat, which he found in a heap by the foot
of the lightning-rod. He was puzzled at this,
for he had a distinct impression of crawling out
of the coat, as a worm out of a cocoon, and
leaving it spread on the roof behind him.
“It’s a vile job, anyway,” he groaned, “and I
was a fool to let them drag me into it. I shall
freeze to death here.”
But the hour was nearly over. He was just
falling into a risky doze, when Dearborn’s call
came up from below, and presently Dearborn
himself startled him by appearing suddenly at
the edge of the roof.
“All right up here?” asked the newcomer.
“I suppose so,” grumbled Bosworth, “if you
can call it all right to have your legs and arms
frozen off.”
“Seen anything or heard anything?”
Bosworth hesitated. The instructions of the
leaders had been definite, “Signal at the first
suspicious sound!” When the voices aroused
him, his first impulse had been to give the preconcerted
signal; but fear of being made the
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
centre of a scuffle on the roof, or of being compelled
to hold the fort at the foot of the lightning-rod
until classmates gathered to the rescue,
had kept his lips sealed.
“Well, what’s the matter with you?” snapped
Dearborn. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You
act as if you were asleep.”
“No, not a sound.”
“It seems to take a long time to get it out.”
Bosworth roused himself. “When you’ve been
freezing as long as I have, you won’t be so
anxious to talk yourself.”
“Give me the coat then,” replied Dearborn,
grabbing it without more ado. “You can have
it in the morning. Now clear out and go to bed.
This is the hour when they come, if they
come at all.”
So the watch changed hourly through the
still, cold night. The last man aloft descended
at six, just as the sun was peeping above the
horizon. The cooks were already hard at work
in the big kitchen of Carter Hall. Soon the
boys who cared for the yard would be at their
early tasks, and with the dormitories gradually
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
waking it was no longer advisable to maintain
the sentinel on the roof. Halfway between the
Academy and Carter, the retiring guard met his
two successors, who were to continue the watch
between six and seven from the concealment of
the gymnasium porch. Together the three looked
proudly up at the bunch of white that hung
limp between the east and north arms of the
Academy weather-vane.
“There she is all right,” said Strout. “With
the first puff of wind she’ll blow out and show
herself.”
At seven the watch was over—the last watch.
Not a senior had appeared. The middlers breakfasted
early, then hung round the steps of Carter,
waiting for the chapel bell.
“It’s coming!” cried Dearborn, holding up his
finger in joyful anticipation. “And at the right
time, too! See the tree-tops bend!”
Just as the dismal clang of the bell sounded
out its first summons, when the boys, slowly
sauntering forth from dormitory entries, were
lazily reckoning up the minutes of liberty left
to them before the final fatal stroke should cut
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
off their entrance into chapel, the breeze struck
the weather-vane, filled out the folds of the flag,
and set it flapping vigorously.
“Three long ‘Seatons’ for the middle class!”
shouted Strout, leaping out from the waiting
group with cap in hand. “Make it good now,
one, two, three—”
A groan from behind stopped him suddenly.
The breeze had strengthened; the white flag
was exposed in its full length and breadth; and
it bore the numerals not of the middle, but of
the senior class!
“Some mistake about that flag, isn’t there,
Strout?” rang out Curtis’s voice from the
steps. “You must have got a blind man to put
that up.”
Strout returned neither look nor word, but he
collared every sentinel before the first recitation
and cross-examined him thoroughly. Every one,
including Bosworth, swore that he had watched
honestly and intently at the lightning-rod beside
the belfry during his whole hour, and had heard
nothing. Every one, except Bosworth, told the
truth.
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch15
CHAPTER XV || ABOUT MANY THINGS
.sp 2
“Who did it, Dick?” asked Phil, later in the
day, when the flag had been taken down, good-bys
said, and the dormitories, emptied of those
who were fortunate enough to be within easy
distance of home, had ceased to resemble an anthill
in its busy season.
“I don’t know,” replied Dick. “I can guess,
and that’s all.”
“The fellows say Curtis and Sands were at
the bottom of it. It seems rather silly business
for such big fellows, doesn’t it?”
Dick laughed. Two seasons of rubbing
against the varieties of Seaton life had not
shaken Poole’s respect for proprieties or affected
his natural dignity.
“What a venerable person you are! Sometimes
you seem the oldest of us all. How old
are you, anyway?”
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
“I’m fifteen and a half,” replied Poole. “I
wish I seemed old to Sands,” he added mournfully.
“Perhaps he’d give me a little better show
if I did. He always acts as if I were a child.”
“Never mind how he acts,” said Melvin.
“Make him take you whether he wants to or
not. Study your game, and hang on till the
last gun is fired.”
“I can’t very well hang on after he’s kicked
me off,” said Phil, with a melancholy smile.
“Has he done that?”
“Not yet; it may be coming, though, when
practice begins after vacation. The Coach will
be here then.”
The senior leaned back in his desk chair with
hands clasped behind his head, and gazed long
and vacantly out of the window at the bare
limbs and solid gray-brown trunks that lined
the distant street. “You’ll make it sometime,
I’m sure, Phil, for I think you have it in you;
and if you want it hard enough, you’ll put it
through. The only question in my mind is
whether it will come this year or later. You
have to get a start, and the start often depends
.bn 180.png
.pn +1
on luck. I got on the football team the first
year through a lucky chance.”
“You had something better than luck to help
you,” rejoined Phil. “You had ability and
brains.”
“Luck and energy were all I had to start
with,” returned Dick, modestly. “The ability
came gradually from experience, and I don’t
think I used my brains until I took up kicking.”
Both were silent for a time, each intent on his
own thoughts. Then the older boy began again.
“Look here, Phil, I’ll tell you something that
I’m beginning to get hold of which isn’t to be
got from any book, and yet is a fundamental
principle of athletics. In every exercise that
requires a skilled motion or great speed, you’ll
find that there’s a peculiar kind of final snap or
twist that gives the motion or the speed; and
you’ve got to master this if you want the highest
results. Without it a strong man is powerless,
and with it a weak man often slips to the
front. In punting it’s the final jerk of the knee
which I had so much trouble in learning—don’t
worry, I’m not going to begin on that again.
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
In golf it’s a snap of the wrist; in shot-putting,
of the arm and shoulder; in pole vaulting of the
waist and arms,—and so on through the list.
In gymnasium feats the same principle works.
Just watch Guy Morgan when he does the ‘giant
swing’ on the horizontal bar, and you’ll see that
he gives a sudden jerk with his shoulders when
he’s about three-quarters round, that carries him
up to the top of the swing like a hawk rising at
the end of a swoop. Now in baseball, I believe,
that snap is hidden somewhere in every good
throw and in every straight swing of the bat.
Discover it and master it, and you won’t need to
worry about making the school nine.”
“I suppose that explains how some of these
fine hitters seem to strike easily and yet make
the ball fly,” remarked Phil.
“Can’t you get a lot of batting practice this
vacation, and so start in a little ahead when
the others get back? I’ll pitch for you, if you
want me to; it will be good exercise.”
Phil smiled: “I’m afraid you wouldn’t be of
much use. I ought to have some one who really
knows how to pitch.”
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
“That’s a fact,” rejoined Melvin, “and I
can’t pitch at all. Couldn’t we scare up some
one?”
“Did you ever hear of a man named Rowley,
who used to play professional ball? He works
in one of the factories now. I believe he was
something of a pitcher before he broke down.
Why shouldn’t I be able to get him to pitch
for me?”
“Just the man!” cried Dick, briskly. “Let’s
hunt him up right off.”
The boys finally succeeded in locating the
residence of the Rowley family, and caught
their man smoking his after-supper pipe before
the door. He was a sallow person, with a
goodly length of arms and legs strung to a
lanky body by stout muscle-covered joints.
“Are you Mr. Jack Rowley, the ball-player?”
asked Phil.
The man removed the pipe from his mouth
and looked at the boys with interest. He admitted
that he was Jack Rowley, but denied
being a ball-player. He had been once, but
wasn’t any longer.
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
“You could still pitch a little, couldn’t you?”
asked Dick.
“A couple of innings, perhaps,” answered Rowley,
“but I’m not up to a game. I’ve been out of
it these three years. What d’ye want of me?”
“I want some practice in batting,” said Phil,
“and I thought I might be able to get you to
pitch for me half an hour a day for the next
week.”
Rowley shook his head. “I’m in the mill all
day from seven till six, except for the hour’s
nooning, which I want to myself and to eat my
dinner in peace and quiet.”
“How about after supper?” questioned Phil.
“It’s dark after supper,” grumbled Rowley,
through the pipe-stem.
Phil looked at Dick in discouragement.
Suddenly his face lighted up. “Why not
before breakfast?” he said; “say from six to
half-past? It’s only for a week, and I’ll pay
you anything that’s reasonable.”
“Will you buy me a new arm to pitch with?”
asked Rowley, with a rueful grin. “Mine is all
wrenched to pieces with them cussed drops.”
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
“Isn’t there enough of it left to give this boy
a week’s batting practice?” asked Melvin, anxious
to secure the opportunity. “I’ll shack the
balls.”
“There mightn’t be many to shack,” said
Rowley, with a gleam of fun in his eyes.
He pondered some time, puffing vigorously, and
shooting an occasional side glance at the waiting
boy. “Well, I’ll try it once,” he said finally,
“but mind ye, if me arm hurts, I’ll not do it, no,—not
for ten dollars an hour. I was laid up a
year with it once, and that’s enough for me.”
The boys had to turn out early next morning
to keep their appointment at the practice
ground, and they more than half expected to
find that they alone kept it. But Rowley was
there. He received them as before, with his
pipe between his lips, but after a few throws into
the net, he put the pipe away. As he warmed
up, his thoughts returned to old channels, and
with his shoots and drops he interlarded anecdotes
of games and bits of shrewd counsel. He
was unquestionably wild that first morning, and
Phil’s practice was rather in waiting and dodging
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
and facing courageously, than in picking
out good balls.
“I’ll steady down in a day or two,” he said,
as he pulled on his coat at the end of the half
hour. So the boys knew that he had not
thrown up the job.
The next day the pitching was better and the
batting worse. It was not so easy to watch the
ball when it took such sudden unexpected dives!
Still Phil occasionally met them fairly, and each
square hit gave him courage to wait for another.
After a time Jack suggested trying bunts.
“It’s a great thing for a left-hander to be able
to bunt,” he said. “He has twice the chance to
make first on one that a right-hander has.” And
Phil tried this, too, with questionable success.
Day followed day and Rowley improved more
than Phil, so that the progress of the latter did
not show itself. “I’d like to have you for a
month,” said the pitcher, as they settled their
account at the end of the week. “I could
teach you to bunt in a few lessons, and it’s a
great thing to be a good bunter.”
Phil laughed. “You’ve said that fifty times.
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
I want to be able to do something besides bunt.
All the same, I’d like to have you pitch for me
once or twice a week, Rowley. Can you do it?”
“Sure,” said Rowley, “but take my advice
and learn to bunt.”
The boys came trooping back for the final
stretch of the year. The baseball candidate went
to work out-of-doors. As the field was still soft,
the out-fielders had for the first time the chief
attention of coach and captain; and Phil was
sent chasing flies and long hits with the rest.
He fared as well as the others perhaps, though
his “eye” was not yet to be trusted, and he was
nervous with an intense desire to do well. They
all came up for batting practice later on, and Phil
found the pitcher rather an easy mark after
facing Rowley. He cracked out several easy
chances in what seemed to him a thorough sort
of way, but, to his disappointment, neither Sands
nor Coach Lyford appeared to notice them.
.hr 20%
That same day Melvin and Varrell walked
down from their first out-door practice together.
“How about the safe robbery, Wrenn?” said
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
Melvin, peering laughingly into his companion’s
face. “It seems to me I haven’t heard much
about that of late. Given it up as a bad job,
haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Varrell, composedly.
“I’m just waiting.”
“It’s easy enough to wait; I could do that myself.
I thought you were going to do something.”
“I have done one thing,” rejoined the imperturbable
Wrenn.
“What?”
“I’ve proved that the passage door can be
opened by prying with the ice-chipper.”
“How?”
“By opening the door with it myself. You
know that room wasn’t meant for a permanent
office when it was first enclosed. The whole
partition is more or less shaky.”
“I don’t see that that helps you much. You
have no evidence against any particular person.”
“The evidence will come in time. That’s
what I’m waiting for.”
“Where from, I’d like to know?”
“Perhaps from Eddy. He must know more
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
than he’s told. He certainly lied to Grim and
Moore.”
“I don’t believe Bosworth would trust anything
to a little fool like him,” said Dick.
“Eddy apparently told Bosworth the combination
and then, when the news of the robbery
came out, was too scared to acknowledge it.
Having once lied, he would stick to it, because
to such a little morally flabby idiot it would
seem the easiest course.”
“And even if he confessed, it wouldn’t help
matters,” went on Varrell, following out the
argument, “for Bosworth would deny that he
had paid any attention to what Eddy said, and
there would be the end of it. No, we’ve got to
get the information from Bosworth himself.”
“Are you going to tackle him with it outright?”
demanded Dick, perplexed.
Varrell snorted in disgust.
“What a question! Of course I’m not.
I’m going to wait, as I said before. This Bosworth
lives in Cambridge. His mother keeps a
boarding-house for students. He’s been thrown
with these fellows, some of them probably fast
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
men with plenty of money, who have patronized
him and unintentionally filled his head with all
sorts of wrong ideas. He’s learned to play poker
and like fine clothes and spend money on himself
and feel that to have money is to be happy
and to be without it is to be wretched. Whatever
he had left from the plunder of the safe
he probably spent during the vacation. He told
Marks of several things he’d done that must
have taken money,—and he’ll soon be in need
of more. This is an expensive term for those of
us who have good allowances, with subscription
duns and summer clothes to buy and all sorts of
temptations to spend money. It will be harder
for him, as he’ll come back without much cash,
and will want to guzzle soda-water, and smoke,
and perhaps try to worm himself into some
society. I know such a fellow like a book.
He’s got to have money, and he’ll get it dishonestly
if he can’t honestly. His success with
the safe will encourage him to something else.”
“To what?” asked Dick.
“How do I know? That’s what I’m waiting
to see.”
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch16
CHAPTER XVI || PHIL MAKES HIS DÉBUT
.sp 2
“One strike!” called the umpire. Phil
gripped the bat and waited. It was the first
practice game, the scrub against the school.
Phil had been put at left-field on the scrub;
and he was now at bat nervously conscious that
it was his first real trial, perhaps his only one,
and that Sands was waiting for the pretext to
fire him with the first batch of disappointed
candidates. Tompkins was also on trial, and
while he rubbed the damp ball into a state to
grip decently for the next pitch, he considered
whether he could afford to give the youngster
an easy one to help him out, without interfering
with his own reputation. Then he caught
Sands’s signal as the crouching catcher wagged
his hand between his knees, and answered it
with an in-curve. No, there was no place in
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
the Seaton game for favoritism. The boy must
take his chance.
Phil’s bat came almost to the plate, but he
stopped it short at the first veer of the ball.
He had learned from Wallace to watch the
ball, but it was Rowley who had taught him
to detect the first sign of the veer.
“One ball!” shouted the umpire.
The next one was an out meant to swing over
the plate. It swung too far, and Phil had to
dodge to save himself, but he did it easily,
stepping back just far enough to avoid the ball.
There was no sign of fear in the movement.
“Hang a left-hander!” muttered Tompkins;
and sent a straight ball over the corner of the
plate a little below the shoulder.
With the instinct of a real ball-player Phil
knew his ball and met it squarely, dropped the
bat and scampered for first. He perceived as
he ran that the second baseman jumped for it
and missed it, and a moment later as he touched
first he saw the centre-fielder stoop and then
turn and run. He did not need the coacher’s
advice to go down. By the time the centre-fielder
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
got his hands on the ball, the runner
was already beyond second; he slid to third
with a fine dive, the prettiness of which was
not spoiled by the fact that the slide was wholly
unnecessary. At third he waited while the three
men who followed him at bat went out in quick
succession, two as victims of strikes, tempted to
hit at balls they didn’t want, and one on a pop
fly.
Sands threw down his mask and protector
and joined the coach.
“That hit of Poole’s was the second made off
Tompkins in five innings,” said the coach. “A
pretty hit and a good slide. Too bad he’s so
young, for he seems about the only man on
your scrub team who stands up to the plate
and keeps his head. He’s been up twice: the
first time he got his base on balls; the second
he made a hit.”
“He’s doing better than I expected,” said
Sands. “Probably it’s his lucky day; but he’s
too light and too green for us. He’ll make
good material for about two years from now.
We must have steady men for the Hillbury
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
game or they’ll go to pieces. The strain’s
terrific.”
“He’s had two fielding chances with one
error,” said the coach, consulting his record.
“Oh, yes, I remember; the error was on a long
hit close by the foul line, but he got it back well
to the in-field.”
In the sixth inning Robinson, second baseman
on the first team, led off with a single over
third. Maine, who was being tried at short,
followed with a hot grounder to right-field,
which the scrub-fielder let bounce past him,
allowing the batsman to reach second and
advancing Robinson to third; and Sands followed
with a liner over the short-stop’s head that set
the runners moving again. By some unaccountable
instinct—he certainly had not seen enough
of Sands’s playing to know the general direction
of his hits—Phil had moved up toward the
in-field. Suddenly he heard the crack of the
bat, and saw the ball shooting straight toward
him, apparently likely to strike a dozen yards
ahead. Impulse drove him forward to meet it;
intelligence, with tardier admonition, held him
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
back. So he took a step forward, then several
back, and just reached the ball as it skimmed
above his head, and pulled it down.
It was a creditable catch, but more creditable
still was the unhesitating, accurate throw to
Rhines at third to cut off Robinson, who had
started for home; for it was proof that the boy
could think quickly and take advantage of the
chances of the game.
Whatever the merit of quick thought, Rhines
evidently lacked it; for he stupidly held the ball
on third, without perceiving that the other base-runner
was thirty feet from second, and might
have been caught equally well. Smith, who was
pitching, finally made it clear to him with
expletives and yells, but the opportunity for the
triple play had passed. Vincent went out on a
pop fly to the pitcher, and the scrub came in
triumphant.
The coach made another mental note in Phil’s
favor. A catch may be by chance, a double play
never. It was no great feat, but the boy could
use his brains; that was worth remembering.
Phil’s side went out readily enough, one hitting
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
to pitcher, one on a little fly to second, one
on strikes. The first followed in similar fashion,
and the scrub in their turn advanced no farther
than second. It was still early in the season,
and schoolboys are likely to be poor batters.
The pitchers were the only men who had had
any regular practice for their positions. Then
with the return of the first to bat, came a set of
in-field fumbles and wild throws, and general
heedless passing of the ball around the diamond,
that set the first to running recklessly, and
drove the scrub to wilder errors. Such practice
is as vicious for base-runners and coachers as for
fielders.
“Stop, stop!” cried Lyford, running out into
the diamond. The scrub short-stop had fumbled
a grounder, and then after juggling the ball a
second had thrown to first when it was quite
impossible to catch the man; the first baseman
had put it frantically across the diamond to
Rhines six feet off the base, in a wild attempt to
catch a runner at third; and Rhines had made
haste to contribute his part to the general
demoralization by throwing several feet over the
.bn 196.png
.pn +1
second baseman’s head, in an equally hopeless
effort to intercept the man speeding down to
second.
“Give that ball to the pitcher,” shouted the
coach, as the ball finally came back from the
distant out-field, “and don’t do any more of this
reckless tossing round the diamond. Until you
can throw the ball straight, don’t throw it; and
never throw unless you know what you’re trying
to do.”
The scrub steadied down and put three men
out,—two, including Taylor the left-fielder, being
struck out by Smith, and the other sending an
easy fly to the centre-field. Rhines then made
a hit for the scrub, stole second, and was pushed
on to third by an out. Newcomb sent an easy
fly to Taylor, and Phil came up to bat with two
men out and Rhines on third. This time Tompkins
had no question as to the youngster. Phil
struck once, had two balls and a strike called on
him, and then, just holding the bat to meet the
ball, and drawing it a little back rather than
striking, dropped a pretty bunt near the side-lines,
between third and home, and easily beat
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
the ball to first. With Rhines on third, the
boy stole second without fear; and then as Smith
sent a bounder to right-field, he was off with
the sharp start, rounded third at full speed, and
came racing over the plate just before the ball
reached the catcher’s hands. An easy strike
out sent the scrub for the last time into the
field.
Phil ran out to his place with a heart throbbing
with joyful exhilaration. He had reached
first every time he had come to bat,—once on
balls, once on a genuine hit, once on a successful
bunt. His fielding chances had been at least
decently good. He had caught two flies, made
one assist, and there was but one error against
him. There was certainly nothing here to be
ashamed of.
The first of the school batters went out on an
easy in-field fly; the second reached first safely
through an error by the fumbling short; the
third got his base on balls; and the fourth hit
to centre-field, filling the bases. Phil pulled his
cap down tight over his head, blew on his fingers
to keep them warm, and pondered what
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
he should do with the ball if a fly came into
his hands.
Tompkins came up to the plate. “Line it
out, Tommy!” cried Sands. “A hit means two
runs, a two bagger, three!”
One ball! One strike! Tompkins set his teeth
and smashed at what he thought to be his
chance. He hit hard, but he hit a trifle under,
and the ball went up, up, up, going, it seemed
to Phil, as if it never would stop. The short-stop
staggered back with his eyes on the ball,
but it was out of reach behind him.
“I’ll take it!” shouted Phil. He ran hard
forward; then looked up and waited. How it
wabbled! How it swung! How it changed its
size in the air! He cleared his eyes with a
wink; the next instant the ball was in his
hands.
A moment only he staggered for better footing;
then as he saw the runner cut loose from
third and dash for the home, he set himself
for a throw. The catcher stood on the plate
and waited dutifully but hopelessly, ready to
leap to either side for the wild throw from the
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
field. To his surprise he did not need to stir
from his tracks. The ball came directly toward
him,—a long straight line throw,—made an
easy bound, and landed in his hands just as the
runner came within reach.
“Out!” cried the umpire. “By a mile,”
added Tompkins under his breath. “Bully for
the kid! That’s a throw a professional wouldn’t
be ashamed of.”
During the last half of the ninth, Phil sat on
the bench enjoying the compliments of his associates,
and cared not a whit whether the scrub
batters reached first or not. As a matter of
fact, they went out as quickly and easily as three
timid batters could go; and Phil, his ears
tingling with a commendation from Sands, and
a warning from the coach as to taking care of
himself after the game, that was more delightfully
significant than the captain’s good word,
trotted gayly down to the gymnasium for his
bath and rub-down and a change of clothes.
Half an hour later he rushed in on Melvin,
who had just come in from a trip up the river in
Varrell’s canoe.
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
“What luck, Phil?”
“Luck indeed! Nothing but luck! I helped
in two double plays, caught two flies, made two
hits and only one error. Lyford was cordial,
and even Sands gave me a compliment.”
“That is a record. You remember what I
said about my getting a start by luck; you’ve
beaten me in luck, anyway.”
The boy’s face fell. “But you got on the
team and I shan’t, that’s the difference. Sands
thinks I’m too young, and it will make no difference
whether I play well or not, he won’t take
me on.”
“Has he told you so?”
“No, but I suspect it, and I’m pretty sure I’m
right.”
“Nonsense,” said Melvin. “He’ll take you
if you’re the best man, or I don’t know Sands.
Only bear in mind that you’ve had a lucky day,
and the first practice game isn’t enough to prove
anything. You’ve won the first heat, but don’t
get a swelled head over it, or you’ll win no more.”
.hr 20%
At the same time Sands and Coach Lyford
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
were lingering on the gymnasium steps, in the
midst of a conversation on the very same
subject.
“The little chap did well,” Sands was saying;
“I don’t dispute that. He’s a clever little
player. What we want is a big player, a hard,
experienced, steady man who can swat the ball
for two or three bases when he hits it, and can
stand the strain of the season without going up
in the air.”
“I’d rather have a man that can hit often
than one who sometimes hits hard,” replied the
coach; “and as for throwing, give me brains
and skill rather than muscle behind a ball any
time. There is good baseball in the boy, and
you ought not to discourage him. I don’t ask
you to put him on the team; keep him as substitute
if you wish, but watch him and help him
and see what you can make of him.”
So it happened that Phil was retained as
substitute when the great majority of the candidates
were dropped. Some said he ought to be
on the team, some that it was gross favoritism
not to fire him with the rest; but Phil himself
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
was content to sit and watch, and do what he
was told, and play when he had a chance with
all the earnestness and strength and skill he had.
And twice a week he turned out early for the
six o’clock practice with Rowley.
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch17
CHAPTER XVII || A NOCTURNAL MYSTERY
.sp 2
For weeks Phil sat on the bench, a perpetual
substitute, getting plenty of practice on practice
days in all sorts of positions where he was useful,
but always seeing others go into the game. The
fielders that year were a remarkably healthy
lot; they played game after game without accident
or illness. Taylor, whose position at left-field
Phil coveted, was playing his second year
on the team, and felt his importance as a veteran
who had already been tested under fire in a
Hillbury game. He had the name of being a
great hitter, and though his work during the
season so far had not borne out this reputation,
he occasionally made long drives that delighted
the great mass of student supporters whose
admiration is as intense as it is fitful. He was
a safe catch on flies, and now and then did
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
spectacular feats that had the same effect on the
spectators as the occasional three-baggers. He
had also acquired a striking way of opening his
hands for the ball, which his admirers called an
“awfully graceful catch”; and he took much
apparent satisfaction in his general bearing and
clothes. The other fielders, Vincent at right
and Sudbury at centre, were steady, hard-working
fellows, who did their duty at bat and in the field
to the best of their ability, and did not know
or care whether any one looked at them or not.
Curtis sat watching the play one Saturday
afternoon, with Marks on the seat beside him
emitting deep gulps of cigarette smoke and the
usual unbroken stream of baseball chatter. It
was a game with a team from one of the smaller
colleges, which had defeated Hillbury eight to
four and was now threatening to shut Seaton
out altogether.
“What a fool that Taylor is!” said Curtis.
“He’s just struck out again, and now pretends
the umpire is unfair! That’s to save his face.
I wonder why Sands doesn’t try some other man.”
“Some other man!” cried Marks, for a brief
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
instant speechless with astonishment. “Why,
he made a home run in the Colby game, and
he’s about the prettiest fielder on the team.”
“Oh, yes; he’s pretty enough,” returned Curtis,
“and knows it, too, but I’d have some other quality
than prettiness on the field if the team
were mine.”
“Well, he gets the balls,—that’s the main
thing,” said Marks. “You’ll find few errors
against his name.”
“Do you know why?” returned Curtis. “He
never tries for a ball unless he’s sure he can get
it. It’s easy enough to get a fielding record
when you never take any hard chances.”
“But he does,” insisted Marks. “Don’t you
remember the long running catch he made in
the Musgrove School game?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Curtis; “and he held the
ball, admiring himself, for four seconds afterward
and let the man on third walk home.”
“You’re down on him,” said Marks, not
knowing what else to reply.
Curtis sniffed. “Down on him! Well, perhaps
I am. Perhaps it would be better if he
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
were down on himself. When I see him try hard
for balls that he can’t get, or make some good
long throws right when they’re needed, or slide
hard to bases, or make a good sacrifice hit, then
I’ll change my opinion.”
“Tompkins has improved, hasn’t he?” said
Marks, suddenly changing to a fresh subject.
John Curtis was not an agreeable person to
argue with, for he held his opinions tenaciously
and had unpleasant things to say to those who
held opposing views; and Marks, who argued
on athletics in a very fluent and confident style
when he had laymen like himself to deal with,
felt a little shy before a real athlete, even though
the sport under discussion was not that in which
the athlete excelled.
“That’s right,” replied Curtis, “no great genius
with curves, I judge, but he has good control and
uses his head. The difficulty with him is that
he’s a fool, too.”
Marks looked curiously into the football
player’s face.
“Apparently every one’s a fool to-day,—every
one, I suppose, but John Curtis.”
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
“We’ll except present company,—for the
sake of politeness,” responded Curtis, with a
malicious smile hovering about his lips. Marks
always bored him. “Tompkins is a fool, but
not of the silly, show-off kind like Taylor. He’s
got the stuff in him to make a good pitcher and
a chance to distinguish himself by winning the
Hillbury game; but he doesn’t care a rap whether
he pitches or not, and he doesn’t behave himself
as he ought.”
“I don’t understand that. He seems very
regular in his training and practice. He always
works hard out here, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Curtis made haste
to reply. “Tommy is straight; he’ll do what
he agrees to,—a good deal better than your
friend Taylor. The trouble with Tommy is that
he’s always trying fool tricks, like a small boy
in a grammar school. Some day he’ll go too far,
and then there’ll be an end of Tommy. Sands
ought to sit on him.”
“Sands tries to, but it doesn’t do any
good,” replied Marks. “He doesn’t care for
Sands.”
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
“Isn’t there some one he does care for?”
asked Curtis.
“The only fellow he seems to think anything
of is Melvin, the truly good,” answered Marks,
with a sneer. “No one else has any influence
over him, and I doubt if Melvin can make any
impression on him. Tommy is altogether too
nutty.”
That night Curtis and Sands appeared at
Melvin’s room with serious faces. Dick heard
their tale in silence.
“I’ll tell you what I should do,” he said at
length. “I’d give him a good warning and
then I’d fill his place, pitcher or no pitcher. If
he can’t keep out of scrapes, he’s bound to
go sooner or later; and if he’s surely going,
the longer you wait the worse it will be. No
fellow who won’t take responsibility or won’t
keep training belongs on a Seaton team,
anyway.”
Sands shook his head dolefully. “That’s all
very well in theory, but you can’t make pitchers
to order, and Tommy is our only good one. He
works hard, too, uses his head well and improves
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
right along. If he could only be kept out of
mischief, I couldn’t ask for a better man.”
“And we thought you might have some influence
with him,” said Curtis, coming in his
usual fashion directly to the point. “Won’t
you tackle him, and see if you can’t get some
sense into his head?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” replied Melvin, “but
I don’t think it pays to plead with people. It
gives them the swelled head.”
The two visitors departed and Melvin buried
himself in his books. Soon, however, he was
interrupted again, this time by a very faint and
timid knock.
“Hello, Littlefield,” he called to the slender,
pale-faced boy, a year or two younger than Phil,
who slipped in and closed the door carefully
behind him. “Anything wrong?”
“They were at it again last night,” said the
boy, with a look in which shame and fear were
curiously blended. “They couldn’t get in because
I had fixed the window so it couldn’t be
opened enough to let any one in; but they
banged something against the outside that
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
frightened me pretty badly for a few minutes.”
“Did you go to sleep again?”
“Yes, after a while. I heard the clock strike
two and three.”
“That’s better than you did the first time you
were disturbed.”
“Oh, yes; the time the fellow stuck his head
in at midnight and gave that unearthly yell,
I had a terrible shock. I don’t think I slept a
wink that night.”
“I wish we knew when these visitors were
likely to appear again,” said Dick, thoughtfully.
“We might have some fun ourselves.”
“I think they are coming to-night,” said
Littlefield.
“What makes you think so?”
“The stick I fixed to lock my window is gone;
it held the sashes just the right distance apart.
That’s not much of a reason, I know, but I have
a feeling that they will come to-night.”
“What makes you think it is ‘they’?” asked
the senior.
“I don’t. I say ‘they,’ but it may be only one.”
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
“I’m inclined to think it’s one. Whoever it
is, he comes on that projecting ledge, and there’s
barely room on it for one. Don’t you want to
swap rooms with me to-night? You take my bed,
and I’ll try yours.”
A look of delight flashed suddenly upon the
boy’s face. “And let them find you instead of
me! They won’t like that! What shall you do
if they come?”
“I’ll wait and see,” said Melvin.
“Perhaps you won’t mind it,” said the boy,
with the worried expression coming back into
his eyes. “If I were stronger, I suppose I
shouldn’t. But it isn’t pleasant to wake up
suddenly and hear some one trying to open
your window, or feel in the darkness that there
may be a person in the room. It spoils your
sleep, and makes you so nervous you can’t
do any good work. And yet I know it’s a kind
of a joke, and I ought not to let it worry
me.”
“A mighty poor joke!” said Phil, who had
come in during the conversation. “A good
ducking in Salt River would be the proper price
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
for such fun! Why don’t you set a steel trap
and catch him like any other rat?”
“Let’s try my scheme first,” said Melvin.
“When you’re ready, Littlefield, come in and
take my bed. I shan’t turn in for an hour
yet.”
.pb
.sp 2
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i213.jpg w=600px id=i213
.ca
The Academy through the trees.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: The Academy through the trees.]
.if-
.sp 2
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch18
CHAPTER XVIII || A SPILLED PITCHER
.sp 2
Littlefield crept into Melvin’s bed that
night with a sense of security that he had not
felt for weeks, and was soon in a deep, restful
sleep. Melvin undressed in his own room, and
then slipped across the hall in pajamas to the
little Prep’s room, turned on the electric light,
and surveyed the field. His first act was to clear
away the lighter furniture, so as to leave an open
space about the window at which the disturbance
was wont to occur. Then he filled two pitchers
with water and placed them in convenient positions,
one close to the corner of the bed, the
other against the wall opposite. When this was
done, he adjusted the window-sashes after the
usual arrangement, and at the top of the lower
sash, in the corner nearest the bed, fastened a
nail. To this he attached one end of a string,
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
and taking the other end with him as he jumped
into bed, he drew it tight and tied it to his
finger.
“Now if I can only keep my hand quiet,” he
thought as he lay down, “any movement of the
window ought to rouse me; but I suppose I shall
begin to roll as soon as I am asleep, and get the
string loose, or wake myself a dozen times for
nothing. I’ll give it a trial, anyway.”
Healthy and unworried, Dick fell asleep almost
as soon as his head touched the pillow. In his
sleep he turned slightly in bed and threw one arm
above his head, so that the pressure of the cord on
his finger made itself felt. The pressure occasioned
a dream, and the dream at length brought
him back to consciousness. He seemed to be struggling
vainly to free himself from one of the gymnasium
rings, to which he was hanging by a
single finger. He squirmed and twisted and
strove to cast it off, but despite his struggles
the ring still clung to the finger, and the finger
still clutched the ring. He awoke with a frightened
start, relieved to discover that he was free
from the ugly predicament, yet still under the
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
spell of the vague terror of the vision. With
quickened breath and straining ears, he listened
to make sure there was no other reason for his
waking. Except for the distant, labored puffing
of a night freight, as it worked its way through
the edge of the town, the silence was absolute.
Muttering reproaches to himself for the undefined
dread that crept into his heart as he felt
the depressing influence of the darkness and quiet,
and the solitary waiting for an unknown assailant,
he turned over and settled himself once
more in a comfortable position for sleeping.
The rumbling of the ponderous train died
gradually away in the distance, leaving a stillness
unnatural and oppressive.
“I don’t wonder that the little chap’s nerves
are unstrung,” thought Dick. “I can feel my
heart throb all over my body.”
The watcher’s nervous tension gradually slackened,
and he was just falling into a doze, when
the scrape of a rubber sole on a stone surface
brought him instantly to attention, as the nodding
fisherman starts with the first tug at his
line. The sound came clear in the dead silence,
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
repeated at close intervals as the mysterious
visitor crept along the ledge, setting foot after
foot slowly and carefully in place.
At the first distinct noise Melvin had lifted
himself upright in bed and listened intently and
fearfully, with his heart madly thumping. Then
as the steps drew nearer, and he realized that
the opportunity which he had longed for was
really to be granted, that the perpetrator of the
crazy night pranks would soon be delivered into
his hand, the uncanny spell of the night was
instantly broken. Throwing off the useless
noose from his finger, he slipped out of bed,
and took his stand close to the wall beside the
window.
It was a moonless night of flying clouds, and
Melvin, peeping round the window casing, could
barely distinguish the vague outline of the man
outside, who, clinging to the window stops, was
now trying to raise the lower sash.
“I’ll bet I know you, you lunatic!” thought
Melvin, drawing back as the sash slowly lifted.
“We’ll see who has the fun out of this night’s
adventure.”
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
The visitor now had the window high enough
to admit his head and shoulders; Melvin could
hear the shirt scrape against the bottom of the
sash as the intruder worked himself cautiously
in. From this sound, as well as the noise of
breathing, the waiting senior knew that his
quarry was within the room as far as the waist.
Was this the time to strike? Would the fellow
come in still farther, or merely yell and withdraw
beyond reach? In a flash Dick considered the
question and came to his decision.
The intruder paused, listening for a sound
from the bed. Then Dick heard the drawing of
a long deep breath, and knew what it meant.
A groan, awesome and sepulchral, broke the
nocturnal stillness, then suddenly choked and
ended in a gasp. Two strong arms caught the
prowler’s waist like the jaws of a steel trap, and
jerked the floundering legs through the window
into the room.
Both went down together to the floor, when
with the recollection that the owner of the room
could not really be a very powerful adversary,
the intruder recovered his presence of mind and
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
fighting spirit. Sure of his prey, Dick let himself
be rolled toward the side of the room
where one of the pitchers stood; then with a
quick wrestler’s turn he twisted himself on top,
found the pitcher and emptied it on his enemy’s
head.
While the prostrate boy gulped and sputtered
and coughed, Melvin freed himself and groped
his way to the electric light.
“I thought so,” he said coolly, as the light
flashed upon Tompkins’s dripping head and the
pool on the floor. “Come, my wild Western
Injun, Brave-Man-not-afraid-of-the-Dark, who
makes a specialty of frightening little boys!
Take that towel and help mop up this water.”
They worked for a few minutes without a
word. When the task was finished, Melvin
tossed Tompkins a steamer rug from Littlefield’s
sofa, and pointed to a chair.
“Wrap yourself up and sit down. This thing
has got to be straightened out before we part.
What have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing.” Tompkins spoke for the first
time.
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
“Great sport, isn’t it, to scare a timid little
chap into brain fever! I always thought you
were half fool, but I never knew before that you
were such a coward.”
“I’m not a coward!” retorted Tompkins,
aroused. “I didn’t mean to hurt the boy, I was
just having a little fun.”
“Why didn’t you try it on me then, or some
other fellow of your size?”
“It wouldn’t have been any fun.”
“And for the sake of your amusement you
keep Littlefield in fear of his life for weeks. If
that isn’t cowardly, what is it?”
“It’s selfish, I admit,” said Tompkins, soberly,
“and mean, but not cowardly.”
“Call it selfish and mean, then,” continued
Melvin, “if you prefer. Here you are chosen by
the school to be pitcher on the nine, a position
of honor and responsibility, and you behave like
a monkey, doing all sorts of fool tricks, any one
of which the Faculty would think ample reason
for firing you. What do you call that? It
seems to me like a breach of trust.”
“I don’t know,” answered the culprit.
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
“It’s just as if some one were to give you a
thousand dollars to keep for him and you agreed
to take care of it, and then spent it for your
amusement.”
To this Tompkins said nothing at all. The
senior paused a minute for a reply, and then
continued: “And the worst thing about you is
that you have no sense or conscience and never
will have any. You aren’t bad; you’re just
childish and selfish. But you have apparently
set your heart on getting expelled, and your best
friend can’t stop you. It’s really foolish in me
to stand here talking to you at two o’clock in
the morning. You can’t reform, or if you can,
you won’t.”
With disgust stamped on every feature, Melvin
turned to look at his watch. When he raised
his eyes again, Tompkins was on his feet.
“Yes, I’m a fool, Dick Melvin, I don’t deny
it; but I’m not a hopeless case. I can’t become
a school balance wheel like you, but you won’t
catch me in another scrape this year.”
“Do you mean it?” demanded the senior,
with a sharp glance at the speaker’s face.
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
“I do. I’ll make it right with Littlefield,—and
you see if I get into trouble again.”
Dick held out his hand, and gave the other
a cordial clasp, but all he said was: “Clear out,
then, and let me go to sleep. I’ll believe in the
reform when I see it.”
Next morning Melvin waked to find Littlefield
standing at his bedside.
“Come, get up,” said the boy, with a grin, “it’s
only ten minutes to breakfast. What did you do
with the water pitchers?”
On his way to chapel half an hour later Melvin
suddenly felt Varrell’s grip on his arm.
“Well, Dick, it has happened!”
“What?”
“The thing that I said would happen. The
stealing has begun again. Some one has taken
ten dollars from Durand’s bureau drawer.”
“But Durand’s room is in the other entry.”
“That makes no difference. You can reach
all the entries through the basement.”
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch19
CHAPTER XIX || THE COVETED OPPORTUNITY
.sp 2
“I’ll match you for ice-cream soda, Bosworth,”
said Marks.
“All right,” replied Bosworth, cheerfully, as
he flipped the coin with a skill born of experience.
“Heads it is. I’ll pay, come on. Two
ice-cream sodas, Sam.”
The clerk filled the glasses to the accompaniment
of remarks on the ball games. Sam knew
his business; agreeable conversation was served
gratis at the counter with all soda orders. For
fellows like Marks this made no great demand
on the server’s originality.
“Taylor didn’t get his home run on Saturday,”
remarked the clerk, gazing out of the window
at the passers-by.
“No, he didn’t,” replied Marks. “I don’t
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
know what’s got into Walt. He hasn’t made a
long drive in two games.”
“Getting stale, perhaps,” said the clerk, who
had only a dim idea as to what “stale” meant,
but fancied the word.
“A little too sure,” said Marks. “He’ll take
a brace before the Hillbury game.”
“Tompkins is making quite a pitcher.” The
clerk offered the suggestion indifferently. There
were two opinions as to Tompkins among his
patrons.
“I don’t know about that,” answered Marks,
with a knowing tilt of his head. “Tompkins
isn’t anything great when he’s at his best, and
when he’s poor, he’s no good at all. He’s got a
good drop and an underhand rise, and the usual
out and in, but that’s about all.”
“It’s Sands who really does the pitching,”
added Bosworth, draining his glass. “Sands
tells him exactly where to put the ball, and all
the pitcher has to do is to follow his directions.
There’s no great credit in that.”
The clerk was about to remark that to put
the ball where it was wanted required some
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
ability, but on second thought concluded that he
had given his customers their money’s worth,
and remained silent. Bosworth was going
through his pockets.
“I thought I had a quarter,” he murmured,
a little confused.
Marks displayed no interest in the search.
He had change in his purse, but it was late in
the season to lend. Besides, he did not want to
lend twenty cents: it was too small a sum to
ask back again.
“I shall have to break a bill, then,” said Bosworth,
drawing out a ten-dollar note from his
waistcoat pocket.
“You’re lucky!” said Marks, opening his
eyes. “I’ve only two dollars left, and it’s ten
days to my next allowance.”
The clerk changed the bill with his usual nonchalant
air, and turned his attention to more
interesting customers. The two boys sauntered
out.
In front of the store they met Poole. Bosworth
gave him a stare, and Marks a cool nod,
which Phil returned as coolly.
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
“He has cheek, that cub, to try for the nine,”
said Marks. “I told Sands he was a fool not
to fire him long ago.”
“He’s Melvin’s room-mate,” returned Bosworth,
in a spiteful tone. “These athletic fellows
hang together. I shall be surprised if they
don’t work the little lamb in somewhere.”
“Not Sands,” replied Marks. “Favoritism
doesn’t go down with him. There’s been a lot
of talk about it, though. I’ve heard fellows say
that the kid was the best thrower in the out-field,
and pretend that Lyford thought so, too.
I heard Lyford say one day that Poole was the
only man playing who knew how to bunt; but
that’s nothing. I don’t believe they’ll be likely
to put out big husky fellows like Vincent and
Sudbury and Taylor, who are good for long
hits, for a little bantam that can only bunt.”
Bosworth, less interested in baseball than in
cultivating the acquaintance of a man whom
he thought popular, drew out his watch.
“I must be getting home,” he said. “I’ve
got a lot of Latin to work out before twelve
o’clock.”
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
Marks sniffed: “Work out! Still doing
that, are you? Come up to my room and I’ll
lend you a trot. I’ve got a whole stableful,—Bohns,
Interlinears, Teachers’ Editions, Hinds
and Noble,—whatever you want. It’s the best
collection in town.”
.hr 20%
On Wednesday the nine played the Harvard
Second. Phil sat on the bench as usual, waiting
for the chance that never came, amusing himself
by guessing from the attitude of the players
at the bat where their hits would be, and planning
the position he should take in left-field,
if he were playing, for the various men.
Ordinarily, when a visiting nine had already
played Hillbury, he contrived to strike up a
conversation with the pitcher or some of the
fielders, and learn if possible where and how
the various Hillbury batters had hit. To-day
the players from the University had seemed so
imposing—one of them was a famous Varsity
half-back—that the boy had not yet mustered
courage to accost them.
By this process of questioning visiting teams,
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
Phil had gathered a very considerable fund of information
about the peculiarities of the individuals
who made up the Hillbury team. The pitchers
contributed most to this fund, for they were often
able to recall clearly just what kind of balls had
deceived the respective Hillbury batsmen, and
what had proved unsuccessful. One was easily
caught by a sharp drop, another could not hit a
fast straight ball kept high, still another was
regularly fooled by a change of pace. All these
discoveries, with other facts culled from newspaper
accounts, went down in the baseball note-book
which Phil had started early in the winter,
but no one except Dick had yet seen. He meant
in time to submit the results to Sands and Tompkins;
at present he was still collecting facts.
The game was already past the fourth inning,
without a run scored on either side. The visitors
had twice got a man as far as second base,
once on a fumble by Hayes, the short-stop, and a
hit to centre-field; once on a long drive to left-field
close to the line, which Taylor ran for but
did not reach. Tompkins was getting acquainted
with the batters. He had his own
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
way of testing a new man. First he tried to drive
him away from the plate by a ball close in. If
the batsman pulled away, he was sure he was
pitching to a timid man, and caught him on an
assortment of swift curves; if, on the other
hand, the batsman declined to pull away, Tompkins
knew that he had to do with a cool, determined
hitter who would probably be able to detect
the curve on the break, and meet it squarely. To
such dangerous men he gave his best drops and
worked high and low straight balls with a
change of pace. So far his method had been
successful with the visitors.
Taylor came in at the beginning of the fifth
with a pale face. “I’m afraid I can’t finish
out, Archie,” he said to Sands. “I feel so
blamed sick I can hardly stand.”
“What’s the matter?” demanded Sands, with
little show of sympathy.
“My stomach’s out of order, I think,” groaned
Taylor. “I haven’t been well all day.”
“What have you been putting into it?”
“Nothing,—that is, nothing unusual.”
Sands peered at him for an instant questioningly.
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
“Well, then, go home and lie down.
Here, Poole, take Taylor’s place. You’re up next.”
The blood rushed to Phil’s face; his pulse
began to leap in excited throbs. He was to
have a chance in a real game,—a hard game,
too! He bent over the pile of bats to choose
his favorite, glad of an opportunity to hide his
confusion, and a little afraid of hearing unfriendly
criticism.
“Now’s your chance to show what’s in you,
Phil,” said Watson, the third baseman, who
liked the boy. “You can hit him all right.”
“Stand up to the plate,” warned Sands, “and
don’t let him frighten you. Manning isn’t as
bad as he looks.”
Sudbury had two strikes called on him, then
hit a liner over second.
“Now, Phil,” said Tompkins, quietly, “you
know what we expect of you.”
Poole planted his left foot firmly beside the
plate, raised his bat, and waited, wondering
whether Manning would try on him the method
Tompkins used for new men. The pitcher
wound himself up with the usual absurd motion,
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
and sent a ball whistling hot, that veered suddenly
off the plate. Phil smiled to himself and
gripped the bat more firmly. “No, I’ll not bite
at any such,” he said to himself. “Old Rowley
has given me too many of them.” Next came a
drop, but it was low. “Two balls!” Then
one close in, which the batter hesitated on and
then let pass. This was also called a ball. The
next was straight and fast.
“I know you,” thought Phil, and swung
straight at it, meeting the ball fairly “on the
nose.” As he sped exultantly away to first, he
saw the ball cutting a line well above the first
baseman’s head. Knowing that the hit was
good for two bases at least, he rounded first with
all his attention centred on his running, passed
second, and then, looking for the ball for the first
time and seeing the right-fielder just about to
throw, he went on easily to third, where Watson
caught him by the shoulders and made him pause.
Sudbury was already back upon the bench.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Watson. “I always
said you could do it. Bring your fielding to
that level, and you’ll get your ‘S.’”
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
Sands went out on strikes; Waddington hit a
long fly to centre, which the Harvard fielder got
under without much exertion and secured. He
threw it in with all the speed he could, but Phil,
who was waiting on the bag for the ball to
touch the fielder’s hands, was off with the
Harvard man’s first motion, and easily beat the
ball to the plate.
“Why didn’t he throw to second, and let
second throw it home?” inquired Tompkins
of the coach. “Wouldn’t that have been
quicker?”
“I think so, at that distance,” said Lyford.
“The great out-fielder makes a single long throw,
but with players of average ability two quick line
throws will bring the ball in sooner and more
accurately.”
Hayes hit to second base and made the third
man out. The Seatonians trotted contentedly
away to their positions; they were sure of two
runs, anyway.
Out at left Phil was abandoned to his own
devices. Either because he wanted to try the
player, or because he had no distinct notion as
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
to where the batter was likely to hit, Sands
gave no hint as to the best position for the
fielder to take. As Hawkins, the second baseman,
who led the batting list, stood boldly up
to the plate as if he were longing to pound
the first ball pitched, Phil took a position well
out, drawing, he knew not why, somewhat toward
the side-lines. Hawkins did pound the
first ball pitched, but he struck a trifle too
soon, and a little underneath. The result was a
beautiful high foul over by the benches on the
edge of the field. Instinctively, as the ball rose,
the left-fielder started. It fell easily into his
hands ten yards outside the foul line. The
second batter went out on a grounder to Watson.
The next man up sent a fly between centre and
left, which Poole, who was nearer, also took. In
five minutes Seaton was at bat again.
In the sixth and seventh neither side scored,
though the collegians repeatedly got men on
bases, and Phil captured another fly, this time in
short out-field. In the eighth the visitors,
through an error by Robinson, and hard hitting,
succeeded in tying the score.
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
The schoolboys came in for the last inning
a little depressed. Hillbury had beaten the
Harvard Second six to four. If their rivals
had made six runs, in the face of a good pitcher
like Manning, while Seaton could make but two,
the inference was obvious. With three balls
called, Robinson went out on strikes. Watson
got his base on balls. Sudbury made his second
hit,—a clean drive to centre, advancing Watson
to third. Phil took his bat and started for the
plate.
“Bunt the first one and let Watson come
home,” said Lyford, as Phil passed him.
“I can bunt a low ball,” said Phil, “but what
shall I do if it comes high?”
“Hit it out,” said Lyford.
There were calls for the batter, and Phil
hurried to his position, took a firm stand, and
waited. The first one was low and a little wide,
but Phil reached over to meet it, and dropped it
along the side-lines halfway between home and
third. The same instant he was off, running
with all his might for first. Watson had started
at half speed with the pitch, and on the bunt
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
came on with all his strength, reaching home
just as the pitcher picked up the ball. Meantime
Phil, with his left-hander’s start, was safe
at first when the pitcher threw to cut him off,
and Sudbury went on to third.
The schoolboys on the benches cheered loudly
at the successful play, breaking suddenly off to
watch the next move. Sands hit at the first
ball pitched and sent a grounder to the third
baseman, who fumbled just long enough to prevent
his throw to first. Then came two strikes
on Waddington in quick succession. Sands gave
the signal for a double steal, and on the next
pitch started hard for second, and Phil a trifle
later for third. The Harvard catcher hesitated,
then threw to third; but in his haste he threw
a little wide and the boy slid safely. Waddington
went out on strikes, and Hayes took his
place.
“Two men out, run on anything!” shouted
Watson at the side-lines. The Harvard catcher
pretended a passed ball, and ran back a few
feet, but Watson saw the trick and kept Phil
on the base. Hayes had two strikes and three
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
balls called on him. The crowd waited eagerly
for the next pitch.
“Four balls!” Hayes sped away to first,
Manning snarled and stamped, the crowd yelled.
Tompkins came up bat in hand, with a determined
look on his face. “One ball!” The
catcher threw to third, but Phil, who was watching
the ball as a cat watches the low flight of
a bird, flung himself back in safety. The
Harvard third, pretending to throw to first, let
drive at second. Sands scrambled back as best
he could, but the ball reached the base before he
did, and only the error of the second baseman,
who seemed as much surprised as Sands, saved
the latter from an out.
Tompkins, who knew he was no batter, was
waiting. “Two balls!” “One strike!” The
next one tempted him and he hit at it, but it
was a wide out curve. “Two strikes!” Then
came an in curve, sweeping in over the corner
of the plate. Tommy did not want to try it at
all, but he knew that if he did not, he should
go out on called strikes; so he smote at it with
all his strength, and was as much surprised as
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
Manning, though by no means so unpleasantly,
to see the ball go flying over the third baseman’s
head.
Phil came trotting in, followed closely by
Sands, while Hayes paused at third. And then
Tompkins, having glorified himself and brought
in two runners by a two-base hit, ventured too
far off second, and was ignominiously put out
on a quick throw from the pitcher.
In their half of the inning, the Harvard men
tried hard to retrieve themselves. The first
man up went out on strikes. Big Gerold then
proceeded to pound the ball to the left-field
fence. Phil got it back in season to hold the
man on third, but the next man brought in the
run with a single. Then followed two easy in-field
flies, and the game was over with the score
five to three in favor of Seaton.
The students went home elated. Tompkins
had held the heavy batters down to a few
hits, the nine had fielded well and had hit
the ball when hits were all-important. The
forecast for the Hillbury game seemed at least
fair.
.bn 239.png
.pn +1
“Well, what do you think now?” said the
coach to Sands, as they walked slowly over to
the dressing rooms.
“About the game? Why, it was a good one;
the best yet, I think.”
“No, about Poole. Isn’t he a better man
than Taylor?”
“I wish I knew,” replied Sands. “He certainly
batted well to-day. I doubt if we should
have done as well with Taylor. He caught
three flies too, but two of those came into his
hands.”
The coach smiled. “Did you give him any
directions as to where he should stand?”
“Why, no, I let him take his own position.”
“Then, do you know that those three flies,
coming in two innings, were in totally different
parts of the field?”
“What of it?” asked Sands, perplexed.
“Why, the boy has a good fielder’s instinct;
he guesses well where the batter is likely to
hit.”
“That may be luck,” replied the captain,
thoughtfully.
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
“In my opinion, at least, there is no question
as to the men,” said the coach, rather curtly.
“Poole is better at the bat, better as a fielder,
and better in another respect.”
“What’s that?”
“He takes good care of himself.” And with
this last opinion Sands had to agree.
On Thursday and Friday the team practiced
as usual, Poole batting with the squad, and
catching flies with the out-field. Taylor was
back in his place.
On Saturday morning Sands hailed Phil as
they were coming out of chapel: “Be out early
this afternoon.”
Phil nodded, and went on into the mathematics
room. “Another afternoon on the bench,”
he thought dismally. “Taylor’s stomach isn’t
likely to fail him again.”
As he entered his room an hour later, he
found Melvin deep in the semi-weekly Seatonian
which had just been delivered.
“See here, Phil,” called his room-mate, with a
joyful light dancing in his eyes; “here’s information
for you!”
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
And Phil, looking over Melvin’s shoulder at
the passage in the “Notes and Brevities”
pointed out by the stout forefinger, read, “Poole
will play left-field in the game with the Harvard
freshmen this afternoon.”
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch20
CHAPTER XX || AN UNEXPECTED BLOW
.sp 2
“Well, Dick, another case of thieving,—or
losing. You can’t tell anything about a careless
fellow like Hayes.”
“What is it this time,” asked Dick, “money?”
“Yes,” replied Varrell, “a purse out of his
clothes in the gymnasium locker. He dressed
early for ball practice, and tucked his key under
the locker door. When he came back, the money
was gone.”
“It’s strange we can’t stop this thing!” exclaimed
Melvin.
“There were a dozen fellows in the locker
rooms during the afternoon. Bosworth was one,
of course, and he was there early, but no one
suspects him. Hayes thinks it was one of the
bowling-alley boys, and Farnum, who told me
about it, charges it to the painter. I know who
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
did it, I’ll bet; but I have no more proof than in
the case of the safe.”
“Given that up at last, haven’t you?” said
Melvin, with a broad smile of amusement on his
face. “You’re great on theories and suspicions,
and can read a man’s lips fifty feet away, but
all the same, when it comes to facts, you’re not
there.”
“That may be so, and may not be,” said
Varrell, with an air of superiority. “I don’t
pretend to be a detective, but I haven’t given up
hope, and shall not give it up till I board the
train after the college exams in June. The
fellow is getting reckless, and will sooner or
later expose himself. All we can do is to watch
and wait.”
“Watch and wait!” sniffed Melvin. “That’s
what we’ve been doing, isn’t it? and see, what
has the result been? Durand has lost money,
and Hayes has lost money, and we’re no nearer
getting our hands on the thief than we were
before.”
“Oh, yes, we are,” said Varrell. “To begin
with, Eddy has become intimate again with
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
Bosworth. I have seen him two or three times
lately in Bosworth’s room. Yesterday they had
a hot discussion about something, and some of it
was carried on near the window while I was at
work behind my blinds. With the help of my
Zeiss opera-glass I caught several expressions
that gave me a clew to the conversation.”
“What did they say?” asked Dick, eagerly.
“Well, Bosworth was the first one who appeared.
He came to the window, wearing that
sneering look of his, and looked down to see if
there was any one outside. Before he turned
around he looked across to my window, and as
he did so, he said: ‘You can’t help yourself.
You’re in it as deep as I am. You gave me the
information and shared the profits. If I get
into trouble, I take you with me.’ Then both
remained away for some minutes. Eddy was the
next to show himself, with tears running down
his cheeks, and his chin jerking with sobs, so
that it was hard to follow the motion of his
lips. Apparently he said nothing for a minute,
but just leaned his forehead against the frame of
the lower sash, which was raised high. Suddenly
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
he clenched his fist and brought it down
on the window seat, and cried out, ‘I won’t keep
the dirty money! I’ll pay you back the first of
next month, and then you will see, you miserable—’
He turned his head away so that I
couldn’t see the next words. Bosworth appeared
immediately and pulled him away from the
window.”
“Poor little fool!” said Melvin, sadly. “What
a pity we can’t do something to save him from
that rascal! Bosworth has apparently got some
grip on him and is scaring the life out of him.”
“He’s probably lent Eddy money, and by
pretending it’s a part of what was in the safe,
has tied the boy’s tongue. It is clear that Eddy
holds the key to the situation. If some one
could only induce him to tell what he knows, it
would give us the evidence we need to banish
Bosworth, and might help us to save Eddy.
Does Phil know him well?”
“I don’t think they are intimate,” replied
Dick, “but they know each other fairly well.”
“Why can’t Phil draw the little chap out?”
said Varrell. “It’s for the boy’s own good.”
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
Phil yielded with bad grace to the older boys’
request. To a character transparently frank and
wholly detesting underhand methods, the task
savored of dishonesty. Only when he was
assured that Eddy was in the power of a dangerous
person whose grip on the boy it was important
to break at the earliest possible moment, did
he consent to make the attempt.
The next morning he offered to join Eddy in
his room for the working out of the algebra
problems. Eddy accepted the offer with alacrity,
both because he welcomed assistance and because
he was pleased to have a boy like Poole in his
room. When the lesson was at an end, Phil
asked him flatly what he found attractive in
Bosworth. Eddy became red and white by
turns, and said he didn’t know. Then Phil
pressed his question, and Eddy “didn’t know”
and “couldn’t tell” until a great storm of tears
and sobs melted the heart of the unwilling inquisitor,
and brought the examination to an
abrupt close. Phil had just resolution enough
left before he fled the painful scene, to urge the
unfortunate boy to let Bosworth wholly alone,
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
and if he had anything bad on his conscience
to confide it to Grim or some one else who could
help him.
“That settles it for the present,” said Varrell,
when he heard the report. “The scoundrel has
the little fool tied hand and foot. We must play
the waiting game a while longer.”
“If Grim knew what we know, he would
worm the facts out of Eddy in ten minutes,”
said Phil.
“I’m not so sure of it,” replied Varrell.
“That’s the last card, anyway; I’m not willing
to play that yet.”
The season was drawing toward its interesting
end. On the following Saturday was to be held
the school track meet, a week later the contest
with Hillbury, and after another week the great
baseball game with the same rivals. Before and
after the athletic contests, and sprinkled in
among them, came the Morgan Prize Speaking,
the Morgan Composition Reading, the contests
for the English and Mathematical prizes, class
dinners, society elections, preparation for class-day,—opportunities
and pleasures of every variety
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
to goad the conscientious and inspire the
indifferent. Varrell restricted his ambition to
his studies and pole vaulting, and so had strength
in reserve for the still hunt after “Beelzebub,”—a
name which after three months of Milton
gradually and naturally replaced “Bosworth” in
the private conversations of the two friends.
Melvin’s occupations were more varied. Besides
his regular school work, which he was
anxious to do well to the very end, there were
the troublesome duties of track manager to be
performed, the regular jumping practice to be
kept up, and a class-day part to prepare.
The “still hunt” he left to Varrell, who undertook
to do the watching while Dick attended
to the waiting.
The cares of management proved considerably
greater than Melvin had anticipated. In addition
to the worry of collecting subscriptions, and
the necessity of bothering with the large number
of men and numerous details involved in a
dozen events, he found himself bearing burdens
that really belonged to another. Dickinson, the
captain, possessed a very peculiar character.
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
He could run like a deer. In the two-twenty
and the quarter ordinary handicaps seemed of no
use against him. This year he had been experimenting
with the hundred yards as well, and
in two trials out of three, he could give Tommy
Travers, who had been for two years the best
hundred-yard man in school, three or four yards
and beat him with ease. Yet with this marvelous
natural ability, which had lifted him
suddenly the year before from a position of unimportance
to one of great popularity, he had
only a slight interest in his sport. He ran
because the school wanted him to run, not
because he either loved the sport or hankered
after the glory of winning. Left to himself, he
would sooner or later have abandoned the track
altogether and settled back into solitary moping
with his books. As it was, he often appeared
moody and apathetic, and neglected many of
the duties which a captain likes especially to
perform. Inspiration and push had to come
from the manager.
The jumping took a course discouragingly
uncertain. Almost every day Dick began his
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
practice with the feeling that he had reached
his limit. Sometimes, as he dropped an inch
or two below previous records, he was convinced
of it. Then, on the next day, perhaps, or the
day after, when he had concluded that there was
no great jump in him, and that he must be satisfied
with a moderate achievement, he would surprise
himself by going a half inch higher than
he had ever attained before. And there were
times, when he had enjoyed a particularly long
and restful sleep, or his physical condition was
exactly right, at which he really felt like jumping.
Then his ambition went wild, and he told
himself, exultantly, that the limit was still far
away. Such days came rarely. Should he have
one on the twenty-third, or more important still,
on the thirtieth?
On Tuesday evening Dick and Varrell and
Phil went together to the chapel to hear the
Prize Speaking. Curtis joined them at the door,
and all four took seats near the front. It was
a long performance, but the boys listened with
interest, and amused themselves by guessing
on the merits of the contestants, as speech followed
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
speech in close succession. Curtis voted
for Planter, Melvin for Durand, Varrell for Todd,
and Phil for a boy who delivered an extract from
a speech by Henry Clay. When the judges
returned the award of first prize to Planter,
second to Von Gersdorf, and honorable mention
for Todd and Durand, each flattered himself on
his critical judgment.
Varrell said good night at the steps of Carter,
and went on to his own dormitory. Curtis, who
was in a talkative mood, proposed to “go up for
a minute.” When he had settled himself in an
arm-chair, Phil, who distrusted such “minutes,”
gathered up his Greek books and retreated to a
classmate’s room across the hall.
“Do you know, Dick, Planter is the kind of
fellow I admire. He ranks well,—almost as well
as you do,—and he’s an editor of the Seatonian
and on the Lit., and is always to the fore on
an occasion like this. Fletcher is a better
scholar, I suppose, but he’s nothing else;
Planter can write and speak as well as get
marks; he has good manners too, and is always
a gentleman.”
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
“I didn’t know you admired gentle qualities,”
said Dick, amused, “and as for marks, why, it’s
only this year that you’ve been on friendly terms
with any kind of school-books.”
“Better late than never. I’ve had a lot of
new ideas this year.”
“Are you going back on athletics?” asked
Dick.
“They are all right in their place. I wouldn’t
exchange my football experiences for anything
this crank factory ever gave to Daniel Webster
or any other great genius who got his first ‘call
down’ on our benches. But I don’t want to
be always John Curtis the football player. I
want something better than that.”
“John Curtis the Harvard freshman?” suggested
Dick.
Curtis smiled grimly. “That’s what I’m going
to be, if it’s possible for the possessor of my
brains. I’m making headway, too. If I’d only
begun last year, I might have been somewhere
now.”
“You can do it yet,” said Dick, encouragingly.
“I’ll make a bluff at it, anyway,” replied the
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
football captain; “but it’s like trying to rush
the ball seventy yards in the last ten minutes
of the game.”
Phil came in, looked significantly at the clock,
and took off his coat.
“Yes, I know it’s time for me to go,” said
Curtis, struggling to his feet. “We’re all in
training, and ought to be in bed by this time.
That was a good game you put up last
Saturday.”
Phil looked at him suspiciously.
“Oh, I mean it,” added Curtis. “And you’ll
have the crowd with you, too, if you can keep
it up. Don’t mind what you hear from Marks
and that gang.”
On Thursday Dick came home promptly after
supper for a long evening’s pull at his class-day
part. Phil was already there.
“Did you see that letter from Cambridge,
Dick?” he asked. “I put it on the mantelpiece.”
Melvin took it up carelessly. “From Martin,”
he said, glancing at the address. “I wonder
what he wants.”
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
He opened it while Phil stood quietly by,
waiting for news of their old school friend.
As Melvin read, a tense, serious look came over
his face, and he lifted his head instinctively,
as if to meet an adversary. After he had
finished, he still held the letter in his hand,
and sat staring stupidly at the window.
“What is it?” cried Phil. “Has anything
happened to Martin?”
“No, but something has happened to us. Read
it and see.”
And Phil read this:—
.pm letter-start
“Dear old Dick: Just a word to tell you
of some kind of a scheme on foot to protest
Dickinson. I got it from a junior who rooms
in my entry, who got it from an old Hillbury
man. They say that Dickinson ran in a race
in Indiana last Fourth of July for a money
prize, and they have posters to show that he
was advertised to take part in the race. Is it
so? If it is, he has buried himself for school
and college athletics as deep as China. If it
isn’t, you’ll have to disprove the charge fair
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
and square, beyond the point where a doubt
can be imagined, or they’ll shut him out.
Bestir yourself!
.ti +4
“Yours and Seaton’s forever,
.ti +4
“L. M. M.”
.pm letter-end
“What are you going to do?” asked Phil, as
Dick put on his hat.
“I’m going to have it out with Dickinson
first,” replied the senior, bitterly. “Then we’ll
see what’s to be done.”
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch21
CHAPTER XXI || A GLOOMY PROSPECT
.sp 2
Dickinson was in his room. He had just
returned, also planning for a long pull at his
books, the usual evening routine for him.
Melvin banged at the door, then jerked it
open with little ceremony. Dickinson looked
up in mild wonder.
“Hello! I thought you had consecrated your
evening to the Muses. What’s up? You look
as if you were on the war-path.”
“I am,” answered the visitor, fiercely. His
face was set in harsh lines, while his voice,
which he vainly strove to control, came forth
choked and strained and trembling. “Do you
know what makes a professional?”
“Why, I suppose I do,” replied the wondering
Dickinson, who was giving less attention
to the question than to his friend’s unaccountable
agitation.
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
“Well, what is it?”
“Why, to play for money or your board, or
any such compensation.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, to compete with professionals, or for
money prizes, or—”
“Or what?” demanded the questioner.
“Or take part in some kind of an open contest,
which the governing boards for some
technical reason or other forbid. I never
understood about it very well,—in fact, never
concerned myself with it. It doesn’t affect us,
and it seemed to me quite enough to know the
general rules. The genuine amateur doesn’t
need rules, anyway. His own instinct for what’s
right and fair would keep him straight.”
“Oh, it would!” replied the manager with
virulent sarcasm.
“Yes, it would!” retorted Dickinson, catching
fire himself at the persistent cross-examination.
“What’s got into you, anyway? Why do you
come here in this choking, crazy fashion and ask
me wild questions? What do you mean?”
Dickinson was standing now, facing his visitor
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
with a challenging look, which warned Melvin
that he was beginning wrong. He hesitated a
moment, trying to control his voice, and groping
for a simple way back to the proper path.
“Well, what is it?” demanded Dickinson, in
peremptory tones. “Don’t stand there rolling
your eyes. Out with it!”
“It’s about you, Jim,” said Melvin, at last,
abandoning any attempt at a wise leading of
the conversation, and speaking, as his anger
cooled somewhat, with less animosity and
more sorrow in his voice. “Did you really
run in Indiana last summer with professionals
for a money prize?”
For a short minute Dickinson blinked at the
questioner in stupefaction. Then with a quick
transformation, as memory presented a picture
of a past occurrence, the blood came rushing to
his cheeks and a fierce light blazed in his eyes.
“Well, what about it?” demanded Dick,
again the examiner, but losing his bitterness
before the glare of indignation which Dickinson
threw upon him. “Can’t you speak?”
“There’s no use in speaking,” answered the
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
runner, sullenly. “If you think I’m that kind
of a man, it makes no difference what I say.
My word wouldn’t be good for anything. A
man will always lie about the first money he
gets for athletics.”
“It’s a question of knowing, not of thinking,”
said Dick.
“Exactly!” returned Dickinson, bitterly.
“And this is the way you know me! If my
running hasn’t given any better impression of
me than that, I’ll stop it altogether. I never
wanted to run. You drove me into it against
my will. I will slip out with pleasure.”
“Hang it, Jim! answer my question, won’t
you?” cried Dick, desperate. “Did you run
last summer in a Fourth of July race with
professionals, or not?”
“Of course I didn’t,” replied Dickinson, sulkily.
“You ought to have more sense than to take stock
in such a yarn. I never ran a race in my life
except in this school and at Hillbury last year.”
Melvin drew a long breath. His courage was
coming back and his wrath was cooling, but the
mystery was yet to be explained.
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
“How did this story start, then?”
“What story?” snapped Dickinson.
“Why, that you did take part in some such
race in your town last summer,” returned Dick,
patiently, yet feeling that Dickinson’s present
balkiness certainly warranted suspicion of past
folly if not of guilt.
“I don’t know anything about any story,”
answered Dickinson. “I was asked to run in
the races and declined. Through some misunderstanding
my name was mentioned in the
advertisements, but I did not run,—in fact, was
not even present.”
“Was your name down in the handbills?”
“It may have been. I don’t know about
that.”
“Who was the manager?”
“I don’t recall his name—one of the sporting
men around town. I know the name of the
head of the general committee, and that’s all.”
“Would he be able to give us a certificate
proving that you did not compete?”
“He’s in Europe,” answered Dickinson. “He
wouldn’t be of any use if he were here. He had
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
nothing to do with the sports at all, and he
doesn’t know me from Adam.”
“But there must be some one to whom you can
write for evidence,” cried Melvin, in despair.
“Wouldn’t your father look the matter up for
you, or your clergyman or your high school
principal?”
Dickinson’s features relaxed into a mournful
smile. “My father indeed! Haven’t I told
you of his attitude on the subject? He’d welcome
any pretext that would shut me out.
And as for Dr. Monroe, our minister, he’s a fine
old man and one of the best friends I have
in the world, but I shouldn’t wish to send him
round the streets looking up evidence regarding
my running. The principal of the high
school would do the job thoroughly if we could
give him plenty of time, but he’s a very busy
man and might not get to it immediately.”
“Might not get to it immediately!” echoed
Melvin. “Why, Jim, do you know how much
time we have?—just five days. The protest
will have to be met on Wednesday. If we are
not prepared then, judgment will go against us.”
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
“They’ll have to give us reasonable time in
which to disprove charges, won’t they?” retorted
Dickinson. “They certainly don’t expect every
fellow to carry round in his pocket certificates of
his amateur standing.”
“The rules say definitely that protests must be
decided on the Wednesday before the games, and
Hillbury will take good care that the rules are
followed. Whatever we do must be done before
Wednesday. We must write the letters to-night.”
“Let’s talk it over with Varrell first,” said
Dickinson, “he knows more than all the rest of
us put together. It may be that he will think
of some way of getting us out of the hole.”
The meeting was adjourned to Varrell’s room,
where the facts were discussed again. The
wisdom of Varrell furnished no other expedient
than that already proposed of writing to several
men whose names Dickinson had mentioned, in
the hope that out of the whole number at least one
would answer fully and promptly, with evidence
that could not be gainsaid.
Late in the evening the captain and the
manager separated, having written the letters
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
and made sure of their prompt departure by
carrying them to the office instead of leaving
them in the street boxes. Anxious as the boys
were to speed the cause, there was nothing now
left to them but to wait quietly for the returning
messages and control their impatience as
best they could. To Dickinson, whose temperament
inclined to moroseness, this waiting was not
so difficult. He had always shown an inconceivable
indifference to the athletic ambition which
was so powerful an animus in the lives of the
boys about him. The immediate effect of the
unpleasant news was to change his indifference
to disgust. The accusation was groundless and
unjust; if he must prove his innocence against
every absurd charge which could be suddenly
trumped up against him, the sooner he was done
with athletics the better. The game was not
worth the candle.
Weary of the disagreeable subject, Dickinson
went to bed and fell quickly asleep. Not so the
unfortunate manager. To him the fleet runner
was a school possession, intrusted to his keeping
as a fine blade to the care of the armorer, who
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
must produce it at the call of its owner, glittering,
keen, and ready for instant use. He heard
the clock strike twelve and one, as he rolled
nervously from one side of the bed to the other,
vainly courting elusive sleep, or brooding over
the perplexing situation. Dickinson might not
have suggested the right men to appeal to;
the letters might not reach their destination
safely; the people to whom they were addressed
might not answer promptly; the committee
might not give proper weight to the answers
received. He recalled with alarm stories he
had read in newspapers of the accidental
destruction of mail cars. The letters would
be forwarded together; an accident to a single
pouch would stop them all. He groaned
aloud as he pictured himself and Dickinson and
the school waiting hopeful and helpless, day
after day, mail after mail, for letters which,
having never been sent, could never arrive.
Varrell also was awake late. Stretched in
his easy-chair, with feet comfortably cushioned
on the window-seat, he gazed out into the peaceful
night and pondered the same problem which
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
was distressing his friend. When at length he
rose to his feet and turned up the light, there
was the shadow of a smile on his face and a
gleam of satisfaction in his eye, which indicated
that one at least of the three seniors had cudgeled
his brain to some purpose.
The trio came together next morning on the
way to chapel.
“Did you get the letters off?” asked Varrell.
Melvin nodded.
“Did you write to the newspapers?” continued
Varrell. “The newspaper men are usually
best posted on local happenings.”
Manager and captain looked at each other in
surprise. “We didn’t think of them,” confessed
Dickinson. “There’s the Times and the Chronicle.
Some one in those offices ought to know
the facts perfectly well.”
“I’ll write to them both immediately after
chapel,” said Melvin, joyfully. “Much obliged,
Wrenn; I knew you’d help us.”
While Melvin composed his letters, Varrell was
at the telegraph office sending messages to the
same addresses. But he kept his own counsel.
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
The school sports were held on Saturday, with
rather disappointing results. Dickinson won his
races, as was expected, but he made no new
records, and his form was evidently not as good
as he had shown in the same sports a year before.
The school was disappointed, but not hopelessly
so, for Marks’s expert opinion that Dickinson had
reached his limit and would now go backward,
found no general acceptance outside his own
small set. Melvin won second place in the high
jump, barely succeeding in doing five feet five,
though in practice the week before he had several
times got easily over the bar at five feet six. It
was little comfort to him to know, as the others
did not, that his slump was due, not to inability,
but to anxiety for Dickinson. Varrell alone of
the three gained glory by the work of the day,
winning his event by a vault only a trifle below
the school record.
That night came formal notice of the protest
of Dickinson, to be adjudicated on the following
Wednesday. The news flashed through the
school with the usual electrifying force, charging
every loyal heart with dismay and indignation.
.pb
.sp 2
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i267.jpg w=526px id=i267
.ca
In the Campus Woods.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: In the Campus Woods.]
.if-
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch22
CHAPTER XXII || THE DECISION OF THE COURT
.sp 2
“We certainly ought to hear to-night,” said
Melvin on Monday, as, with Phil and Dickinson,
he hung round the office, waiting for the mail to
be distributed. “If the letters arrived Saturday,
and the people attended to the matter promptly,
the answers might have been mailed Saturday
night.”
“More likely they didn’t arrive until Saturday
night or this morning,” replied Dickinson, who
took a less optimistic view. “Then if the people
are like most others when you ask them for a
favor, they’ll get round to the thing on Tuesday
or later, and the letters may arrive on Thursday
or any time during the following week—if indeed
they are written at all.”
Nothing for Melvin; nothing for Dickinson;
two papers for Varrell; Dick’s heart sank.
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
“We have all day to-morrow, and the first
mail on Wednesday,” he said at length, as the
trio turned gloomily homeward.
A figure passed them on the other side of the
lane, hurrying toward the office.
“Here are a couple of papers for you, Varrell,”
called Phil. But Varrell was already past, unresponsive
to the hail.
“Throw them at him!” growled Dickinson.
“He never hears anything when his back is
turned.”
Phil hit the mark, and Varrell stooped for the
parcels.
“Not a letter, Wrenn, not a blamed letter for
any of us; just these papers for you. I felt like
throwing them into the river!”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” replied Varrell, studying
the postmark. “I’ll take half a loaf any
time, even if you fellows get no bread. Old
newspapers are sometimes valuable.”
Tuesday was not a day of profitable study for
Melvin. He went to his recitations, but in some
he got excused, and in others he blundered most
shabbily. His whole attention was given to
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
waiting on the mails. In the morning nothing,
in the afternoon nothing, at night a single be-smooched,
bescrawled envelope, bearing the
postmark “Ralston, Indiana”!
“The jewel at last,” grinned Varrell, as he
read the address over Melvin’s shoulder. “Open
the case!”
“It isn’t a joking matter,” replied Dick, seriously.
“A good deal hangs on this letter.”
“Dirt especially,” said Varrell. “Come, open
it up!”
Melvin cut the envelope carefully and brought
the following to light:—
.sp 2
.if h
.il fn=i271.jpg w=500px
.if-
.if t
.pm letter-start
This is to sertify that Jim Dickson
did not run in the 4th July Sports as
advertysed
.ti +6
Yours resply
.ti +6
Michael Ryan
.pm letter-end
.if-
.sp 2
“Is that all?” asked Varrell.
Melvin examined again. “Everything.”
.bn 272.png
.pn +1
“I’m afraid he couldn’t pass English A,” said
Varrell.
They walked for some minutes in silence,
Melvin too much disgusted with his companion’s
flippancy to speak.
“If you can talk seriously, I’d like to ask you
something,” he said at length; “but I don’t
want any more nonsense.”
“I’m serious,” replied Varrell, gravely.
“What do you think of it? Will they take
it or not?”
“I’m afraid it’s no good,” said Varrell.
“What they want is evidence complete and certain,
that can’t be dodged or questioned or denied.
This is proof only to those who will accept its
authority; it isn’t what they call irrefragable.”
Melvin groaned. “You might at least have
spared me a word like that.”
The grin stole back upon Varrell’s face.
Melvin turned away indignant and disheartened.
Varrell clutched the stern-faced youth by the
arm. “Dick, don’t go off mad! I’m not so
useless as I seem. Come up to the room and let
me show you something.”
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
Ten minutes later, the athletic manager came
plunging down the stairs four steps at a time,
his face aglow with smiles, his whole being
radiant with the joy that follows a long-borne
disappointment, as the sun comes forth
more glorious after slow dark days of northeast
storm.
“The old rascal!” he muttered; “the shrewd
old foxy rascal! and he’s had the thing in his
pocket all day! I felt like kicking him and
hugging him at the same time. If I could only
have a try at the high jump now! Couldn’t I
do six feet!”
Two flights down, across the yard, two flights
up! He found Dickinson with his nose in a
dictionary of antiquities, packing away learning
by the cubic inch. The nose came out in a trice;
when it went back, a good half hour afterward,
it had lost somewhat the keenness of its scent
for facts, and the two eyes above it gleamed
bright and determined. Thence the manager
hied him home to bed, and slept nine solid,
refreshing hours.
The official student representative on the
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
Hillbury-Seaton athletic committee was the captain
of the team. As Dickinson was naturally
excluded from the discussion by the fact that his
own name was under protest, Melvin was to take
his place. He was accompanied to the station
by Curtis and Varrell.
“Rub it in if you get the chance,” said Curtis,
savagely. “It’s one of their tricks; don’t spare
’em.”
“I hope you’ll do no such thing,” said the
pacific Varrell. “It wouldn’t be either courteous
or safe. I believe they’re quite square about the
thing; and you must assume that they are, anyway,
even if you think differently.”
“I agree with you,” said Dick, thoughtfully.
“The advertisement certainly gives a very strong
ground for suspicion, and our case isn’t so sure
that we can afford to stir up any unpleasant
feelings.”
“The main thing is to go carefully and arouse
as little opposition as possible,” continued Varrell.
“Stick to the plan we laid out if you can.”
The train came roaring and clanking in.
“Don’t let ’em fool you, anyway,” said Curtis,
.bn 275.png
.pn +1
giving a hard grip to the manager’s arm.
“Come back victorious or we’ll lynch you.”
“And don’t play your trump card first,”
added Varrell.
The meeting was held in Boston. The committee
was composed of six members, one from
the students, one from the faculty, and
one from the alumni, of each school. Hillbury
was represented by Professor Loder, Mr. Harkins,
a shrewd lawyer, and Captain McGee
of the Hillbury track team. For Seaton
appeared besides Melvin, Mr. Pope to represent
the faculty, and Dr. Brayton, a young
Boston surgeon, who, with all the engagements
and responsibilities of a busy practice, was still
willing to undergo some sacrifice to serve his
school. Mr. Pope was made chairman and
Professor Loder secretary.
“Our business is to decide concerning the
protest made by the Hillbury manager against
Dickinson,” said the chairman. “I will read
the protest and then ask Mr. Harkins, who is
used to presenting cases in court, to make a
statement of the charges.”
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
“I’m used to appearing as attorney, not as
judge,” returned the lawyer, smiling. “Here we
are acting in a judicial capacity.”
Dick studied the lawyer’s face as the protest
was read, and came speedily to the conclusion
that he should like Mr. Harkins less as judge
than as attorney. The face was mobile and
intelligent, yet something in its lines suggested
unscrupulousness. Dick had but little time in
which to gain this impression, for Mr. Harkins’s
words, rather than his face, now received his
whole attention.
“The charge, briefly stated, is that Dickinson
has been associated with professional runners in
an open race, contrary to the most fundamental
rule of amateur athletics.”
“When and where?” inquired Dr. Brayton,
turning to the Hillbury captain.
“On July fourth of last year, in Ralston,
Indiana,” replied McGee, promptly.
“What is your source of information?”
“The advertisements. Mr. Harkins, will you
kindly pass the poster to Dr. Brayton?”
It was a large-lettered notice, such as one
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
frequently sees displayed in shop windows, announcing
among other attractions a race for a
prize of fifteen dollars, in which Smith, Doyle,
Jackson, and “J. W. Dickinson, who holds many
school and college records,” would compete.
The fateful poster passed from hand to hand
about the table. Dick awaited his turn with
curiosity, yet with a heavy sinking of the heart.
Was it possible that this miserable sheet of coarse
paper should have power to work so much harm?
“What answer does Dickinson make?” said
Dr. Brayton, at length, turning to Melvin.
“He denies that he has ever run in any race
in his life except in the Seaton and Hillbury
contests,” answered Melvin, speaking with a
little tremor in his voice, but yet composedly
and coolly. “The advertisement was made
without his consent or knowledge.”
“While it may seem invidious to question the
sufficiency of a man’s word,” said Mr. Harkins,
with a bland smile, “I think you gentlemen will
all agree with me that we should be false to our
duty if we accepted Mr. Dickinson’s unsupported
denial as a conclusive answer to the protest.”
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
“Of course,” replied Dr. Brayton, promptly.
“The only question is where the burden of
proof lies.”
“On the defendant, I should say very positively,”
said Professor Loder. “We are striving
to maintain our contests on such a high plane
that not a breath of suspicion can be cast on the
amateur standing of any one who competes in
them. This advertisement has thrown serious
doubts on the eligibility of Dickinson for the
school sports. It is for him to clear himself of
suspicion.”
A moment’s silence followed before Mr. Harkins
spoke again: “If I may be allowed another
word, I should like to add that the principle to
be followed is not the maxim of the criminal
courts,—‘It is better that nine guilty men escape
rather than that one innocent man should
suffer,’—but the famous direction of President
Grant, ‘Let no guilty man escape!’ Less harm
is done by barring five unfairly than by allowing
one to compete who has forfeited his privilege.”
“You and I were not so sure about that
twenty years ago,” said Dr. Brayton, with a
.bn 279.png
.pn +1
smile. “If you displace a man unjustly, you
interfere with the equality of the representation,
and the contests are again unfair. What we are
after here is the facts in the case. We all agree
that this poster raises a reasonable doubt as to
the eligibility of Dickinson. Is this all we are
to know about it?”
“Mr. Melvin has some counter evidence to
put in,” said the chairman.
Dick awoke with a start. He had been so
much absorbed in following the argument of the
older members of the committee that he had for
the moment forgotten the task devolving on him.
“I think I ought to say,” remarked Melvin, as
he drew from his pocket the illiterate missive of
Michael Ryan, “that this protest was entirely
unexpected, and we were allowed a very short
time in which to prepare a defence. If we had
not heard of it by chance a day or two before
the notice came, we should have had absolutely
nothing to offer.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Professor
Loder, looking sharply at McGee. “That seems
unfair.”
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
“We didn’t find it out until late,” said McGee,
reddening, “and then we had to call a meeting.”
“We wrote to Ralston immediately,” continued
Melvin, “and have received this certificate
from the manager of the athletic sports referred
to in the poster. If there had been more time,
we should probably have more letters to present.”
He handed the scrawl to the chairman, who
gave it a glance and passed it to Dr. Brayton.
The latter smiled over it and handed it to his
neighbor. So it developed smiles as it went
the round until all were smiling except Dick,
whose face was purple with confusion, but bitterly
stern.
“I’d like to see this put in as evidence in a
court of law,” chuckled Mr. Harkins. “It bears
neither date nor attestation, concerns one Dickson,
not Dickinson, and gives no hint as to
Michael’s authority.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if Michael could explain
himself if he were here,” said Dr. Brayton,
thoughtfully.
“You certainly wouldn’t give weight to an
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
indefinite unauthenticated certificate like that!”
protested Mr. Harkins.
“Yes, if I were convinced that it represented
a genuine attempt to give the information we
ask,” replied Dr. Brayton. “I don’t know
whether to take this seriously or not.”
“What evidence should you consider sufficient
to disprove the charge?” asked Mr. Pope, turning
to Mr. Harkins. Dick gave the teacher a
grateful look; it was the question he wanted to
ask.
“Why—er—” Mr. Harkins was momentarily
at a loss; his interest was all on the negative
side. “Why, any trustworthy record of the
day’s events which showed that Dickinson did
not take part.”
“There probably was no official report,” Dick
ventured to say.
“Well, any definite statement by reliable
people who were in a position to know,” said
Professor Loder.
“A newspaper report of the day’s events,
perhaps?” suggested Dick, trying to control his
eagerness.
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
“Yes, if it were definite,” assented the professor.
“Well, here is a paper published in Ralston on
the sixth of July, and while it describes the
games and names the contestants, it makes no
mention of Dickinson.”
Dr. Brayton took the paper and examined the
passage carefully, then turned it over to Professor
Loder and Mr. Harkins, who put their heads together
over it. At length the lawyer looked up
with a gracious smile, and said in his smoothest
judicial tones:—
“I am sorry, Mr. Melvin, but this is by no
means conclusive. Certain names of contestants
are given, with their places at the finish, but there
is nothing here to prove that Dickinson did not
start and fall so far behind as not to finish. I am
sorry to disappoint you, but I should hardly feel
justified myself in accepting this negative evidence
as confuting the plain statement of the poster.”
“Then the report of the proceedings would
prove nothing after all,” said Dick, bitterly.
“Professor Loder has just said that the newspaper
report would be sufficient.”
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
“It would,” replied Mr. Harkins, with forbearance,
“if it had contained the plain statement
that Dickinson did not run.”
“Is that your idea, too?” asked Dick, turning
to Professor Loder. The boy’s heart was fluttering,
his hands and knees shook under the table,
but his voice was steady, and for this he felt
unspeakably grateful.
“Certainly,” said Professor Loder, with some
sharpness in his voice. “We do not demand the
impossible. If the newspaper had stated that
Dickinson did not run, there would be nothing
more to say.”
“Then there is nothing more to say,” declared
Dick, leaping to his feet in his eagerness to relieve
the nervous tension which had been growing
more and more acute as the discussion went on.
“Here is the Ralston Chronicle, which makes
that very statement.”
Mr. Harkins seized the paper and studied the
black-lined passage with evident chagrin. He
was still studying, not wholly hopeless of a flaw,
when Professor Loder, after looking over the
lawyer’s shoulder at the paragraph, said: “Yes,
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
that seems to settle it; the protest must be
withdrawn. I am sorry, however, that you
could not have been more frank with us.”
Dick flushed deep red. “I hope, sir, you don’t
think I’ve taken an underhand course. I only
meant to make sure that the newspaper statement
would be accepted as sufficient evidence. You
see, sir, I am positive that Dickinson is innocent,
because I know him and trust him, but I couldn’t
tell how the evidence would appeal to others.”
“And so you committed us first and then put
in the evidence,” said Dr. Brayton. “The fact
is, Professor Loder, that the great danger in these
discussions lies, not in any difference in ideals,
but in the vagueness of our notions as to what
constitutes proof of guilt or innocence. I am inclined
to think Mr. Melvin’s method has tended
to bring us sooner to an agreement.”
Professor Loder made no reply. The Chronicle
passed slowly around the table. Mr. Harkins
conceived some new plan, and returned to the
discussion.
“To tell the truth, I don’t like this kind of
evidence,” he began, solemnly.
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
Professor Loder gave him a look of disapproval.
“I don’t see how you can honestly object to it.
It is of the same kind as that of the poster, but
much more definite and authoritative.”
The words brought a glint of gratitude and
respect into the Seaton manager’s eyes. It was
apparent that there were fair and honest men in
the Hillbury Faculty as well as at Seaton.
“Is this the only case cited under the charge?”
asked Mr. Harkins, turning with impatience to
McGee.
“The only one I know of,” answered the lad.
Mr. Harkins relapsed into ill-humored silence.
“Am I then to assume that we have reached
a definite conclusion?” asked the chairman.
“I move that the committee report itself satisfied
as to the groundlessness of the charges,
and that the Hillbury manager be given leave
to withdraw the protest,” said Professor Loder,
promptly.
The motion was put and unanimously carried.
The meeting broke up. Mr. Harkins alleged
important business, offered a general farewell,
and hurriedly departed. Dick lingered to thank
.bn 286.png
.pn +1
Professor Loder and Dr. Brayton for their courtesy
and fairness, arranged with McGee a few
details concerning the games, and then hastened
to the telegraph office to send the joyful news
ahead.
He was received by the boys that night as a
victorious diplomat returning from an international
Congress. The only circumstance to mar
his complete happiness was the reluctance of the
school to believe that Varrell, and Varrell alone,
deserved the credit for securing the evidence and
for the successful presentation of it.
.bn 287.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch23
CHAPTER XXIII || THE GREAT TRACK MEET
.sp 2
Two days of uneasiness and discussion, and the
momentous Saturday was at hand. The indifference
which Melvin felt at the beginning of
the season, when the responsibilities of the management
were loaded upon his shoulders, had
long since vanished. He had begun with it as
a task, as a burden to be borne because he could
bear it better than any one else; he had put
into it the best of his energy and the best of
his thought, he had worried and sacrificed and
labored for the cause. It seemed to him now
almost as if the team were his, struggling for
him and for the school. His anxiety could not
have been greater if his own future happiness
and the welfare of the school had really been
dependent on the success of the team.
From the moment the news was received that
.bn 288.png
.pn +1
the protest had been rejected, Dickinson ceased
to be a mere ornament to the team and became
a real captain. There was fire in him now, and
determination and genuine enthusiasm. His
whole attitude was one of confidence and of conscious
power, that lifted the weakest man in
the squad out of his humiliating sense of incapacity,
and made him feel that he was one of a
strong company led by a strong man, and himself
capable of greater things than he had ever yet
accomplished.
In the mass-meeting of the school the night
before the games, when the boys gathered in
loyal force to give their team a “send-off” for
the morrow, nothing that was said by student
or graduate or friend stirred such response in
the hearts of the school as the short, plain, virile
exhortation of the captain.
And no athletes need personal inspiration as
do the members of a track team. The football
player stands shoulder to shoulder with his fellows,
the strong helps the weak and shares with
him the glory of victory. The baseball score
may show hits and errors against the same member
.bn 289.png
.pn +1
of a winning team. The runner, on the other
hand, enters the field alone, fights his brief battle
unaided, and either fails his team wholly or
makes an individual contribution to its success;
he cannot be pushed on to victory by the efforts
of another.
The wind was easterly on Saturday, bringing
in from the sea a heavy thickness of atmosphere,
yet with barely sufficient vitality to move the
leaves. The air chilled like a March fog.
“What do you think of it?” asked Melvin, as
he met Dickinson at breakfast.
“The weather? It’s bad on the nerves, but
worse for the Hillburyites, who aren’t used to it
as we are. I don’t mind it myself. All I ask is
that we have no wind to buck against, and no
rain.”
“It’s hard on the jumpers. When the air is
cold and heavy, you can’t put any force into your
spring.”
“Weather doesn’t influence me as much as
other conditions do,” said Varrell. “I find it a
great deal easier to jump when there’s a big,
eager crowd, and the excitement runs high.”
.bn 290.png
.pn +1
“You’ll have excitement enough, if that’s all
you want,” said Dick, grimly. “This Hillbury
team is coming up here to win. I happen to
know that they’re counting on some of the very
events that we’ve been reckoning as surely ours.
If we beat Hillbury to-day, we shall have to make
new records to do it.”
“Let’s have the new records, then, by all
means,” said Varrell, looking across the table at
the silent captain.
On the way to chapel Tompkins joined them.
“Good speech you made last night, Jimmy,”
said the pitcher, “better than anything I heard
at the Prize Speaking.”
Dickinson nodded in acknowledgment of the
compliment.
“You can’t fail us after that speech,” continued
Tompkins. “I know a couple of fellows
in Hillbury, and they brag of Ropes and Lary
like an agent selling a gold mine. Don’t let
them do you up.”
“They won’t unless they’re better men. If
they are, we want them to win.”
“Not exactly,” returned Tompkins. “Let
.bn 291.png
.pn +1
the best team win, of course, only make sure
we don’t lose.”
Melvin snorted in ridicule. “You crazy cowboy!
How can we help losing if the best team
is Hillbury, and Hillbury wins? You don’t
mean that we’re to beat them dishonestly?”
“My meaning is too deep for gladiatorial
brains like yours,” said Tommy, edging off.
“I’ll explain later.”
The Hillburyites came by a special train in
solid phalanx, happy and hopeful. The year’s
records were in their favor by a considerable
margin. Dickinson and Curtis were the only
men really feared, for Todd they considered as
good as beaten, and the rest of the Seaton team,
while allowed a certain number of points in
accordance with the general principle of chance,
were assessed at a low valuation.
At half-past two the Seaton bleachers, packed
to their full capacity, were bellowing their welcome
to the hundred-yards men, who had just
appeared at the head of the stretch. Lary, the
Hillbury champion, and Dickinson were side by
side,—the former a short, solid, muscular
.bn 292.png
.pn +1
figure, quick in every motion, the latter tall and
lithe, and deliberate even to slowness. Melvin
watched the preparations with an unexpected
fear creeping into his heart. Was this solid,
business-like person with the knotty legs and
confident manner to steal a start on the Seaton
captain and keep ahead to the finish? Crack!
sounded the pistol and away went the men,
rising from the crouching position with an
instantaneous leap and throwing themselves
forward into their strides.
It was true! Lary was ahead at the start by
five yards, his short-legs flashing over the
unscarred surface of the track as the wings of a
buzzing insect beat the air,—behind him Dickinson
and Travers, and behind still farther the
second Hillbury runner, who did not count in the
score. For five seconds the three came on with
the same apparent interval, then number two
crept away from number three and up toward
number one. Eight seconds, nine, ten, the stop-watches
registered. A fraction more and the
short sprinter was at the tape, Dickinson but
six inches behind, and Travers in third place!
.bn 293.png
.pn +1
How the visitors howled at this, the first
augury of the day’s success! The great Dickinson
beaten in the very first race! The
announcer’s big megaphone roared forth the
record,—it equalled the best of either school.
The points gained—Hillbury five, Seaton three—were
chalked on the board; and the crowd,
like a hungry dog who waits greedily for a
second piece of meat, turned expectant to the
next event.
The half-mile was conceded to Willbur of
Hillbury. In the Seaton estimates, however,
Maine of Seaton had been counted on to win
second place and Faxon third. Willbur ran
a beautiful race that set the Hillburyites wild
with pride, establishing a new dual record; but
unfortunately for Seaton, the second man, who
was twenty yards behind, proved to be, not
Maine, but Towle of Hillbury, while Maine made
a very poor third. The score went up—Hillbury
twelve, Seaton four—and the hearts of the
Seatonians down. The beginning was bad.
Meantime the shot-put, which had been started
with the first run, was drawing near its end.
.bn 294.png
.pn +1
Here at last was encouragement for the home
team, for every prize fell to the wearer of a
red S. Curtis was ahead as usual, with Farlow,
a big two hundred pounder, second, and Trapp
third.
“We’ve evened it up now, Toddy,” cried
Melvin, joyfully, as the men came out for the
high hurdles. “We want seven points here,
you know.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Todd; “that’s all
any one can do. That Rawson may beat me,
after all. They say he can do it in seventeen
flat.”
“Nonsense!” retorted Melvin. “Go in and
beat him.”
The start was in the Hillbury man’s favor.
Rawson flew down the stretch, knocking over
half his hurdles in his course, going like a torpedo
boat in a rough sea. Just behind him
came Todd, taking three swift strides between
hurdles and rising like a bird swooping up in
its flight. They seemed neck and neck at the
last obstacle, but here Rawson struck hard and
lost his stride, and Todd was easily first at the
.bn 295.png
.pn +1
finish. Smith of Seaton was third, making the
score Hillbury fourteen, Seaton eighteen.
“Now’s your chance for revenge,” said Curtis,
as Dickinson started forth for the two-twenty.
“Show those fellows what you can do, when you
really have room to get headway. And we
shouldn’t object to a new record, you know.”
The captain smiled grimly. “I shall be satisfied
to win.”
Dickinson took his place with Travers and
Ropes and Lary, at the starting line where
the curve of the track began. They were a
well-tested quartet. Lary was fresh from his
victory in the hundred; Travers had prizes from
contests of previous years; Ropes was a new
man, hailed by the Hillbury coachers as a coming
champion. To Dickinson it seemed the race
of his life, so eager was he to atone for the disappointment
he had given his schoolmates in
his first race.
The runners got off in pairs, Travers and
Lary ahead; Ropes and Dickinson side by side,
gathering headway in the rear. Around the
curve it seemed that Travers was ahead, but as
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
the runners struck the straightaway, they were
seen to tail out into a diagonal line across the
track, Lary leading, then Travers, then Ropes,
and Dickinson last. The Hillburyites, seeing
the dreaded champion in the rear, emitted an
incoherent howl of exultation.
“Will you look at that!” cried Curtis, who
stood by Melvin, near the finish line. “Outclassed,
as sure as guns!”
“No! No! Watch it out!” cried Dick, in
answer. Down the track swept the line of
white-clad, shaking, struggling figures. When
it passed the Seaton benches Dick could see the
excited spectators throw up their arms, could
hear the yells, and guess that the long-legs were
putting the ground behind them. A moment
more, and he knew that the struggle was between
Ropes and Dickinson for the lead; and
then, as the white figures flashed by, he saw that
the racers had tailed out again in the reverse
order, Dickinson, Ropes, Travers, and Lary.
And so the judges reported them in the finish.
Score, Seaton twenty-four, Hillbury sixteen.
As the mile runners came out Melvin had
.bn 297.png
.pn +1
word that the captain wished to see him. He
found Dickinson in the dressing rooms, under the
hands of the rubber.
“That was splendid, old man, perfectly splendid!”
began the manager.
Dickinson checked him: “I didn’t bring you
in here to tell me that stuff. It’s something
serious. Do you know we’re not doing well?
I don’t blame any one, of course. We’ve won
certain points, but there are those field events at
the end of the list that we aren’t at all sure of.
We must get down to them with a good margin,
or we’ll be beaten.”
Dick nodded silently. The high jump was to
be the last event; he did not need to be told
that his chance of winning this was very problematical.
“Now, I’m entered for the broad jump,” said
the captain. “I put my name down because it
did no harm to have it there, and occasionally,
you know, I’ve made a good jump. I’m wondering
if I hadn’t better go in and try two or three
times, on the chance of adding a point or two to
the score.”
.bn 298.png
.pn +1
“But the four-forty?” exclaimed Melvin.
“That comes right after.”
“That’s the point. Is there any risk? Their
best man in the quarter is Ropes, but I’ve run
past him once to-day and can do it again. I
don’t feel exhausted at all, and you know the
quarter is my run. I have no confidence that
Brown will do anything at all in the broad jump,
and Hillbury has two good jumpers at least.
Shall I take the risk of hurting myself for the
chance of winning a couple of points?”
“Broad jumpers out!” sounded the official
warning at the door of the quarters.
“I think I’ll do it,” decided Dickinson, as
Melvin hesitated.
The Hillburyites were cheering when the jumpers
came out; the mile had yielded Hillbury five
points and Seaton three.
“Still six ahead!” said Melvin, looking at the
board.
Dickinson took one jump—nineteen feet six;
then one more—twenty feet two inches; and
went back to the house to have his ankle rubbed
again. He did not learn until he came out for
.bn 299.png
.pn +1
the quarter some time later, that he had won
second prize, while Brown had made nothing at
all. Hillbury had taken first and third.
“Twenty-seven to twenty-nine, old man!”
whispered Curtis, as Todd sallied forth for the
low hurdles. “They’re crawling up. Discourage
them, can’t you?”
“I don’t know,” responded Todd, quietly.
“I’m not afraid of Rawson, but Harding is another
proposition. I can’t do the impossible.”
The hammer-throwing was started at the
same time; and Curtis after his first throw found
himself pitted against such superior men that
his whole attention was concentrated on the new
and unpleasant problem of beating men who
were better than himself. He did see the race,
for the hammer men interrupted their contest a
minute to watch the hurdlers; but about all his
absorbed mind took in, as the runners flew by,
was a vision of two figures with faces set in a
wild, harsh grimace, one bearing blue and the
other red letters on his breast, skimming the
hurdles with identical stride, like horses trotting
in span, and behind again more blue letters
.bn 300.png
.pn +1
and more red. There was a tremendous howling
in both camps, for the race was close to the
finish, and each side felt confidence in its own
champion. Soon, however, Hillbury ceased to
cheer, while Seaton broke out afresh, and Curtis
knew that Todd had won.
The big football player went back to his post,
determined not to fail his trusting schoolmates.
Todd had won five points in the race just finished,
and Hillbury three. The score was now Hillbury
thirty, Seaton thirty-four; but of the three events
left, only one, the quarter, could be counted
safely Seaton’s, and the other two might yield a
big addition to the Hillbury score. It was in the
present event that the games must be won.
Eager and fearful, he took his fourth and fifth
trials. Still behind! Desperate with disappointment,
poor Curtis grasped his hammer for
the last time, swung it wildly round, and, with
all the strength of his body concentrated in one
final, convulsive jerk, sent it flying through the
air.
“Too high!” he groaned, as the measurers
stretched their tape over the ground. “I’m done
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
for.” And so it was. His best throw had given
him barely third place. The score now showed a
balance for Hillbury of thirty-seven to thirty-five.
Discouraged as they were, the Seatonian
cheerers went wild again as Dickinson’s tall,
familiar form emerged once more upon the
track. Not a soul among them doubted for a
moment that he would win the race. The Hillburyites
themselves had always passed over the
event in their most optimistic calculations.
Their chances seemed even less now, for Ropes
had already failed them, and Willbur had run
one hard race in record-making time, and could
not be in condition to meet the champion. Dickinson
himself gave no attention to his rivals; he
started at his own pace, a little below his maximum,
but rapid enough to be discouraging to
the other contestants, and went fast and hard,
as if he delighted in the speed, and could run the
more easily the faster the pace. The runners
were close together around the curve; on the
back stretch Willbur forged ahead; at the end
of the stretch Dickinson had barely caught him,
and the two swayed into the curve with the Hillbury
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
man on the inside, flying with a sprinter’s
gait, with every muscle strained, and the strength
of every heart-beat thrown recklessly into his
speed. In a mass the spectators, Seaton and
Hillbury, rose to their feet, and in a spontaneous,
discordant howl, that defied the control of leaders,
hurled encouragement and applause at the struggling
pair. Around the curve the blue still
gained; at the opening of the straightaway, still
led by two yards. Then, as the long strides began
to creep up behind him, the plucky half-miler’s
pace suddenly slackened; he staggered and fell
his length upon the track. While kindly arms
lifted him and bore him away, the tall Seatonian
swept on to the finish, and four seconds later
Ropes and Watson came trailing in.
There was furious cheering when the figures
of the new record appeared on the board,—cheering,
too, that warms the heart as well as
deafens the ears, for Seaton cheered first for their
captain and then for Willbur, whose desperate
attempt had driven Dickinson to his best; and
Hillbury cheered Willbur and then Dickinson.
Both sides felt the better for this mutual politeness;
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
but the freshly posted score, Hillbury thirty-nine,
Seaton forty-one, and the advent of the
pole-vaulters, soon brought the eager partisans
back to a consciousness of their rivalry.
The bar went up by the slow, tiresome intervals
familiar to spectators of such games,—nine
feet three, nine feet eight, nine feet nine.
At ten feet Varrell and Phillippe of Hillbury
alone remained in the contest, a Hillbury man
having gained third place. Both men vaulted
ten feet two, but at ten three Varrell failed, and
Phillippe managed to wriggle over. Hillbury
had added six points to her score, making forty-five
to Seaton’s forty-three.
And now for the final contest to determine
whether Hillbury was to keep the lead to the
end! There was a sober conference at the Seaton
quarters as Dick and Benson came forth. It
was short, for there was really nothing to say.
Seaton must gain first place to tie,—first and
another to win. McGee of Hillbury had a record
of five feet eight and a half; Dick had never
jumped more than five feet seven. The odds
were against him and against Seaton. If he
.bn 304.png
.pn +1
lost, it would be the critical event which he was
losing, and the splendid work of Todd and Dickinson
and others would go for nothing.
“Keep up your courage, Dicky, my boy,”
whispered Curtis. “You’ve beaten him once
about the protest; you can do him up again.
He’s afraid of you, don’t forget that! Keep
ahead of him and he’ll go to pieces.”
That this was foolish talk, Dick knew well, but
in some way it gave him heart, and the strong
cheering from Seaton benches steadied him. He
went over the lower heights with ease, McGee
as successfully, though with less grace. At
five four Dick was the only Seaton man left in
the contest, while there were still two contestants
wearing the blue. At five five he and
McGee were alone. The bar now went up half
an inch at a time, and as often as Melvin cleared
the new height a shout of relief would rise from
the Seaton benches, echoed again by Hillbury
when McGee duplicated the jump. At five feet
seven McGee failed, but succeeded the second
time. At five seven and a half Melvin also failed
at first, but cleared on a second trial, and McGee
.bn 305.png
.pn +1
wriggled over, touching the bar, but luckily not
knocking it off. He fell in a heap in the pit of
soft earth behind the uprights, but was up again
in a moment, seemingly unhurt.
The bar was placed at five feet eight.
“If he fails on that, we’re done for,” said
Curtis in Todd’s ear; “and he can’t do it; it’s
beyond him.”
“Stop your croaking!” retorted Todd. “I say
he can.”
Melvin paced his distance in absolute silence.
The leaders of the cheering had abandoned their
duties, and like the rest of the eager crowd were
intent on the jumper, their hearts in sympathy
leaping with him.
And while the crowd watched his every
motion, Melvin himself saw nothing but the bar
ahead of him with the white handkerchief upon
it, and the height and the distance, and the
infinite desirability of clearing the white handkerchief
and the bar without moving them from
their resting-place. A short, nervous run, with
his eyes fixed on the bar; a crouch like that of
the panther springing for its prey; and up he
.bn 306.png
.pn +1
floated and over the white square as if five feet
eight were an easy stint, and his legs adjusted
themselves automatically to the bar.
That jump settled the contests, for McGee failed
three times and was out; and the score remained
a tie. Seatonians and Hillburyites alike sent
forth victorious yells, and then, lapsing into
silence, went their respective ways, wondering
whether they were really victors or vanquished.
And only such as had prizes in their hands were
sure that the day had not gone against them.
“Hi, Dick!” yelled Tompkins from the end
of the corridor, as Melvin came upstairs to his
room. “You did it, after all!”
“We did and we didn’t,” answered Dick,
lingering in his doorway. “Perhaps we ought
to be satisfied, for it seems to me that the Hillbury
team was really the better one.”
“Then I was right.”
“About what?” asked Dick, whose mind was
oblivious to all the happenings of the day except
those of the last few hours.
“Why, about what I said this morning. Hillbury
was the better team, and yet you didn’t lose.”
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
“That’s a fact,” said Dick, his face breaking
into a smile.
“The next time don’t call a man crazy just
because he comes from Montana,” pursued
Tompkins, with an air of seriousness. “He may
have a prophetic vision.”
.sp 2
.dv class='font85'
.nf c
THE FINAL SCORE OF THE GAMES
.nf-
.ta l:16 |c:9 |c:9 w=50%
=
| Hillbury | Seaton
_
100 Yards Dash | 5 | 3
880 Yards Run | 7 | 1
Putting the Shot | 0 | 8
120 Yards Hurdle | 2 | 6
220 Yards Dash | 2 | 6
Mile Run | 5 | 3
Broad Jump | 6 | 2
220 Yards Hurdle | 3 | 5
Hammer Throw | 7 | 1
440 Yards Run | 2 | 6
Pole Vault | 6 | 2
High Jump | 3 | 5
_
Total | 48 | 48
_
.ta-
.nf c
First place counting 5 points, second 2, and third 1.
.nf-
.dv-
.sp 2
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch24
CHAPTER XXIV || THE HILLBURY GAME
.sp 2
On the following Monday Mr. Moore waited
on the Principal in great agitation.
“I am in despair about little Eddy,” said he.
“It seems as though I could not endure that
miserable, white, vacant face in my room another
day. He has done no work worthy of the name
in a fortnight, and I see no way of making him
do any.”
“You have talked with him about it, I suppose?”
suggested Mr. Graham.
“Repeatedly, and with all the tact I possess.
I have tried to win his confidence by kindness;
I have expostulated with him, I have threatened
him, I have ridiculed him; I have given him
long tasks to write out: nothing that I can say
or do has the slightest effect on the little mule.
Sometimes I think he is actuated by a feeling
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
of personal malice toward me, and the thought
makes me so nervous that I can hardly conduct
my recitation.”
Mr. Graham smiled: “You have no ground
for that feeling, I am sure, for similar reports
have come to me from other teachers.” He
paused a moment, and his expression became
sombre as he went on: “The boy has evidently
something very serious on his mind. I will talk
with him myself. Do you know whether he is
still intimate with Bosworth? You have a high
opinion of Bosworth, I believe.”
Mr. Moore hesitated, and, passing over the
question, replied to the suggestion: “I used to
have; since I caught him writing composition
exercises for Marks, I do not feel so sure about
him. Still, he does his work for me in a way
that I cannot complain of.”
“Do you think he could be guilty of the thieving
from rooms that is going on in Carter and
Hale?”
“Thieving! I should hope not! Do you suspect
him?”
“I do and I don’t,” replied Mr. Graham, wearily.
.bn 310.png
.pn +1
“He spends more money than any boy
ought to spend who is receiving help from the
school. On two occasions at least, when money
was taken, I satisfied myself that he might have
done it, but I had no direct evidence against him,
not even enough to warrant calling him up and
questioning him about it. Meantime the thieving
still goes on. There was another case in
Hale on Saturday.”
Mr. Moore looked solemn. “What a scandal!
It ought certainly to be stopped, even if we have
to employ detectives. Could you not introduce a
detective of youthful appearance as a new boy?”
The Principal shook his head. “New boys
don’t enter school on the first of June. Besides,
I am opposed on principle to such methods.
This is a crime by a boy against boys. The boys
by their carelessness and negligence are partially
responsible for what has occurred. They can
and ought to ferret out the offender themselves.”
“I’m afraid you will accomplish little if you
rely on the coöperation of boys,” said Mr. Moore,
as he rose to go. “They always stand by one
another and cover up one another’s sins. At
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
any rate, don’t suspect poor Bosworth until you
have incontrovertible proof. The worst thing I
know against him is his intimacy with that little
wretch, Eddy.”
The interview between Eddy and the Principal
was very unsatisfactory. Early in the course of
it the boy lapsed into tears, and his answers
were interjected between sobs that shook his
own frail body and wrung the master’s heart.
He did his best for Mr. Moore; he was not well
and had not been for weeks. No, he hadn’t anything
on his mind. He shouldn’t be sorry if he
were sent home; he didn’t care for the school or
the boys in it, except one.
“Bosworth?” suggested Mr. Graham, gently.
“No, sir,” replied the boy, emphatically, an
expression of repugnance flitting over his face.
“I mean Phil Poole. He’s the only one who
has ever been kind to me.”
With this leading to follow, the Principal
relaxed the sternness of his method, and pleaded
with the boy to open his heart frankly, with full
confidence that he would be treated kindly and
fairly. More tears, more violent sobs, more convulsive
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
protestations of innocence. Either Eddy
would tell nothing, or he had nothing to tell.
The next morning, in chapel, Mr. Graham
expressed the indignation he felt that sneak
thievery in the dormitories should continue,
and reminded the boys that they shared with
him the responsibility for the conduct of the
school. The admonition was hardly necessary,
for the students were already thoroughly aroused.
They discussed the cases from every side, and
uttered vague and terrible threats as to what
would be done with the malefactor if they once
got him in their hands. The discussion yielded
no result except to bring the names of a dozen
innocent lads into temporary disrepute; and
threats, as Varrell disconsolately remarked to
Melvin, are of no use when addressed to no one
in particular.
“Hillbury day” came. For the last fortnight
the nine had been playing a steady game, which,
if not brilliant, was at least thoroughly good;
and the school, having shaken itself clear of the
wavering mood in which hope and fear seesaw
up and down with every fresh rumor from the
.bn 313.png
.pn +1
rival diamond, had settled finally into a cautiously
sanguine frame of mind. There were
still some who spoke with disapproval of the
favoritism which displaced a veteran and put a
young boy like Poole into an important field;
but among this small number the generally rampant
patriotism proved too strong for personal
prejudice. Even Marks, whose baseball lingo
would have discouraged a sporting editor, and
who asserted that the “kid would queer the
gang”—even silly, slangy, sporting Marks only
half believed what he said, and was really quite
willing that the fielder should distinguish himself,
if this was necessary to the success of the
team.
The crowd poured into the campus that afternoon
as if there were no end to it. Word had
gone forth that the nine had a “show to win,”
and the younger graduates thronged the regular
trains. As Dick, clutching proudly his cheerleader’s
baton, walked along the line of seats to
the centre section, where the cheering force was
clustered, he caught glimpses of familiar faces
of old boys smiling down at him from among
.bn 314.png
.pn +1
the rows of straw hats and gay parasols. He
recognized Varrell perched on the topmost bench,
and shook his baton at him in a vain effort to
attract his notice. But Varrell’s attention was
elsewhere, and Dick got no return for his
demonstration except a scowl from Bosworth,
who occupied a seat halfway up, at the edge of
the entrance passage. Presently the nines
appeared, and in the din of yells and the confusion
of waving banners, Dick’s whole attention
was devoted to following Planter’s leadership
and keeping his own side of the section in proper
time.
While the Hillbury nine was taking its practice,
Melvin slipped over to the players’ bench for
a last word with Tompkins and Poole, and was delighted
to find them both cool and determined.
“How I’m feeling? Bully!” replied Tompkins.
“If only I knew how to pitch, I could do
wonders to-day.”
“Give us your best, that’s good enough for
us,” returned the senior, clapping him on the
shoulder.
“I’m going to put up my best bluff, anyway,”
.bn 315.png
.pn +1
answered Tommy. “If I fail, it won’t be because
I don’t try.”
“Don’t let ’em rattle you,” urged Melvin.
“You needn’t worry about that,” put in Phil.
“This pitcher doesn’t rattle.”
Just then the umpire called the game, and
Melvin hurried back to his charge. Hillbury
took the field. Millan, after leisurely rubbing
the new ball in the grass beside the pitcher’s
box, while his friends were roaring encouraging
cheers, put in a hot one over the corner of the
plate. “One strike!” The next was a ball; the
third Vincent struck at and raised a high foul,
gathered in by the first baseman. Robinson hit
at the first ball pitched, and dropped an easy fly
in the centre-fielder’s reach; Watson went out
ignominiously on strikes; and the Hillbury team
came trotting smilingly in, quite satisfied that
they deserved the three long ringing Hillburys
thrown at them by a grateful constituency.
The red letters scattered to their places.
Stevens, who headed the Hillbury list, went to
bat with an appearance of confidence and power.
But his bold air belied his real feelings. Nervous
.bn 316.png
.pn +1
and uncertain, he let the first ball pass and
heard it called a strike, struck foolishly at the
second, which was out of his reach, and then,
after a ball had been called, hit a slow bounder
to the pitcher. Hood, who followed, did not
touch the ball, though he struck hard at it
thrice; and Franklin dropped a weak fly into
Robinson’s hands. Seaton came in for their
second inning after a short five minutes in the
field. “Poole up!” Phil picked out his favorite
bat, fixed his feet firmly on the ground, and
boldly facing the pitcher, tried to forget that
this was the Hillbury game, and to see in the
man before him, not the redoubtable Millan, but
a practice pitcher whose balls were easy if
closely watched. The first was wide, the second
too low; the third he caught squarely and drove
it over the uncovered second base into the out-field.
It was the first hit of the game, and the
Seatonians noised their joy abroad in a splendid
“hullabaloo.”
And now, in addition to the senseless exhortations
of the fielders: “Right at ’em now!” “Right
in the middle of the big mitt!” “Put it over, old
.bn 317.png
.pn +1
boy!” were heard the yells of the coacher, whose
object usually seems to be to confuse the pitcher
rather than to help the base-runner. Phil clung
to first while Sudbury struck twice and then
went out on a long fly, and Sands hit a pop
foul that the third baseman easily caught. With
two men out, Phil started on the first pitch to
steal second. That he was successful was due as
much to the catcher’s high throw as to his own
speed, for the second baseman had to jump for
the ball, and while he was in the air Phil slid
safely in to the base. A good single now would
bring in the run, and the Seatonians, with a silent
eagerness that the cheer-leaders did not try to
interrupt, waited to see if Waddington would
meet their hopes. “One strike! One ball!
Two balls! Two strikes!” and Waddington
cracked out a pretty liner over third that brought
Poole home and put the batsman on second.
Hayes went out on a grounder to short-stop.
Hillbury came in determined to hit the ball.
Ribot drove a hard bounder to third, where Watson
trapped the ball on the ground and fielded
cleanly to first. Kleindienst went out on strikes,
.bn 318.png
.pn +1
and Haley, after three balls had been called, hit a
long fly to left-field that looked to be a three-base
hit. Phil was off with the hit, racing for the
spot where the ball was to fall, and sure, after
his first glance over his shoulder, that he would
be able to reach it. But the crowd was not so
sure, and when at the end of his run he suddenly
turned and pulled the ball down, a howl of
applause rose from the Seaton benches that for
the moment made the cheer-leaders seem quite
useless ornaments. As Dick stood waiting for
this outburst to pass, he glanced curiously along
the tiers of eager faces, and suddenly became
conscious that one spectator seemed to have no
share in the general delight. Untouched by the
excitement raging about him, Bosworth sat darkly
glowering out over the diamond, a melancholy
island in a heaving sea of joy.
.sp 2
.if h
.il fn=i319.jpg w=523px id=i319
.ca
He suddenly turned and pulled the ball down.–Page 292.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: He suddenly turned and pulled the ball down.–Page 292.]
.if-
.sp 2
The third inning passed without changing the
score. In the fourth, Watson and Poole went
out on in-field hits, and Sudbury was left at
second when Sands struck out. Hillbury began
well when Hood got his base on balls; if Franklin
disappointed his friends by sending a fly to
.bn 319.png
.pn +1
.bn 320.png
.pn +1
.bn 321.png
.pn +1
short-stop, Ribot made up for the failure by driving
the second ball pitched in a straight line over
the first baseman’s head. By the time Vincent
got it back, Hood had crossed the plate, and
Ribot stood, exulting, on third base.
The Hillburyites were on their feet, oblivious
of cheer-leaders and programme, howling their
pride and hope. The score was tied! A hit, an
error, a long fly, would let Ribot in, and put
Hillbury in the lead. Tompkins was watching
Ribot out of the corner of his eye, but his whole
mind was concentrated on the problem of putting
the ball just where it was required. Unworried,
but more deliberate than ever, he responded to
Sands’s signals. “One strike! one ball! a foul!
two balls! two strikes!” The eager Seatonians
began to breathe more easily. A strike out
would improve the situation vastly.
Sands signaled for a slow high ball over the
inside corner. Tompkins shook his head, but
Sands repeated the signal and the pitcher obeyed.
The ball came true, but Kleindienst, fearing a
called strike, waited until it was near him and
then slashed recklessly at it. Almost simultaneously
.bn 322.png
.pn +1
Phil heard the crack of the bat, saw the
ball rising high above the second baseman’s head,
and felt his heart sink with a sudden stab of pain.
The fly was so far out that, even if Sudbury
caught it, it would be next to impossible for him to
return the ball in time to hold the runner on third.
And so it proved. Sudbury got the fly after a
hard run, turned quickly, and sent it hot to the
second baseman, who lined it home; but Ribot
was across the plate by ten feet when the ball
came to rest in Sands’s grasp.
Wildly as the Hillburyites yelled, Seaton
matched them cheer for cheer, shouting to keep
their courage up and show the nine men in the
field that their schoolfellows were not despondent.
Haley struck twice, then lifted the ball over
Hayes’s head into short left-field. Phil had a
sharp run to get under the ball, but he took it
safely enough, and then, though the three men
were out, he set himself for a throw and sent it in
to the home plate. Sands had to go forward a
step to meet it. “A little longer next time,”
thought Phil, as he trotted in. “I can do it if
necessary.”
.bn 323.png
.pn +1
Seaton’s half of the fifth inning was soon
over. Waddington went out on a high foul,
Hayes on a fly to left-field, and Tommy very
tamely on strikes. When Webster stepped up
to the plate to lead off for Hillbury, more than
one timid Seatonian felt a mysterious foreboding
that this was to prove a fatal inning. Webster
thought so too, for he waited bravely until two
balls had been called, and then drove a beautiful
liner over the second baseman’s head, that only
a brilliant stop by Vincent prevented from being
a three-base hit. Webster rested at first. The
Hillburyites brandished their arms and whooped;
while the Seaton in-fielders spat on their gloves
and braced themselves for great deeds, encouraging
Tommy meantime to “Be right there with
the goods!” and “Put ’em straight over, old
man!” Whether Tompkins profited by these admonitions
it would be hard to say; he certainly
did his prettiest to “deliver the goods,” conscious
that every pitch was a critical one.
“One strike! three balls!” Cunningham
waited, hoping for a chance to “walk.” “Two
strikes!” The batsman gathered himself for
.bn 324.png
.pn +1
his last chance and smote hard at the ball, but
succeeded only in sending a grounder to the
pitcher. Tompkins turned and threw deliberately
to second base, where Webster was forced
out, though Robinson was not quick enough to
catch the man at first. Still, one man was out,
and the spectators were encouraged.
Millan came to bat, glaring defiance at the
Seaton pitcher. The first one looked promising,
and he swung hard at it. The Seatonians heard
the crack, had a momentary impression of the
ball going like a rifle-shot toward first base,
saw Waddington put his hands together, stagger,
and dart for first,—and after an instant understood
that the fifth inning had ended suddenly
with a double play.
As Dick turned round to do his part in leading
the cheers for “Waddy,” he caught a glimpse of
Bosworth climbing down from his place into the
passage that led to the rear of the seats. In the
excitement of the scene, Melvin would hardly
have noticed this departure of a single member
of the disorderly crowd, had not the last look
that the fellow cast along the benches had in it
.bn 325.png
.pn +1
an element of fear and stealth that drew his
attention as the glint of distant water reflecting
the sunlight catches the eye of the mountaineer.
An absorbing suspicion, which made even the
game seem of secondary interest, suddenly possessed
his mind. Hastily turning over his baton
to one of his fellow-leaders, with an explanation
that did not explain, Melvin pushed his way to
the rear of the crowd that thronged the entrance
passage through which Bosworth had just gone.
There was his man thirty yards away, walking
toward the entrance to the grounds!
The senior halted, turned back into the
enclosure, and ran his eye along the benches to
Varrell’s seat. “He’s gone!” he muttered in
dismay. “Just my cursed luck! And I can’t
stop to hunt him up!” He waited a moment
longer, sweeping the tiers of seats with his eye
in vain search for his missing friend; then he
turned back again into the passage, and watched
Bosworth out of the grounds.
At the gate Bosworth stopped and exchanged
a few words with the man on duty. “They are
asking him about the score,” thought Dick; “I
.bn 326.png
.pn +1
wonder how he explains his sudden leaving.”
As Bosworth passed out of sight down the street,
Dick set off on a run for the gate.
“Was that Bosworth, Mike?” he panted, as
he hailed the gatekeeper.
“I dunno the feller at all. I just axed him
how the game was goin’ and he said two to wan
fer Hillbury.”
“Was that all?” asked Dick, disappointed.
“No, sir, I axed him what inning, and he said
the ind of the fift’; and I said how cud ye lave
a close game like that right in the middle av it, and
he said the sthrain was too much for his nerves.
But they’s a chance for the byes yit, ain’t they?”
“I think so,” replied Dick, absently. He was
contrasting the utter indifference stamped on
Bosworth’s face as he sat among the enthusiasts,
with this tale of nervous agitation. “Whose
wheel is that?” he demanded abruptly, pointing
to a bicycle leaning against the fence.
“Mine,” said Mike.
“Will you lend it to me for an hour?” went
on Melvin, eagerly. “I’ve a very important
errand to do.”
.bn 327.png
.pn +1
“Shure!” said Mike. The word was hardly
out of his mouth before Melvin had seized the
bicycle and was running it across the street.
Mike and his comrade watched the student whip
the machine through the yard opposite, over a
wire fence, and across another lawn to a second
street, where he mounted and sprinted off.
“He’s a divil to hustle, that bye,” remarked
Mike. “Ye ought to see him kick a futball.
He don’t hurry then, wan bit. It’s the ball does
the hurryin’.”
.bn 328.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch25
CHAPTER XXV || ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF HALE
.sp 2
By following Lincoln Street and the path
through the Seminary yard, Dick covered two
sides of a triangle much more quickly than the
pedestrian could the third side, the direct road
from campus to academy. He leaned the bicycle
against the gymnasium wall out of sight,
and crept into the shelter of the high steps of
Carter, whence he could command a view of the
dormitories without being seen himself. Never
had the old academy yard worn such an air of
silence and desertion. Old Robeson was raking
the driveway on the other side of the gymnasium;
the Saturday cleaners were buried in
the depths of the recitation building. Except
for the indescribable roar of distant cheering,
which came in bursts from the direction of the
campus, or the noise of an occasional wagon
.bn 329.png
.pn +1
rattling along the street, the green-turfed yard
might have been some silent meadow afar from
the haunts of men.
“Every dormitory window open!” thought
Dick, as he glanced around the yard, “and half
the doors too, I’ll bet. Those fellows really deserve
to lose some of their things. But what a
cinch for a thief!”
Some minutes passed before Bosworth appeared
on the street and turned leisurely into the yard.
When he reached the point where the path divided,
he hesitated an instant before turning
away from his own dormitory toward the middle
entry of Hale. At the Hale steps he stopped
again, threw a hurried glance over the yard, and
disappeared into the dormitory entry. A moment
later Dick was scuttling along the driveway
toward the corner of Hale.
Hardly had he gained the shelter of the dormitory
wall and begun to creep along beneath
the windows toward the middle entry, when a
sudden apparition at the farther corner drew
from his lips an exclamation of wonder which
would certainly have betrayed him if Bosworth
.bn 330.png
.pn +1
had been near enough to hear it. There was
Varrell, quietly working his way along the wall
from the other direction, his face flushed red as
if from a long hard run, but showing not the
slightest surprise at this meeting with his confederate.
They came together at the entrance,
where Varrell, checking with an unmistakable
gesture Melvin’s obvious intention to ask questions,
crept stealthily in and crouched against the
wall under the stairs. His friend followed close
after.
“Shoes off!” whispered Varrell, with lips
close to Dick’s ear. The order was obeyed without
question. Varrell placed his straw hat beside
his shoes; Dick imitated him.
“Can you hear him?” came in a second whisper.
Dick listened: at first absolute silence; then
the sound from the second floor of a door being
carefully shut, followed by the scrape of a sole
upon the marble staircase above; then the click
of a door-knob, and silence again.
“He’s just left a room in the second story
and gone up to one in the third,” whispered Dick.
.bn 331.png
.pn +1
“Now is our time,” announced Varrell, and
led the way up. Their steps were noiseless on
the solid stone. The doors to both suites on the
third floor were closed.
“Which?” whispered Varrell. Never had he
envied his classmate’s quick hearing as at this
very instant.
Dick applied his ear to the door on the right.
He could dimly hear the distant cheering, a
formless, threatening sound drifting in through
the open windows of the room, like the far-away
roar of an angry mob. Within the room all was
silent.
He shook his head and tiptoed to the other door.
Here too his ear at first detected no sound that
did not come from without, but presently he
heard footsteps on the other side of the room,
and a grating noise as from the opening of a
drawer.
“He’s here,” said Melvin’s lips. His nod and
gesture would have told the story to a fool.
Varrell motioned him aside and gently turned
the knob. The door moved slightly on its
hinges.
.bn 332.png
.pn +1
“Ready?” queried Varrell’s eyes. Dick nodded,
and Varrell threw wide the door. There stood the
long pursued, before the open drawer of a dressing
table, with a pair of gold cuff-buttons in his
hand.
Bosworth gave a start and wheeled round upon
the intruders. He uttered no sound, but his
eyes took on a wild, frightened look, while his
sallow face faded to a paler shade and the red
line of his lips became a whitish blue, as he
faced the fierce looks of his two pursuers.
“So we’ve caught the thief at last,” said
Varrell, sternly, “this time in the very act.”
Bosworth moistened his lips. “If you think
I’m a thief, you’re greatly mistaken,” he began,
rolling his eyes from side to side like a person
searching for ideas under a great strain.
“We don’t think; we know,” answered Varrell.
“There’s stolen property right in your
hand.”
For a moment Bosworth hesitated, looking
down. When he lifted his eyes again he was
ready with an explanation. “I was just looking
at them. I came in here to get a trot I lent
.bn 333.png
.pn +1
to Morton. I couldn’t stand the strain of the
game, so I decided to come back and work. I
thought probably the door would be unlocked,
and I could get the book for myself. I opened
the drawer to see if the book was there,—it
isn’t the kind of thing a fellow would show on
his study table,—the buttons caught my eye,
and I took them up out of curiosity.”
“Huh!” snorted Varrell, “and what about
that scarf-pin on the table?”
“I know nothing about any scarf-pin,” replied
Bosworth, with a show of resentment. “If
there’s a scarf-pin on the table, I suppose Morton
left it there. The fact that it’s there shows I’m
not a thief; I should have taken it if I had
been.”
Dick’s conviction began to weaken. It all
sounded very natural and plausible. Had
Wrenn’s infatuation put them both into a false
position? He turned to Bosworth. “If what
you say is true, we have done you a great injustice.
You say you came here for the book.
Did you come directly here?”
“Certainly.”
.bn 334.png
.pn +1
“Without going to any other room?”
“Of course not,” replied Bosworth, impatiently.
“Didn’t I say I wanted the trot?”
A glance of intelligence flashed from Dick’s
face to Varrell’s.
“He’s lying,” said Varrell, coolly. “We’ll
have to wait till more fellows come, when we’ll
search him and search his room.”
A look of apprehension appeared on Bosworth’s
face. “You have no right to search
me,” he cried. “I won’t stand it.”
“We’ll see!” was Varrell’s laconic answer.
A leisurely step now made itself heard on the
stairs below, and soon the surprised face of
little Eddy appeared on the landing outside.
“How’s the game going?” cried Dick, suddenly
bethinking himself that the great contest
was still on.
“I don’t know,” answered the boy, in sullen
tones, peering curiously into the room. “I
haven’t been to the game. I’ve been up the
river.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m going up to my room.”
.bn 335.png
.pn +1
“Well, go on then,” commanded Varrell.
Eddy started on. “Eddy!” called Bosworth.
With a hasty movement, quite unlike the
indolent slouch with which he had crawled
upstairs, Eddy hurried back and stood in the
doorway, expectant, his big eyes full of fear, his
whole expression that of a dog cringing before a
cruel master. The sight stirred Dick to the
depths of his heart. If ever he had felt a doubt
as to Varrell’s course, or a lurking suspicion,
born of his sense of fair play, that Bosworth
might after all be a comparatively innocent
victim of appearances, the doubt and suspicion
vanished in the presence of that abject figure,
like raindrops on the surface of the sea.
“I’d like to speak to him a moment,” said
Bosworth, nervously.
“No, you don’t!” cried Dick. “You’ve had
your last speech with him.”
“Oh, let them talk,” said Varrell, giving his
friend a sharp look. “Only nothing must pass
between you,” he added, turning again to Bosworth.
“If you are willing to back up against
the wall there and have the boy stand at one
.bn 336.png
.pn +1
side so that there’s a clear open space between
you, and both face this way, we’ll go out in the
entry out of hearing, and watch you through
the door from a distance. Otherwise there
had better be no conversation until after the
search is over.”
Bosworth agreed to the terms; Varrell stationed
the two as he wanted them,—Bosworth
in the best light,—and with Dick withdrew
to the entry, where Varrell planted himself and
fixed his eyes on the faces of the whispering
pair in a long intense stare. Dick understood
well the game his friend was playing, and his
own eyes wandered helplessly from the observer
to the observed, trying to guess from Wrenn’s
expression his success in reading Bosworth’s lips,
fearful of failure as the thief gradually bent his
head in Eddy’s direction.
“Face this way!” cried Varrell.
“We’re through now,” replied Bosworth.
“Eddy, go up and stand on the stairs in sight
till we call you down,” ordered Varrell. Then
in a low tone to Dick he added: “Keep him
there a jiffy till I can put on my shoes and get
.bn 337.png
.pn +1
ahead of him to Bosworth’s room. Hang to
Bosworth like grim death. Don’t let the fellow
get away.”
“You can trust him to me,” answered Dick,
eagerly. “What luck?”
“I can’t tell yet,” returned Wrenn.
Two minutes later Eddy was allowed to go,
and sauntered leisurely down the first flight of
stairs; the second he took more rapidly. At
the dormitory entrance he broke into a run,
which he maintained up the stairs to Bosworth’s
threshold. The door was unlocked,—Bosworth
had no fear of thieves,—and inside sat Varrell!
“Shut the door, can’t you?” was the senior’s
sharp greeting to the amazed lad. “Now, what
did you come here for? Out with it and don’t
try to lie, for I shall catch you if you do.”
Eddy gaped helplessly around.
“His—knife,” he stammered, between gasps.
“Don’t lie to me!” said Varrell, sternly.
“What did he tell you to get in the closet?”
“Nothing.”
Varrell jerked open the closet door, ran his
hand over the clothing hung on the hooks, gave
.bn 338.png
.pn +1
the shoes on the floor a kick, and pulled down
an empty pasteboard box from the shelf. Then
he turned to Eddy.
“Look here, boy,” he said in a gentler tone,
“Bosworth is a thief and a rascal, as you are
perfectly well aware. You’d better tell what
you know, and save your own skin while you
can.”
“I haven’t anything to tell.”
Eddy’s lips were trembling, and his eyes
promised tears, but his face still wore the
expression of stubborn determination.
“The little fool!” groaned Varrell, turning
away. “He’s too thoroughly terrorized to let
anything out. And to think that we are so
near the goal and can’t quite reach it! If only
the villain had not moved his head when he
did! Yellow book! I could have sworn he
said ‘yellow book in the closet,’ but there’s no
yellow book in the closet or anywhere else!”
He opened the closet door once more, and
stumbled over one of the shoes he had contemptuously
kicked a minute before. In a burst
of irritation he stooped to pick up the shoe and
.bn 339.png
.pn +1
throw it where it would trouble him no more.
As he lifted it into plainer view, its color caught
his eye and his arm paused in mid-air. “What
a blunderer!” he ejaculated. “It was ‘boot,’ not
‘book’; how could I have made such an error!”
Eddy stood mute, staring with anxious, fascinated
face, as the senior ran his hand into the
shoe, turned it over, shook it, and threw it down.
He stooped for the other, inverted it, and tapped
it upon the floor; then rose and felt carefully inside,
while he fixed his eyes on the trembling
boy.
“There seems to be paper here,” he said
slowly, “or at any rate something like it that is
fitted close to the lining of the upper.” The
next moment he had dropped the shoe, and was
unfolding a small, square piece of paper. It was
the check stolen from the office safe on the night
of March seventh!
Varrell’s first impulse was to let out a yell of
triumph that would make the whole dormitory
entry ring; his second, to make sure that his
triumph was real. There was no question of the
identity of the check; he had heard too much
.bn 340.png
.pn +1
about the details of the case to have any doubt
on that score. But would not a skilled liar like
Bosworth be able to squirm out of even a predicament
like this?
The senior turned again to Eddy, who was
now leaning upon the table, his head buried in his
arms, weeping in great despairing sobs. “I see
how it is,” said Varrell, sternly. “You learned
the combination and induced Bosworth to steal
the money; he divided it with you, and when
this was spent you stole from the rooms.”
“It isn’t so!” sobbed the boy. “I never
stole a cent in my life. Bosworth did it all!
I told him of the combination,—and that’s all
I had to do with it. I didn’t know he stole it
till long after, when he told me that the money
he’d lent me had come from the safe, and I’d be
arrested too if he was caught. But I never stole
a thing in my whole life—and I’ve paid him
almost up, too. Oh, I’m so unhappy! What
will my mother do, if I have to go to jail!”
Varrell laid his hand gently on the lad’s
quivering shoulder. The inquisitor’s heart was
touched.
.bn 341.png
.pn +1
“You won’t go to jail at all if you brace up
and make a clean breast of the whole thing,”
said the senior. “You haven’t done anything
wrong, except to cover up another’s villainy.”
He waited quietly for the sobs to slacken, with
his hand still on Eddy’s shoulder. And while
he waited, there smote upon his ear from the
direction of the campus another roar, tumultuous
and long drawn out, that rose and subsided
and rose again, like the howl of the northwest
wind on a winter night.
“Their game is over, too,” mused Varrell.
“I wonder if they have had our luck.”
.bn 342.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch26
CHAPTER XXVI || A DOUBLE ASSIST
.sp 2
And now for the finish of the game. When
Dick and Varrell made their hurried exit
from the field, the sixth inning was just under
way, each team beginning over again at the
head of its batting list. The cheering that
Dick had heard while he was waiting at
the steps of Carter was provoked by the successful
retirement of the first three Hillbury
batters. The three men who headed the Seaton
list had already gone out in order. With a
balance of one in the score in favor of Hillbury,
and hits few and far between, the visitors’ confidence
was growing. Every additional zero
in the Seaton score now meant another nail
in the Seaton coffin.
The seventh began with Poole at the bat.
The first ball was a little wide for him, but he
.bn 343.png
.pn +1
thought he could utilize it, and chopped a little
liner over the short-stop’s head. When
Sudbury came up, Ribot had his pitcher throw
two balls in the hope of tempting Phil to
try to steal second. Then came a strike and
another ball. With three balls called, Phil
started on the next pitch with the pitcher’s arm
on the old chance of hit and run. Sudbury
bunted, and got his base on Ribot’s wild throw to
first, while Phil made second easily. This was
a business-like beginning that stirred anew the
sluggish Seaton throats!
Sands came up to the plate. Did ever captain
face such an opportunity! A single would tie
the score, a two-base hit would probably win the
game. A grounder in the wrong place might result
in a double play and the loss of the start this
made. Sands did his best, but his best was only
a slow grounder toward third, and he sped away
to first without much hope of reaching there.
Phil had taken a good lead from second, and
dashed past Kleindienst, the Hillbury third baseman,
just before the latter got the ball and shot
it across the diamond to first. Sands was out,
.bn 344.png
.pn +1
but both Phil and Sudbury had advanced a
base.
“Can he do it?” said Tompkins, as Waddington
faced the pitcher.
“Do what?” asked Hayes, who was stamping
the ground with his foot and nervously swinging
the bat in his hand.
“Anything but strike out or hit to the in-field,”
replied Tompkins. “If he makes a hit, we win
the game,—if he doesn’t, we lose. We shan’t
get another chance like this.”
Waddington waited until two strikes and
three balls had been called. At the next one he
let drive with all his power.
“It’s a homer, it’s a homer!” shouted Tompkins,
jumping up and down in glee.
“No, a three-bagger,” corrected Hayes, wildly
flourishing his bat dangerously near Tompkins’s
head.
But it was neither. Far out in the tennis
courts that bounded centre-field Franklin threw
himself at the flying ball, and clung tight to it,
though he fell his length on the ground. He
recovered himself and got the ball back in season
.bn 345.png
.pn +1
to hold Sudbury at third, but Phil had crossed
the plate.
There was babel now on both sides of the diamond,
Seaton cheering the run that tied the
score, Hillbury, the brilliant achievement of their
fielder.
Hayes was next in order. “Just a little hit,
Haysey,” pleaded Tompkins. “Over second
will do. Make a hit and I will.”
Hayes’s response was to whack the ball over
third baseman’s head for two bases. Sudbury
came in with the third run, and Tompkins went
out ingloriously by batting an easy ball to the
pitcher. The Seaton half of the inning was
over, with the score now three to two in her
favor.
Hillbury got no farther than third in her
half. In the eighth the batsmen on both sides
went down like pins before a bowling ball. The
pitchers were on their mettle, every player was
alert and keen, chance itself seemed to bring
the hits into the fielders’ hands. Cunningham
sprinted twenty feet to take Robinson’s liner;
Watson gathered in a foul right in the midst of
.bn 346.png
.pn +1
the Hillbury benches; Hayes made a one-handed
stop of what promised to be a three-base hit.
The in-field no longer wasted breath in exhortations;
the cheer-leaders no longer tried to lead.
The crowd was left to follow its own excited
inclination, and incoherent yells took the place
of cheers and songs.
The ninth began under the same spell of fast
play. Poole went out on a fly to first base,
Sudbury struck out, Sands hit to second base,
and Hillbury came in for her last chance.
Ribot sent a fly well over in short left-field, but
Watson ran back and caught it. Kleindienst hit
over the second baseman’s head; Haley dropped
a fly in short right-field, and took second while
Vincent was trying to catch the runner at third.
With only one man out, and runners at second
and third, the Hillbury cause looked bright.
The blue banners waved wildly; but the Hillbury
leaders brought back their companies once more
to the old cheers, and gave Webster a ringing
volley as he stepped up to the plate, bat in hand.
Into every heart over the whole field, among
players and audience alike, crept the conviction
.bn 347.png
.pn +1
that the two runs necessary to give the victory
to Hillbury were coming in, and that Webster’s
hit was to bring them.
Phil drew in nearer the diamond. He knew
Webster’s batting record like a book,—the note-book
he had kept so long. If Webster made a
hit at all, it would be in short left-field, out of
reach of both third and short-stop.
Crack! went the bat. The Hillburyites rose
and sent forth their shout of victory, as the ball
sailed safely over the third baseman’s head.
Haley started immediately from second; Kleindienst,
on third, waited a little longer to make sure
that Watson would not repeat his previous play.
When he, too, saw that the ball was out of
Watson’s reach, he threw care to the winds and
started home, with Haley rounding the base only
a dozen feet behind him.
Beyond third neither coachers nor runners
thought to look. Sands himself, who had thrown
his mask aside and now stood helpless at the
plate, steeling himself to bear the sight of those
two winning runs which were to transform a game
almost won into a game certainly lost,—Sands
.bn 348.png
.pn +1
himself had abandoned hope, and was watching
the flight of the ball with indifference, stunned
with the bitterness and humiliation of defeat.
Then, as he gazed, an abrupt change came
over him. His whole figure grew radiant as
with a mighty and unexpected joy. The hit was
over the third baseman’s head, it was true; but
the left-fielder, well within his usual position, had
run rapidly forward to meet the ball, taken it
on the bounce, steadied himself for a throw, and,
with that splendid shoulder drive which Sands
had so often envied, sent it straight to the waiting
catcher. It came whizzing past the shoulder
of the unsuspecting Kleindienst, and landed
safely in Sands’s mitt. Leisurely, as if there
were no chance of error; easily, as if such plays
were a matter of everyday practice; with a smile
on his lips at the folly of those who feared for
him and his team,—the Seaton captain stooped
and tagged the first runner as he slid in, then
stepped forward to meet the second, plunging at
the heels of the first. The two astonished men
were out on the throw to the plate, and it was
still Seaton’s game!
.bn 349.png
.pn +1
.ni
The score:—
.dv class='font85'
.ta l:20 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3
| \_\_Seaton|AB |R |BH |TB |PO |A |E
Vincent, r. f. |4|0|1|2|1|0|0
Robinson, 2b. |4 |0 |0 |0 |3 |3 |0
Watson, 3b. |4 |0 |0 |0 |2 |1 |1
Poole, l. f. |4 |2 |2 |2 |2 |2 |0
Sudbury, c. f. |4 |1 |1 |1 |2 |0 |0
Sands, c. |4 |0 |0 |0 |7 |1 |0
Waddington, lb. |3 |0 |1 |2 |7 |0 |0
Hayes, s. s. |3 |0 |1 |2 |2 |2 |1
Tompkins, p. |3 |0 |0 |0 |1 |1 |0
=
Totals |33 |3 |6 |9 |27 |9 |2
.ta-
.sp 2
.ta l:20 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3 c:3
| \_\_Hillbury | | | | | | |
Stevens, l. f. |4 |0 |0 |0 | 2 |0 |0
Hood, s. s. |4 |1 |0 |0 | 0 |3 |0
Franklin, c.f. |4 |0 |0 |0 | 2 |0 |0
Ribot, c. |4 |1 |1 |3 | 6 |1 |2
Kleindienst, 3b. |4 |0 |1 |1 | 2 |3 |0
Haley, r. f. |4 |0 |1 |1 | 1 |0 |0
Webster, lb. |4 |0 |2 |2 |11 |0 |0
Cunningham, 2b. |3 |0 |2 |3 | 3 |2 |1
Millan, p. |3 |0 |0 |0 | 0 |2 |0
=
Totals |34 |2 |7 |10 |27 |11 |3
.ta-
.sp 2
.ta l:20 l:3 l:3 l:3 l:3 l:3 l:3 l:3 l:3 l:3
| Innings | 1 |2 |3 |4 |5 |6 |7 |8 |9
\_\_Seaton |0 |1 |0 |0 |0 |0 |2 |0 |0-3
\_\_Hillbury |0 |0 |0 |2 |0 |0 |0 |0 |0-2
.ta-
.dv-
.pi
.sp 2
Phil did not walk in from the field after that
throw. How he came in he could not have told,
for the wild horde from the Seaton benches met
.bn 350.png
.pn +1
him near third, and heaved him into the air, and
fought for him, and hustled him to and fro on
the diamond like a hockey puck darting over the
ice. When at length he was released, he sought
long for Dick and Varrell, sadly disappointed
that his two best friends should so unaccountably
fail him at the moment of his triumph.
Threatened at last by the waiting players with
being seized by force and crammed into the barge,
Phil reluctantly abandoned his search and climbed
in over the knees of his impatient friends. They
drove down, hilarious, through hilarious crowds.
No one who has never had the experience can
picture to himself the delicious abandon with
which a team, after long months of training and
suspense, gives itself up to the glorious joy of
victory. An exultant fire of explanations, reminders,
and compliments ran from one end of
the barge to the other.
“Do you know, Phil,” said Sands, giving the
boy a hearty slap on the knee, “I never expect
to feel again quite such a shock of happiness as I
had when I saw the ball light in your claws and
start home again with that old ‘gravity rise.’
.bn 351.png
.pn +1
When I felt it in my hands, I could have
whooped! And to see that poor Kleindienst
come sliding in so sweetly, with the ball there
ahead of him, and Haley at his heels, rushing
plumb at it,—and both thinking they had won
the game! It was rich!”
“How did you get there, anyway, Phillie?”
asked Vincent. “You belonged a long way out.”
“I knew where he was likely to hit and lay in
for him,” said Phil, modestly.
“The note-book again!” shouted Tompkins,
“the miserable, little, dirty note-book! Why, I
pitched the whole game on that book! We ought
to have it bound in red morocco and hung up in
the trophy case with the ball.”
They were just passing the walk that led to the
Principal’s house, when the twentieth howl of appreciation
rolled up to them from a loyal group.
“Look there!” cried Watson. “Did you ever
see that combination before? There’s aristocrat
Varrell and that queer little Eddy ahead, and
Dick Melvin and Bosworth behind. Something
must have happened to bring those fellows together.”
.bn 352.png
.pn +1
At the sound of the cheering Dick wheeled
quickly and waved his hand to the victors in the
barge, then turned again to his charge. Bosworth
did not raise his eyes from the ground.
Tompkins gave Phil a questioning look, and
Phil answered with a smile and a nod. He
guessed now why his friends had failed him at
the field.
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.bn 353.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
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.il fn=i353.jpg w=600px id=i353
.ca
The Main Street of Seaton.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: The Main Street of Seaton.]
.if-
.sp 2
.bn 354.png
.pn +1
.bn 355.png
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.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch27
CHAPTER XXVII || CONCLUSION
.sp 2
Dick sat with his sullen prisoner in the Principal’s
outer office, while Varrell and Eddy were
closeted with Mr. Graham in the smaller room
adjoining. The door between was left ajar, and
both prisoner and guard strained their ears for
some inkling of the course of events in the inner
room. Although delighted that the end of the
long chase had been reached, Dick was not altogether
satisfied with his own position at the finish.
He had submissively stood watch while Varrell
had made the search in Bosworth’s room; he had
obeyed as submissively when Varrell had reappeared
and ordered him on with Bosworth to the
Principal’s house. That he must still be kept
on guard just out of hearing of the interesting
details which he had a right to know, was exasperating
even if unavoidable. With the feeling
.bn 356.png
.pn +1
that he was doing his duty, Dick steeled himself
to wait in patience.
Through the crack of the door came the murmur
of Varrell’s voice, as in low, steady tones he
told his story, occasionally interrupted by short,
distinct questions from the Principal that Dick
could all but understand. Presently Eddy’s testimony
was invoked. With tremulous lips he
sobbed out answers to the senior’s questions,
like a bashful witness affirming his attorney’s
suggestions. When Mr. Graham took a part in
the questioning, the boy’s voice grew yet more
nervous and shrill. Words and expressions penetrated
to the eager ears in the outer room.
Bosworth threw off his pretence of indifference,
and sat bolt upright, listening with all his
might.
But he was destined to hear little. Eddy’s
whining voice suddenly shot to a high key,
broke, and dwindled abruptly to a gasp and a
gurgle. A chair slipped on the smooth floor, and
an inert body struck the hard surface with a dull
thud. In his nervous state Dick could restrain
himself no longer. Throwing police duties to
.bn 357.png
.pn +1
the winds, he rushed into the inner room, where
Mr. Graham and Varrell were bending over
Eddy’s collapsed form, Varrell still holding the
boy’s head as he had caught it close to the floor,
and the Principal staring in horror at the twitching
face.
“It’s a fit,” Varrell was saying. “I’ve seen
a case like it before; comes from indigestion.
You want to loosen his clothes and keep him
from biting his tongue.”
“Dr. Kenneth at once!” exclaimed Mr.
Graham, catching sight of Melvin at his
elbow.
Dick hurried back to the room which he had
just left. It was empty. He stood an instant,
staring blankly at the vacant room, then turned
to the others a bewildered face.
“Bosworth’s gone!” he exclaimed excitedly.
“Shall I—?”
“Get the doctor at once!” repeated Mr.
Graham. “Never mind Bosworth!”
The command was explicit, and yet the boy
hesitated. His lips came together and parted
in “But—.” He got no further, however, for
.bn 358.png
.pn +1
Varrell interrupted him before the word was
out.
“Hurry up, can’t you! Don’t stop to talk!”
It was the sharp, stinging tone in which the
words were spoken and the warning look flashed
from Varrell’s gray eyes as he uttered them that
sent Dick flying from the house.
In five minutes he was back again, having met
the school doctor at the door of his office. Eddy
was already reviving.
“Come, let’s get away,” said Varrell, after
they had watched operations for a few minutes
in silence. “They don’t need us any longer.”
The doors had hardly closed behind them when
Melvin began fiercely, “Well?”
“Well, what?” returned Varrell, coolly.
“Why did you make me let that fellow go?”
Varrell laughed. “Because Mr. Graham evidently
wanted him to go. He had his wits about
him if you had lost yours.”
“But why?” persisted Dick.
“Put yourself in his place and you’ll see,” retorted
Varrell. “Bosworth, in the eyes of the
law, is a felon. Mr. Graham cannot condone a
.bn 359.png
.pn +1
criminal offence, and he doesn’t want the scandal
of a public trial in the courts. Bosworth has
helped us out by running away. He’ll never be
seen again in this town. Now come up to the
room, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Varrell’s prediction proved true. Bosworth
disappeared suddenly and completely. His
mother came a day or two later and spent a few
hours in packing her son’s goods, and a few
minutes in a sad interview with the Principal.
The boys who had lost money had it restored to
them through Mr. Graham, and the thieving
in the dormitories ceased.
The whereabouts of the wretched Bosworth
remained for some time a mystery even to his
mother. A year later, Vincent, who took his
meals at Mrs. Bosworth’s in Cambridge, reported
having seen a letter postmarked “Texas” addressed
to his landlady in handwriting which he
thought he recognized. In his last college vacation
Marks ran across Bosworth himself among a
set of gamblers offering bets at the professional
ball games in Chicago. It is safe to say that
they did not renew their acquaintance.
.bn 360.png
.pn +1
Eddy, relieved of the burden of his secret, convalesced
rapidly, and was soon taken home by
his father. Fortunately for the repentant lad,
Mr. Eddy, himself an old Seatonian, had a frank
talk with Mr. Graham before seeing his son,
which deprived the dreaded meeting of half its
terrors. It was a new idea to Mr. Eddy that a
boy might be driven to continue in an evil way
from which he wished to escape, through fear of
the uncompromising harshness with which his
confession would be received. The parting word
of the Principal sent the father home somewhat
comforted by the thought that there might
yet be a chance for the boy to retrieve himself
in the old school.
For Phil and Dick and Wrenn Varrell the last
days of school were pleasantly uneventful. Dick
had a peaceful fortnight in which to prepare his
class-day oration, which he delivered with becoming
gravity, as if it were a serious contribution
to the wisdom of the world. Wrenn returned to
the modest tenor of his life; and when Planter,
in his class prophecy, predicted for Varrell a
career which should rival that of Sherlock
.bn 361.png
.pn +1
Holmes, hardly half a dozen fellows in the class
understood the point of the reference. Phil went
rejoicing home at the end of the school term,
leaving his older friends to miss his cheerful presence.
His study chair was more than filled by
John Curtis, who settled himself in it as the
most favorable place for “grinding,”—a place
which he left only to sleep and eat during the
long week which preceded the college examinations.
John was rather subdued when the final good-bys
were said, and the fellows around him were
promising one another a speedy and happy reunion
at Cambridge or New Haven or Hanover
or some other of the half-dozen places to which
their choice of college called them. Melvin felt
much concerned at the solemn look on the big
fellow’s face, and the artless subterfuges with
which he sought to avoid committing himself as
to his plans for the future.
But Curtis was merely cautious. On the
Fourth of July, as Dick was condescendingly
helping his “kid” brother in the serious task of
setting off fireworks, a telegram was brought to
.bn 362.png
.pn +1
him, dated at Mt. Desert, and bearing this simple
legend:—
.pm letter-start
“In clear except for Dutch. Meet you Soldiers’ Field, September.
.ti +10
“John Curtis.”
.pm letter-end
Dick’s last half-dollar went for fireworks to celebrate the news.
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.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent\
only when a predominant form was found in this book.
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.it Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
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