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Weatherby’s Inning, by Ralph Henry Barbour, a Project Gutenberg eBook.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45142 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="600" height="666"
alt="cover" title="cover" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="noic">WEATHERBY’S INNING</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="adbox">
<p class="noic adtitle">BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.</p>
<p class="noic">Each, 12mo, Cloth, Illustrated.</p>
<hr class="r30" />
<p class="noi hang"><span class="adauthor">Weatherby’s Inning.</span><br />
Illustrated in Colors. $1.20 net; postage,
12 cents additional.</p>
<p class="hang"><span class="adauthor">Behind the Line.</span><br />
A Story of School and Football. $1.20
net; postage, 12 cents additional.</p>
<p class="hang"><span class="adauthor">Captain of the Crew.</span><br />
$1.20 net; postage, 12 cents additional.</p>
<p class="hang"><span class="adauthor">For the Honor of the School.</span><br />
A Story of School Life and Interscholastic
Sport. $1.50.</p>
<p class="hang"><span class="adauthor">The Half-Back.</span><br />
A Story of School, Football, and Golf.
$1.50.</p>
<hr class="r30" />
<p class="noic">D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;">
<a name="image01" id="image01">
<img src="images/image01.jpg" width="394" height="600"
alt="Perkins was speeding for second."
title="Perkins was speeding for second." />
</a><br />
<div class="caption"><a href="#Page_171">Perkins was speeding for second.</a></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h1>WEATHERBY’S INNING</h1>
<p class="noi subtitle">A Story of College<br />
Life and Baseball</p>
<p class="p2 noic">BY</p>
<p class="noi author">RALPH HENRY BARBOUR</p>
<p class="noi works">AUTHOR OF BEHIND THE LINE,<br />
THE HALF-BACK, ETC.</p>
<p class="p2 noic"><i>Illustrated by C. M. Relyea</i></p>
<div class="pad2">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 146px;">
<img src="images/image02.jpg" width="146" height="284"
alt="title page illustration"
title="title page illustration" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="noic">New York<br />
D. Appleton and Company<br />
1903</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="noic"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1903<br />
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY</span></p>
<p class="p4 noi"><i>Published September, 1903</i></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="noic">TO</p>
<p class="noic"><span class="noi author">ALFRED LOUIS BAURY</span><br />
AGED ELEVEN</p>
<p class="noic">YOUNGEST AND MOST LENIENT<br />
OF CRITICS</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
<col style="width: 20%;" />
<col style="width: 70%;" />
<col style="width: 10%;" />
<tr>
<th class="pr smfontr">CHAPTER</th>
<th class="tdl"></th>
<th class="smfontr">PAGE</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">I.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">Coward!</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">II.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">An interruption</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">11</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">III.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">Mr. Tidball introduces himself</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">19</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">IV.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Catcher and pitcher</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">V.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">An encounter in the yard</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">39</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">VI.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">In disgrace</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">47</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">VII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">At the batting nets</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">57</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">VIII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">The last straw</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">68</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">IX.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Anthony studies a time-table</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">80</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">X.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Flight</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">94</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XI.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Anthony makes a statement</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">106</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">A fly to left-fielder</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">120</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XIII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Joe is pessimistic</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">127</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XIV.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">The mass-meeting</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">139</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XV.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Anthony on baseball</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">148</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XVI.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">Jack courts the muse</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">156</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XVII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">Erskine <i>vs.</i> Harvard</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">167</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XVIII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">Jack at second</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">176</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XIX.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">Anthony tells a secret</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">184</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XX.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">Stolen property</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">194</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XXI.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">Off to Collegetown</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">203</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XXII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">At the end of the sixth</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">213</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XXIII.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">A triple play</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">223</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="pt tdrt">XXIV.—</td>
<td class="pt tdl smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">Weatherby’s inning</a></td>
<td class="pt tdrb">239</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></p>
<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<div class="blockquot">
<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
<tr>
<th> </th>
<th> </th>
<th class="smfontr">FACING<br />PAGE</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#image01">Perkins was speeding for second.</a></td>
<td class="tdrb"><i>Frontispiece</i></td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#image03">He leaned back, clinging to the planks behind him.</a></td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb">7</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#image05">Anthony waved the coffee-pot hospitably.</a></td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb">47</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#image06">“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”</a></td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb">99</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#image07">Weatherby sprang straight upward, two feet above the turf.</a></td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb">238</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#image08">With a gasp for breath he leaped forward.</a></td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb">246</td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<p class="noi title">WEATHERBY’S INNING</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a><br />
<small>COWARD!</small></h2>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">University Baseball.</span>—All men who wish
to try for the team report in the cage on
Monday, February 25th, at 3.30 sharp.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Jos. L. Perkins</span>, <i>Capt.</i><br /></p>
</div>
<p>Jack Weatherby, on his way out of the gymnasium,
paused before the bulletin-board in the little drafty
hall and read the call.</p>
<p>“That’s next Monday,” he muttered. “All right,
I’ll be there.”</p>
<p>Then, putting a shoulder against the big oak door,
he pushed his way out on to the granite steps and stood
there a moment in scowling contemplation of the cheerless
scene. Before him the board-walk was almost
afloat in a shallow rivulet of melted snow that filled
the gravel-path from side to side. A few steps away
the path ended at the Washington Street gate in a
veritable lake. The crossing was inches deep in water<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
and the Common was a dismal waste of pools and
streams out of which the soldiers’ monument reared
itself as though agonizedly searching for a dry spot
to which to move. There was an incessant and
monotonous dripping and trickling and gurgling as the
snow, which two days before had covered the ground
to a depth of over a foot, disappeared as by magic under
the breath of an unseasonable south wind. The sky
was leaden and lowering, and against it the bare
branches of the numberless elm-trees swayed complainingly.
The Common and so much of the college
grounds as was in sight were deserted. Altogether it
was a dispiriting prospect that met Jack’s eyes, and
one little likely to aid him in the task of fighting the
“blues,” which had oppressed him all day.</p>
<p>He went listlessly down the steps, heroically striving
to whistle a tune. But the tune had died out ere
the sidewalk was reached. He looked with misgiving
from the crossing to his shoes—shoes which even when
new had been scarcely adapted to wet weather—and
after a moment of hesitation gave up the idea of taking
the usual short cut across the Common, and went on
down Washington Street. As he began to pick his way
gingerly across the wet pavement at the corner of Elm
Street, two men ran down the steps of a boarding-house.
They were talking in high, excited tones, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
Jack could hear them until they had gone some distance
toward the railroad.</p>
<p>“The water’s away up to the road, they say,” one
of them declared loudly, “and it’s still rising. They’re
afraid the bridge’ll go. There’s a lot of ice coming
down.”</p>
<p>“Should think it might go,” said the other. “The
old thing looks as though you could push it over if you
tried.”</p>
<p>“Yes, don’t it? Let’s get a move on. We had a
flood once up home that——”</p>
<p>Then a heavy gust of wind, sweeping around the
corner of the tumble-down livery-stable, drowned the
conversation. Jack paused and silently weighed the
respective attractions of a dark and not overcomfortable
room in the green-shuttered house a few steps
away, and a swollen river which might, if there was
any such thing as good luck—which he had begun to
doubt—sweep away the tottering old wooden bridge.
Well, his feet were already wet, and so— He retraced
his steps to the corner and went on down Washington
Street in the wake of the others. They were a block
or so ahead, splashing their thick boots through all
kinds of puddles. They were evidently the best of
friends, for one kept his hand on the other’s shoulder.
Once the prankish wind bore a scrap of merry laughter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
up the street, and Jack, plodding along behind, wary
of puddles, as befits a fellow who is wearing his only
pair of winter shoes, heard it and felt gloomier and
more forlorn than ever.</p>
<p>He wondered what it was like to have real friends
and a chum; to be well known and liked. He had
come to Erskine College in September fully expecting
such things to fall to his share. But he had been there
five months now and during that time his life had
been very lonely. At first he had tried to make friends
in a diffident way. Perhaps he had tried with the
wrong men; perhaps his manner had been against him;
the result had been discouraging, and after a while,
smarting under what to his oversensitive feelings
seemed rebuffs, he had ceased looking for friends and
had retired into a shell of pessimism and injured pride,
masking his loneliness under simulated indifference.
Since then he had undoubtedly lost many a chance to
find the companionship he craved; but he had learned
his lesson, he told himself bitterly, and so he rejected
advances as though they were the deadliest of insults.</p>
<p>He didn’t look the least bit like a misanthrope. He
was seventeen years old, large for his age, lithe, muscular
and healthy-looking, as is proper in a boy who
has never been pampered, with a face which even at
the present moment, in spite of the expression of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
settled bitterness that marred it, was eminently attractive.
His eyes were well apart and gray in color; his
hair was light brown, and his mouth, which of late had
formed the unfortunate habit of wearing a little supercilious
sneer in public, looked generous and honest, and,
with the firmly rounded chin beneath, suggested force
and capability. On the whole he was a clean-cut,
manly-looking boy to whom fortune, you would have
said, owed much.</p>
<p>When Jack Weatherby reached the river he found
that the report of its depredations was not exaggerated.
To be sure, River Street was still above water, but
the flood was well over the bank in places, and farther
along, in front of the coal-yards, several of the
wharves were awash. The broad stream, usually a
quiet, even sluggish body, was sending up a new sound,
a low, threatening roar which, without his having realized
it, had reached Jack’s ears long before he had
sighted the river.</p>
<p>He wormed his way through the crowd of townfolk
that lined the street, and, passing through an
empty coal-pocket, found himself on a spray-drenched
string-piece a foot above the water. To his right and
left piers ran some distance into the river. They were
untenanted. But beyond them the open spaces used by
the coal company as storage ground for wagons were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
black with watchers. A short way off was the bridge,
a low, wooden structure connecting Centerport with the
little village of Kirkplain across the river. Jack was
on the up-stream side of the bridge and could see the
havoc that the drifting ice was making with the worn
spiling and hear the crashing and grinding as cake
after cake was hurled and jammed against it. Several
of the supports were already broken, and the entrance
to the bridge was barred with a rope and guarded by
a member of Centerport’s small police force.</p>
<p>Jack drew back as far as he could from the edge of
the beam and with his shoulders against the boards
of the big bin watched in strange fascination the black,
angry water rushing past. It frightened and repelled
him, and yet he found it difficult to remove his gaze.
For as long as he could remember he had been afraid of
water. Once, when he was only five years old, he had
fallen into the brook that crossed his father’s farm
and had almost drowned before his mother, hastening
after the runaway, had dragged him out. His recollection
of the escapade was very hazy, but it had left
him with a dread of water that was almost a mania.
All efforts to combat it had proved futile. He had
never learned to swim, and had never in all his life
trusted himself in a boat. And yet, as a boy, he had
devoured ravenously all the stories of the sea he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
lay hands on, and had shuddered over shipwrecks and
similar disasters, at once repelled and fascinated.</p>
<p>Suddenly his contemplation of the river was disturbed
by shouts of alarm from up-stream. With an
effort he withdrew his gaze from the water and looked
in the direction of the cries. At that instant, around
the corner of the pier to his right, floated something that
thrashed the water wildly and sent up shrill appeals
for help. After the first second of bewilderment Jack
saw that it was a boy of thirteen or fourteen years.
The white face, horribly drawn with terror, turned
toward him, and, for an instant, the frightened, staring
eyes looked into his. Jack sickened and groped blindly
for support. A trick of the current shot the struggling
body into the little harbor afforded by the two
piers, almost at his feet. In his ears was a meaningless
babel of shouts and in his heart an awful fear.
<a href="#image03">He leaned back</a> with outstretched hands <a href="#image03">clinging to the
planks behind him</a> and closed his eyes to avoid the sight
of the appealing face below. Then, with a gasp, he
sank to his knees, seized the string-piece with one hand,
and with the other reached downward. But he was
too late. The current, sweeping out again, had already
borne the boy beyond reach. There was a final
despairing shriek, then the arms ceased to struggle and
the eddies closed over the body. Jack joined his voice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
impotently with the others and looked wildly about for
a plank or a rope—anything that he could throw into
the water. But there was nothing. Sick and dizzy he
subsided against the timbers.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 392px;">
<a name="image03" id="image03">
<img src="images/image03.jpg" width="392" height="600"
alt="He leaned back, clinging to the planks behind him."
title="He leaned back, clinging to the planks behind him." />
<br /></a>
<div class="caption"><a href="#Page_7">He leaned back, clinging to the planks behind him.</a></div>
</div>
<p>Then, just at the corner of the down-stream wharf,
the body came to the surface again, the eyes sightless,
the lips silent. And, almost too late, came
help.</p>
<p>Jack, leaning near the opening in the coal-bin, felt
rather than saw some one push by him. The rescuer, a
man several years Jack’s senior, had discarded his coat
and vest, and now, stooping and placing a hand lightly
on the string-piece, he dropped into the water. A half
dozen strokes took him to the end of the pier, and just
as the drowning boy was again sinking he caught him.
Turning, he struck out toward Jack, swimming desperately
against the swirling current. For a minute
it was difficult work; then he reached stiller water, and
Jack, leaning over the edge, stretched forth eager hands
to help. But ere he could do so he was pushed aside,
narrowly saving himself from pitching head foremost
into the water, and a middle-aged man, whom Jack a
moment later saw to be Professor White, relieved the
rescuer of his burden.</p>
<p>By that time the narrow foothold along the edge
of the river was thronged with students and townfolk.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
Quickly the apparently lifeless body was borne past
them through the yard and into a small office. Jack,
trembling in every limb, followed. But near the door
he suddenly became aware of a hostile atmosphere.
The crowd, which had grown every minute, were observing
him curiously, contemptuously, muttering and
whispering. The blood rushed into his face and then
receded, leaving it deathly pale. For a moment he
faced them. Then a small boy somewhere on the edge
of the throng sent up a shrill cry:</p>
<p>“That’s him! That’s the feller that didn’t make
no try ter save him! ’Fraid of wettin’ his feet, he
was!”</p>
<p>Jack looked about him and read in the faces that
confronted him only merciless condemnation. Something
in his throat hurt him and refused to be dislodged.
With head up he turned and made his way through the
crowd, the old sneer on his lips. But there was worse
in store. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to
find Professor White beside him.</p>
<p>“What’s your name?” asked the professor sternly.</p>
<p>“Weatherby, sir,” muttered Jack.</p>
<p>“Are you a student?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“What class?”</p>
<p>“Six.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p>
<p>The professor looked at him searchingly, then
dropped the hand from his shoulder.</p>
<p>“I find that hard to believe,” he said contemptuously.
“I didn’t think we had any cowards here at
Erskine!”</p>
<p>He turned away, and Jack, after a moment of hesitation,
a moment in which his first inclination to protest
against the injustice of the verdict was drowned in a
sudden dumbing surge of anger, made his way out
of the throng and stumbled back to his room through
the gathering twilight.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a><br />
<small>AN INTERRUPTION</small></h2>
<p>Erskine College, at Centerport, is not large. Like
many another New England college its importance lies
rather in its works than in wealth or magnificence. Its
enrolment in all departments at the time of which I
write was about 600. I am not going to describe the
college, it would take too long; and besides, it has been
done very frequently and very well, and if the reader,
after studying <a href="#image04">the accompanying plan</a>, which is reproduced
with the kind permission of the authorities, feels
the need of further description, I would respectfully
refer him to Balcom’s Handbook of Erskine (photographically
illustrated) and May’s History of Erskine
College. And if in connection with these he examines
the annual catalogue he will know about all there is to
be known of the subject.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 407px;">
<a name="image04" id="image04">
<img src="images/image04.jpg" width="407" height="600"
alt="PLAN OF ERSKINE COLLEGE AND THE TOWN OF CENTERPORT - 1901"
title="PLAN OF ERSKINE COLLEGE AND THE TOWN OF CENTERPORT - 1901" />
</a><br />
<div class="caption"><a href="#Page_11">PLAN OF ERSKINE COLLEGE AND THE TOWN OF CENTERPORT</a><br />
1901</div>
</div>
<p>Leaving Washington Street and going west on Elm
Street, he will find, facing the apex of the Common,
a small white frame cottage profusely adorned with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
blinds of a most vivid green. That is Mrs. Dorlon’s.
It is by far the tiniest of the many boarding- and lodging-houses
that line the outer curve of Elm Street, and,
as might be supposed, its rooms are few and not commodious.
Mrs. Dorlon, a small, middle-aged widow,
with a perpetual cold in the head, reserves the lower
floor for her own use and rents the two up-stairs rooms
to students. Between these second-floor apartments
there is little to choose. The western one gets the
afternoon sunlight, while the one on the other side of
the hall gets none. To make up for this, however, the
eastern room is, or was, at the time of my story, the
proud possessor of a register, supposed, somewhat erroneously,
to conduct warm air into the apartment;
while the western room, to use the language of Mrs.
Dorlon, was “het by gas.”</p>
<p>Aside from these differences, apparent rather than
real, the two chambers were similar. In each there was
a strip of narrow territory in which it was possible to
stand upright, flanked on either side by abruptly sloping
ceilings whose flaking expanses were broken by
dormer-windows, admitting a little light and a deal of
cold. It was the eastern room that Jack Weatherby
at present called home, a feat which implied the possession
of a great deal of imagination on his part. For
when, having escaped the hostile throng by the river<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
and made his way up Washington into Elm Street, and
so to the house with the painfully green blinds, the
room in which he found himself didn’t look the least bit
in the world like home.</p>
<p>The iron cot-bed, despite its vivid imitation Bagdad
covering, failed to deceive the beholder into mistaking
it for a Turkish divan. The faded and threadbare ingrain
carpet, much too small to cover the floor, was of
a chilly, inhospitable shade of blue. The occupant had
made little attempt at decoration, partly because the
amount of wall space adapted to pictures was extremely
limited, partly because from the first the cheerless ugliness
of the room discouraged him. The green-topped
study table near the end window was a sorry piece of
furniture. Former users had carved cabalistic designs
into the walnut rim and adorned the imitation leather
covering with even more mysterious figures; there were
evidences, too, of overturned ink-bottles. A yellow-grained
wardrobe beside the door leaned wearily against
the supporting angle of the ceiling.</p>
<p>The brightest note in the room was a patent rocker
upholstered in vivid green and yellow Brussels carpet.
If we except a walnut book-shelf hanging beside the end
window and a wash-stand jammed under one dormer,
the enumeration of the furnishings is complete. Even
on days when the sun shone against the white gable of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
the next house, the apartment could scarcely be called
cheerful, and this afternoon with the evening shadows
closing down and the wind whipping the branches of the
elms outside and buffeting the house until it creaked
complainingly, the room was forlorn to a degree.</p>
<p>After slamming the door behind him Jack tossed
aside his cap, and subsiding into the rocker stretched
his legs and stared miserably through the window into
a swaying world of gray branches and darkening sky.
The overmastering anger that had sent him striding
home as though pursued dwindled away and left in its
place a loneliness and discouragement that hurt like a
physical pain. Things had been bad before, he thought,
but now, branded in public a coward and despised by
his fellows, life would be unbearable! He pictured the
glances of contempt that would meet him on the morrow
in hall and yard, or wherever he went, and
groaned. He recalled the professor’s biting words:
“I didn’t think we had any cowards here at Erskine!”
and clenched his hands in sudden overmastering rage.
The injustice of it maddened him. Would Professor
White, he asked himself, have gone into the river after
the drowning boy if, like himself, he were unable to
swim a stroke and sickened at the mere thought of
contact with the icy flood?</p>
<p>Presently his thoughts reverted to the morrow and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
the punishment he must undergo. His courage
faltered, and the alternative, that of packing his few
things there and then and leaving college by an early
train in the morning, seemed the only course possible.
Well, he would do it. It would mean disappointment
to his parents and a loss of money they could ill afford.
To him it would mean five months of study wasted.
But better that than staying on there despised and
ridiculed, to be pointed out behind his back as The
Coward.</p>
<p>With a gasp he leaped to his feet, his cheeks tingling
and his eyes moist with sudden tears. The room
was in darkness. He fumbled over the desk until he
found the match-box. When the gas was lighted he
remembered the condition of his feet, and drawing a
chair before the register he removed his wet shoes and
placed them against the warm grating that they might
dry overnight. His battered silver watch showed the
time to be a few minutes before six. He found dry
socks, and drawing them over his chilled feet donned
a pair of carpet slippers. Then he washed for supper,
bathing his flushed face over and over, and got back into
his coat just as a weak-voiced bell below summoned the
small household to the evening meal. As he went out he
noted with surprise that the door of the opposite room
was ajar, allowing a streak of light to illumine the upper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
hall with unaccustomed radiance. The room had been
vacant all the year, but now, evidently, Mrs. Dorlon had
found a tenant. But the fact interested him little, for
his mind was firmly made up, and on the morrow his
own room would be for rent.</p>
<p>When he entered the tiny dining-room Mrs. Dorlon
and her daughter, a shy wisp of a girl some twelve or
thirteen years of age, were already seated at the table.
Jack muttered greetings and applied himself silently to
the cold meat and graham bread which, with crab-apple
jelly and weak tea, comprised the meal. But his
hostess was plainly elated, and after a few pregnant
snuffles the secret was out. The western chamber was
rented!</p>
<p>“And such a nice, pleasant-mannered young man
he is,” she declared. “A Mr. Tidball, a junior. Perhaps
you have met him?”</p>
<p>Jack shook his head.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m sure you’ll like him, and it’ll be real
pleasant for you to have another student in the house.
I know what it is to be alone”—she sniffed sadly—“since
Mr. Dorlon died, and I guess you feel downright
lonely sometimes up there. If you like I’ll introduce
Mr. Tidball after supper?”</p>
<p>The widow appeared to find a mild excitement at the
thought, and her face fell when Jack begged off. “Not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
this evening, please,” he said. “I’m going to be very
busy, Mrs. Dorlon.”</p>
<p>“Oh, very well. I only thought—” What she
thought he never knew, for excusing himself he pushed
back his chair and returned to his room. As he closed
his door he heard the new lodger whistling cheerfully
and tunelessly across the hallway.</p>
<p>He dragged a steamer trunk from under the bed,
threw back the lid and unceremoniously hustled the
contents on to the floor. Then he took a valise from
the wardrobe and proceeded to pack into it what few belongings
would serve him until he could send for his
trunk. The latter he couldn’t take with him. In the
first place, there was no way of getting it to the depot in
time for the early train; in the second place, as he
was not now able to pay Mrs. Dorlon the present
month’s rent, he felt that he ought to leave something
behind him as security. The prospect of going home
raised his spirits, and he felt happier than he had for
many months. He even hummed an air as he tramped
busily between the wardrobe and the trunk, and the result
was that the first knock on the door passed unheeded.
After a moment the knock was repeated, and
this time Jack heard it and paused in the act of spreading
his Sunday trousers in the till and looked the consternation
he felt. Who was it, he wondered. Perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
Mrs. Dorlon come to hint about the rent; perhaps—but
whoever it might be, Jack didn’t want his
preparations seen. He softly closed the trunk lid and
wished that he had locked the door. He waited silently.
Perhaps the caller would go away. Then, as he began
to think with relief that this had already happened, the
knob turned, the door swung open, and a lean, spectacled
face peered through the opening.</p>
<p>“I thought maybe you didn’t hear me knock,” said
a queer, drawling voice. “I’ve taken the room across
the way, and as we’re going to be neighbors I thought
I’d just step over and get acquainted.”</p>
<p>The caller came in and closed the door behind him,
casting an interested look about the shabby apartment.
Jack, after an instant of surprise and dismay, muttered
a few words of embarrassed greeting. As he did so he
recognized in the odd, lanky figure at the door the hero
of the accident at the river.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a><br />
<small>MR. TIDBALL INTRODUCES HIMSELF</small></h2>
<p>The caller looked to be about twenty-one or two
years of age. He was tall, thin, and angular, and
carried himself awkwardly. His shoulders had the
stoop that tells of much poring over books. His
hands and feet were large, the former knotted and ungainly.
His face was lean, the cheeks somewhat
sunken; the nose was large and well-shapen and the
mouth, altogether too broad, looked good-natured and
humorous. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles, behind
which twinkled a pair of small, pale-blue eyes, kindly
and shrewd. His clothes seemed at first sight to belong
to some one very much larger; the trousers hung in
baggy folds about his legs and his coat went down behind
his neck exposing at least an inch of checkered
gingham shirt.</p>
<p>And yet, despite the incongruity of his appearance,
he impressed Jack as being a person of importance, a
man who knew things and who was capable of turning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
his knowledge to good account. Tidball? Where had
he heard the name of Tidball? As he thought of it now,
the name seemed strangely familiar. Recollecting his
duties as host, Jack pushed forward the patent rocker.</p>
<p>“Won’t you sit down?” he asked.</p>
<p>The visitor sank into the chair, bringing one big
foot, loosely encased in a frayed leather slipper, on to
one knee, and clasping it with both knotted hands quite
as though he feared it might walk off when he wasn’t
looking.</p>
<p>“Queer sort of weather we’re having,” he drawled.
He talked through his nose with a twang that proclaimed
him a native of the coast. Jack concurred,
sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the cot and wondering
whether Tidball recognized him.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Thingamabob down-stairs said you were from
Maine. Maine’s my State. I come from Jonesboro;
ever hear of Jonesboro?”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t believe so.” The visitor chuckled.</p>
<p>“Never met any one who had. Guess I’m about
the only resident of that metropolis who ever strayed
out of it. There’s one fellow in our town, though, who
went down to Portland once about forty years back.
He’s looked on as quite a traveler in Jonesboro.”</p>
<p>Jack smiled. “My folks live near Auburn,” he
said.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>
<p>“Nice place, Auburn. By the way, my name’s Tidball—Anthony
Z. Z stands for Zeno; guess I’m a sort
of a Stoic myself.” The remark was lost on Jack,
whose acquaintance with the Greek philosophers was
still limited.</p>
<p>“My name’s Weatherby,” he returned. “My first
name’s Jack; I haven’t any middle name.”</p>
<p>“You’re lucky,” answered the other. “They
might have called you Xenophanes, you see.” Jack
didn’t see, but he smiled doubtfully, and the visitor
went on. “Well, now we know each other. We’re
the only fellows in the hut and we might as well get
together, eh? Guess I saw you this afternoon down
at the river, didn’t I?”</p>
<p>Jack flushed and nodded.</p>
<p>“Thought so.” There was a moment’s silence, during
which the visitor’s shrewd eyes studied Jack openly
and calmly and during which all the old misery,
forgotten for the moment, came back to the boy.
Then—</p>
<p>“Guess you can’t swim, eh?” asked the other.</p>
<p>“No, not a stroke,” muttered Jack.</p>
<p>“Thought so,” reiterated Tidball. There was another
silence. Then Jack said, with an uneasy laugh:</p>
<p>“There’s no doubt but that you can, though.”</p>
<p>“Me? Yes, I can swim like a shark. Down in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
Jonesboro we learn when we’re a year old. Comes
natural to us coasters.”</p>
<p>“It was lucky you were there this afternoon,” said
Jack.</p>
<p>“Oh, some one else would have gone in, I guess!”</p>
<p>“He—he didn’t—he wasn’t drowned, was he?”</p>
<p>“The kid? No, but plaguy near it. He’s all
right now, I guess. Teach him a lesson.”</p>
<p>“Did the bridge go?” asked Jack after a moment,
merely to break another silence.</p>
<p>“No, water was going down when I left. Guess
I’m in the way, though, ain’t I?”</p>
<p>“In the way?”</p>
<p>“Yes; weren’t you doing something when I came
in? Packing a trunk or something?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it—it doesn’t matter; there’s no hurry.”</p>
<p>“Going home over Sunday?”</p>
<p>“Y—yes.”</p>
<p>“You’re lucky; wish I was. But don’t let me interrupt;
go ahead and I’ll just sit here out of the way,
if you don’t mind my staying.”</p>
<p>“Not at all; I—I’m glad to have you.” And the
odd thing about it, as Jack realized the next moment,
was that he meant what he said. The visitor drew a
little brier pipe from one pocket and a pouch from another.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p>
<p>“Smoke?” he asked.</p>
<p>“No,” answered Jack.</p>
<p>“Mind if I do?”</p>
<p>“Not a bit.” Tidball stuffed the bowl with tobacco
and was soon sending long clouds of rankly smelling
smoke into the air.</p>
<p>“Don’t begin,” he advised. “It’s a mean habit;
wastes time and money and doesn’t do you any good
after all. Wish I didn’t.”</p>
<p>“But couldn’t you break yourself of it?” asked
Jack.</p>
<p>Tidball chuckled again and blew a great mouthful
of gray smoke toward the gaslight.</p>
<p>“Don’t want to,” he answered.</p>
<p>“Oh!” said Jack, puzzled.</p>
<p>“Going to take your trunk?” asked the other,
waving his pipe toward it.</p>
<p>“No, just a bag. I’ll send for the trunk later.”
Then, as he realized his mistake, the blood rushed
into his cheeks. He looked up at Tidball and found
that person eying him quizzically. “I—I mean—that——”</p>
<p>“No harm done,” interrupted the visitor.
“Thought when I came in you meant to cut and run.
Why?”</p>
<p>“Because—because I can’t stay,” answered Jack<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
defiantly. “You—you were there and you saw it.
Everybody thinks I’m a coward! Professor White
said—said—” He choked and looked down miserably
at his twisting fingers.</p>
<p>“Well, you aren’t, are you?”</p>
<p>Jack glanced up startledly.</p>
<p>“Why—why—no, I’m not a coward!” he cried.</p>
<p>“Didn’t think you were. You don’t look it.”</p>
<p>Jack experienced a grateful warmth at the heart and
looked shyly and thankfully at the queer, lean face
across the room.</p>
<p>“But—but they all think I am,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t prove them right, then, if I were
you.”</p>
<p>“Prove— What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Mean I wouldn’t run away; mean I’d stay and
fight it out. Any one can run; takes a brave man to
stand and fight.”</p>
<p>“Oh!” Jack stared wonderingly at Tidball. “I
hadn’t thought of that.”</p>
<p>“’Tisn’t too late.”</p>
<p>“N—no,” answered Jack doubtfully. “You—think
I ought to stay?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I honestly do, Weatherby. You’ve got
nothing to be ashamed of; ’twouldn’t have done any
good if you’d gone into the river; guess you’d been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
drowned—’tother chap, too. White jumped at conclusions
and landed wrong. Can’t much blame him,
though. You see, the fellows here at Erskine come from
the country, or the coast, or some small town, and swimming’s
as natural as eating, and I guess it didn’t occur
to them that maybe you couldn’t swim. But when they
learn the truth of the matter——”</p>
<p>“But they won’t know,” said Jack.</p>
<p>“Bound to. I’ll see White myself, and I’ll tell all
the chaps I know; ’twon’t take long for the facts to get
around.”</p>
<p>“I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind,” said
Jack. “It’s awfully kind of you——”</p>
<p>“Didn’t what?”</p>
<p>“See Professor White.”</p>
<p>“Well—of course, I know you’re feeling kind of
sore at him, Weatherby, and I don’t much blame you;
still, there’s no use in allowing the misunderstanding
to continue when a word or two will set things right.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care what he thinks,” said Jack, bitterly.</p>
<p>“All right,” replied Tidball calmly. “How about
the others?”</p>
<p>Jack studied his hands in silence for a minute. Then
he threw back his shoulders and got up.</p>
<p>“You’re mighty kind,” he said, “to want to take
all this trouble on my account, and I’m awfully much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
obliged to you, but—if you don’t mind—I’d rather you
didn’t say anything to anybody.”</p>
<p>Tidball frowned.</p>
<p>“Then you mean to run away?” he asked disappointedly.</p>
<p>“No, I’ll stay and—and fight! Let them think
me a coward if they like; only some day I’ll show them
I’m not!”</p>
<p>“That’s the stuff,” said the other approvingly. “I
guess you’re making a mistake by not explaining, but—maybe
you’ll change your mind. If you do, let me
know.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” answered Jack, “but I sha’n’t.” He
took up his valise and holding it upside down emptied
the contents on to the cot. “I wish you’d tell me one
thing,” he said.</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>“Did you—I mean— Well, did you just happen
to come in, or—did you know I was—The Coward?”</p>
<p>“Well,” drawled the other, smiling gently at a
cloud of smoke, “Mrs. Thingamabob told me yesterday
when I engaged that room that she had a very nice
young man, a freshman named Weatherby, living with
her. The name isn’t common, I guess, and so when I
heard it again down at the wharf I remembered. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
I just thought I’d come in and see what silly thing you’d
decided to do. Kind of cheeky, I guess, but that’s my
way. Hope you’re not offended?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m awfully glad. If you hadn’t come I’d
have gone away, sure as anything.”</p>
<p>“Glad I came. Hope we’ll be friends. You must
come over and see me. You won’t find things very
palatial in my place, but there’s an extra chair, I think.
I don’t go in much for luxuries. I was rooming in a
place on Main Street until to-day; very comfortable
place it was, too: folding-bed, lounge, rocking-chair, and
a study desk with real drawers that locked—at least,
some of them did. My roommate was a fellow named
Gooch, from up my way. His father died a week or
so ago, and yesterday I got a letter from him saying
he’d have to leave college and buckle down to
work. Couldn’t afford to keep the room alone, so
I looked round and found this. Well, I must be
going.”</p>
<p>He pulled his long length out of the chair, and,
producing from a chamois pouch a handsome big gold
watch, oddly at variance with his shabby attire, held it
nearsightedly to the dim light.</p>
<p>“Don’t be in a hurry,” begged Jack. And then,
“That’s a dandy watch you have,” he added. “May I
see it?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes,” answered Tidball, holding it forth at the
length of its chain, “it’s the only swell thing I own.
It’s a present.”</p>
<p>“Oh!” said Jack. “Well, it’s a beauty. And it’s
got a split-second attachment, too, hasn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and when you press this thing here it
strikes the time; hear it? Guess it cost a heap of
money.”</p>
<p>“It must have. Was it a prize?”</p>
<p>“Something like that. A New York fellow gave
it to me summer before last. He came up to Jonesboro
in a steam-yacht about a thousand feet long. Well,
I’ve got a lot of studying to do yet.” He moved
toward the door.</p>
<p>“But why did he give it to you?” asked Jack.
“But maybe I’m asking impertinent questions?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no; there’s no secret about it, only— Well,
you see, this steam-yacht man had his son with him, a
kid of about eleven or twelve, I guess, and one day the
kid fell out of the naphtha-launch. There was a good
sea running, and they couldn’t get the launch about
very well. I happened to be near there in a dory, and
so I picked the youngster up. His daddy seemed a
good deal tickled about it, and after he got home he
sent this to me. That’s all. Some people seem to
have money to burn. Well, good night. Glad to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
have met you. Come over and call as soon as you
can.”</p>
<p>And Anthony Z. Tidball nodded, blew a parting
cloud of smoke in Jack’s direction, and went out, closing
the door softly behind him.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a><br />
<small>CATCHER AND PITCHER</small></h2>
<p>“Well, it wasn’t such a bad showing, was it?”</p>
<p>Joe Perkins tossed his purple cap adorned with a
white E on to the table and threw himself among the
cushions of the window-seat in the manner of one who
has earned his rest. He was a jovial-looking fellow of
medium height, rather inclined toward stoutness. His
hair was undeniably red, and despite that his features
were good, none would have called him handsome.
But his blue eyes were alert and his mouth firm. He
had the quick temper popularly believed to accompany
red hair, but it was well under control, and Joe’s usual
appearance was one of extreme good nature. He was
popular, perhaps the most popular fellow in college, and
he knew it, and was not spoiled by the knowledge. His
friends believed in him and he believed in himself.
Perhaps it was the latter fact that made him such a
wonderful leader. Ever since his freshman year he had
been among the foremost in all college affairs. Last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
spring, after the disastrous 7—0 baseball game with
Robinson, the selection of Joe, whose catching had been
a feature of the contest, as captain, was unanimous and
enthusiastic, and the supporters of the Purple, mourning
overwhelming defeat, felt their sorrow lightened by
the knowledge that Joe Perkins, in accepting the office,
had pledged himself to retrieve Erskine’s lost prestige
on the diamond. The whole college firmly believed that
what Joe Perkins promised he would perform.</p>
<p>Joe’s companion was Tracy Gilberth. Like Joe, he
was a senior and a member of the nine. Unlike Joe, he
did not impress one as being particularly good-natured;
nor did he resemble that youth in appearance. He had
straight dark hair and black eyes. His cheeks were
ruddy and his mouth straight and thin. He was of
middle height and weight, and pitched the best ball
of any man in college. In age he was a year Joe’s
senior, being twenty-three. He had none of the other
man’s popularity, although he was not disliked. Acquaintances
suspected him of arrogance; in talking he
had a tone that sounded patronizing to those not used
to it. His parents were immensely wealthy; rumor
credited his father with being a millionaire several times
over. At all events, Tracy had the most luxuriously
furnished rooms at Erskine, and spent more money than
the rest of his class put together.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p>
<p>At the present moment he was sitting in Joe’s
Morris chair with his hands in his pockets and his golf-stockinged
legs sprawled before him. He replied to
Joe’s question with a negligent nod that might have
meant either assent or denial. Joe took it to express
the former, and continued:</p>
<p>“A heap better than last year, anyhow. Thirty
candidates at this time of year means sixty when we get
outdoors.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but it isn’t quantity that counts, Joe,” said
Tracy. “Look at the sort of greenies you had to-day.
I’ll bet there isn’t a decent player among them, outside
of the few last-year men that were there. If I
were captain I’d rather have fifteen good players than
fifty would-bes.”</p>
<p>“You’re an awful croaker, Tracy. For goodness’
sake, let me be happy while I can. To-morrow I shall
be quite ready to believe that to-day’s bunch is merely
a lot of hopeless idiots; but this evening I am an optimist;
I see phenomenal pitchers, star catchers, wonderful
first-basemen, in short, an aggregation of brilliant
players destined to wipe Robinson off the face of the
earth. Leave me to my dreams, old man.”</p>
<p>“All right; only when you wake up you’ll find
you’ve fallen out of bed,” answered Tracy. “Have
you heard from Hanson?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes, he’s coming up Wednesday to look around.”</p>
<p>“I hope he’ll like what he sees,” said Tracy, grimly.
“I suppose you saw that fellow Weatherby there
to-day? That chap must have the sensibilities of a
goat. Think of his having the cheek to show up in
the cage as a baseball candidate after what happened
Friday! Why, if I were he I wouldn’t have the courage
to show my face outside of my room. Not a
fellow spoke to him to-day, but he didn’t seem to mind
a bit.”</p>
<p>“I spoke to him,” said Joe.</p>
<p>“Oh, you had to!”</p>
<p>“And I think you’re mistaken about his not caring.
He kept a pretty stiff upper lip, but I have a hunch that
he wasn’t happy.”</p>
<p>“Happy! I should say not. If he expects to be
happy as long as he stays at Erskine he’s going to be
awfully fooled. The chap ought to be driven out of
college.”</p>
<p>“It’s an unfortunate affair,” answered Joe dispassionately,
“and I don’t pretend to understand it. But
I must confess that I’m a bit sorry for the chap. It
may just be that there was some reason for his not
going in after that boy. Maybe he got rattled; you
can’t tell.”</p>
<p>“Oh, poppycock! Maybe he was blind or asleep!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
Why didn’t he spunk up, then, and say something? He
just walked off with his head in the air, as proud as
you please, without a word. The plain fact of the
matter is that he’s a coward clean through.”</p>
<p>“Well—but if he is, why did he report to-day?
Seems to me that took something a good deal like
courage. He knows plaguy well what the college
thinks of him. Great Scott, if I had been in his boots
I’d no more have thought of coming there among all
those fellows——!”</p>
<p>“That’s what I say. He’s got just about the same
sensibilities as a billy-goat. I dare say he’s rather
proud of himself. But don’t you worry, Joe, you
won’t be troubled with him long; we’ll soon show him
that the baseball team doesn’t want cowards. You leave
him to us, old man.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t, Tracy; you leave him to me.
I’m bossing this outfit, and I’m quite capable of getting
rid of any one I don’t want. The fellow says he can
play ball, and it’s fellows who can play ball that I’m
after, and not life-saving heroes.”</p>
<p>Tracy stared across at his friend in disgust.</p>
<p>“Well, I can tell you one thing, Joe, and that is
that you’ll find that there will be lots of fellows who
simply won’t go on to the team if you keep Weatherby;
and one of ’em’s me!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>
<p>“Nonsense,” answered the other, quite undisturbed.
“Your precious morals aren’t going to be hurt by playing
on the same acre of green grass as Weatherby.
Nor by sitting at the same table with him, for that
matter. At any rate, don’t get excited yet; it’s a
fair guess that Weatherby doesn’t know enough about
the game to make the team. But as long as he’s trying
for it I won’t have him bullied.” Joe sat up suddenly
and punched a purple and white cushion viciously.
“I tell you candidly, old man, I’m going to turn out
a winning team this spring, and just as long as a fellow
plays good ball and does as he’s told, I don’t give a
continental if he’s ostracized by the whole State! I
gave my solemn word to Tom Higgins last year, after
the game, that I’d win from Robinson, and I’m going
to keep that promise!”</p>
<p>“I’ll never forget old Tom that day. The poor
duffer was crying like a baby all the way back to the
yard. ‘You’ll be captain, Joe,’ he said, ‘and you’ve
got to promise to wipe this out. You’ve got to give
me your word of honor, Joe.’ ‘I’ll do everything
that I can, Tom,’ said I. And we shook hands on it.
‘If you don’t beat them next year, Joe,’ he blubbered,
‘I’ll come back here and I’ll lick you until you can’t
stand. I swear I will!’ And he would, too,” laughed
Joe.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>
<p>“That’s all well enough,” answered Tracy, “but
you don’t want to go too far, Joe; the fellows won’t
stand everything even from you.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Well, there’s lots of ’em now who think you’ve
made a mistake in choosing Hanson for coach; you
know that. They say that Hanson lost everything
when he was captain three years ago, and that year
before last, when he coached, we lost again. They
think you should have got a coach who had something
to show. And now if you insist on putting it on to the
fellows with this coward, Weatherby, you’ll have to
look out for squalls.”</p>
<p>“Good stuff!” Joe’s blue eyes sparkled, and his
mouth set itself straightly. “I’m open to all the
squalls that come my way. I like squalls. And when
they’ve blown over the other chaps may be surprised
to find that they’re a considerable distance from the
scene of operations. Oh, no, my boy, you can’t scare
me by talking that way! I know what the fellows said—some
of them, that is—about my selecting Hanson,
and I don’t give a continental. Hanson is all right.
When he was captain here he had the poorest lot of
players that any man ever had to contend with; anybody
who was in college will tell you that. They
couldn’t field and they couldn’t bat; the only thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
they could do was kick; they kicked about the schedule,
and they kicked about the amount of work they had to
do, and they kicked about the training-table. Nobody
on earth could have won with that team. As for year
before last, Hanson coached and we didn’t win, I know.
We didn’t win last year, for that matter, but nobody
lays the blame on the coach. Hanson is all right. He
knows the game all through; he’s a gentleman, and
he gives every minute of his time to the team. The
best judge of whether what I say is true is ‘Baldy’
Simson. You go and ask ‘Baldy,’ and if he doesn’t
tell you the same thing I’ll eat my hat. And when
you hear a trainer say that a coach is all right, there’s
something in it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, well, I don’t know much about it myself!
I’m only saying what the fellows in general think,
Joe.”</p>
<p>“I know; there’s no harm done. Only, if there are
any squalls, Tracy, you take your friends and get into
a cellar somewhere until they’ve blown over,” said Joe
suggestively.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m not scared!” Tracy replied, laughing uneasily.
“I’ll stand by you.”</p>
<p>“All right,” answered Joe gravely. “That’ll be
safest.”</p>
<p>There came a knock at the door, and Joe shouted,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
“Come in!” When he saw who his caller was he arose
from the window-seat and stepped forward.</p>
<p>“How are you, Weatherby? Want to see me?”</p>
<p>“Yes, if you have a minute to spare.” Jack looked
calmly at the occupant of the Morris chair, and Joe
understood.</p>
<p>“Certainly,” he answered. “Sit down.” Then,
“I don’t like to put you out, old man,” he said, turning
to Tracy, who had so far made no move toward withdrawing,
“but I guess I’ll have to ask you to excuse
me a moment.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right,” replied Tracy, lazily pulling
himself out of his seat and staring insolently at the
newcomer. “I’m a bit particular, anyway.” He
lounged to the door, carefully avoiding contact with
Jack. “See you in the morning,” he added. “So
long.”</p>
<p>When the door had closed, Joe glanced at the caller,
instinctively framing an apology for the insult. But
Jack’s countenance gave no indication that he had even
heard it. Joe marveled and pointed to a chair.</p>
<p>“Sit down, won’t you?” he asked politely.</p>
<p>The other shook his head.</p>
<p>“No, thanks. What I’ve got to say will take but
a minute,” he answered calmly.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a><br />
<small>AN ENCOUNTER IN THE YARD</small></h2>
<p>“Oh,” said Joe, vaguely, “all right.” He wondered,
rather uncomfortably, what was coming.</p>
<p>“It’s just this,” Jack continued. “I tried to get
a word with you in the cage, but there was always
some one around. I wanted to know if—if after what
happened the other day at the river, you have any
objection to my trying for the nine. You see,” he
went on, hurriedly, “I know what the fellows call me,
and I thought maybe you’d rather I didn’t come out.
You just tell me, you know, and it’ll be all right.
I won’t show up again.”</p>
<p>“I see,” said Joe. “No, I haven’t the least objection;
in fact, I’m glad to have you. I don’t pretend to
judge that—affair at the river, Weatherby; it’s none
of my business. And the fact is, I want every man
that can play baseball to report for practise. That’s
plain, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I’ll keep on then for the present.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p>
<p>“Of course, Weatherby, I can’t guarantee that
you’ll be made welcome by the other candidates; you
can understand that. They may act unpleasantly, or
say ugly things. I’m not able to restrain them. You’ll
have to risk that, you know.”</p>
<p>“I understand,” answered Jack calmly. “They’ve
already called me a coward. I don’t believe they can
say anything worse.”</p>
<p>“No, I guess not.” Joe looked curiously at the
other. Then, “I say, Weatherby,” he exclaimed, impulsively,
“what was the trouble, anyway, the other
day? I’ve only heard one side of it, and I fancy there’s
another, eh?”</p>
<p>“I’d rather not talk about it, if you please,” answered
Jack coldly.</p>
<p>“Oh, all right! I beg pardon.” Joe felt somewhat
huffed. His sympathy for the other was for the
moment snuffed out. Jack moved toward the door.</p>
<p>“By the way,” said Joe, in business-like tones, “I
think you told me you’d played ball some. Where
was it?”</p>
<p>“At home, on the high-school team. I played
three years.”</p>
<p>“What position?”</p>
<p>“I pitched the last year. Before that I played in
the outfield, generally at right.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p>
<p>“I see.” Joe’s hopes of the other’s usefulness
dwindled. He had seen a good many cases of ambitious
freshmen whose belief in themselves as pitchers was
not justified by subsequent events. Every year there
reported for practise a dozen or so of hopeful youngsters,
who firmly believed themselves capable of filling
all such important positions as pitcher and catcher,
merely on the strength of having played such positions
with more or less success on some fourth- or fifth-rate
team. Joe mentally assigned Jack to this class of deluded
ones.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said, “of course you may count on
having a fair trying-out, but I wouldn’t hope for too
much. You see, a fellow has to be something of an
expert to get in the box here; it’s different from playing
on a high-school team. Besides, we’re rather well
fixed for pitchers: there’s Gilberth and King and Knox,
all of whom are first-class men. Of course, we want
new material wherever we can find it, and if you prove
that you can pitch good ball we’ll give you all the
chance you want. But if I were you I’d try for something
else this spring, for some position in the field.
We’re long on pitchers and short on out-fielders. Of
course, you could keep your hand in at twirling; there’d
be plenty of opportunity for that at practise.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take whatever I can get,” answered Jack.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
“I don’t lay any claim to being a wonder at pitching.
I was the best we had in Auburn, but, of course, that
doesn’t mean very much.”</p>
<p>“Auburn, Maine? Do you live there?”</p>
<p>“Two miles outside of town.”</p>
<p>“Is that so? Maybe you know a cousin of mine
there, Billy Cromwell? His father has a big tannery.
He graduated from here three years ago this coming
spring.”</p>
<p>“I know him quite well,” replied Jack, smiling for
the first time since he had entered the study. “It was
Billy who persuaded me to come here. He used to tell
me about Erskine a good deal. Of course, he’s seven
or eight years older than I am, but he was always very
nice to me.”</p>
<p>“Think of that!” said Joe. “The idea of you
being a friend of Billy’s! He’s fine chap, is Billy.
What’s he doing now?”</p>
<p>“Why, he’s assistant superintendent. Every one
likes him very much, and he’s awfully smart, I guess.
Well, I’ll report again to-morrow. I’m glad I saw you,
and—thank you.”</p>
<p>“Of course you’ll report. And if I can help you
at any time, just let me know.” He opened the door
and Jack passed out. “See you to-morrow, Weatherby.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes. Good afternoon.”</p>
<p>When Jack reached the head of the stairs he heard
Joe’s voice again and paused.</p>
<p>“I say, Weatherby,” the baseball captain was calling,
“come around and see me sometimes. I want to
hear more about Billy.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” was the non-committal reply.</p>
<p>Joe closed the door, took up a Greek book, and went
back to the window-seat. When he had found his place
he looked at it frowningly a moment. “‘Thank you,’
says he,” he muttered. “As much as to say, ‘I’m
hanged if I do!’ That youngster is a puzzle; worse
than this chump, Pausanias!”</p>
<p>The warm spell of Thursday and Friday had been
succeeded by a drop in temperature that had converted
the pools into sheets of ice. The board-walks and the
paths still made treacherous going, and when, after
leaving Sessons Hall, in which Joe Perkins roomed,
Jack had several times narrowly avoided breaking his
neck, he left the paths and struck off across the glistening
snow toward the lower end of the yard. It was
almost dusk, and a cold, nipping wind from the north
made him turn up the collar of his jacket and walk
briskly. There were but few fellows in sight, and he
was glad of it. To be sure, by this time he should
have been inured to the silently expressed contempt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
which he met on every side, to the barely audible
whispers that greeted his appearance at class, to the
meaning smiles which he often intercepted as they
passed from one neighbor to another. Yet despite that
he was schooling himself to bear all these things
calmly, and with no outward sign of the sting they
inflicted, he was not yet quite master of himself, and
was grateful that the coming darkness and the well-nigh
empty yard promised him present surcease from
his trials.</p>
<p>Until he had entered Joe Perkins’s study a quarter
of an hour before he had met with no voicing of the
public contempt. He had managed to accept Tracy
Gilberth’s veiled insult with unmoved countenance, yet
it had required the greatest effort of any. He didn’t
know who that man was; he only knew, from observation
in the practise-cage, that he was the foremost candidate
for the position of pitcher, and so must be, in
view of Perkins’s remark, either Gilberth or King or
Knox. Whoever he was, Jack vowed, some day he
would be made to regret his words. For although Jack
was accepting his fate in silence, he was very human,
and meant, sooner or later, to even all scores.</p>
<p>When he had almost reached College Place and
had taken to the board-walk again, footsteps crunching
the frosty planks ahead of him brought his mind suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
away from thoughts of revenge. He looked up
and saw that the man who approached and in another
moment would pass him was Professor White. Jack
stepped off the boards and went on with averted eyes.
The professor recognized him at that instant, and as
they came abreast spoke.</p>
<p>“Good evening, Weatherby.”</p>
<p>There was no answer, nor did Jack turn his head.
The professor frowned and stopped.</p>
<p>“Weatherby!” he called sharply. Jack paused
and faced him.</p>
<p>“Well, sir?” he asked, quietly.</p>
<p>“What does this mean? Are you trying to add
boorishness to—to your other failings?”</p>
<p>“No, sir, I was only trying to spare you the unpleasantness
of speaking to a coward.”</p>
<p>“Very thoughtful of you,” said the other, sarcastically.
“But allow me to tell you, sir, that if you
want to remove the—ah—the sorry impression you
have made you will have to adopt a less high-and-mighty
manner.”</p>
<p>“It’s a matter of indifference to me what impression
you hold, sir,” replied Jack simply. “Good
night.”</p>
<p>The professor stood motionless and looked after the
boy until he had crossed the street, the anger in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
face slowly fading before a grudging admiration of
the other’s clever, if extremely impolite, retort. Presently
he swung his green bag of books under his arm
again and trudged on.</p>
<p>“I wonder if I wasn’t too hasty the other day,”
he muttered. “For a coward he’s got a surprising
amount of grit, apparently. He’ll bear watching.”</p>
<p>Jack sped homeward, feeling rather pleased with
himself. His score with the professor wasn’t by any
means even, but the encounter had put something to
his credit, and as he remembered the professor’s look
of amazement and anger he chuckled.</p>
<p>There was a light in Tidball’s room as he crossed
the corner of the Common, and as he looked a grotesque
head showed in gigantic silhouette against the yellow
curtain. Jack ran up the stairs and knocked at his
neighbor’s door.</p>
<p>“Come in!” drawled the occupant of the western
chamber, and Jack entered on a scene that caused him
to pause just inside the door and stare in silent surprise.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a><br />
<small>IN DISGRACE</small></h2>
<p>Anthony Tidball confronted Jack with a pewter
spoon in one hand and a small tin coffee-pot in the
other. He was in his shirt-sleeves and a bath-towel
was fastened around his neck, descending in wispy
folds to his knees. On one end of the study table a
second towel was laid, and upon it rested a plate of
bread, a jar of preserves, a wedge of cheese, a can of
condensed milk, a bowl of sugar, and cellars containing
salt and pepper. Besides these Jack saw a plate
appropriately surrounded by knife, fork, and spoon,
and flanked by a cup and saucer. There was a perceptible,
and not ungrateful, odor of cooking present.
<a href="#image05">Anthony waved the coffee-pot hospitably</a>, but carefully,
toward the rocking-chair.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;">
<a name="image05" id="image05">
<img src="images/image05.jpg" width="387" height="600"
alt="Anthony waved the coffee-pot hospitably."
title="Anthony waved the coffee-pot hospitably." />
</a><br />
<div class="caption"><a href="#Page_47">Anthony waved the coffee-pot hospitably.</a></div>
</div>
<p>“Hello, Weatherby,” he said. “Sit down.”</p>
<p>“Wha—what are you doing?” gasped Jack.</p>
<p>“Cooking supper. Have some? You’re just in
time.” He took the towel from his neck and, going<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
to the gas-stove, used it to remove a pie-plate from
above a tiny frying-pan.</p>
<p>“Supper?” echoed Jack. “Do you mean that you—cook
your own meals?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” responded Anthony, calmly. He approached
the table with the pan, and from it dexterously
transferred six small sausages on to the empty
plate. Then he put a spoonful of milk and two spoonsful
of sugar into the bottom of the cup and filled it
to the brim with steaming and very fragrant coffee.
“Yes, I’ve been my own chef,” he continued, “ever
since I came here. When Gooch and I were together
it was a good deal simpler. I got breakfast and he
got supper; our lunches were just cold things. You
see, Weatherby, we’re poor folks, and I couldn’t stay
in college three months if I had to pay four dollars
a week for meals. As it is, it’s a close haul sometimes.”</p>
<p>“Everything looks very nice,” murmured Jack,
taking the chair and observing the proceedings with
frank curiosity.</p>
<p>“Well, if you don’t object, I’ll just begin operations
while things are hot,” said Anthony. He tucked
a corner of the bath-towel under his chin and began
his repast. “There’s nothing sinful in poverty, they
say, and of course they’re right; but it’s pretty hard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
sometimes not to be ashamed of it. I don’t tell every
one that I cook my meals in my room. It wouldn’t do.
But you were certain to find it out sooner or later,
and it might as well be sooner. I say, would you mind
turning off the gas over there? Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean that you can save money this way?”
asked Jack as he sat down again.</p>
<p>“You better believe it. When Gooch and I kept
house together our food cost us about one dollar and
five cents apiece every week. I guess now it’ll cost
me nearer two dollars.”</p>
<p>“But even then you’re saving two dollars by
not going to a boarding-house,” said Jack reassuringly.</p>
<p>“Yes, I know,” replied Anthony, as he started on
his second sausage, “but four dollars a week is my
limit. And I’m paying more for this room than I
did for my half of the other one. I guess I’ll have
to retrench a while. Dad pays my tuition and I look
after the rest myself. I earn enough in the summer
taking out fishing parties and the like of that to last
me. Last summer was a poor season, though; fish
wouldn’t bite and folks wouldn’t go out with me.
However, I got a scholarship, and that helped some.
But I’m sailing a good deal nearer the wind than I
did last year. And next week I’ve got to go over to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
Robinson, and I guess that will just about bankrupt
me for a while.”</p>
<p>“What are you going there for?” Jack inquired.</p>
<p>“Debate.”</p>
<p>“Of course!” cried the other. “I remember now!
I couldn’t think where I’d heard your name. Why,
you’re the president of the Lyceum, aren’t you? and
the crack debater? The fellow who won for Erskine
last year when every one expected to be beaten?”</p>
<p>“Well, something of that sort,” replied the junior.
“Anyhow, I’ve got to go to Robinson next week. If
we’re defeated after I’ve gone and paid five dollars
and eighty cents in railroad fares——!”</p>
<p>Words failed him and he finished the last of the
sausages with a woful shake of his head.</p>
<p>“What are our chances?” asked Jack.</p>
<p>“About the same as last year, I guess. We may
and we mayn’t. Robinson’s got a fellow, named Heath,
this year that’s a wonder, they say. We’ve lost
Browning and Soule, and that leaves us sort of weak.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to go,” said Jack, “but I don’t believe I
could afford it.”</p>
<p>“Wish you could,” Anthony responded heartily.
“We need all the support we can get. If it was a
football game, now, I guess the whole college would
go along. As it is, I suppose we’ll have about two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
dozen beside the speakers. Did you ever try condensed
milk with raspberry jam?”</p>
<p>Jack had to acknowledge that he never had.</p>
<p>“It’s right good,” said Anthony, spreading a generous
spoonful of the mixture on a slice of bread. “If
you kind of shut your eyes and don’t think about it
the condensed milk tastes like thick cream.”</p>
<p>Jack watched in silence a moment. Then—</p>
<p>“I took your advice,” he announced.</p>
<p>“Saw Perkins, you mean? What did he say?”</p>
<p>“Said it was all right; said he was glad to have
me.”</p>
<p>“That’s good.”</p>
<p>“And I met Professor White in the yard.”</p>
<p>“What happened?” asked Anthony, turning his
lean, spectacled face toward the other in evident interest.
Jack recounted the conversation and Anthony
grinned.</p>
<p>“Pretty cheeky, though, weren’t you?”</p>
<p>“I suppose I was,” Jack acknowledged. “But I
don’t care; he had no business saying I was boorish.
He—he’s a cad!”</p>
<p>“Easy there! Don’t call names, Weatherby; it’s a
mean way to fight. White’s not as bad as he seems to
you. He’s made a mistake and when he discovers the
fact he’ll be the first to acknowledge it. You’ll see.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p>
<p>Anthony produced his brier pipe and began to
smoke.</p>
<p>“Bother you much to-day, did they?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Some. I can stand it, I suppose.”</p>
<p>“They’ll get tired pretty soon and forget it,” said
the other kindly. “Keep your hand on the tiller, take
a couple of reefs in your temper, and watch out.
There’s your supper bell.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I must wash up. Are you going to be busy
to-night?”</p>
<p>“Not to hurt. Come in and bring your knitting.”</p>
<p>“I will,” said Jack gratefully.</p>
<p>The growing friendship with the new lodger was
the one bright feature in Jack’s existence at this time,
and during the next few weeks he frequently found
himself viewing with something that was almost equanimity
the occurrence at the river and its results, since
among the latter was his acquaintance with Anthony
Tidball. Anthony had hosts of acquaintances, but few
friends; friends, he declared, were too expensive.
But he adopted Jack during the first week of their
acquaintance, and at once became guardian, mentor,
and big brother all rolled into one. Jack went to him
with his troubles—and he had a good many in those
days—and listened to his advice, and generally acted
upon it. It was a new and delightful experience to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
the younger boy to have a chum, and he made the most
of it, resorting to Anthony’s room whenever he wanted
society, and interrupting the junior’s studying in a way
that would have summoned a remonstrance from any
one save the good-hearted victim. Anthony always
laid aside his books and pens, filled his pipe, took one
foot into his lap, and listened or talked with unfailing
good nature. And after Jack had taken himself off,
Anthony would discard his pipe and buckle down to
work in a mighty effort to make up for lost time, not
infrequently sitting with the gas-stove between his
knees long after the village clock had struck twelve,
and every one else in the house was fast asleep.</p>
<p>Sometimes they took walks together, for both were
fond of being outdoors, and it became a common thing
to see the tall, awkward junior striding alongside the
freshman and leaning down near-sightedly to catch his
words. For a while the college world wondered and
exclaimed. Tidball was a person of vast importance,
a queer, quiet, serious sort of fellow, but a master at
study and debate, a man whose counsels were asked
for and hearkened to with deep respect, and in general
opinion a person who would be heard from in no uncertain
way in the future. Hence, when the college
saw that Tidball had taken up Weatherby, the college
began to suspect that it had very possibly been overhasty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
in its judgment of the latter youth. Indications
of this began to be apparent even to Jack; fellows were
less uneasy when lack of other seats made it necessary
for them to sit beside him at Chapel or at recitations;
several times he was greeted by name, rather shamefacedly
to be sure, by members of his own class; and
baseball practise became less of an ordeal for him,
since the candidates generally showed a disposition to
recognize his existence and speak him fair. But if
these condescending ones looked for evidences of
gratitude from Jack they were doomed to disappointment.
He returned greetings politely but without cordiality,
and made not the least move toward grasping
the hand of fellowship so hesitatingly and doubtingly
advanced.</p>
<p>“If I was not good enough to associate with
before,” he told himself, “I’m no better now, merely
because one man of prominence walks across the yard
with me.”</p>
<p>He had never accepted Joe Perkins’s invitation to
call. He was grateful to the captain for the friendliness
the latter had shown him, and continued to show
him on every occasion. But Perkins believed him a
coward, just as the others did. Joe repeated his invitation
twice and then gave it up. Yet the more he
saw of Jack the more he was inclined to doubt the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
fairness of the general verdict, and so, in spite of
duties that took up practically every minute of his
waking hours, he found time to write a letter to his
cousin, Billy Cromwell, in Auburn. Eventually he
received a reply. There were eight sheets of it altogether,
as was natural, considering that Billy hadn’t
written to Joe previously for something over six
months, but only a small portion of the epistle is of
interest here.</p>
<p>“I know Jack Weatherby very well [Billy wrote].
His folks and mine are old acquaintances. His father
has a farm near here, but never has done very well
with it, I believe. You know what some of our farms
hereabout are; the Weatherby place is like them, only
more so. Jack’s a smart, plucky youngster; a good
sort all through. If you can help him along you’ll be
doing me a favor. And I think you’ll like him if you
know him better. And if you can get him on to the
nine you’ll be doing well for the nine, I promise you.
Jack’s one of those dependable chaps that you meet
about once in a thousand years; if he says he’ll knock
out a two-bagger, he’ll do it. And he isn’t afraid of
work or anything else. That’s about all, I think. You
said you wanted to know all I could tell you about Jack,
and I think I’ve told it. Remember me to him when
you see him.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>
<p>Joe folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.</p>
<p>“I never knew Billy to get taken in by any one
yet,” he said to himself, “and so I fancy we’ve sized
up young Weatherby all wrong. I’ll have another
talk with him. Only—how to get hold of him?”</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a><br />
<small>AT THE BATTING NETS</small></h2>
<p>Meanwhile Erskine had won a victory over
Robinson, a victory which did not, perhaps, occasion
as much enthusiasm as would have a triumph on the
gridiron or the diamond, but which, nevertheless,
pleased everybody greatly, and added new laurels to
the wreath, encircling the brow of Anthony Zeno
Tidball. Erskine won the debate. The result was
never in doubt after Anthony delivered his argument,
and when the last word had been said the judges did
not even leave their seats, but, after a moment of
whispered conference, awarded the victory to the
visitors.</p>
<p>The debaters and their small company of supporters
did not return to Centerport until noon the next day,
and long before that the morning papers had arrived
and the college at large had proudly read their account
of the contest. That explains why when Anthony,
attired in a long, yellowish plaid ulster of great antiquity,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
and carrying his nightgown and toothbrush
wrapped in a piece of brown paper, lurched from the
train to the station platform and looked about him,
his jaw dropped in ludicrous dismay, and he made a
hurried effort to retreat. But his companions were
crowding down behind him and he was forced forward
into the ungentle hands of the cheering students, who
filled the platform. Somehow, he never knew quite
how, he was thrust and lifted to a baggage truck, from
which, since his legs were securely pinioned by several
enthusiastic jailers, he found it impossible to make
his escape. So he hugged his bundle desperately and
beamed good-humoredly about him, recognizing the advisability
of making the best of things. The other
debaters were hustled to his side in a wild medley of
cheers, and then, clutching each other madly in an
effort to maintain their balance, they were wheeled up
and down the long platform in the vortex of a swirling
throng and cheered to the echo, individually and collectively.
For his part, Anthony was filled with a
great relief when the train with its long line of grinning
faces at the windows drew away, and with a
greater relief when one of the occupants of the truck,
losing his hold, tumbled between the framework, and
so brought the triumphal procession to an end.</p>
<p>The prey were allowed to escape, and Anthony<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
drew his long ulster about his thin shanks and scuttled
ungracefully into Town Lane and so out of the rabble
of still cheering students. But he hadn’t escaped Jack,
for that youth, somewhat out of breath, overtook him
before he had reached the corner and showered fragmentary
congratulations upon him.</p>
<p>“I got up—almost before—light,” panted Jack,
bravely trying to keep up with Anthony’s long strides,
“and went—down and—got a—paper—and—read—read— Oh,
don’t go so fast, please!”</p>
<p>Anthony moderated his pace and put an arm affectionately
over the other’s shoulders.</p>
<p>“Did you?” he asked. “Well, now, that was real
friendly.”</p>
<p>“And when I—saw—that you’d won—I danced a
jig in—the—middle of Main Street!”</p>
<p>“And haven’t got your breath back yet?” laughed
Anthony.</p>
<p>“But—aren’t you glad?” asked Jack.</p>
<p>“I should say so,” answered the other. “So
tickled that I don’t mind the money it cost.”</p>
<p>Another event, important to a large part of the
college, took place a day or two later. March, which
had raged in with a big snow-storm, relented and
attempted the rôle of April. The ground dried and
became firm and springy and little warm breezes almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
induced one to believe that he had somehow lost track
of the months and had torn one too few leaves from
his calendar. Erskine Field, given over during the
winter to snow and winds, clothed itself in a new green
livery and suddenly became the Mecca for more than
half the college. One Thursday morning the following
welcome notice hung in the window of Butler’s bookstore:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">University Baseball.</span>—Outdoor practise
on the Field at 4 sharp. Candidates must
bring their own togs.</p></div>
<p>Jack went out to the field early and, having got
into his baseball clothes, threw his white sweater over
his back, and sat down on the steps of the locker-house
in the sunshine. Many fellows passed him, going in
and out of the building, some according him a word of
greeting, others a mere nod, while still others pretended
not to see him. But Jack was beyond slights to-day.
The spring was in his blood and he would have liked
to throw himself down on the grass and roll over like
a colt for mere joy of living. Instead, he only beat
a restless tattoo with his heels and watched the passers.
Presently the varsity squad trotted out; King, who
played left field and was substitute pitcher; Billings,
third-baseman; “Wally” Stiles, second-baseman;
Knox, last year’s shortstop and substitute pitcher;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
“Teddy” Motter, crack first-baseman; Lowe, center-fielder,
and several more, with Gilberth emerging last
of all in talk with Joe Perkins.</p>
<p>Jack watched Gilberth as he went by, much as a
cat watches a mouse beyond its present reach. He had
a score to even with Tracy Gilberth, and he was convinced
that in good time the opportunity would come
to him to even it. Meanwhile he waited patiently,
observing Gilberth like a calm, inscrutable Fate. Gilberth
had a firm grasp on the pitcher’s place, while
Jack was only one of the second squad, and so, of late,
their paths seldom crossed, and the senior had had no
chance to give expression to his sentiments regarding
the freshman. Of this Jack was glad, since Gilberth’s
contemptuous glances roused his hatred as nothing else
could.</p>
<p>The varsity squad took possession of the diamond
and began practising. Presently Bissell, the varsity
center-fielder, made his appearance and took the second
squad in charge. Bissell was out of the game for the
while with a sprained ankle, and Hanson, the head
coach, had placed the second squad under his wing.
There were sixteen of them in all, for the most part
upper classmen who had failed to make the varsity the
year before, with a sprinkling of sophomores and two
freshmen. The freshmen were Jack and a small, wiry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
chap, named Clover, who was trying for shortstop.
Bissell led the way to the batting nets and soon
they were hard at work. A third squad, made up of
some twenty more or less hopeless candidates, many
of them freshmen who would later form the nucleus
of their class nine, were occupying an improvised diamond
at the farther end of the football field. The
scene was animated and interesting. The sharp crack
of bat meeting ball, the shrill cries of the coachers,
and the low thud of flying spheres against padded
gloves filled the air.</p>
<p>Jack had just finished his first turn at bat by sending
a hot grounder across the grass, and had taken his
place at the end of the line again when he heard an
authoritative voice addressing Bissell, and looked
around to find the head coach standing by.</p>
<p>“Haven’t you got a man who can pitch better than
that, Bissell?” asked the coach.</p>
<p>Bissell surveyed the candidates doubtfully and the
man who was pitching, quailing under the disapproving
eye of the coach, threw his next ball over the batsman’s
head and so completed his disgrace. The head
coach was a small man, small in stature and small of
limb and feature, but possessed of a shrewd and sharp
brown eye that was the terror of shirking candidates.
He was unmistakably good-looking, was Hanson—his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
full name was Alfred Ward Hanson—and had the faculty
of commanding instant respect, rather a difficult
feat for a small man. He was aided there, however,
by a reputation for wonderful playing; nothing commands
the respect and allegiance of the soldier or the
athlete as does past prowess, and an army officer or
college coach whose history contains valorous deeds is
seldom troubled with insubordination or discouraged
by half-heartedness in the ranks. Hanson was liked,
respected, admired, and—feared.</p>
<p>“You must have somebody here that’s able to pitch
a straight ball,” continued the coach.</p>
<p>“There ought to be,” replied Bissell. “How
about it, you fellows? Can any of you pitch?”</p>
<p>There was a moment’s silence. Undoubtedly several
of them could, but with Hanson’s dissatisfied gaze
upon them they hesitated to make known their accomplishment.
It was Jack who spoke first.</p>
<p>“I can pitch some,” he said, in matter-of-fact tones,
stepping out of the line. “I’ll try, if you like.”</p>
<p>“Go ahead then,” said Hanson. “It isn’t necessary
to pitch curves; just get an occasional ball over
the plate.”</p>
<p>The head coach went over to the other net and
Jack took the place of the retired pitcher. He hadn’t
tried pitching since the summer and his first ball went<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
very wide. The line of waiting batsmen grinned; some
even laughed audibly.</p>
<p>“That’s a great deal better,” remarked one of them
with fine sarcasm, and the laugh became general.</p>
<p>“That’ll do, Showell,” exclaimed Bissell. “We
don’t need your opinion.” Showell, a junior, and the
fellow whom Jack had ousted, grinned sheepishly under
the amused glances of the others and Jack settled down
to business. After a few poor balls he got his hand
in again and Bissell nodded approvingly. One after
another the candidates took their places in front of
the net and stayed there until they had made clean
hits. Jack did not attempt to puzzle them, for at this
time of year, despite the practise in the cage, batting
work was still pretty poor. He delivered straight balls
as slow as possible and the line moved along quickly.
When Showell took his place, however, Jack remembered
his sarcastic remark and resolved to make the
former pitcher earn his hit. He attempted no curves
or drops, but sent the first ball very straight over the
square of wood that did duty as a plate. But if it
was straight it was also swift, so swift that Showell
merely looked at it go by and then glanced inquiringly
at Jack as he tossed it back to him.</p>
<p>He gripped his bat afresh then, and waited the next
ball confidently. It came, and was, if anything, swifter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
than the one before. Showell struck at it hard, but
was half a foot too late. The watchers began to guess
what was up and looked on interestedly.</p>
<p>“Shorten your swing, Showell,” directed Bissell.
“You were way too late then.”</p>
<p>Showell’s face took on a deep red and he gritted
his teeth as Jack slowly and calmly threw up his arms
for the next delivery. Again the ball came straight and
fast over the plate and this time Showell struck an
instant too soon and the sphere glanced up off his bat,
bounded against the hood of the net, and came down
on his head ere he could duck. He picked it out of
the dust and tossed it back with no pleasant expression.
The line was grinning appreciatingly by this time, but
Jack’s face showed neither amusement nor interest.
Again Showell struck and missed miserably.</p>
<p>“What are you pitching, Weatherby?” Bissell
asked suspiciously.</p>
<p>“Just straight balls,” answered Jack, simulating
surprise.</p>
<p>“Well, now look here, Showell,” said the acting
coach, “do try and remember what you’ve been taught.
Give me the bat.” Bissell took the other’s place.
“Don’t stand as though you were going to run away.
Face the plate; if you’re hit you’ve got your base.
Now, watch me. All right, Weatherby.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p>
<p>Jack sent him a fairly fast ball, and Bissell took
it neatly on the end of his stick and sent it sailing in
a short flight toward right field.</p>
<p>“You see, Showell? Swing back easily and don’t
try to slug the ball. If you swing hard you miss your
balance nine times out of ten. Bring the bat around
easily on a line with the ball, hold it firmly and you’ve
got your hit. Try it again, please.”</p>
<p>Showell did try it again and struck a palpable foul.
Once more he tried and missed entirely. By this time
he was as mad as a hatter.</p>
<p>“I can’t hit them unless he sends them over the
plate,” he growled, eying Jack aggressively.</p>
<p>“You need to learn how to bat,” said a voice behind
him. “I guess it would do you good to have
a term with the third squad.”</p>
<p>He looked around into the face of Hanson, who
unnoticed, had been watching his work for several minutes.
He subsided and again faced the pitcher. But
Jack had no desire to bring about Showell’s removal
to the third squad, and so sent him a slow ball that
he could not help hitting. When Showell had yielded
his bat to the next man and stepped away Hanson
turned to Bissell.</p>
<p>“Who’s that fellow?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Showell, a junior.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></p>
<p>“Junior? No, no; I mean the youngster that’s
pitching.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s Weatherby, a freshman.”</p>
<p>“Weatherby? Oh, yes.” He watched Jack send
in a couple more balls and then turned to Bissell again.
“You’d better let him keep on pitching,” he said.
“Seems to me he’s rather promising. What do you
think?”</p>
<p>“I’ve never seen him pitch until to-day,” answered
Bissell. “But he seems to be able to send in good,
clean, straight balls. I don’t suppose he knows much
about anything else, though.”</p>
<p>“Well, keep your eye on him,” said Hanson.
“Can’t have too many pitchers, and that chap looks
as though he might learn.”</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a><br />
<small>THE LAST STRAW</small></h2>
<p>Jack marked the first of April a red-letter day
in his memory, for on that day he was taken on to
the varsity nine as substitute. The fact was made
known to him after practise when, with the others,
he was dressing himself in the locker-house. The
head coach appeared in their midst with a slip of paper
and Jack listened indifferently until he heard his name
spoken. Even then the absurd idea came to him that
it was an April fool.</p>
<p>“Just a moment, please,” said Hanson; and when
the hubbub had suddenly ceased, “the training-table
will start in the morning at Pearson’s,” he announced,
“and the following men will report there for breakfast:
King, Knox, Gilberth, Billings, Stiles, Motter, Bissell,
Lowe, Northup, Smith, Griffin, Mears, and Weatherby.
Later, about the middle of the month, more men will
be taken on. At present these are all we can accommodate.
Breakfast is at eight prompt, and we want
every man to be there on time. That’s all.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>
<p>After he had gone out those of the fellows remaining
began an interested discussion of the announcement.
Jack, pulling on his shoes, listened silently.</p>
<p>“Where were you, Jimmie?” asked King.</p>
<p>“I’m one of the ‘also-rans,’ I guess,” answered
Riseman, a substitute fielder, sadly.</p>
<p>“Beaten by a freshie,” called a fellow across the
room. “Fie, fie, for shame!”</p>
<p>“Who’s the freshie?” called some one else.</p>
<p>“Weatherby,” answered two or three voices.
“Weatherby, the brave!” added another. An admonitory
“S—s—s—sh!” arose from Jack’s vicinity, and
King whispered around the corner of the next alley:
“Shut up, you fellows; he’s over here.” And then
another voice, one which Jack instantly recognized as
Gilberth’s, drowned King’s warning.</p>
<p>“Do you suppose Hanson expects us to sit at the
same table with that bounder?” he asked loudly.</p>
<p>Jack’s face paled, and he bent his head quickly
over the shoe he was lacing. “He knows I’m here,”
he told himself grimly, “and pretends he doesn’t. If
he says ‘Coward,’ I’ll—I’ll—” A lace broke in his
hand. King suddenly began talking very loudly to
Riseman about the baseball news from Robinson, but
above that Jack heard Gilberth’s voice again:</p>
<p>“I’d be afraid he’d put poison in my coffee. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
fellow that’ll stand by and see a person drown before
his eyes without making a move at helping him might
do anything. For my part— What? Who is?”
There was an instant’s pause. Then, “Well,” continued
the speaker in slightly lowered tones, “there’s an
old proverb about listeners—” The rest trailed off
into silence.</p>
<p>King was still talking volubly and seemingly at random.
In spite of his almost overmastering anger, Jack
recognized King’s good-hearted attempt to spare him
pain, and was grateful. His hands trembled so that
he could scarcely tie his broken string, and the tears
were very near the surface; he had to gulp hard once
or twice to keep them back. The temptation to kick
off the unlaced shoe, dash recklessly around the corner,
and knock Gilberth down, to fight him until he could
no longer stand, was strong. He kept his head bent
and his blazing eyes on the floor and fought down the
impulse. He had promised Anthony to keep silence;
to lose command of himself now would be to waste all
those weeks of self-repression which, he believed, and
was right in believing, had made a favorable impression
upon his fellows. He tried to think of other things,
of his luck in being taken on to the varsity, of how
pleased Anthony would be at hearing about it. Presently
he finished lacing his shoes, stood up and calmly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
donned his coat. Then, in spite of himself, he hesitated.</p>
<p>The thought of passing through the locker-room
under the staring, antagonistic eyes of a score or so
of men, of running the gantlet of whispers and low
laughter, for the moment appalled him. Then, as he
slowly buttoned the last button, he heard a voice at
his side.</p>
<p>“Ready, Weatherby? If you don’t mind, I’ll
walk back with you.”</p>
<p>He looked around into the pleasant face of King
and, after a moment of surprise, muttered assent. The
central aisle was filled with fellows in various stages
of attire and the two had to worm their way through.
Jack went first, doing his level best to look unconcerned
and at ease, and King followed close behind
him, talking over his shoulder all the way. At the
door King stepped ahead and threw open the portal,
guiding Jack through with a friendly push on the back.
When they had disappeared, one or two witnesses of
the affair exchanged surprised or amused glances. But
only Gilberth commented aloud.</p>
<p>“Very touching!” he laughed. “King to the rescue
of Insulted Innocence!”</p>
<p>“Oh, forget it!” growled some one from the depths
of a twilit alley.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p>
<p>Outside, on the porch, Jack turned to King with
reddened cheeks. “Thank you,” he said.</p>
<p>“All right,” answered the other carelessly. “Fair
play, you know.”</p>
<p>Jack hesitated, waiting for the other to take his
departure. King looked at him quizzically.</p>
<p>“Look here, Weatherby, don’t be so beastly snobbish,”
he expostulated with a touch of impatience.
“If you object to my company back to the Yard, just
say so, but don’t look as though I was too low down
to associate with.”</p>
<p>Jack colored and looked distressed.</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to, honestly!” he protested. “Of
course, I don’t object to your company. I—I only
thought——”</p>
<p>“Well, come on, then.” They went down the
steps together, just as the door opened to emit a handful
of players. “Don’t get it into your head, Weatherby,
that we’re all cads,” King continued, “just
because Gilberth occasionally acts like one. The fact
is, there are plenty of fellows back there who are quite
ready to be decent if you’ll give them half a chance.
The trouble is, though, you look as though you didn’t
care a continental for anybody. Perhaps you don’t;
but it isn’t flattering, you see. I dare say it sounds
pretty cheeky for me to talk like this to you, especially<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
as we’ve never been properly introduced and
haven’t spoken before, but I’ve been here a year
longer than you have, and I know how easy it is to
make mistakes. And it seems to me you’re making
one.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think you’re cheeky,” answered Jack
quite humbly. “I don’t mean to have folks think I’m—think
I’m indifferent, either.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right, then,” replied King heartily.
“They say you’re coming out as a pitcher,” he went
on, changing the subject, to Jack’s relief. “Bissell
was telling me to-day.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been pitching some on the second nine,” answered
Jack.</p>
<p>“Where did you play before you came to college?”
asked the other. Jack told him about the high-school
nine at Auburn, and the rest of the way back the talk
remained on baseball matters. He parted from his
new acquaintance at the corner of the Yard, and went
on alone through a soft, spring-like twilight to his room.
He had gained one more of the enemy to his side, he
reflected, and that alone was a good day’s work. But
besides that he had been taken on to the varsity squad,
and altogether the day was a memorable one. He
climbed the stairs happily, the sting of the incident
in the locker-house no longer felt.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p>
<p>Anthony was quite as pleased with his news as
Jack had expected him to be, and the two sat together
until late that evening discussing the unexpected stroke
of fortune.</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t be surprised if they let you play in
Saturday’s game,” said Anthony. Jack laughed ruefully.</p>
<p>“I should,” he answered. “But it’s something to
sit on the varsity bench.”</p>
<p>The next morning Jack dressed himself under mild
excitement at the thought of making his appearance
at the training-table. He had notified Mrs. Dorlon
the evening before of his departure from her hospitable
board and that lady had sniffed disappointedly at the
notion of losing her only boarder. But Jack had no
regrets for the separation. Pearson’s was only about
a block from Mrs. Dorlon’s, but, nevertheless, Jack
reached there several minutes late. The baseball
players had been given the big dining-room on the
front of the house in which last fall’s successful football
team, winner of the remarkable 2—0 game with
Robinson, had eaten their way to glory.</p>
<p>When Jack entered, the table at first glance appeared
to be filled. The next moment he saw that
there were three empty seats, two at the farther end
of the table and one near at hand, between Gilberth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
and Northup. He reflected that it might look cheeky
to parade the length of the room, and so, returning
the nods of several of the fellows, he slipped into the
chair beside Gilberth, fervently hoping that the latter
would take no notice of him. Gilberth was busily
recounting an adventure which had befallen him the
day before while out in his automobile—he was the
proud possessor of the only motor vehicle in the town
of Centerport—and it is probable that he did not observe
Jack’s entrance.</p>
<p>“It was just at that narrow stretch before you get
to the blacksmith’s shop,” he was saying. “The fellow
had a load of bricks. Well, he stopped, and I stopped,
and we looked at each other. Finally, he called out,
‘Say, you’ll have to back to the corner, I guess. We
can’t pass here.’ ‘Back nothing,’ I said. ‘These things
aren’t taught to back.’ ‘They ain’t?’ said he. ‘But
you don’t expect that I’m going to back with this
load on, do you?’ ‘It’s a good deal to expect,’ I
answered, looking sorry, ‘but if you don’t, we’re likely
to stay here until Christmas.’ You’d ought to
have heard him swear! It was as good as a circus!
Well——”</p>
<p>“How are you, Weatherby?” asked Joe Perkins
at that moment.</p>
<p>As Jack replied, Gilberth turned and saw him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
Stopping short in his narrative, he silently gathered
up his plate, cup, and saucer, and pushing back his
chair, arose and walked around the table to one of
the other empty seats. The talk died out abruptly,
and the fellows watched the proceedings in dead silence.
Gilberth’s action had taken Jack completely by surprise,
and for a moment he could only stare amazedly. Then,
as the full force of the insult struck him, the color
flooded his cheeks until they burned like fire. His eyes,
avoiding the faces across the board, fell upon the sympathetic
countenance of the captain, and it was the
look of concern he found there that upset him. The
tears rushed into his eyes and the hand on the table
trembled. He put it in his lap, where it clenched
its fellow desperately, and stared miserably at the white
cloth. Suddenly upon the uncomfortable silence a
voice broke calmly. Gilberth, having settled himself
in his new seat, was going on with his story, just as
though there had been no interruption.</p>
<p>“After he’d called me everything he could think
of,” he continued, “he got down and started to back.
It took him ten minutes to get to the blacksmith shop,
and maybe he wasn’t mad! After I got by him, I gave
him a little exhibition, free of charge. I backed the
machine all over the place, and pretty nearly stood it
on end. You ought to have seen his eyes; they almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
popped out of his head. And just when he was beginning
to recover his voice, I waved good-by to him,
and lit out. Funniest thing you ever saw!”</p>
<p>One or two of his audience laughed half-heartedly,
but the most looked gravely disgusted.</p>
<p>“You have a wonderfully keen sense of humor,”
observed Joe Perkins dryly. Then the conversation
began again, and the waitress brought Jack’s breakfast.
He ate it silently, or as much of it as he could; the
coffee scalded his throat, and the steak very nearly
choked him. King, sitting near-by, spoke to him once,
and he answered. But his voice wasn’t quite steady,
and so the other wisely refrained from further attempts
at conversation. One by one the fellows left the room,
and as soon as he dared, Jack followed. He kept his
head very high all the way back to his room; but in each
cheek there was a bright disk of crimson and his eyes
stared straight ahead. A tramp slouching along, with
hands in pockets, moved aside to let him pass, but Jack
never saw him.</p>
<p>When he had entered the front door, he moved
very quietly, mounting the stairs as though contemplating
burglary. Anthony’s door was ajar, and Jack
tiptoed toward it and looked into the bare and shabby
room. It was empty, and the fact seemed to relieve
him. Crossing to his own room, he turned the key in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
the lock and began feverishly to pack his valise. The
task did not take him long, and when it was completed,
and the bag stood beside the door secured and strapped,
he went to the desk and, seizing a sheet of paper, wrote
hurriedly. When the composition was finished, he
read it through.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Friend</span> [it ran]: There’s no use trying any
more. I thought I could stand it, but I just can’t.
After what happened this morning, there’s only one
thing for me to do, and I’m going to do it. I’m very
sorry to go away from you, because you have been
awfully kind to me, and you are the first one I ever
knew who seemed like a chum. But I’m going home,
and not coming back any more, because I can’t stand
every one thinking I’m a coward, and Gilberth treating
me like mud. I’m sorry I can’t keep my promise to
you, if it was really a promise, and please don’t think
I haven’t tried, because I have tried very hard. Please
don’t remember it against me. I’m very, very sorry.
Maybe I will meet you again some time.</p>
<p class="noic">“Your sincere friend,</p>
<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">John Weatherby</span>.</p>
<p>“P. S. Please keep this charm to remember me by,
if you don’t mind. You wear it on your watch-chain.
Good-by. <span class="flright">J. W.”</span></p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p>
<p>He placed the note and the watch-charm in an
envelope, sealed and addressed it, and crossed with it
to Anthony’s room. When he returned a moment
later, he held something concealed in his hand. He
unstrapped his valise, and as he did so a noise in the
hall outside caused him to glance nervously at the door.
Quickly opening the bag he dropped the object he held
into it, and again secured it. Going into the hall, he
listened. All was still. Returning, he took up bag
and overcoat and cautiously crept down the stairs and
out of the house. Fearful of being seen, he turned to
the left and made his way to the station by Murdoch
Street and the railroad.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a><br />
<small>ANTHONY STUDIES A TIME-TABLE</small></h2>
<p>Anthony returned to his room after the first recitation.
He had discovered while in his class that he
had forgotten his watch, and remembered that he had
left it lying on his study table. The first thing that
caught his eyes when he entered his room was an envelope
bearing the inscription in a round, boyish hand,
“Anthony Tidball. Present.” Wondering, he tore
it open. Something fell from it and rolled to the floor.
When found it proved to be a brown Florida bean with
a little gold-plated swivel at one end. Anthony stared
from the bean to the envelope; then the thought that
the latter probably held a note came to him and he
went back to it.</p>
<p>He read the note very slowly, a frown deepening
the while on his face. He read it the second time
and then carefully restored it to the envelope, thrust
his big hands into his trousers pockets and lurched to
the dormer-window. For a minute or two he stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
there looking out across the Common into a tender
green mist of quickening branches. Finally he sighed,
shook his head, and turned back to the room.</p>
<p>“Poor kid,” he muttered.</p>
<p>But perhaps, he reflected, it was not too late to
intercept him. When did the trains leave? He pulled
out a table drawer and found a time-card. There was
one at 9.22; that had gone. There was another, an
express, at 10.16. If Jack had missed the first it
was possible, thought Anthony, to reach the station
in time to bring him back. It was now——</p>
<p>He felt for his watch, and for the first time since
finding the note recollected the reason of his return.
He glanced quickly over the table. The watch was
not in sight. He distinctly remembered placing it on
the blotting-pad while he changed the rather heavy
vest he had been wearing all winter for a lighter one.
He pushed aside books and papers and searched the
table from end to end. Then he went through his
drawers and finally, while realizing the uselessness of
it, unlocked and searched his trunk. After he had
felt in the pockets of what few clothes he possessed
he accepted the fact that the watch was gone. But
where? Who could have taken it? Who had been
in the room—besides Jack? Jack——!</p>
<p>He sat down in the rocker and stared blankly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
frowningly, at the window. It was the stupidest thing
in the world to suspect Jack. And yet—! With a
mutter of disgust at himself for the entertainment of
such a wild suspicion, he jumped up and surveyed the
room. But the bed was still unmade and the momentary
hope that Mrs. Dorlon might have come across
the watch and put it away for him had to be relinquished.
He hurried down-stairs and found his hostess
in the kitchen. No, she told him, she hadn’t been up-stairs
yet and hadn’t seen the watch. Had any one
been up there? Well, she didn’t know of any one.
Still, the door had been open all the morning and— Why,
yes, come to think of it, she had thought once
that she heard footsteps up-stairs and presumed that
they were Mr. Weatherby’s, though to be sure she
hadn’t seen him come in or go out. Could she help
Mr. Tidball look for it?</p>
<p>Anthony politely declined her proffered assistance
and returned to his room. He searched again about
the table, striving to convince himself that he had not
left the watch there; that he had worn it to recitation,
that the chain had become detached from his
buttonhole and that the watch had fallen from his
pocket. But it wouldn’t do. He remembered clearly
just how the timepiece had looked lying in its chamois
case upon the blotter, with the heavy gold chain curling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
away toward the ink-bottle. Perhaps Jack had
come in to find out the time and had unconsciously
taken the watch back to his room with him? Of
course, that must be it!</p>
<p>He strode across the hall and into the other chamber.
There were evidences of hurried flight; the little
steamer trunk stood in the middle of the floor and a
few odds and ends of rubbish lay about the bed and
table. But the watch was not in sight. The latest
explanation of its disappearance had seemed so plausible
that Anthony experienced keen disappointment.
Turning, he retraced his steps toward the door. Half-way
there he stopped and stared as though fascinated
at something lying at his feet. Stooping, he picked it
up and looked at it carefully in the forlorn hope that
it would prove to be other than what it was, a little
chamois watch-pouch.</p>
<p>Finally he dropped it into his pocket and went back
to his room, stepping very quietly, as though leaving
a chamber of sickness. He stared aimlessly about for
a moment, and then, with a start, took up his note-books
and descended the stairs. Mrs. Dorlon, blacking
the kitchen stove, heard the door open and looked up
to see the lean, spectacled face of her new lodger peering
through. He looked rather pale and sickly that
morning, she thought.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>
<p>“Just wanted to tell you that it’s all right,” he
said. “I found my watch. It was in the—the washstand.”</p>
<p>After he had gone she suddenly paused and sniffed
perplexedly. “Now that’s funny,” she thought.
“How could he have found it in the washstand when
the washstand hasn’t any drawer nor nothin’?”</p>
<p>At the luncheon-table Jack was conspicuous by his
absence. The story of Gilberth’s action at breakfast
had filtered through college in a dozen varied forms
until by noon it was pretty widely known. The general
opinion was that Gilberth had acted brutally;
there were even some few who flatly called his behavior
contemptible; there were others, fewer still,
who thought that he had “given Weatherby just what
he deserved.” There was considerable relief felt by
the more charitably disposed members of the training-table
when Jack failed to appear, for his suffering at
the breakfast-table had not been a pleasant thing to
watch. Gilberth, however, was in high feather. He
believed Jack’s absence was a result of his treatment
in the morning, and was quite proud of his abilities
as a public prosecutor. But the rest of the table somehow
did not appear to be quite so pleased with him.
This fact was shown by a disposition to avoid entering
into conversation with him. His remarks were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
received in silence, and after a while he gave up the
attempt to entertain the company and finished his meal
in ruffled dignity.</p>
<p>When luncheon was over “Baldy” Simson, the
trainer, who occupied the seat at the foot of the board,
called Joe Perkins’s attention to the fact of Jack’s absence.</p>
<p>“I know,” Joe answered, looking rather worried.
“I’m going to look him up; you needn’t bother.
By the way, Tracy, just wait a minute, will you? I
want to see you.” Gilberth, in the act of leaving the
room, returned and tilting a chair toward him slid
into it over the back with a fine appearance of unconcern.</p>
<p>“Fire away, Joe,” he said. “But I’ve got a two-o’clock,
and it’s getting late.”</p>
<p>Simson went out and left the two together and
alone, save for the waitress who had begun clearing
off the table. Joe pushed his plate away and looked
gravely across at his friend.</p>
<p>“Look here, Tracy, this thing has simply got to
stop, you know.”</p>
<p>“What thing?” asked the other, raising his eyebrows.</p>
<p>“Why, you know what I mean. I won’t have
Weatherby persecuted the way you’re doing. I can’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
turn out a decent team unless you fellows get together
and work in harmony. You know that as well as I
do. Whatever your sentiments toward Weatherby
may be, you’ve got to treat him politely in his position
as a member of the varsity nine. I won’t have any
more scenes like the one you brought about this morning.
You’re worrying Weatherby half sick. He may
be what you think he is; I’m not in position to know;
but it’s all nonsense for you to take on yourself the
duties of judge, jury, and hangman. You attend to
yourself and let Weatherby attend to himself. That’s
what I want you to do.”</p>
<p>Joe’s voice had been getting sharper and sharper
as he proceeded and when he had finished his eyes were
sparkling dangerously. As always, when Joe’s temper
threatened to get the better of him, Tracy’s usual
aggressiveness disappeared and gave place to a sullen
stubbornness. Now he traced figures on the stained
cloth with a fork and was silent a minute before he
made reply. Then:</p>
<p>“There’s no use in your lecturing me like that,”
he muttered. “You can stick up for Weatherby if
you want to, but you needn’t think you can make me
coddle him too. The fellow’s a coward and a cad, and
you’ve no business asking decent fellows to sit at table
with him.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p>
<p>“You’ll sit at table with him or you’ll get out,”
cried Joe hotly.</p>
<p>“Then I’ll get out!”</p>
<p>There was silence for a moment, during which
Tracy continued to mark up the cloth and Joe struggled
more or less successfully to get command of his
temper. Finally he asked, almost calmly:</p>
<p>“Do you mean that you’ll leave the team, that
you’ll throw me over and threaten the college with
defeat for a mere whim?”</p>
<p>“It isn’t a whim,” growled Tracy. “It—it’s a
principle.”</p>
<p>Joe smiled in spite of himself and the last of his
ill-humor vanished.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t talk poppycock, Tracy,” he said.
“Look here, you must see how difficult you’re making
it for Hanson and me. We can’t do what we want to
do if there are dissensions among you chaps. Like
a good fellow, promise me to leave Weatherby alone.
He isn’t going to interfere with you; you know that.
The other fellows aren’t kicking up a row about having
him at table, so why should you? Besides, Tracy,
consider what a thundering hard row the chap has to
hoe. Maybe he acted the coward; I didn’t see it and
don’t know; but even if he did it’s more than likely
that he’s a lot worse ashamed of it than you are, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
probably wants to make up for it. Give him a show,
can’t you? Be generous, Tracy!”</p>
<p>“Well, let him keep away from me, then,” Tracy
growled.</p>
<p>“How can he when you’re both on the team?”
asked Joe impatiently. “We want him because he’s
got the making of a good player; he’s sure, quick, and—honest.”</p>
<p>“Huh!”</p>
<p>“Yes, honest! We’ve watched him just as we’ve
watched all you fellows—perhaps a bit more, because
he’s under suspicion, as it were—and he’s played us fair
every time. He’s done as he’s been told and done it
just as hard as he knew how. And it’s all wrong to
call a man dishonest until he’s done something dishonest.”</p>
<p>“How about that affair at the river?” asked the
other sneeringly.</p>
<p>“A man may be a coward at a—a crisis and a brave
man all the rest of his life. Physical cowardice isn’t
dishonesty. For that matter, I can imagine a chap
running from bullets and yet standing up like a little
man in front of bayonets. I’m not sure I wouldn’t
run away from bullets myself, and if I were you I
wouldn’t be too sure, either.”</p>
<p>“I’m not a coward,” cried Tracy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>
<p>“I don’t say you are; I don’t think you are. And
yet you’re not brave enough to let public opinion go
hang and give that poor duffer, Weatherby, a fighting
chance!”</p>
<p>Gilberth received this in silence, staring moodily
at the table. The bell in the tower of College Hall
began its imperative summons and Joe pushed back
his chair and arose. Tracy followed his example.</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” said the
former. He overtook the other at the door and laid
a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind my
ill-temper, old man. There’s no use in having a friend
if you can’t bully him a little now and then. And—er—think
over what I said, will you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Tracy grudgingly.
“No harm done. See you later.”</p>
<p>Joe stood on the porch and watched him cross the
road and disappear up the broad gravel-path toward
the laboratories. Then Joe passed down the steps and
through the gate with a little smile of satisfaction on
his face.</p>
<p>“Yes, it is all right,” he told himself. “He’ll do
as I want him to. But I wish—I do wish I hadn’t lost
my pesky temper!”</p>
<p>He turned to the left toward Washington Street
and as he neared the corner he caught sight of a tall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
fellow crossing the Common with long awkward strides.
The ill-fitting clothes and the little stoop of the shoulders
were sufficient to reveal the man’s identity at first
glance, and Joe hailed him:</p>
<p>“O <em>Tid</em>-ball! O Tid-<em>ba-a-all</em>!”</p>
<p>Anthony paused, looked, waved a note-book responsively,
and stumbling over a “Keep off the
grass” sign, crossed the turf and clambered over the
fence.</p>
<p>“How are you, Tidball?” asked Joe, shaking hands.
For some reason fellows usually did shake hands with
Anthony when they met him, just as they thumped
other acquaintances on the back or punched them in
the ribs or pulled their caps over their eyes. “You’re
just the man I wanted to see,” Joe went on. “As
usual, we’re just about stone broke; the Baseball Association,
I mean. We’ve got to have a lot of money
for the nine and we’ve got to raise it by subscription.
The schedule has the team down for five games away
from home, and that means a heap of expense. The
Athletic Association has given us all they could afford
to, about one hundred and fifty dollars, but that won’t
last us any time. So we’re going to get up a mass
meeting in about a week or so and try and raise the
dust. And we want you to speak for us; whoop things
up a bit, you know. Can you do it?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p>
<p>“S’pose so,” answered Anthony doubtfully. “But
I don’t know a blamed thing about baseball.”</p>
<p>“You won’t have to. We’ve got plenty of chaps
who can talk baseball; what we want is some one who
can open their pockets. We’re depending on you, Tidball,
so say yes, like a good chap. Hanson is going
to speak, and so is Professor Nast, and so am I. And
we’re trying to get the dean to hem and haw a bit
for us. But we need you like anything. What do you
say?”</p>
<p>“I’ll do what I can,” said Anthony. “You let me
know when it’s to be and tell me what you want me
to say. Don’t believe, though, Perkins, the fellows will
pay much attention to what I’ve got to say about baseball.
’Tisn’t as though I knew a ball from a—a——”</p>
<p>“From another ball, eh? Don’t let that bother
you. I’m awfully much obliged; it’s very nice of you.
And I’ll let you know all about it in a day or two.
By the way, though, where are you living now? Some
one said you’d left the old joint.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I had to when Gooch went home. I’m at
Mrs. Dorlon’s, down the row there.”</p>
<p>“Oh, are you? I was just going there. Doesn’t
young Weatherby room there?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Is he in now, do you know?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p>
<p>Anthony settled his spectacles more firmly on his
nose before he replied.</p>
<p>“No, he’s not in just now.” He hesitated a moment.
Then, “Guess you might as well know about
it,” he said musingly.</p>
<p>“About what?”</p>
<p>“’Bout Weatherby.”</p>
<p>“What’s he done?”</p>
<p>“Gone home.”</p>
<p>“Gone home?”</p>
<p>“Yes, left college.”</p>
<p>“But what for? When did he go?” asked Joe in
surprise.</p>
<p>“This morning. He left a note for me. Don’t
know whether it’s my place to tell folks or not. Maybe
you’d better keep it quiet. He might change his mind,
you know.”</p>
<p>“I see,” replied Joe thoughtfully. “Do you—do
you happen to know why he left?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and I guess you do, too.”</p>
<p>“You mean——?”</p>
<p>“Yes. He stuck it out as long as he could, but
I guess things got too hot for him. His note made
mention of something that happened this morning at
training-table.”</p>
<p>“By Jove!” muttered the other. “It’s a blamed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
shame! You know, Tidball, I never quite believed him
the—er—coward they say he is. What do you think?”</p>
<p>“Me? Oh, I don’t know,” answered Anthony
uneasily, puckering his lips together. “Maybe he
isn’t.”</p>
<p>Joe looked a little surprised.</p>
<p>“I don’t know just why,” he said, “but I had an
idea you’d support my judgment of him. Well, perhaps
it’s just as well that he’s gone. Although he had
the making of——”</p>
<p>“No, no,” cried Anthony in sudden contrition, the
blood rushing into his thin face. “I didn’t mean that!
I shouldn’t have said it, Perkins! I think he’s—I don’t
believe he’s a coward!” He pressed the other’s arm
convulsively with his long fingers as though seeking
to give added weight to the emphatic assertion and
hurried away. “Come and see me,” he called back.</p>
<p>Joe stared after him in bewilderment.</p>
<p>“Strange duffer, Tidball,” he reflected. “Wonder
if he and Weatherby had a row? Sounds like it. Poor
old Weatherby! I’m sorry he’s gone; by Jove, I am
sorry! And I fancy I might have prevented it if I’d
got after Tracy sooner. Hang him, he ought to be
licked!”</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a><br />
<small>FLIGHT</small></h2>
<p>When Jack left the house he hesitated a moment
at the little gate. Then he turned to the left and
hurried to Murdoch Street and down that to the railroad
track. He was taking the longest route to the
station; but, since his main desire was to avoid meeting
any one he knew, it was also the safest. His battered
valise, although by no means full, soon grew heavy
and began to bump against his legs at every stride.
When he reached the track, what with the aggravating
behavior of the valise and the difficulty of walking
over the uneven ties, speed was no longer possible.
He had barely reached the Washington Street crossing
when a whistle down the track behind him brought
consternation. It was the 9.22 train, he told himself;
and he knew that if he missed that he would
have to wait a whole hour at the station before he
could get another—an hour which might serve to bring<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
Anthony upon him with a wealth of unanswerable argument
in favor of his return.</p>
<p>So, after a quick glance over his shoulder in the
direction of the warning blast, he shifted the valise
again and set out over the ties at a run. Once he
stumbled and the bag went hurtling down the bank
and brought up against a board fence. When he had
recovered it and had scrambled back to the track the
train was but a few hundred yards away. But the
station was almost gained now. He retired to a hand-car
siding while the engine and its three cars whizzed
past him with much grinding of brakes, and then ran
on in the wake of dust.</p>
<p>There was no time to buy a ticket. When he
reached the platform and the last car, the conductor
had already swung his hand to the engineer. Jack
pushed his valise on to the car-steps and crawled,
breathless, after it. Then the train moved again, and
a minute later Centerport was lost to sight. Jack,
huddled upon the rear platform, saw it disappear with
mingled emotions. Regret was prominent. He wondered
at this. Surely, he thought, he had been miserable
enough at Erskine to make the parting anything
but regretful. And yet, even as he thought that, the
idea of leaving the train at the next station and walking
back came to him with strange attractiveness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
Anthony would be glad; none else would know that
he had contemplated flight; he would go back to the
training-table, secure a place on the nine, and do great
things—things that would make the college proud of
him. And Gilberth might——</p>
<p>But at the recollection of Gilberth the plan lost
its attractiveness. Jack gritted his teeth and shook
his fist toward where the tower of College Hall was
still just visible above the tree-tops. Then, having recovered
his breath, he took up his bag and passed into
the car. It proved to be the smoker and was almost
deserted. He selected a seat on the riverside, placed
his valise beside him, and gave himself up to his
thoughts. These were not cheerful. He wondered
what his father and mother would say to his return.
As for the latter, he could count with certainty upon
her sympathy and support. But his father was different.
He was a man with a stern conscience, and one
singularly devoid of the finer sensibilities. For him
the path of duty was always clearly defined and he
trod it unswervingly, no matter what might befall.
And, as Jack well knew, he looked for and demanded
the same moral courage from others that he himself
displayed. No, there would be no sympathy forthcoming
from his father. Jack could almost hear him
now:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>
<p>“You had done no wrong, my son. With a clear
conscience you had nothing to fear. The wrong was
in running away.”</p>
<p>He might, thought Jack, even insist upon his returning.
But that he would not do. He would find
work and, as soon as possible, would pay back to his
father the money wasted upon him at Erskine. He
had intended becoming a teacher. But now that was
impossible. Perhaps he could get employment from
Billy Cromwell. But, whatever happened, he would
not, having once reached home, go back to Erskine!</p>
<p>Had Jack been less busy with his thoughts he might,
perchance, have taken notice of a passenger who sat
across the car and a little to the rear. He was a man
of about forty years, with small, clearly cut features,
brown eyes, and carefully trimmed mustache and beard.
His attire was notably neat. In his mouth was a cigar,
in his hands a morning paper, and at his feet a handsome
suit-case. Ever since Jack’s advent he had been watching
him over the top of his paper with a puzzled frown.
The boy’s face, seen against the white light of the car
window, expressed every passing emotion, and the passenger
across the aisle, who was a good reader of expressions,
felt a stirring of sympathy at the pervading
look of despondency he saw.</p>
<p>Presently the conductor entered, and Jack remembered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
that he must pay his fare. He felt for the little
roll of money that was to take him home, first in his
vest pocket, then in his trousers. Then, while an expression
of bewilderment came over his face, he
searched hurriedly in every pocket he possessed. The
conductor came and waited patiently. Jack seized his
valise and began to unstrap it. Then he paused and
glanced uneasily at the conductor.</p>
<p>“I can’t find my money,” he said. “If you’ll just
give me a minute or two—” The other nodded and
passed on down the car. Jack opened the valise and
feverishly searched it. But when it was thoroughly
upset he was forced to acknowledge with a sinking
heart that the money was not there. He had taken
it out of the trunk; he remembered doing that perfectly;
he had meant to put it into his vest pocket.
But it was not there.</p>
<p>He stared blankly out of the window, still searching
his clothes hopelessly. Well, he was not going
home after all. Fate had intervened. Disappointed
and chagrined, he counted the few coins in his trouser’s
pocket and found that while they would pay his way
to the next station they would not serve to take him
back to Centerport. He blinked his eyes to keep back
the tears. Tears, he reflected miserably, were always
trying to crawl out nowadays. And then—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p>
<p><a href="#image06">“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”</a> asked a voice over
his shoulder, and Jack looked up with startled eyes
into the face of Professor White.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 397px;">
<a name="image06" id="image06">
<img src="images/image06.jpg" width="397" height="600"
alt="“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”"
title="“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”" />
</a><br />
<div class="caption"><a href="#Page_99">“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”</a></div>
</div>
<p>For a moment his surprise kept him silent. And
in that moment he saw in the professor’s face a
kindliness that he had never before noticed. The
professor’s brown eyes were plainly sympathetic and
the professor’s lips held a little reassuring smile at
their corners. And Jack, wondering more, found his
tongue.</p>
<p>“Well, that is hard luck,” said the professor when
he had heard the story. “And you’re going home,
you say? How much money will it take?”</p>
<p>“About ten dollars,” answered Jack. The other
shook his head.</p>
<p>“That’s not much,” he replied, “but I’m sorry to
say that it’s more than I’ve got with me. You see,
I’m only going to Hampden, three stations up the line,
and so didn’t bring much. But wouldn’t it do if you
got off at the next station and went back and got your
money? Would the delay matter? How long leave
have you got?”</p>
<p>The conductor came back and smiled questioningly
at the pair. Jack shook his head.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to go on,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“Well, here now, I’ll pay your way to Hampden,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
anyhow. That will give us time to consider things.
Here you are, conductor.”</p>
<p>When the change had been made and the professor
was in possession of an elaborate rebate slip, the conductor
went off and the professor removed Jack’s
valise from the seat and sat down at the boy’s side.</p>
<p>“How long are you going to be gone?” he asked
pleasantly.</p>
<p>Jack hesitated. Then—</p>
<p>“I’m not coming back,” he answered defiantly.</p>
<p>“What? Leaving college?”</p>
<p>Jack nodded.</p>
<p>“Why, how’s that? What’s the trouble?” questioned
the professor kindly. “Nothing wrong at
home, I hope?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“Then what is it?”</p>
<p>Jack was silent, looking scowlingly out of the window
at the flying landscape of freshly green hills and
meadows with an occasional glimpse of the sparkling
river. He would accept the other’s help as far as
Hampden, he decided; from there he would work his
way home somehow; perhaps he could steal a ride now
and then on the trains.</p>
<p>“You don’t want to tell me, I see,” said Professor
White. “And I dare say that’s natural, Weatherby.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
You and I have had a couple of unpleasant conversations,
and I suppose the experience doesn’t recommend
me as a confident. But you’re in some sort of trouble
and I think you’d better make a clean breast of it and
let me help you if I can.</p>
<p>“And while we’re speaking of former encounters,
Weatherby, I want to tell you that I made a mistake
that day down at the coal wharf. I’ve got lots of
faults, and one of the worst of them is an inclination
to judge hastily. I accused you of cowardice that day,
and I’ve regretted it very often since. I can understand
how it might be possible for you to have hesitated
about going into the river and yet not be guilty of
cowardice in the strict sense. You see, I’ve given
some thought to the matter, after it was a bit too late.
I’ve been watching you since that day, and I think I
made a mistake; I’m certain I did. And I want you
to forgive me for the injustice I did you and for the
hurt I inflicted. Will you?”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jack drearily.
“You only said what all the others thought. I guess
it did hurt, but I don’t mind now; you see, there’s
been a lot worse since then.”</p>
<p>“Ah!” said the other comprehendingly. “I understand.
Don’t you think you might tell me something
about it, Weatherby?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p>
<p>And after a doubtful glance at the professor’s face,
in which he read only sympathy, Jack told him. He
spoke bitterly, giving free rein to the pent-up anger
and indignation of the past month; and, perhaps, he
may be forgiven if unconsciously he exaggerated the
tale of his troubles. When he had finished Professor
White nodded gravely, and then, after a momentary
silence, asked:</p>
<p>“How old are you, Weatherby?”</p>
<p>“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in July.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m not going to tell you that the thing
is trivial, nor that were you older it would appear less
tragic. Nothing is trivial that influences our lives, no
matter how small it looks; and it is just the things
that happen to us when we are young and receptive
that are most important. I said I would help you if
I could, and I’m going to. But in order to do it I
must first convince you that I am your friend, and I
fear that’s going to be difficult. And,” he added, as
the train slowed down for the second station, “what’s
more, I haven’t much time to do it.”</p>
<p>“Friends,” said Jack sagely, “always advise you
to do things you don’t want to.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I guess that’s so,” answered the professor,
smiling. “And I think what I’m going to advise will
prove me your friend.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p>
<p>Jack watched the coming and going on the station
platform for a minute, then, as the train began to
move again, he asked:</p>
<p>“Would you mind telling me—what it is, sir?”</p>
<p>“No; it’s this.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder
and spoke earnestly. “Come back, Weatherby,
and have another try. Wait,” he continued, as the
other started to speak, “let me finish first. I’m not
going to belittle your trouble; it’s a big one and it’s
hard to bear. But you’ve borne it for a month and
more. You can bear it longer, if you try. Make up
your mind to it and you’ll do it. From what I can
see, Weatherby, you’ve given up the fight just on the
verge of victory. A while back you had the whole
college against you; now there is but one fellow actively
opposed to you. From what you have told me I can
see that Tidball believes in you, and Perkins, and King.
They are all men of prominence and their views have
weight. Hold on a little while longer and you’ll find
that the college has come around to their way of thinking.
If you give up now you’re losing a year of your
life that you can’t catch up with again if you live to
be a hundred. Stick it out and you’re a year nearer
your degree. Besides, there are your parents, Weatherby;
what are they going to think about it? Maybe
they’ll say you’ve done right in leaving, but down in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
their hearts they are going to be disappointed over this
wasted year.”</p>
<p>Jack stared dumbly at his hands, and presently
the other went on.</p>
<p>“Come back, and I’ll do everything I can to help
you, my boy. Just what that will be or what it will
amount to, I can’t say at this moment; but what
assistance I can give you may be certain of having.
You won’t find it an empty promise.”</p>
<p>He paused, and Jack looked up.</p>
<p>“I wish I’d—wish I might have talked to you
before,” he said.</p>
<p>“So do I, Weatherby; but it isn’t too late now.
I have a suspicion that you’ve come away without signing
off. You needn’t tell me whether I’m right or
wrong. But you may rest assured that there’ll be no
trouble about it. To-morrow you and I’ll go back
together and try it over.”</p>
<p>“But what—where am I going to go now?” asked
Jack dismally.</p>
<p>“Why, you’ll come home with me, of course,”
replied the professor. “No one need ever know but
that you and I came off together. We’ll have to
take a pretty early train back in the morning, but
I guess you won’t mind that. My mother and sister
will be very glad to see you, and— Hello,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
here we are! Grab your bag, Weatherby, and come
along.”</p>
<p>“But—” stammered the boy.</p>
<p>“All right; you can tell me about that when you
get outside. Besides,” he laughed, “you’ve got to get
off here, anyhow; your fare is only paid this far.
Hurry up, or we’ll both get left!”</p>
<p>A moment later Jack found himself out on a sunny
platform, dodging a baggage-truck and following his
hurrying guide through the throng.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a><br />
<small>ANTHONY MAKES A STATEMENT</small></h2>
<p>The morning after Jack’s departure Anthony
turned in through the little gate at Mrs. Dorlon’s and
strode quickly up the short path. The time was but
a quarter before eight. The sun was out, but was
hidden behind a low-lying bank of mist, through which
it glowed wanly. In the elms along the street the
sparrows were chattering and scolding until one would
have thought that every family circle was in the midst
of domestic strife, possible because of overlate worms
or underdone beetles. It was a tepid sort of morning;
the bricks in the pavement were wet with the fog and
the air was warm. Anthony wore his coat-collar turned
up, not to protect his throat, but to hide the fact that
there was no other collar beneath. In his hand he carried
a can of condensed milk and a little paper bag of
coffee. He had been upset by the events of the preceding
day and had neglected to replenish his provision
cupboard; hence a postprandial journey to Main Street.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>
<p>As he climbed the stairs and caught sight of the
half-opened door of Jack’s room, recollection of that
youth returned to him and he sighed as he crossed the
little hall and thrust his own door open. Then he
stopped short and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise.
The condensed milk dropped with a thud and
rolled under the cot-bed. Jack, nodding drowsily in
the rocker, opened his eyes and jumped to his feet.
Then he grinned sheepishly.</p>
<p>“I—I’ve come back,” he muttered.</p>
<p>He partly extended his hand, thinking Anthony
would take it. But the latter, after a moment of silent
surprise, only said:</p>
<p>“Well! I’m glad to see you.” He crawled
awkwardly under the cot and recovered the milk.
“Changed your mind, eh?” he asked, as he emerged.</p>
<p>His voice was hearty enough, and he smiled behind
his spectacles as though pleased, yet Jack felt a chill
of disappointment and answered soberly:</p>
<p>“Yes, I changed my mind. I came back on an
early train. You weren’t in and so I sat down to
wait for you; I guess I must have come pretty near
to falling asleep. Well, I must go to breakfast.”</p>
<p>Anthony fought for a moment against the restraint
which gripped him. When he spoke his tones held the
old warmth.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
<p>“Nonsense, Jack, stay here and have some with me.
I haven’t any fatted calf to kill for you, but I can fry
a couple of eggs and give you some good coffee,
and——”</p>
<p>“I can’t drink coffee,” Jack answered, “but if
you really want me to stay, I’ll be glad to. I—I’d
rather not go to training-table this morning.”</p>
<p>“Course I want you to,” answered Anthony.
“Why can’t you drink coffee, though?”</p>
<p>“Training.”</p>
<p>“What? Why, coffee never hurt any one; best
thing in the world, coffee; strengthening, elevating,
enlarging; good for body and brain. But tell me all
about your vacation.”</p>
<p>And while Anthony bustled about over his little
stove, handling pots and pans with a deftness remarkable
in a person usually so awkward, Jack recounted
his experiences rather shamefacedly.</p>
<p>“Right about the professor, wasn’t I?” interrupted
Anthony once.</p>
<p>“Yes, you were. He’s mighty good, Anthony.
He treated me as though I was the President; and so
did his mother and sister. I had a bully little room
with an open fireplace in it and blue roses all over
the walls and all sorts of easy chairs made out of
rattan stuff; and the sun just flooded in the window<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
this morning. My, but I wish I lived there all the
time!”</p>
<p>“Sounds fine,” answered Anthony. “All aboard,
now; draw up to the table and wade in. Guess you’ll
have to use the rocker, unless you’d rather have this.
Here’s the sugar. How about— Pshaw, you’re not
going to drink coffee, are you? Have some water in
the toothbrush mug? No? All right. Have an egg;
that’s right, just slide it off. These rolls are good; I
sprinkle the tops with water and heat ’em up on the
stove. Sorry I haven’t more to offer you, though.
Well, Jack, I’m glad you ran across White and came
back. You’d been sorry—afterward—if you’d gone
home; and so would I. And, by the way, what was
it that set you going? What happened at the table
yesterday morning? Your note was lacking in details.”</p>
<p>Jack told about Gilberth’s behavior and Anthony’s
eyes darkened behind his spectacles.</p>
<p>“Ugly brute!” he muttered. “Ought to be
spanked. But— Look here, don’t mind him, Jack;
I don’t think he’s going to trouble you much after this.
Just keep out of his way.”</p>
<p>“I’ll try to. If—if he was a freshman, or even a
soph, I’d fight him; but I can’t fight a senior!”</p>
<p>“Huh! You won’t have to; he’s going to behave
himself after this,” said Anthony grimly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know; anyhow, I’m going to stick
it out now, no matter what happens,” Jack said stoutly.
“That’s my last try at running away. If it hadn’t
been for forgetting my money, I guess I’d have gone.
Funny how it happened, wasn’t it? The worst of it is,
I thought I’d left the money in my trunk, but I’ve
looked and it isn’t there; I can’t find it anywhere. It
was about all I had. I guess dad will be madder than
a hatter when I write home for more.”</p>
<p>“That’s too bad,” said Anthony. “If you want a
little—a dollar or two, you know—to go on until you
hear from home, I can let you have it as well as
not.”</p>
<p>“You’re awfully good,” answered Jack gratefully.
“But it would be a nice thing for me to borrow from
you, wouldn’t it? Don’t you think I know how hard
up you are?”</p>
<p>“Oh, well, you could pay it back, you know. If
you’d rather, you could give me a mortgage on your
clothes,” he added, smiling.</p>
<p>“Then, if my money didn’t come, you might for-clothes,”
laughed Jack.</p>
<p>“Running away from school seems to sharpen your
wits,” said Anthony. “Have another egg? Won’t
take a minute. Good; I like my guests to have appetites.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p>
<p>“You’d have one yourself if you’d been hauled
out of a nice, soft bed at half-past six!”</p>
<p>“Guess I would; but I wouldn’t make bad puns.”</p>
<p>Presently, while the egg was sputtering in the pan,
Jack asked, with a trace of embarrassment:</p>
<p>“Did you—get that watch-charm?”</p>
<p>“Yes; much obliged,” was the answer. “Guess
I’d better give it back now. Won’t need it to remember
you by if you’re in the same hut with me, eh?”</p>
<p>“I—I’d rather you did keep it, though, and wear
it, if you don’t mind. Did you put it on your chain?”</p>
<p>The fork fell into the pan, and Anthony fished it
out with much muttering before he answered. Then—</p>
<p>“Why, no, I didn’t, Jack. You see——”</p>
<p>“I know; it isn’t very beautiful; just one I
had.”</p>
<p>“That isn’t the reason,” said Anthony without
turning around. “Fact is, I’m not wearing my watch
just now.”</p>
<p>“Oh, aren’t you? Why—what——”</p>
<p>“Well, a fellow can’t have money to lend and a gold
watch at the same time. Just at present I’m a moneylender.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I see,” Jack replied. But, nevertheless, he
didn’t look satisfied with the explanation, and when
Anthony returned to the breakfast-table with the egg<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
he had been frying the two finished the meal almost
in silence.</p>
<p>Thanks to the secrecy of the three persons who
alone knew of Jack’s absence from Centerport, his return
to the training-table at lunch-time occasioned no
surprise. Joe Perkins looked bewildered for a moment,
but said nothing. King called across the board and
asked Jack where he’d been since the day before, and
Jack calmly replied that he’d been home with Professor
White overnight. Several pairs of eyebrows went up
incredulously, but no one voiced his doubts. Gilberth
took absolutely no notice of Jack, and, at least in so
far as the latter was concerned, the meal went off
pleasantly. He had expected to be called to account
by the trainer, but Simson had eyes of his own and
said nothing as long as luncheon was in progress.
When it was over he questioned the captain. After
a moment of hesitation, Joe told the trainer the facts
of Jack’s absence as he knew them.</p>
<p>“I think,” he said, “that the best thing to do is
to take no notice this time. Weatherby may turn out
a good man for us if he can get his mind on his work.
But if this badgering continues he won’t be worth a
continental; he’s all up in the air. Maybe you can
give him a good word now and then, ‘Baldy’; the
poor dub needs it all right.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p>
<p>“Sure, I can,” answered the trainer. “Give the
lad a chance; why not? I doubt he’s varsity material,
cap, but he’s a decent spoken lad enough.”</p>
<p>Tracy Gilberth walked back to his room after
luncheon feeling very dissatisfied with life. He had
not yet forgiven Joe for the lecture which the latter
had delivered to him the day before. Tracy felt deeply
wronged. He really believed that when he had publicly
affronted Jack Weatherby that he had been
performing a service to the college; that it was his duty
to protest against the presence at the university of
a fellow who had shown himself to be a coward. Tracy
had a rather good opinion of himself and of his importance,
and had never doubted that, since others had
failed to act in the matter, it was his place to step to
the front. The wigging he had received from Joe had
surprised as well as disgruntled him, and his vanity
still smarted.</p>
<p>And what increased his annoyance was the fact that
he had been “called down” by the one fellow of all
whom Tracy really held in affection, and who, or so Tracy
argued, should have been the very last to oppose him.
Never before had the two, whose friendship dated back
from their sophomore year, come so near to quarreling
as they had yesterday. Differences of opinion they
frequently had, but Tracy always retired from whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
position he held at the first sign of displeasure
on the part of the other. But yesterday Tracy’s backdown
had been incomplete; to-day he was not decided
whether to do as Joe wanted him to and leave the
obnoxious Weatherby strictly alone or to show his resentment
by continuing his righteous persecution of
that youth with some more than usually severe affront.
In fact, Tracy hovered on the verge of open mutiny
when, after climbing the first flight of stairs in Grace
Hall, he turned to the left down the broad corridor
and kicked open the unlatched door of his study.</p>
<p>“Hello!” he exclaimed.</p>
<p>“Hello!” was the response from the depths of a
big leather armchair, and Anthony, who had been reclining
with widely stretched legs and reading a magazine,
placed the latter back on the mahogany writing-table
and calmly faced his host. The two knew each
other well enough to nod in passing, but never before
had Anthony paid Tracy a visit, and the latter’s evident
surprise was natural enough.</p>
<p>“Found your door open,” explained Anthony, “so
I came in and waited. Wanted to see you a minute or
two, Gilberth.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right; glad you made yourself comfortable,”
answered the other.</p>
<p>“Nice rooms you’ve got,” continued the visitor.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, they do well enough,” Tracy replied carelessly.</p>
<p>As a matter of fact they were the handsomest in
college, and he knew it and was proud of it. The
study was furnished throughout in mahogany upholstered
in light-green leather, a combination of colors
at first glance a trifle disconcerting, but which, when
viewed in connection with the walls and draperies, was
quite harmonious. The walls were covered to the height
of five feet with denim of dark green. Above this a
mahogany plate-rail ran about the apartment and held
a few old pewter platters and tankards, some good
pieces of luster-ware and a half-dozen bowls and pitchers
of Japanese glaze. Above the shelf, buckram of a
dull shade of mahogany red continued to the ceiling,
where it gave way to cartridge-paper of a still lighter
shade. The draperies at doors and windows were of
the prevailing tones. The effect of the whole was one
of cheerful dignity. The room was not overcrowded
with furniture and the walls held a few pictures, and
those of the best. There was a refreshing absence of
small photographs and knickknacks. Tracy was proud
of his taste in the matter of decoration and furnishing
and proud of the result as here shown. Anthony liked
the room without understanding it. Perhaps the little
whimsical smile that curved his lips was summoned by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
a mental comparison of the present apartment and his
own chamber with its cracked and stained whitewashed
walls and povern fittings.</p>
<p>“You wanted to see me, you said?” prompted
Tracy.</p>
<p>“Yes,” answered the visitor. “Maybe it will simplify
matters if I start out by telling you that Jack
Weatherby’s a particular friend of mine.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Tracy. “Well?”</p>
<p>“Well, don’t you think you’ve bothered him
enough, Gilberth?”</p>
<p>“Look here, Tidball, I don’t like your tone,” said
Tracy with asperity.</p>
<p>“Can’t help it,” answered Anthony. “I don’t like
the way you’ve been hazing Weatherby. Now we
know each other’s grievance.”</p>
<p>“What I’ve done to Weatherby doesn’t concern
you,” said Tracy hotly. “And I’m not to be dictated
to. The fellow’s a coward and a bounder.”</p>
<p>“Don’t know what bounder is,” answered the
other dryly. “Doesn’t sound nice, though. Suppose
we stop calling names? I might lose my temper and
call you something, and you mightn’t like it, either.
But I didn’t come up here to quarrel with you;
don’t like to quarrel with a man in his room; doesn’t
seem polite, does it? What I came to say is this,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
Gilberth: leave Weatherby alone or you’ll have me
to deal with.”</p>
<p>“Is that a threat?”</p>
<p>“No, I guess not; just a statement of fact.”</p>
<p>“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” demanded
Tracy angrily.</p>
<p>“Guess not; keep on tormenting Weatherby and
I’ll know you’re not.”</p>
<p>“Now, look here, Tidball, if you want a row, you
can have it right off. You don’t need to wait and see
what happens to your precious friend. I’ll fight you
any time you like. Do you want a fight?”</p>
<p>“No, not particularly,” answered Anthony, with his
most exasperating drawl. “Never fought any one in
my life. Wouldn’t know how to go about it, I guess.
Even——”</p>
<p>“Well, you’ll know all about it mighty soon if
you don’t get out of here!”</p>
<p>“Don’t think I shall. Haven’t any intention of
fighting.”</p>
<p>“Haven’t you, indeed? Well, what, I’d like to
know, are you hinting at?”</p>
<p>“Not hinting at all. You leave Weatherby alone
or I’ll catch you in the yard and wallop you with a
trunk-strap; but,” he added grimly, “there won’t be
any fighting.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>
<p>He drew his long length out of the chair and took
up his hat. Tracy, pale with anger, eyed him silently
a moment. Then he leaped forward and sent him
spinning back against the chair with a blow on the
shoulder. The next moment he felt himself lifted
bodily from his feet, turned head over heels, and deposited
in that inglorious position on the broad leather
couch. When things stopped revolving he saw Tidball’s
calm face bending over him and felt his wrists
held tightly together by fingers that grasped them like
steel bands. He struggled violently until his opponent
placed a bony knee on his chest. Then he subsided.</p>
<p>“Now keep still and listen to me,” said Tidball in
quiet, undisturbed tones. “I’m a peaceable fellow, and
don’t fight. But if you don’t remember what I’ve told
you, I’m going to grab you just like this some day—and
it’ll be when there are plenty of men looking on,
too—and I’m going to spank you with a trunk-strap.
If you don’t believe me,” he added with a slight grin,
“I’ll show you the strap!”</p>
<p>“I’ll—I’ll kill——”</p>
<p>“No, you won’t do a thing,” the other interrupted
sternly. “You’ll stay just where you are and behave
yourself. If you don’t, I’ll lock you up in your bedroom;
and that’s a liberty I don’t want to take.”</p>
<p>He released Tracy and stepped back. Tracy leaped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
to his feet, but something in the look of the eyes behind
the steel-bowed spectacles persuaded him to keep his
distance. Anthony picked up his hat from the floor,
dusted it tenderly with his elbow, and walked to the
door.</p>
<p>“Sorry there was any trouble, Gilberth,” he said
soberly. “Maybe I lost my temper; it’s a mean one
sometimes. Think over what I said.” He closed the
door noiselessly behind him, and Tracy, shaking and
choking with wrath, groaned futilely.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</a><br />
<small>A FLY TO LEFT-FIELDER</small></h2>
<p>Jack sat on the players’ bench, chin in hands, elbows
on knees, and watched Centerport High School
go down in defeat. It was the first game of the season
for the varsity, and, judged by high standards, it wasn’t
anything to be proud of. At the end of the sixth
inning the score was 9—0 in Erskine’s favor, and not
one of the nine runs had been earned. The error column
on the score-sheet was so filled with little round
dots that, from where Jack sat, it looked as though
some one had sprinkled it with pepper. If, so far,
there had been any encouraging features they were undoubtedly
Joe Perkins’s catching of Gilberth’s erratic
curves and Knox’s work at shortstop. The outfield
had conscientiously muffed every fly that had come its
way, and only the quick recovery of the ball had, on
several occasions, prevented High School from scoring.</p>
<p>Joe Perkins looked disgusted whenever he walked
to the bench, and the expression on the countenance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
of Hanson, the head coach, was one of bewilderment.
“It’s simply wonderful!” Jack heard him confide to
Joe. “I don’t see how they do it. I can understand
how they can muff every other ball, say; but the
whole-souled manner in which they let every one slide
through their fingers is marvelous!” And Joe had
smiled weakly and turned away.</p>
<p>When the men trotted out for the beginning of the
seventh, Jack slid along the bench to where Patterson,
the team’s manager, was scowling over the score-book.
Jack had never spoken to Patterson, and a week ago
he would have hesitated a long while before risking a
snub by doing so. But since his return from his
“visit” with Professor White the treatment he had
received from the other members of the team had been
so decent that he was ceasing to look upon himself
as a Pariah and was regaining some degree of assurance.
He studied the book over the manager’s shoulder
a moment. Then he asked:</p>
<p>“Pretty poor, isn’t it? Do you think Perkins will
put any more subs in?”</p>
<p>Patterson glanced around with a flicker of surprise
in his eyes. But his answer was friendly enough:</p>
<p>“I don’t know what he’ll do. But if the subs can
play any better than the men he’s got in there he’d
better give ’em a chance. Where do you play?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p>
<p>“Almost anywhere, I guess. They’ve had me at
left-field, right-field, and second base. I guess I’ll be
in the outfield if I get in at all.”</p>
<p>“You’d better go out there and help Northup,”
said the manager, as he credited Motter, at first base,
with his third error. “I don’t suppose it matters much
whether High School scores or not; only I would like
to see Erskine have a clean record this year. And
to get scored on in the first game looks pretty rotten.
Who made that assist?”</p>
<p>“Stiles. Can’t Gilberth pitch better than he’s
doing to-day?”</p>
<p>“Of course he can. He’s all right when he tries;
he evidently thinks this game isn’t worth while. But
I’ll wager that Hanson will have something to say to
him afterward. Side’s out. Stiles at bat!”</p>
<p>Erskine managed to find High School’s pitcher to
good effect in the last of the seventh and piled up four
more runs, two of them fairly earned. When Erskine
trotted into the field again Hanson and Perkins had
materially altered her batting list. King, who had been
playing in left-field, went into the pitcher’s box, and
Jack was sent out to left-field. Griffin succeeded Joe
as catcher, Mears took Motter’s place at first, and Smith
went in at shortstop.</p>
<p>Jack watched events from his position over near<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
the rail fence and was never once disturbed; for King
retired the opposing batsmen in one, two, three order,
and the sides again changed places. Jack didn’t have
a chance to show what he could do with the stick, for
High School, following Erskine’s lead, put a new man
into the box, and the new man puzzled the batsmen
so that only one reached first, and was left there when
Billings, third-baseman, popped a short fly into the
hands of High School’s shortstop. Jack trotted back
to the rail fence very disgusted.</p>
<p>It was the last inning. The sun was getting low
and the chill of early evening caused Jack to swing his
arms and prance around to keep the blood circulating.
Over by the bench he could see them packing the bats
away, and a little stream of spectators was filling around
behind the back fence toward the gate. High School
had reached the tail-end of her batting list again, and,
to all appearances, the game was as good as finished.
But last innings can’t always be depended upon to behave
as expected. The present one proved this. High
School’s first man at bat heroically tried to smash a
long fly into outfield and, all by good luck, bunted the
ball into the dust at his feet. After a moment of bewilderment,
he put out for first and reached it at the
same time as the ball. High School’s noisy supporters
took new courage and awoke the echoes with their fantastic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
war-whoop. King looked bothered for an instant,
and in that instant struck the next batsman on the elbow.
The latter, rubbing the bruise and grinning
joyfully, trotted to first and the man ahead took second.</p>
<p>“Huh,” muttered Jack, rubbing his chilled hands
together, “something doing, after all.”</p>
<p>But King settled down then, and, after three
attempts to catch the High School runner napping at
second base, struck out the next man very nicely. The
succeeding one, finding a straight ball, bunted it toward
first, and, while he was tagged out by King, advanced
the runners. High School’s supporters, gathered into
a little bunch on the stand, waved their flags and ribbons,
and shouted frantically. For surely, with men
on third and second and their best batter selecting his
stick, a run was not unlikely. Hanson shouted a command
and King, repeating it, motioned the fielders in.
Jack obeyed, doubtingly, for he had watched the present
player and believed him capable of hitting hard.
And so, although he made pretense of shortening
field, he remained pretty much where he had been.
And a moment later he was heartily glad of it.</p>
<p>For the High School batsman, a tall, lanky, but
very determined-looking youth, found King’s first delivery
and raced for first. Along the base-lines the
coaches were shouting unintelligible things and flourishing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
their caps. The runners on third and second were
running home. In the outfield Bissell, center-fielder,
was speeding back, cutting over into Jack’s territory
as he went. Jack, too, was going up the field, yet
cautiously, for the shadows were gathering and it was
hard to tell where the little black speck up there against
the purple sky was going to fall. Yet when, with a
final glance over his shoulder, he took up his position,
and heard Bissell, panting from his run, cry: “All
yours, Weatherby!” he never doubted that he would
catch it. To Jack a fly was merely a baseball that required
catching; and he was there to catch it. So he
took a step or two forward, put up his hands, and
pulled it down. Then he threw it to second-baseman
and trotted in.</p>
<p>When he reached the plate the applause had died
away and the remainder of the audience was hurrying
off the field. The players were finding sweaters and,
having thrown them over their shoulders, were hurrying
across to the locker-house. Jack, searching for his own,
heard Hanson’s voice behind him:</p>
<p>“Well, Joe, we’ve got one man who can catch a
ball, eh?”</p>
<p>Jack knew that he wasn’t supposed to hear that
remark, and so he took his time at pulling his white
sweater out of the pile. When he turned, the head<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
coach and captain were walking away. Jack followed,
feeling very thankful that he had not missed his one
chance of the game. As he entered the door he almost
ran against the coach. Hanson smiled into his face as
he stepped aside.</p>
<p>“That was a very fair catch, Weatherby,” he said.</p>
<p>And a moment later, when, wrapped only in a big
bath-towel, he was hurrying to the shower-room,
“Baldy” Simson clapped him on the back with a big
hand.</p>
<p>“That’s the lad now,” he cried heartily, adding
then his invariable caution: “Easy with the hot water,
and don’t go to sleep!”</p>
<p>At dinner-table Jack thought the other fellows
looked at him with something like respect. And all,
he reflected, because he had caught a ball he couldn’t
help catching!</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a><br />
<small>JOE IS PESSIMISTIC</small></h2>
<p>“Have you seen the editorial in the Purple?” asked
King.</p>
<p>Joe Perkins, who had pushed his book away as the
other entered his study, swung around in his chair and
shook his head.</p>
<p>“About the mass-meeting?” he asked. “No, I
haven’t seen the paper yet. What does it say?”</p>
<p>Gregory King leaned over the table until the inky-smelling
sheets of the college weekly were under the
green glass shade of the student-lamp.</p>
<p>“Listen, then, benighted one! ‘It is to be hoped
that every student who can possibly do so will attend
the mass-meeting to be held on Wednesday evening
next in Grace Hall for the purpose of raising money
for the expenses of the University baseball team. A
victory over Robinson this spring decisive enough to
obliterate——’”</p>
<p>“Hear! hear!” cried Joe.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes, elegant word, isn’t it?” grinned the other.
“‘To obliterate the stigma of last year’s defeat is what
every friend of the college hopes for and expects. But
unless enough money is placed at the disposal of the
management, to meet the expenses of the team, such a
victory can not be secured. The nine has never been
self-supporting and every spring it has started in with
a deficit of from fifty to a hundred and fifty dollars,
which has been paid by the Athletic Committee from
the general fund. Heretofore the Committee has, besides
making good the deficit, paid over to the baseball
management sufficient money to carry the team through
the first half of the season. This spring, however, the
Committee is unable to do this. The football receipts
last fall were scarcely more than half as large as usual,
while the expenses were much greater. As a result,
the sum at the disposal of the baseball team, the track
team, and the crew is extremely small, and the former
has received as its share the sum of one hundred and
fifty dollars only—a sum not nearly sufficient to carry
it through the first half of the season.</p>
<p>“‘It becomes necessary, therefore, to secure funds
from some other source. Subscriptions have been invited
from the alumni, but the result of this step is
uncertain. A popular subscription is necessary and will
be asked at the meeting on Wednesday. The amount<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
required to insure the success of the nine is not large,
and it is the duty of the student body to see that it is
raised before the meeting is adjourned. Manager Patterson
will make a statement of the association’s condition,
and there will be addresses by Dean Levatt,
Professor Nast, Coach Hanson, Captain Perkins, A. Z.
Tidball, ’04, and others. It is to be hoped that the
meeting will be attended by every member of the
university.’”</p>
<p>“Not bad,” commented Joe. “But whether Patterson
has made a mistake by stating frankly that
the meeting is called to secure money remains to be
seen.”</p>
<p>“What else could he say? The fellows aren’t going
to be gulled into thinking that they’re invited to a
mass-meeting to play ping-pong!”</p>
<p>“I know, but there are lots of fellows who won’t
come if they know they’re to be asked to dive into their
pockets.”</p>
<p>“Then let them stay away,” answered King forcibly.
“Any chap that isn’t willing to give a dollar or
two to beat Robinson isn’t worth bothering with!”</p>
<p>“I dare say; but we’ve got to have a lot of money,
and if every fellow of that sort stays away—” He
shook his head doubtfully.</p>
<p>“Oh, get out! You’re pessimistic this evening.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
Cheer up; the tide’s coming in! We’ll get all the
money we need, and lots more besides. You’ll see.”</p>
<p>“Hope so. Fact is, Greg, I’m a bit down in the
mouth over the showing we made Saturday. If we
don’t do better Wednesday I sha’n’t blame the fellows
if they refuse to pony up for us. A nine that plays
ball like a lot of girls doesn’t deserve support.”</p>
<p>“Well, we were pretty rotten Saturday, Joe, and
that’s the truth. But we’ll stand by you better next
time. We’ll give a good exhibition of union-made,
hand-sewn baseball on Wednesday that’ll tickle the college
to death. By the way, there’s a long fairy tale
from Collegetown here in the Purple about Robinson’s
team. To read it you’d think they expected to walk all
over us and everybody else. They’re talking about
beating Artmouth next week! How’s that for immortal
cheek?”</p>
<p>“Oh, they’ve got a good nine, Greg, and they know
it. And you and I know it. We might as well face it,
too.”</p>
<p>“Well, what if they have? Great Scott, man,
haven’t they had good nines lots of times before and
been beaten out of their boots? What do we care for
their old Voses and Condits and ‘Hard-hitting Hopkinses’?
Maybe we’ve got a good battery ourselves,
and a man or two who can slug the ball!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p>
<p>“Maybe we have,” answered Joe dryly, “but you
couldn’t just name them, could you?”</p>
<p>“Certainly I can name them! You’re just as good
a catcher as that Condit wonder of theirs. And Gilberth
can pitch all around Vose, when he wants to.
And——”</p>
<p>“Yes, when he wants to,” said Joe significantly.</p>
<p>“Well, he will want to when it comes to Robinson,”
said King.</p>
<p>“Perhaps. And how about the hard sluggers?”</p>
<p>“Oh, well, there’s Motter, and Billings, and——”</p>
<p>“Yourself; you’re a better batsman than either of
them, Greg. But there’s no use in running down Hopkins;
he’s a wonder at the bat; and we’ve got to get
busy and turn out a few fellows like him. Saturday
there wasn’t more than three decent hits made in the
whole idiotic game.”</p>
<p>“My cheerless friend, please forget Saturday,”
begged King. “It wasn’t nice, I know, but it showed
up the weak spots, and that’s something to be thankful
for.”</p>
<p>“Not when there’s nothing but spots,” lamented
Joe.</p>
<p>“Besides, we kept them from scoring; and for a
while it looked as though we couldn’t.”</p>
<p>“And even that was just a piece of good luck.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p>
<p>“Good luck? Why, it didn’t seem so to me. I
never saw a fielder look more certain of making a
catch than Weatherby did. And the way he pulled
down that ball was mighty pretty, too.”</p>
<p>“I don’t mean that it was luck for him; I mean
that it was just by luck that I put him in your place
when you went into the box; I almost sent Lowe out
there. If I had it’s dollars to cents he wouldn’t have
judged that ball so as to have caught it.”</p>
<p>“Well, all’s well that ends well, old chap. Cheer
up! By the way, I was mighty glad Weatherby made
that catch and kept our slate clean; for his sake, I
mean. I’ve noticed that yesterday and to-day the fellows
at the table have been very decent to him. I guess
he rather made a hit with them Saturday.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad of that,” Joe responded heartily. “To
tell the truth, Greg, Weatherby’s been bothering me
a good deal; Hanson and I picked him out for a good
man, and I think he is, but all this badgering by the
fellows has made him pretty near worthless. I hope
to goodness it’s done with now.”</p>
<p>“It’s been Tracy more than any one else,” said
King. “He’s rather overdone it, I think.”</p>
<p>“I should say so! The trouble with Tracy is that
he gets it into his thick head that he’s a sort of public
conscience, and you can’t get it out. I don’t think he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
really intends to be mean; I’ve known him to do several
mighty decent things—kind-hearted, you know.”</p>
<p>“Seems as though his sense of proportion was out
of gear; and you can’t faze him, either.”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know; sometimes I manage to jar
him a bit. I got at him last week and asked him to go
easy on Weatherby, and so far he’s done it. I put it
to him on the score of justice and that sort of thing,
you know. I’ve noticed, by the way, that you’ve been
kind of taking Weatherby’s part lately. Do you like
him?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know whether I do or don’t,” answered
King slowly. “I think maybe I could like him very
well if he’d give me a chance, but the trouble is he
won’t let you get near him. He’s the most independent,
stand-offish sort of chap ever.”</p>
<p>“I know. It’s rather against him, that kind of
thing. But I fancy, Greg, that that manner of his
is sort of defensive; I don’t believe he’s really so independent
as he is—well, shy. He thinks fellows don’t
care to know him and so puts on that let-me-alone air
just to hide the fact that he’s downhearted.”</p>
<p>“Do you? Well, maybe you’re right. It never occurred
to me.”</p>
<p>“Yes; and something Professor White said the
other day bears me out. He came up to see me about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
Weatherby. It seems he’s taken rather a shine to him,
and had him home with him overnight last week. He
says that Weatherby’s frightfully cut up over the way
the fellows have been treating him; thinks no one wants
to have anything to do with him on account of that
affair down at the river, you know, and is just about
ready to throw up the sponge and light out. In
fact—” Joe stopped, remembering that Anthony had
requested him not to talk of Jack’s flight. “Anyhow,
it seems rather a shame, don’t you think? The chap’s
a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort, and apparently has lots
of pluck, in spite of what happened at the wharf that
day.”</p>
<p>“That’s what I think. I believe the truth of that
business is that Weatherby doesn’t know how to swim,
Joe.”</p>
<p>“Really? Did he ever say so?”</p>
<p>“Oh, thunder, no! He never’s talked about it to
me; I’d be scared to death to ask him. But that seems
a reasonable sort of explanation, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, it does. And it’s funny that it never occurred
to me. Somehow, you take it for granted here
that every fellow knows how to swim; we’re such a
lot of water-rats, you know. I believe you’ve hit it,
Greg. But if that’s the case, why didn’t he out and
say so?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know. Maybe we didn’t give him a
chance at first, and then, when he did have a show,
maybe he got spunky and wouldn’t. It’s the sort of
thing I could understand his doing.”</p>
<p>“Yes, it is. Well, anyhow, he’s cut up more rumpus
and made more worry than any freshie I ever
knew. And I hope to goodness it’s over. I want him
to play ball. Going? Don’t forget to drum up the
meeting. Bring a crowd with you and start the enthusiasm
early in the game. And, by the way, if you
ever have a chance, you might just try and find out
about Weatherby; whether he can swim, you know.
So long, Greg.”</p>
<p>Jack would have been distinctly surprised had he
known that he was the subject of so much discussion.
He was beginning to congratulate himself that the men
with whom he associated seemed to have forgotten the
unpleasant incident, and were, in a manner, making his
acquaintance all over again. There was no denying
the fact that since his performance of Saturday on the
diamond the fellows at the training-table had shown
themselves very friendly toward him. Of old he had
usually eaten his meals in silence, save for an occasional
word with Joe or King or the trainer. Nowadays the
fellows greeted him as one of themselves, included him
in their conversation, and even asked his opinion sometimes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
And unconsciously he was bidding for their
friendship. He no longer answered all inquiries with
monosyllables, but forgot his rôle of injured innocence
and entered into the talk with sprightliness and interest.
Once he had even made a joke. It was a good
joke, but its effect was embarrassing. Every one was
so surprised that for a full quarter of a minute not a
sound greeted it. Then the table broke into laughter.
But by that time Jack was all self-consciousness once
more, and for the rest of the meal ate in silence.</p>
<p>But his shyness wore off again, and by the middle
of the week his companions had adopted a way of listening
when he spoke as though what he had to say was
worth hearing. The effect of this was like a tonic to
Jack’s vanity. He began to recover his naturally good
spirits and the change in him was noticeable. Anthony
saw and was delighted.</p>
<p>The friendship between him and the younger boy
had worked back into its old lines. Sometimes, more
and more infrequently as time passed, Jack thought
he could detect a difference in Anthony’s attitude
toward him; fancied that the other was reserved in
manner. But the difference, if difference there was,
was slight and did not seriously impair Jack’s enjoyment
of Anthony’s friendship.</p>
<p>Anthony himself in those days was not aware that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
he showed at times any of the doubts that assailed him.
He did not mean to. He had argued with himself over
the matter of the lost watch and had at length practically
convinced himself that, despite all evidences
against his friend, Jack was not guilty of theft. It
is probable that even had Anthony detected Jack in
the act of stealing he would still have kept much of
his liking for the boy, even while detesting his offense.
Anthony was big enough morally to view wrong-doing
with pity as well as disfavor, and his affection for
Jack—a big-hearted, generous affection—would have
weighed in the boy’s favor.</p>
<p>But Anthony had made up his mind to believe in
the other’s innocence, and believe he did. Sometimes
the doubts would creep back despite him, and it was
at such times that Jack believed he detected a difference
in Anthony’s manner toward him. Meanwhile,
Anthony had purchased a wonderful alarm-clock for
the sum of eighty-five cents; wonderful for the reason
that it gained an hour each day as long as it stood on
its feet, and lost twenty minutes each day if laid comfortably
on its back. Anthony corrected it every evening
by Jack’s watch, and persevered in his efforts to
lead it back into a life of veracity and usefulness.</p>
<p>“There’s some position,” he declared, “in which
that thing will keep exact time. ’Tisn’t on its feet, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
’tisn’t on its back; it’s somewhere between. Patience
and study will find the solution.”</p>
<p>So he propped it at various angles with his books,
and even laid it on its head, but whether the numerals
XII pointed toward the floor, the ceiling, or the dormer-window
the result was always surprising and never satisfactory.
And finally, after he had once awakened
and prepared his breakfast before discovering that the
alarm had gone off at five instead of half-past six, he
gave up the struggle, settled the timepiece firmly on
its little legs, and accustomed himself to being always
one hour ahead of the rest of the world.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a><br />
<small>THE MASS-MEETING</small></h2>
<p>On the Wednesday for which the mass-meeting was
called Jack returned to the house at quarter after five,
and, as was his custom, stopped in at Anthony’s room
to spend half an hour before dinner. Anthony had
improvised a window-seat out of a packing-case, covering
it with an old red table-cloth and installing upon
it his one cushion, a not over-soft and very flamboyant
creation in purple and white. When Jack entered he
found Anthony perched thereon before the open casement.
The seat was not very long and so the occupant
was obliged to either let his legs hang over the edge
or fold them up beneath him. At present he had
adopted the latter tactics, and a ludicrous figure he
presented. Jack subsided on to the edge of the bed and
giggled with delight until Anthony tossed the book he
was studying at his head.</p>
<p>“What are you crying about?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“I’m not cr—crying,” gurgled Jack. “I’m la—laughing
at you.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p>
<p>“What’s the matter with me?”</p>
<p>“You look so—so funny!”</p>
<p>“Do I?” Anthony grinned and unfolded himself.
“I was thinking a while ago that I was like a pair of
scissors I saw once. The blades tucked back against
the handles. How’d the game come out?”</p>
<p>“Pretty well; seven to nothing. Millport came
pretty near getting a run in the fourth, but after that
she didn’t have a ghost of a show. I didn’t, either.
I didn’t get in for a minute; just sat on that old bench
and looked on and nearly froze to death.”</p>
<p>“Too bad,” sympathized Anthony.</p>
<p>“Wasn’t it? However, I don’t care very much.
Hanson sat with me a while and we had a long
talk. He knows a whole lot about baseball; stuff I
never thought of; scientific part of the game, you
know.”</p>
<p>“Hanged if I do!” answered Anthony. “I don’t
know a baseball from a longstop.”</p>
<p>“A what?” gasped Jack.</p>
<p>“Longstop; isn’t that it?”</p>
<p>“Shortstop, you mean.”</p>
<p>“Well, knew it was some kind of a stop. Might
as well call it one thing as the other, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you come out and see a game some
day?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p>
<p>“Going to some afternoon, when I’ve nothing to
do.”</p>
<p>“Huh! I guess you’ll never come, then. You’re
always grinding.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ll take a vacation some Saturday and go
and watch you play.”</p>
<p>“Don’t know whether you will or not,” said Jack
dolefully. “King played in left-field all the game
to-day. Pretty nearly every sub except me went in.
I wish they’d give me a place to try for and let me
see if I can’t make it. I hope, though, they don’t put
me out in the field. Perkins told me yesterday that
there’s no use in my trying for pitcher this year, and I
guess he’s right. Gilberth played a great game to-day;
struck seven men out and gave only two bases.”</p>
<p>“How are you and he getting on nowadays?”
Anthony asked.</p>
<p>“All right. He never has anything to say to me,
and I let him alone.”</p>
<p>“Guess he won’t trouble you any more,” said
Anthony.</p>
<p>“Perhaps not. Sometimes, though, I think he’s
saving up for something particularly unpleasant. I
don’t care, though. He can go hang.”</p>
<p>Anthony closed the window, drew down the stained
green shade, and lighted the gas-stove. Jack lay back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
on the bed for a time and watched the dinner preparations
in silence.</p>
<p>“What’s the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pièce de résistance</i> to-night?” he
finally asked, as there came a sputtering from the pan.</p>
<p>“Hamburger steak with onions,” answered Anthony.</p>
<p>“Ugh!”</p>
<p>“Don’t you like it?” asked his host in surprise.</p>
<p>“Not a bit; and I don’t like the beastly smell,
either. So I’m going home.” He stretched his arms
luxuriously and sat up. Then, “Did you ever wish you
were rich, Anthony?” he asked.</p>
<p>Anthony paused a moment with fork outstretched,
and looked thoughtfully across the room. Finally, he
shook his head.</p>
<p>“No, I don’t believe I ever did. What’s the use?”</p>
<p>“No use, I suppose. But I have, often. I wish
so now. Do you know what I’d do if I had fifty thousand
dollars?”</p>
<p>“No; but something silly, I guess,” answered the
other, prodding the steak till it sizzled.</p>
<p>“Well, I’d throw that foolish, lying clock out of
the window and get your watch back. Then I’d take
you to—to—Boston, I guess, and buy you a ripping
good dinner for once in your life. We’d have quail
and asparagus, and— Do you like chocolate éclairs?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p>
<p>“Don’t know; never ate any. What are they
like?”</p>
<p>“Well, we’d have them, anyway. Wish I had one
now. And— But I’m getting hungry, myself.”</p>
<p>“Better stay and have some Hamburger and
onions,” advised Anthony, with a smile. But Jack
fled toward the door, ostentatiously holding his nose.</p>
<p>At half past seven they set out for the mass-meeting
together. When they had crossed the Common
and had entered the yard they found themselves in one
of a number of little eddies of laughing, chattering fellows
that flowed across the campus and merged in front
of Grace Hall into a stream that filled the doorway and
staircase from side to side.</p>
<p>“Going to have a full house,” observed Anthony.</p>
<p>At the door of the meeting-room they ran into Joe
Perkins. He grabbed Anthony and sent him, under
charge of Patterson, the manager, to a seat on the platform.
Then he put a detaining hand on Jack’s arm.</p>
<p>“Cheer like everything, Weatherby!” he whispered.</p>
<p>Then a six-foot sophomore, leading a flying wedge
consisting of a handful of his classmates, bucked Jack
between the shoulders and he went rushing up the aisle,
tossing the crowd to either side, until he managed to
avoid the men behind by slipping into a vacant seat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
The big sophomore banged him on the shoulder as he
charged on. “Bully interference!” he cried. Followed
by his companions, he leaped over the intervening row
of occupied seats and subsided in a heap among a
little throng of delighted friends. “Down here!” he
yelled. Some one imitated a referee’s whistle and a
falsetto voice called: “Third down and a yard to
gain!”</p>
<p>Jack found himself seated next to a group of second-nine
men. The little freshman Clover was his immediate
neighbor, and beyond that youth sat Showell,
the fellow whom Jack had fooled with his pitching on
that first day of outdoor practise. They had met but
seldom since then, but Showell had never missed an
opportunity to annoy Jack, if possible, or, failing that,
to show his dislike. His annoyances usually took the
form of allusions to the incident at the river, plain
enough, yet so petty that Jack never regarded them
as worth noticing. Clover greeted Jack with evident
pleasure. The latter returned his greeting and then
nodded to the fellows farther along. Only Showell
failed to respond. Turning to the man on the other
side of him he asked:</p>
<p>“Been down to the river lately?”</p>
<p>“Oh, cut it out,” growled his neighbor, scowling
at him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p>
<p>“Cut what out?” asked Showell, pretending great
bewilderment. “The river?”</p>
<p>“Let him alone, can’t you?” whispered the other.</p>
<p>“If you can’t, take your old jokes somewhere else,”
advised Clover. Jack had not missed any of it, and for
the first time Showell’s pleasantries aroused his anger.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you dubs?” Showell
asked, grinning. “Can’t I talk about the river? All
right, then, I’ll talk about the weather. Nice, dry
evening, isn’t it? Any of you fellows get your feet
wet?”</p>
<p>Jack touched Clover on the shoulder. “Do you
mind changing seats with me?” he asked. Clover
looked doubtful a moment; then he got up and Jack
slipped along into his place. Showell watched the proceedings
with surprise, and when he found Jack beside
him turned his gaze uneasily ahead and for the rest
of the evening attempted to look unconscious of the
other’s presence. But, what with the grins and whispering
of his friends, it is doubtful if he enjoyed himself.</p>
<p>The senior president made his little speech and introduced
the dean. The latter, who never was much
of an orator, said just what everybody knew he would
say, and was succeeded by Patterson, the manager.
Patterson explained the needs of the Baseball Association,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
and Professor Nast, chairman of the Athletic
Committee, followed and urged the students to come
to the support of the team. Neither his remarks nor
Patterson’s awakened any enthusiasm, and the cheers
which followed were plainly to order. Some one at
the rear of the hall started a football song and one by
one the audience took up the refrain. Perkins, who
had stepped to the front of the platform, paused and
glanced inquiringly at the head coach. The latter
shook his head and Joe turned away again.</p>
<p>“Let them sing,” whispered Hanson. “It’ll warm
them up.”</p>
<p>But as soon as it was discovered that there was
no opposition the singing died away. King was on
his feet then, calling for cheers for Captain Perkins.
They were given loudly enough, but lacked spontaneity.
Joe’s speech was short, but had the right ring, and
several allusions to past successes of the nine and future
victories awakened applause. But when he had taken
his seat again and the cheering, in spite of the efforts
of King and Bissell and others of the team, had ceased,
it was evident that the meeting was bound to be a flat
failure unless something was done to wake it up.</p>
<p>Hanson, who was down as the next speaker, called
Joe to him, and for a minute they whispered together.
Then Joe crossed the stage and spoke to Anthony.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
At the back of the room there was a perceptible impatience;
several fellows had already tiptoed out, and
there was much scraping of feet. Joe heard it and
held up his hand. Then Anthony lifted himself up out
of the ridiculously small chair in which he had been
seated and moved awkwardly to the front of the platform.
Instantly there was the sound of clapping, succeeded
by the cry of “A—a—ay, Tidball!” Anthony
settled his spectacles on his nose and thrust his big
hands into his trouser’s pockets.</p>
<p>“Good old Tidball!” cried some one; the remark
summoned laughter and clapping; men on their feet
and edging toward the door paused and turned back;
those who had kept their seats settled themselves more
comfortably and looked expectant. The senior class
president jumped to his feet and called for a cheer, and
the response was encouragingly hearty. Joe threw a
satisfied glance at Hanson and the latter nodded. The
tumult died down and Anthony, who had been facing
the gathering with calm and serious countenance, began
to speak.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</a><br />
<small>ANTHONY ON BASEBALL</small></h2>
<p>“Well,” commenced Anthony, in his even, deliberate
drawl, “you had your chance to get out, and
didn’t take it. I guess you’re in for it. I’ve been requested
to speak to you about baseball. I told Captain
Perkins that I didn’t know a baseball from a frozen
turnip, but he said that made it all the better; that
if I didn’t know what I was talking about you would
realize that I was absolutely unprejudiced and my words
would carry more weight. I said, ‘How are you going
to get the fellows to listen to me?’ He said, ‘We’ll
lock the doors.’ I guess they’re locked.”</p>
<p>Half his audience turned to look, and the rest
laughed.</p>
<p>“Anyhow,” Anthony continued, “he kept his part
of the agreement, and so I’ll have to keep mine. I’ve
said frankly that I know nothing about baseball, and
I hope that you will all pardon any mistakes I may
make in discussing the subject. I never saw but one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
game, and after it was over I knew less about it than
I did before. A fellow I knew played—well, I don’t
know just what he did play; most of the time he danced
around a bag of salt or something that some one had
left out on the grass. There were three of those bags,
and his was the one on the southeast corner. When
the game was over he asked me how I liked it. I
said, ‘It looks to me like a good game for a lunatic
asylum.’ He said I showed ignorance; that it was the
best game in the world, and just full up and slopping
over with science. I didn’t argue with him. But I’ve
always thought that if I had to play baseball I’d choose
to be the fellow that wears a black alpaca coat and
does the talking. Seems to me he’s the only one that
remains sane. I asked my friend if he was the keeper;
he said no, he was the umpire.”</p>
<p>By this time the laughter was almost continuous,
but Anthony’s expression of calm gravity remained unbroken.
At times he appeared surprised and disturbed
by the bursts of laughter; and a small freshman in the
front row toppled out of his seat and had to be thumped
on the back. Even the dean was chuckling.</p>
<p>“Well, science has always been a weak point with
me, and I guess that’s why I’m not able to understand
the science of hitting a ball with a wagon-spoke and
running over salt-bags. But I’m not so narrow-minded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
as to affirm that because I can’t see the science it isn’t
there. You’ve all heard about Abraham Lincoln and
the book-agent, I guess. The book-agent wanted him
to write a testimonial for his book. Lincoln wrote it.
It ran something like this: ‘Any person who likes this
kind of a book will find this just the kind of a book
he likes.’ Well, that’s about my idea of baseball; anybody
who likes that kind of a game will find baseball
just the kind of a game he likes.</p>
<p>“Now, they tell me that down at Robinson they’ve
found an old wagon-wheel, cut the fingers off a pair
of kid gloves, bought a wire bird-cage, and started a
baseball club. All right. Let ’em. There are other
wheels and more gloves and another bird-cage, I guess.
Captain Perkins says he has a club, too. I’ve never
seen it, but I don’t doubt his word; any man with
Titian hair tells the truth. He says he keeps it out
at the field. From what I’ve seen of baseball clubs I
think that’s a good, safe place. I hope, however, that
he locks the gates when he leaves ’em. But Captain
Perkins tells me that he has the finest kind of a baseball
club that ever gibbered, and he offers to bet me
a suspender buckle against a pants button that his club
can knock the spots off of any other club, and especially
the Robinson club. I’m not a betting man, and so I
let him boast.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>
<p>“And after he’d boasted until he’d tired himself
out he went on to say that baseball clubs were like
any other aggregation of mortals; that they have to
be clothed and fed, and, moreover, when they go away
to mingle with other clubs they have to have their
railway fare paid. Captain Perkins, as I’ve said once
already, is a truthful man, and so I don’t see but that
we’ve got to believe him. He says that his club hasn’t
any money; that if it doesn’t get some money it will
grow pale and thin and emaciated, and won’t be able
to run around the salt-bags as violently as the Robinson
club; in which case the keeper—I mean the umpire—will
give the game to Robinson. Well, now, what’s to
be done? Are we to stand idly by with our hands in
our pockets and see Robinson walk off with a game
that is really our property? Or are we to take our
hands out of our pockets, with the fingers closed, and
jingle some coins into the collection-box?</p>
<p>“I’m not a baseball enthusiast, as I’ve acknowledged,
but I am an Erskine enthusiast, fellows. Perkins
says we ought to beat Robinson at baseball. I say
let’s do it! I say let’s beat Robinson at everything.
If anybody will start a parchesi club I’ll go along and
stand by and yell while they down the Robinson parchesi
club. That’s what Providence made Robinson
for—to be beaten. Providence looked over the situation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
and said: ‘There’s Erskine, with nothing to beat.’
Then Providence made Robinson. And we started in
and beat her. And we’ve been beating her ever since—when
she hasn’t beaten us.</p>
<p>“I’ve done a whole lot of talking here this evening,
and I guess you’re all tired of it.” (There was
loud and continued dissent at this point, interspersed
with cries of “Good old Tidball!”) “But I promised
to talk, and I like to give good measure. But the time
for talking is about up. Mr. Hanson has something to
say to you, and as he knows what he’s going to talk
about, whereas I don’t know what I’m talking about,
I guess I’d better stop and give him a show. But before
I stop I want to point out a self-evident fact, fellows.
You can’t win from Robinson without a baseball
team, and you can’t have a baseball team unless
you dig down in your pockets and pay up. Manager
Patterson says the Baseball Association needs the sum
of six hundred dollars. Well, let’s give it to ’em. Any
fellow here to-night who thinks a victory over Robinson
isn’t worth six hundred dollars is invited to stand
up and walk out; we’ll unlock the door for him. Six
hundred dollars means only about one dollar for each
fellow. I am requested to state that after Mr. Hanson
has spoken his piece a few of the best-looking men
among us will pass through the audience with small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
cards upon which every man is asked to write his name
and the amount he is willing to contribute to secure
a victory over Robinson that will make last year’s score
look like an infinitesimal fraction. If some one will
go through the motions, I’d like to propose three long
Erskines, three times three and three long Erskines for
the nine.”</p>
<p>Anthony bowed and sat down. The senior class
president sprang to his feet, and the next moment the
hall was thunderous with the mighty cheers that followed
his “One, two, three!” Then came calls of
“Tidball! Tidball!” and again the slogan was taken
up. It was fully five minutes ere the head coach arose.
And when he in turn stood at the platform’s edge the
cheers began once more, for enthusiasm reigned at
last.</p>
<p>Hanson realized that further speechmaking was
idle and confined his remarks to an indorsement of what
Anthony had said. The distribution of blank slips of
paper had already begun and his audience paid but
little attention to his words, although it applauded
good-naturedly. When he had ended, promising on
behalf of the team, and in return for the support of
the college, the best efforts of players and coaches, confusion
reigned supreme. Pencils and fountain pens
were passed hither and thither, jokes were bandied,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
songs were sung, and the tumult increased with the pushing
aside of chairs and the scraping of feet as the meeting
began to break up. But, though some left as soon
as they had filled out their pledges, the greater number
flocked into noisy groups and awaited the announcement
of the result.</p>
<p>At length, Professor Nast accepted the slip of
paper handed him by Patterson and advanced to the
edge of the platform. There, he raised a hand for attention,
and at the same time glanced at the figures.
An expression of incredulity overspread his face, and
he turned an inquiring look upon the manager. The
latter smiled and nodded, as though to dispel the professor’s
doubts. The hubbub died away, and the professor
faced the meeting again.</p>
<p>“I am asked,” he said, “to announce the result of
the—ah—subscription. Where every one has responded
so promptly and so heartily to the appeal in
behalf of the association, it would be, perhaps, unfair
to give the names of any who have been exceptionally
generous. But without doing so it remains a pleasant—ah—privilege
to state that among the subscriptions
there is one of fifty dollars——”</p>
<p>Loud applause greeted this announcement, and fellows
of notoriously empty pocket-books were accused
by their friends of being the unnamed benefactor, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
invariably acknowledged the impeachment with profuse
expressions of modesty.</p>
<p>“Three of twenty-five dollars,” continued the professor,
“six of ten dollars, seventeen of five dollars, and
many of two dollars and over. The total subscription,
strange as it may seem, reaches the sum of five hundred
and ninety-nine dollars, one dollar less than the
amount asked for!”</p>
<p>There was a moment of silent surprise. Then, from
somewhere at the left of the room, a voice cried:
“Here you are, then!” and something went spinning
through the air. The head coach leaped forward,
caught it deftly, and held it aloft. It was a shining
silver dollar.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he said.</p>
<p>The incident tickled the throng, and cheers and
laughter struggled for supremacy. Jack pushed his
way to the door, and remained there waiting for Anthony,
one hand groping lonesomely in a trouser pocket
where a minute or two before had snuggled his last
coin.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</a><br />
<small>JACK COURTS THE MUSE</small></h2>
<p>April passed into May, and uncertain skies gave
way to placid expanses of blue, whereon soft fluffs of
white moved slowly, blown by warm and gentle winds.
Down at the boat-house, bare-legged and bare-headed,
men filed across the floats, bearing the slender, glinting
shells, or, with hands on oars, bent and unbent in unison
to the sharp commands of important and diminutive
coxswains; on the newly rolled cinder-track other men
sped or jogged, heads well back and knees high, with
white trunks fluttering in the breeze; in front of the
stand the jumpers and pole-vaulters plumped themselves
into the freshly spaded loam; on the diamond,
brilliantly green in its carpet of carefully tended turf,
the players darted hither and thither amid the crack
of batted ball and the cries of coaches.</p>
<p>By the beginning of the second week in May, baseball
affairs had assumed a more encouraging look. The
training-table had taken on six more men—among them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
Showell and Clover—and the unsuccessful candidates
had gone to the freshmen team or found other branches
of athletics to interest them. Erskine had played eight
games, had won six, tied one, and lost one. What was
practically a preliminary season was well-nigh over and
with the middle of the month the serious contests would
begin.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Jack had found himself. After a vicarious
existence as a general outfield substitute, he had
settled down as substitute second-baseman, a position
which he had never attempted hitherto, but one which
he took to in a way that vindicated his right to it. He
showed that he possessed the three essentials of a good
second-baseman: coolness, quickness, and judgment.
With the exception of third base, second is the most
difficult of the infield positions; it has been called
the “keystone of the infield,” and that very aptly.
So far as handling the ball is concerned—that is, catching,
stopping, or throwing—second-baseman has no
harder work than shortstop or third-baseman; it is
in studying the batsman that he encounters his difficulties.</p>
<p>Jack started in with a good knowledge of the fundamentals
of baseball and took kindly to coaching.
Gradually he acquired the intuitive sense which enabled
him to tell where the ball was going before it had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
left the bat, and to govern himself accordingly. He
learned that a nine’s success depends upon team-work
and not upon individual brilliancy, and to control his
zeal; to anticipate the shortstop’s movements and to
know, without looking, where that player and the third-baseman
were; to keep always in mind that the best
policy is to put out the runner nearest home; and much
more besides.</p>
<p>With a definite position to try for, Jack found it
much easier to put every effort into playing. Even the
fact that “Wally” Stiles, the first choice for second-baseman,
would in all likelihood play out the big games,
those with Harvard, Artmouth, and Robinson, did not
trouble him. There would be other games which, if
less important, were well worth winning, and in those
he would probably take part.</p>
<p>So Jack put his whole mind into learning his position,
studying its possibilities, developing an eighth
sense, which enabled him time and again to judge almost
with exactitude in what direction, and how far, the ball,
scarcely away from the bat, was going, and learning,
too, to “size up” a batsman’s prowess from the way
he stood and looked and swung his stick. I have said
that he possessed a good knowledge of the fundamentals
of the game when he started in; but there were still
things to learn which his baseball education had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
taught, such little niceties as stopping grounders with
his feet together so that, in case of a miss, the ball
could not go between his legs, and, after catching or
stopping a ball, to start at once toward the point whither
the ball was to be thrown instead of standing still, so
that by the time he had gathered himself for the throw
the distance for the ball to travel had been lessened;
little things these, but of the sort that win or lose a
game.</p>
<p>One thing that had a deal to do with Jack’s ability
to put his heart into his work on the diamond was the
attitude of the other players toward him. Had the
old scarcely concealed contempt and dislike been manifested
he could never have shown up as varsity material.
But that was past. In the minds of most of the fellows
time had dimmed the memory of the incident at the
river, now nearly three months ago, and Jack’s attitude
and behavior of late had aided.</p>
<p>For a while the neutrality observed by Gilberth
made him suspicious that the pitcher was only husbanding
his powers of annoyance in order to indulge in
some more than usually brutal expression of contempt.
But, as time went by, Jack was forced to conclude that
hostilities from that source were over. At length, the
neutrality was succeeded by a show of friendliness. It
was impossible to practise together day after day without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
an occasional word or two, and Jack and Tracy
soon found themselves in the habit of greeting each
other when they met, very ceremoniously, to be sure,
and of sometimes exchanging observations on the bench
much after the manner of slight acquaintances who find
themselves thrown together at a party. Jack was very
glad. The old thirst for vengeance on his enemies had
wasted perceptibly under the influence of congenial
companionship, and he was ready to cry quits. Just
what Tracy’s sentiments were at this time it is hard
to say; it is doubtful if he knew himself.</p>
<p>He had made up his mind to let Jack alone, and
was doing it. Only one thing troubled him, and that
was the fear that Anthony Tidball might think that his
course was the result of the other’s threats. And it
is only fair to state on behalf of Tracy’s physical courage
that such was not the case. Joe Perkins’s remonstrances
had borne weight, and when, shortly after
Anthony’s visit, Professor White had added his request,
Tracy had decided that, after all, he had possibly mistaken
the sentiment of the college. Professor White
had said to him very much the same things that Joe
had said, but he had put them more convincingly. He
knew Tracy, and did not make the mistake of ruffling
his temper; on the contrary, when he had left, Tracy
felt that there was one person at Erskine who understood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
him. And for the sake of that person and of
Joe he would do as they asked him.</p>
<p>Professor White’s efforts in Jack’s behalf were not
limited to the talk with Tracy. He saw Joe Perkins
and Hanson and King and several others with whom
Jack came in daily contact and asked for the boy fair
treatment. And he encouraged Jack to visit him and,
when the latter did so, used every effort to hearten
him. On the whole, it is safe to say that to the professor
belonged a greater part of the credit for the
betterment of the boy’s condition. Such was the state
of affairs when, on a certain Saturday evening, about
the middle of the month, Jack and Anthony sat talking
on the edge of Mrs. Dorlon’s porch.</p>
<p>Anthony had washed up his supper dishes and Jack
had just strolled back from dinner at the training-table.
The moon, well into its first quarter, was sailing in a
clear sky over the tops of the elms in the yard. The
evening was musical with the hum and whirr of early
insects and the varied sounds from open windows.
Somewhere farther up the curve of Elm Street an uncertain
hand was coaxing the strains of Mandalay from
a guitar, and now and then the faint music of a piano
floated across from Walton Hall. Anthony had lighted
his pipe and, with its bowl aglow in the dusk, was
leaning against a pillar, one knee tucked up under his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
chin. Jack sat a yard away, his hands in his pockets,
staring up at the moon.</p>
<p>“Did you ever write poetry, Anthony?” he asked
suddenly.</p>
<p>“No.” Anthony sucked reflectively at the pipe and
shook his head slowly. “No, I’ve had the measles and
whooping-cough and scarlatina, but I’ve never had
poetry yet. Of course, I’ve tried my hand at blank
verse in Latin, but it wasn’t poetry; even the instructor
acknowledged that.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I meant just plain every-day poetry, you
know,” Jack explained. “I thought if you had you
could tell me something about it.”</p>
<p>“Well, I didn’t say that I didn’t know poetry when
I saw it,” answered Anthony. “I’ve read a good deal
of it, you see. What do you want to know?”</p>
<p>“I want to know whether you have to have all
your lines rhyme.”</p>
<p>“Depends, I guess. What are you going to do,
anyway, turn into a poet?”</p>
<p>“No, only I thought I’d try my hand at writing
some verses for the fellows to sing at the games, you
know. The Purple says we ought to have some new
songs for the Robinson game.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Well, now, from what I’ve seen of such
things it doesn’t matter any whether lines rhyme or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
don’t rhyme, I should say. As long as the words fit
the music the rhymes just hump along as best they
can. Have you written anything yet?”</p>
<p>“N—no, not exactly,” answered Jack cautiously.
“I’ve got an idea, but I didn’t quite know about rhyming.
Of course, all the poetry you read rhymes all
through, like Tennyson, or else it doesn’t rhyme at all,
like Milton. What I was wondering was whether it
was all right to just rhyme now and then, you know,
when you could, and not bother about it when you—you
can’t. What do you think?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’d just do the best I could and not worry,”
answered the other gravely. “The—hum—sentiment
seems to be the most important thing about college
songs.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I suppose so. It’s funny how few rhymes
there are when you come to look for them,” said Jack
thoughtfully. “Now there’s ‘purple’; I can’t find
anything to rhyme with that.”</p>
<p>“Purple? Now that does sound difficult. Let’s
see; I guess ‘turtle’ wouldn’t do, eh?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid not. I’ve tried everything. I thought
maybe it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t rhyme.”</p>
<p>“Don’t believe it will. Let’s hear what you
got.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it isn’t anything much,” answered Jack<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
modestly. “It—it goes to the tune of ‘Hail, Columbia!’
you know.”</p>
<p>“All right; sing it if you’d rather.”</p>
<p>“I can’t sing; I’ll just say it. It—it begins like
this:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hail to Erskine, conq’ring band!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Firm together we will stand!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While the battle rages high<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We will fight until the last!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Underneath the purple banner we<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will live or die for victory!<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p class="noi">What—what do you think of it?”</p>
<p>“Well, if you want my honest opinion,” replied
Anthony, “I think it’s too classic, Jack. Seems to
me what you want in those kind of songs is a lot of
‘rah, rah, hullabaloo!’ And I don’t believe ‘Hail,
Columbia!’ is a good tune; seems too jerky. Course,
I’m not an authority, and maybe I’m mistaken. But
if I were you I’d try again; get more swing into it.
I’ve always thought ‘John Brown’s Body’ was the best
tune to set football songs and such things to. Of
course, it’s older than the hills and has been used by
every college from Maine to Mexico, but that doesn’t
matter if you get some good words. I’d forget about
the rhymes at first; just find some lines that’ll swing
along, you know; kind of sing themselves; afterward,
you can go back and tuck a rhyme in here and there.
Try it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p>
<p>“I guess I will. I wasn’t just satisfied with that
‘Hail, Columbia!’ one, but I didn’t know what ailed
it. I thought maybe it was because I couldn’t find a
rhyme for ‘high.’ There was ‘die,’ but I’d used that
in the last line, you see.”</p>
<p>“I see.” Anthony knocked the ashes from his pipe
and stretched himself. “Guess I’ll have to go up and
do some studying,” he said.</p>
<p>“Wait a minute,” Jack pleaded. “There’s another
thing I wanted to ask about. Is it hard to learn to
swim?”</p>
<p>“Never learned, Jack, and can’t say from experience.
But from what I’ve seen I’d say it was blamed
hard.”</p>
<p>“Never learned! But I thought——”</p>
<p>“It was like this with me. When I was about knee
high to a grasshopper I went in wading and saw my
daddy out in a dory about fifty feet from shore. So
I went out to him. They say I didn’t have much
breath left when they pulled me in; I don’t remember.
I guess I swam, though; if I didn’t I don’t know how
I got there. Anyhow, after that I knew how all right.”</p>
<p>“Just imagine,” mused Jack. “I know I couldn’t
do that, but I do want to learn. Do you think I could?”</p>
<p>“Course you could, but I guess it would take time.
If you want me to help, I’ll do it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p>
<p>“Will you, really?” exclaimed the other. “Glory!
that will be fine! I wanted to ask you, but didn’t quite
like to; I’ve been so much of a bother to you already.”</p>
<p>“Oh, get out. We’ll go down to the river and find
a place where it’s not too deep; I think I know of one.
The water’ll be plaguy cold, though, this early. Want
to wait a while longer?”</p>
<p>“No, I want to begin right off—before my courage
fails me; you know, I’m an awful fool about water,
Anthony.”</p>
<p>“Because you don’t understand it. Water won’t
hurt you if you know what to do.”</p>
<p>“And you won’t mind if—if I’m a bit scary at
first?”</p>
<p>“No, I won’t mind. If you say you want me to
teach you to swim, I’ll do it if I have to throw you
in the water and hold you there. Do you?”</p>
<p>Jack took a long breath and looked hard at Anthony’s
face in the moonlight. What he saw evidently
reassured him, for after a pause he said faintly:</p>
<p>“Y—yes!”</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</a><br />
<small>ERSKINE <i>VS.</i> HARVARD</small></h2>
<p>The nine took its first long trip when it journeyed
to Cambridge and played Harvard in a warm drizzle
of rain that made the ball slippery and hard to hold,
and set the players to steaming like so many tea-kettles.
Erskine met her second defeat of the season that afternoon.
She had an attack of the stage-fright usual to
the teams of lesser colleges when confronting those of
the “big four,” and it lasted until the fifth inning,
when, with the score 9 to 0 in her favor, Harvard’s
pitcher slumped and allowed the bases to fill for the
first time during the contest.</p>
<p>Erskine awakened, then, to the fact that her opponents
were only human beings, after all, and not supernatural
personages protected by the gods, a fact which
Hanson had been seeking to convince them of all day
long, but without success. With bases full, one man
out, and Bissell at bat, there seemed no reason why<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
the Purple should not place a tally in her empty column.
This was evidently the view that Bissell himself
took, for after having two strikes and two balls
called on him, he found what he wanted and drove it
hard and straight between first and second. Gilberth
scored, but Billings was caught out at the plate. Motter
reached third and Bissell went to second. Hanson
whispered to Lowe as he selected his bat. Harvard
shortened field.</p>
<p>“Last man!” called the crimson-legged first-baseman.</p>
<p>“Last man!” echoed the shortstop.</p>
<p>Lowe’s first attempt at a bunt missed fire and the
umpire called a strike on him. Then came two balls,
each an enticing and deceptive drop. Lowe was the
last man on the batting list, but if he wasn’t much of
a hitter he at least was capable of obeying orders. He
watched the balls go by in a disinterested manner that
was beautiful to see. Then came another strike, and
for an instant his round, freckled face expressed uneasiness.
The Harvard pitcher decided to end the
half, and threw straight over base. Lowe shortened
his bat a trifle and found the ball, and the next moment
both were going toward first base, the ball very
slowly, Lowe about as rapidly as he ever moved in
his life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>
<p>It was the pitcher’s ball, and the pitcher ran for it.
Motter, at third, started pell-mell for home, only to
stop as suddenly and dive back to the bag. But the
pitcher knew better than to throw there, and as soon
as Motter had turned he sped the ball to first. But
he had delayed an instant too long, and the umpire
dropped his hand in the direction of Lowe, who, with
both feet planted firmly on the bag, was obeying Perkins’s
repeated command to “Hold it, Ted!” It was
a close decision, but there was no reason to judge it
as unfair, and the game went on with the bases again
filled and Erskine’s heavy batters up.</p>
<p>Joe Perkins stepped to the plate, gripped his bat,
and looked over the field. Shortstop was covering
second, and the infield was playing close. Out toward
the corner of the Carey building the right-fielder was
stepping back. Erskine’s captain had already sent two
long flies into his territory, and it wouldn’t do to take
risks. Joe looked with longing eyes upon a stretch of
undefended territory behind first base and out of reach
of right-fielder. If he could bring a low fly down there
it was safe for another tally. But the pitcher had himself
in hand again. He was more than usually deliberate
and the first delivery didn’t lend encouragement
to Joe’s hopes, for although that youth, staggering
away from the base, sought to impress the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
umpire with the fact that the ball had gone well inside
of the plate, that astute, black-capped person
called “Strike!”</p>
<p>The three or four hundred students who, with raincoats
and umbrellas, were braving the discomforting
drizzle, applauded. Jack, huddled between Clover and
Northup on the bench in the lee of the west stand,
sighed and took his hand from the folds of his sweater
to beat them anxiously on his knees. Clover wiped
the rain from his cheek and turned.</p>
<p>“We could use a home run, couldn’t we?”</p>
<p>“You might as well talk about winning the game,”
growled Northup, who had overheard. “That pitcher
hasn’t given any one a home run yet this season, and
you can bet he isn’t going to present us with one.”</p>
<p>“Ball!” droned the umpire.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be satisfied with a hit,” sighed Jack.</p>
<p>“You’re wise,” Northup answered with a grin.
“There it is again,” he muttered then, as Joe, reaching
for an outshoot, swung in the air and stepped
back to tap the plate with his bat and look exasperated.</p>
<p>“Say, doesn’t that make you mad,” asked Clover,
“to reach for something when you know you shouldn’t,
and then get fooled? I’ll bet Cap could bite nails
now!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p>
<p>But Joe got over his annoyance the next instant,
and gave his attention to the ball. When it had passed
he sighed with relief and silently gave thanks to the
little red-faced umpire. It was now two strikes and
two balls. Back of first and third King and Gilberth
were coaching frantically:</p>
<p>“Two out, Ted! Play off! Play away off!”</p>
<p>“Run on anything, Teddy! Two gone! Now!
<em>Now!</em> NOW!”</p>
<p>“With two Teds on bases,” said Northup, “it seems
as though something might happen.”</p>
<p>“Two? Is Lowe’s name Ted?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Theodore Coveney Lowe, Esquire, is the gentleman’s
full— <em>Hey!</em>” Northup was on his feet, and
a second later the bench was empty. Ten purple-stockinged
maniacs danced and shrieked over the sopping
turf, waving sweaters and caps. Motter and Bissell
and Lowe were racing home almost in a bunch. Joe
<a href="#image01">Perkins was speeding for second</a>. He had put the ball
where he wanted it, well over first-baseman’s head, and
yards and yards in front of right-fielder; had placed
it there as carefully as though he had walked across
the diamond and dropped it exactly in the middle of
the uncovered territory.</p>
<p>First-baseman started back for it, and the pitcher
ran to cover first. But right-field was racing in, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
it was that player who reached the ball first and fielded
it home just too late to catch Lowe at the plate. Then
the sphere flew back to second, but Joe, hearkening to
the coaching, slid across the brown mud and got his
fingers on a corner of the bag in plenty of time.</p>
<p>There followed a pause in the progress of the game
while Harvard’s pitcher and her captain tried to convince
the umpire that Lowe had not touched second
base in his journey toward home. In that interim the
little band of Erskine players and substitutes gathered
together and cheered, with the rain falling into their
wide-open mouths, until the Harvard stand applauded
vigorously.</p>
<p>“Four to nine!” yelled Knox. “We can beat them
yet!”</p>
<p>But King, with desperate purpose written eloquently
over his face, went to bat and ingloriously
fouled out to third-baseman, and the half was over.
Erskine never came near to scoring again, although,
now that the ice was broken, every man felt capable of
doing wonderful things, and tried his best to accomplish
them. The difficulty was with the Harvard team,
and notably the Harvard pitcher; they objected. But
if Erskine was not able to add further tallies to her
score, she, at least, held her opponents down to two
more runs, Gilberth pitching a remarkable game, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
what had looked for a time like an overwhelming
defeat resolved itself into a creditable showing for the
Purple.</p>
<p>Jack didn’t get into the game for an instant, nor,
in fact, did any of the substitutes. But, as he had
scarcely hoped to do so, he was not greatly disappointed.
After the game was over the team went back to Boston
inside and outside a stage-coach, laughing, joking, cheering
now and then, and, on the whole, very well pleased
with themselves. Hanson didn’t see fit to dampen their
enthusiasm by reminding them of the faults which had
been plentifully in evidence, but reserved his cold
water for the next day. They had dinner at a hotel.
In the course of the meal, King called across the
table to Joe:</p>
<p>“I say, we’ve got old Tidball to thank for this
feed, haven’t we? If it hadn’t been for that speech
of his we’d never have had enough money in the treasury
to buy sandwiches.”</p>
<p>“I guess that’s so,” answered the captain.</p>
<p>“You fellows needn’t think, though,” cautioned
Patterson, “that you’re going to get this sort of thing
every trip.”</p>
<p>There was a groan.</p>
<p>“Put him out!” called Gilberth.</p>
<p>“Down with the manager!” cried King.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p>
<p>“I wish,” said Jack to Motter, who sat at his left,
“that I could take some of this dinner back to Tidball.
I don’t believe he ever had a real good dinner in all
his life!”</p>
<p>“Guess you’re right,” Motter laughed. “Anyway,
he doesn’t look as though he ever had!”</p>
<p>Patterson distributed tickets to one of the theaters,
and the men were cautioned to be back at the hotel
promptly at eleven in order to take the midnight train
for home.</p>
<p>“The management doesn’t pay for these, does it?”
Jack asked.</p>
<p>“Thunder, no!” answered Motter. “The theater
gives them to us, and advertises the fact that we’re
going to be there; calls it ‘Erskine night.’ We’re on
show, as it were. Some of the Harvard team are going,
too. You needn’t fear that Patterson’s going to buy
theater seats for us; you’re lucky if you get him to pay
your car-fare to the station!”</p>
<p>Jack’s experience of theaters was extremely limited,
and he enjoyed himself thoroughly all the evening.
The team occupied two big boxes at the left of the
stage, while across the house the corresponding boxes
were filled with members of the Harvard team. There
was some cheering on the part of the Purple’s supporters,
but neither Hanson nor Joe encouraged it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p>
<p>“Shut that up,” begged the latter, once. “They’ll
think we’re a prep. school!”</p>
<p>At half past eleven they got into a train at North
Station and went promptly to sleep, two in a berth, and
knew little of events until they were roused out in the
early morning at Centerport.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</a><br />
<small>JACK AT SECOND</small></h2>
<p>Half a mile beyond Warrener’s Grove, the wooded
bluff at the end of Murdoch Street, the river makes
in the shore an indentation which is known as the
Cove. It is not an attractive body of water. At some
time in the past there was a brick-yard there, and even
yet the remains of two weather-beaten sheds and a
couple of high troughs in which the clay was mixed
may be seen. During a spring freshet the river went
over its banks and flowed into the pits left by the
excavations. Later, the water and the frost connected
the stagnant pond with the river; rushes gained foothold
in the clay bottom and the old quarry took on the
appearance of a natural cove. Save in one or two places
the depth is but slight, and, in consequence, the Cove
offers warmer bathing in the spring than does the river.
On the side nearest the railroad there is a stretch of
gradually shallowing water that answers all the purposes
of a beach. It was here, then, that Anthony and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
Jack, during the latter part of May, came almost every
morning, and, exchanging their clothes for gymnasium
trunks, played the parts of teacher and pupil.</p>
<p>The first time that Jack found the cold water lapping
his knees he went pale with terror, and would
have fled ignominiously had not Anthony seized and
encouraged him. In the end, he allowed the other to
persuade him to remain where he was and, after gingerly
splashing himself with water, watch his teacher
a few yards beyond illustrate the method of swimming.
Anthony realized that he had a task before him that
required a deal of diplomacy, and he carefully avoided
saying or doing anything to increase Jack’s dread of
the water.</p>
<p>After four lessons Jack had gone the length of immersing
himself and, held tightly by Anthony, had
essayed a few wild strokes with arms and legs. Anthony
strove to teach confidence first of all, and it was
not until Jack could allow him away from his side
that Anthony set about the easier part of his task. As
soon as Jack could struggle for a few strokes through
the water Anthony taught him to float. And it was
not until Jack could float in every possible position
that the swimming lessons were resumed. Then progress
was rapid. By the middle of June Jack could
swim out to a rush-covered raft which had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
anchored about a hundred feet from shore by enterprising
duck-hunters. At first Anthony kept beside
him; later, they had races in which Anthony left Jack
half-way to the goal; in the end, Jack found courage to
swim to the raft and back by himself. But, as I have
said, that was not until June was half over, and before
that other things had happened.</p>
<p>It was on the fourth of the month, a Wednesday,
that Jack, for the first time, played a game through as
second-baseman. Erskine’s opponents were the Dexter
nine, a hard-hitting aggregation of preparatory schoolboys,
and to meet them Hanson and Perkins put in
a team largely composed of substitutes. This team,
in batting order, was as follows:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="noi">Perkins, catcher.<br />
King, pitcher.<br />
Northup, right-field.<br />
Mears, first base.<br />
Weatherby, second base.<br />
Smith, third base.<br />
Clover, shortstop.<br />
Lowe, left-field.<br />
Riseman, center-field.</p>
</div>
<p>The last six, with the exception of Lowe, were substitutes,
and before the game was over Lowe, too, had
been replaced, Showell going in for him. Jack’s playing
that afternoon raised his stock fully a hundred per
cent. He was in fine fettle—he had never felt better
in his life than he had since he began his morning dips
in the cold waters of the Cove—and covered the second
of what Anthony had called the salt-bags in a manner<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
that opened the eyes of his companions and caused
“Wally” Styles much uneasiness. His batting, too,
was as good as his fielding; he had the honor of making
the first hit and the first run for Erskine, and was the
only man on the team that afternoon, with the exception
of Perkins, who knocked out a home run in the
sixth, able to hit the Dexter pitcher for more than
one base. In the fifth inning his three-bagger was
clean and timely, bringing in two runs and placing
him where he was able to score a minute after on a
passed ball.</p>
<p>Dexter made things extremely interesting for a
while in the seventh inning, getting in two runs and
filling the bases again directly afterward. It was Jack,
then, who, in a measure, saved the day. With the
bags all occupied, Dexter’s catcher went to bat and
lined out a hot ball just to the right of King. There
was one out. King got one hand on the ball, but
failed to stop it. Jack, who had run forward to back
him up, found the ball in the air and threw quickly
and true to the plate in time to put out the runner.
Then Perkins, without more than a second’s pause, returned
it to Jack, who was again covering second, and
Jack found the Dexter catcher two feet off base.</p>
<p>The game ended with the score 5 to 2, and of those
five tallies two were opposite Jack’s name. The other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
three belonged to Perkins and Northup. Jack’s record
that day included four put-outs and five assists, and held
no errors. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having
done a good afternoon’s work that put him in such a
state of elation that composing verse alone seemed to
satisfy him. When half past seven arrived and he had
not appeared in Anthony’s room, Anthony went in
search of him and discovered him curled up in a ball
on his bed, laboring with pencil and pad and flushed
cheeks.</p>
<p>“I’ve got it!” cried Jack.</p>
<p>“Got what?” asked Anthony.</p>
<p>“The song! Listen!” Jack squirmed about on the
creaking cot until he had his back against the wall.
Then he waved his pad triumphantly over his head.
“It goes to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’; you suggested
that, you know; and I didn’t have any trouble at
all; and the rhymes are all right, too, I think! Now,
then!” And Jack, beating time with his pencil, recited
sonorously his verses:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;<br /></span>
<span class="i7">Oh, poor old Robinson!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i15">And down with Robinson!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Purple are the violets above the lonely grave<br /></span>
<span class="i7">Of poor old Robinson!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i15">And down with Robinson!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>“Fine!” cried Anthony. “That’s the sort of
thing! Let’s see it.” He took the paper and, turning
it to the light, began to hum, then sing the words to
the old marching song, nodding his head in time to
the music. Anthony had about as much melody in his
voice as a raven, but Jack, watching and listening
eagerly from the bed, thought he sang beautifully, and
was enormously pleased with the production. When
the final refrain was reached he joined his own voice,
rocking back and forth in ecstasy, and the concert
ended in a final triumphant burst of mel— Well, no,
not melody; let us say sound.</p>
<p>“Do you like it?” Jack asked, as eager for praise
of his lines as any poet.</p>
<p>“Great!” Anthony answered. “And I should
think it would do for a football song, too, wouldn’t
it?”</p>
<p>“Would it?” cried Jack. “Yes, I believe it
would! That’s fine, isn’t it? Of course, I don’t want
you to think I’m stuck up, Anthony, but I really think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
it’s better than any that the Purple has published yet.
What do you say?”</p>
<p>“Well, I haven’t read many of ’em; should think
it might be, though. Better send it in right off, so it’ll
be in time for the next issue, eh?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m going to mail it to-night; as soon as I
make a good copy.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation:
“I say, Anthony, would you mind copying it off for
me? I write such an awful fist, you know.”</p>
<p>So they adjourned to Anthony’s room, and Jack
leaned anxiously over his friend’s shoulder while the
lines were copied in the most careful of copperplate
chirography, folded, sealed, and addressed. Then Jack
bought a one-cent stamp from Anthony and took the
letter to the post-office, marching back through the
warm June evening humming “Glory to the Purple,”
and in imagination leading the cheering section at the
Robinson game.</p>
<p>After he had gone to sleep he dreamed that he had
been appointed poet-laureate of Erskine College, and
was being driven along Main Street in Gilberth’s automobile
between serried ranks of applauding students
and townfolk, his brow adorned with a golden fillet
of laurel-leaves. The automobile was extremely
spacious, since it held besides himself not only the
faculty, but Anthony and Joe Perkins and the entire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
baseball team. When he acknowledged the plaudits
of the multitude he had to hold his laurel wreath
on with one hand, which annoyed him a great deal.
In the end the president solved the problem by tying
it on with a red silk handkerchief. Then, at the
moment of his greatest triumph, Showell arose from
somewhere and shouted in a voice that drowned the
cheers: “He didn’t compose it! The writing was
Anthony Tidball’s! I saw it!” Jack tried to deny the
awful slander, but none would listen to him, and he
awoke breathless and despairing, to find the sunlight
streaming in the end window and the robins singing
matins to the early day.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</a><br />
<small>ANTHONY TELLS A SECRET</small></h2>
<p>“I wish I’d never taken the captaincy,” said Joe
Perkins.</p>
<p>“Oh, rot! What’s the good of talking that way?”
asked Tracy Gilberth. “The nine’s coming along all
right. What if Artmouth did rub it into us? We had
an off day; every team’s liable to have them. Look
at last year.”</p>
<p>“I know,” answered Joe, “we had plenty of them
then, and see what happened! We lost to Robinson,
seven to nothing; we scarcely made a hit! If I thought—if
I thought we were going to lose this year, I’d—I’d
cut and run; honest, Tracy, I would!”</p>
<p>“That’d be a nice thing to do, wouldn’t it?” asked
the other disgustedly. “Fellows would be proud of
you, wouldn’t they?”</p>
<p>“It would be better than losing again,” muttered
Joe.</p>
<p>“Oh, get out, Joe! Brace up; you’re off your feed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
that’s what’s the matter with you. I heard ‘Baldy’
telling Hanson yesterday that you were going stale.
He didn’t mean me to hear it; but I couldn’t very well
help it. That’s why you’re out here with me in my
‘bubble’ instead of taking batting practise this morning.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know all that. A trainer doesn’t send a
fellow out for rides on Saturday mornings unless he’s
gone stale or has something else the matter. I suppose
I am out of sorts, Tracy. And I guess I’d rather stay
and take a licking like a little man than run away,
but—” He stopped and scowled ahead of him at the
dusty road. Then, “It’s all well enough to talk about
‘honorable defeat,’ and all that, but it’s mighty hard
to lose your big game when you’re captain and have
worked hard and put your whole heart into it.”</p>
<p>“Of course it is; I know that,” answered Tracy
soothingly. “But you’re not going to lose. You’re
going to win. So buck up, old chap!”</p>
<p>“And there’s poor old Tom Higgins,” Joe continued
dispiritedly. “What will he say? I promised
him I’d win this year. He’s coming up next week,
if he can, to coach for a few days; I told you, didn’t
I? What’ll he think when he sees how things are
going?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Tom Higgins be blowed!” cried Tracy. “He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
couldn’t win himself, and I’d like to know what business
he has finding fault with you if you don’t win, either?”</p>
<p>“But I promised him——”</p>
<p>“Well, supposing you did? If you can’t win, you
can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Every fellow on the
team is going to work as hard as he knows how; every
fellow is going to stand by you until the last man’s
out. If we lose, it’ll be simply because Robinson’s got
a better baseball nine. Cheer up, now, Joe, or I’ll
run this machine into the ditch there and send you out
on your silly old nut.”</p>
<p>The two were speeding comfortably along River
Street in Tracy’s automobile. It was ten o’clock of a
fresh morning in the first week of June. They had left
the village a half mile behind and were <em>chugging</em> along
over a somewhat dusty country road with green hillsides
to the right and the gleaming river to the left.
Occasionally the fragrant air was sullied with the smell
of gasoline, and Joe sniffed disapprovingly and made
uncomplimentary remarks about motor vehicles in general,
and Tracy’s in particular. But Tracy, who had
had his orders from Simson to cheer Joe up and bring
him home in good spirits, refused to take umbrage, and
declared that gasoline had a rather pleasant odor.</p>
<p>Joe was certainly suffering from nerves, and had
been ever since the disastrous game with Artmouth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
two days before, when Erskine had gone down ingloriously
to the tune of 17 to 1, the 1 being the result
of good fortune rather than good playing. Perhaps,
as Tracy put it, the team had merely had an off day;
at all events its performance had been anything but
encouraging to the supporters of the Purple, and had
thrown Joe into the depths of despair. With the final
game of the season, the contest with Robinson, but
two weeks distant, he saw only defeat ahead.</p>
<p>They were in sight of the Cove now, and Tracy
suddenly pointed ahead. “What in thunder’s that,
Joe?” he asked. Joe roused himself from unprofitable
thoughts and looked toward the point indicated by his
friend’s finger.</p>
<p>“Must be a duck,” he said finally.</p>
<p>“Duck be blowed! There aren’t any ducks around
here at this time of year. Perhaps— I tell you what
it is, Joe, it’s a man’s head! See? Some one’s in swimming.”</p>
<p>“Queer place to swim, among all those rushes,” Joe
responded. “But I guess you’re right. We can tell
for sure farther on.”</p>
<p>“Yes. Look; there he comes out. There’s a sort
of beach there, remember? He’s walking out, and——”</p>
<p>“If it doesn’t look like Jack Weatherby, I’ll eat
my hat!” Joe interrupted.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p>
<p>“Weatherby!” echoed Tracy. “What’s he doing
down here? He’s at practise.”</p>
<p>“No, only the first squad from ten until eleven;
he’s in the second. That’s who it is, Jack Weatherby.”</p>
<p>“Rot! It doesn’t look the least bit like Weatherby
to me. I tell you what, we’ll go over and see.”</p>
<p>“Can you get there in this tea-kettle?” asked Joe
doubtfully.</p>
<p>“Sure; run in where the old bridge used to be;
it’s just a nice little jounce.”</p>
<p>“All right, only remember that I’m not made of
india-rubber.”</p>
<p>That is why Jack, when he rejoined Anthony in
the shade of the old shed near-by, reported uneasily that
an automobile, with two occupants, was crossing the clay
field from the road, and that it must be Gilberth’s.
Anthony finished dressing and then went to investigate.
As he turned the corner a voice hailed him.</p>
<p>“Hello, Tidball! Was that you, for goodness’
sake?”</p>
<p>“Hello!” answered Anthony. “Was what me?”</p>
<p>“The chap we saw in the water a minute ago.
I could have sworn it was Weatherby,” Joe replied.</p>
<p>“I was in there,” Anthony said. “Water’s nice
and warm down here.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p>
<p>“Well, but how did you get dressed so quickly?”
Joe went on, suspiciously. “Oh, you be blowed! It
wasn’t you we saw. It was Jack Weatherby, wasn’t
it?”</p>
<p>“Maybe it was. He’s just dressing himself around
the corner there.” Anthony saw that further attempt
at concealing Jack’s identity was idle. During the conversation
Tracy and Anthony had not noticed each
other’s presence save by perfunctory nods.</p>
<p>“Going back?” asked Joe.</p>
<p>“Yes, as soon as Jack gets his clothes on.”</p>
<p>“Well, get in here and go with us, can’t you?
There’s lots of room, eh, Tracy?”</p>
<p>Tracy nodded. He had not told Joe of Anthony’s
call, and his friend was unaware that relations between
the two were somewhat strained. Joe wondered at
the lack of hospitality displayed.</p>
<p>“Oh, I guess we’d rather walk,” Anthony answered,
smiling a bit behind his spectacles.</p>
<p>“Nonsense, you’ll get in here, both of you, and
Tracy will show you what he calls ‘squirting through
space.’ Hello, Jack!”</p>
<p>Jack came into sight carrying the bathing-suits and
towels and somewhat red of face. He feared that Joe
and Gilberth had guessed his secret.</p>
<p>“Hello!” he answered. “Hello, Gilberth!” The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
latter returned his salutation affably enough and Joe
exclaimed:</p>
<p>“You’re a couple of nice mud-hens, aren’t you?
Why don’t you pick out a decent place when you want
to bathe? Come on and get in; we’ll take you back.”</p>
<p>Jack hesitated and looked inquiringly at Anthony.
The latter’s expression gave no clue to his wishes, and
so, in the end, Jack assented, and the two crowded into
the carriage, and Tracy started back across the field
toward the road. Joe seemed to have forgotten his
troubles for the while, and the talk, ranging from baseball
to final examinations, grew lively, even Gilberth
finding his tongue at last. There was no hurry about
getting back, he said, and so they crossed westward
to the turnpike, and there, with a hard, safe road
underneath, sped homeward at a rate that took Jack’s
breath away and made Anthony hold tightly to so much
of the seat as he could find. They turned into Main
Street at the Observatory just as the clock in the tower
of College Hall, glimpsed over the tree-tops, indicated
a quarter of eleven.</p>
<p>“I guess I’d better get out at William Street,” said
Jack, “or I’ll be late at the field. Will you come
along, Anthony?”</p>
<p>“Can’t. I’ve got a recitation and I’ve already cut
once this week.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p>
<p>“Once?” cried Gilberth. “Great Scott, I’ve cut
four times!”</p>
<p>“Well, you’d better quit it, Tracy,” Joe remonstrated,
“or they’ll be putting you on probation, and
then we’ll be beaten, sure as fate!” He turned to Jack.
“Come to the room with me and then I’ll go out with
you.”</p>
<p>“You’re not allowed out there this morning,” cried
Tracy. “Hanson said I was to keep you away until the
game.”</p>
<p>“You can’t,” Joe replied quietly. “Besides, I’m
feeling fine now, and it would give me the horrors to
have to mope around the college while you fellows
were enjoying yourselves.”</p>
<p>“Enjoying ourselves!” Tracy grumbled. “You’ve
got a queer notion of enjoyment. If you think I’m
happy when Hanson is throwing it into me because I
don’t hold my bat the way they did when he was a
boy, you’re away off, Joe.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m going out, anyhow,” Joe answered.
Suddenly, just as they reached the corner of the
yard, he turned to Anthony. “I say, Tidball, I
wish you’d tell me what you two were doing at
the Cove. I—I’ve got a reason for wanting to
know.”</p>
<p>Jack shot an admonitory glance at his friend, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
Anthony didn’t see it; perhaps he didn’t want to. He
looked gravely back at Joe and replied:</p>
<p>“All right, Perkins, I’ll tell you. I was teaching
Jack how to swim.”</p>
<p>“Anthony!” cried Jack, the color flooding into
his cheeks. “You promised!”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t promise, Jack,” he answered calmly.
“I know you didn’t want me to tell, but I think the
thing’s been a secret long enough.”</p>
<p>Gilberth was frowning intensely and studying the
clear road ahead, as though he expected a stone wall
to rise out of the ground at any instant and bar his
progress. Joe was looking curiously at Jack’s averted
face.</p>
<p>“King was right,” he said softly. Then, “Why in
blazes didn’t you explain, Jack? Why didn’t you tell
the fellows you couldn’t swim?”</p>
<p>But Jack only shook his head without turning.</p>
<p>“Pride,” said Anthony. “Jack’s full of it. I
wanted to tell what the trouble was the next day, but
he wouldn’t listen to it.” He reached around and placed
one big, ungainly hand on Jack’s shoulder. “He’s an
idiot, Jack is, but he’s <em>all right</em>!”</p>
<p>Gilberth swung the machine over to the sidewalk,
and stopped it in front of the north gate.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to get out here,” he said gruffly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
“I’ve got to take this thing down to the stable. You
might as well stay in, though, Tidball; I’m going your
way. So long, you fellows.”</p>
<p>The automobile whizzed off again down Main Street,
and disappeared around the corner of College Place.
Joe and Jack watched it out of sight and then turned
together and passed through the gate, bending their
steps toward Sessons Hall at the upper end of the quadrangle.
For the first part of the way neither spoke.
Then Joe put his hand through the other’s arm and
bent forward smilingly until he could see Jack’s flushed
face.</p>
<p>“You’re an awful fool, Jack,” he said affectionately.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</a><br />
<small>STOLEN PROPERTY</small></h2>
<p>Erskine met with defeat that afternoon.</p>
<p>Arrowden did pretty much as she pleased; base-hits
were as plentiful as errors; the former were to the
credit of the visitors, the latter were the property of
the home team. When it was over, and the audience
had clambered soberly down from the stands to shake
their heads disappointedly over the showing of the
Purple as they tramped through the golden evening
back to the town and the college, Patterson, the manager,
slipped his pencil back into his pocket and softly
closed the score-book to shut from sight the obnoxious
figures, 15—3. It had been a veritable Waterloo.</p>
<p>In the locker-house little was said. Every one realized
that the team had taken a slump. Hanson stood
aside, and “Baldy” Simson became the man of the
hour. His was the task of getting the men back into
condition, a task requiring patience and vigilance and
all the knowledge that many years of experience had
brought him. This was no time for fault-finding; on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
the contrary, Hanson was silent, and “Baldy’s” tone
was cheerful and soothing.</p>
<p>The news of Erskine’s trouncing brought delight
to the hearts of the Robinson players and coaches.
Down there at Collegetown they had been having
troubles of their own of late. The brown-stockinged
team was inferior to its last year’s predecessor, and its
coaches believed that if Erskine came to Collegetown in
two weeks with a nine equal to that of the previous
season she would win the dual championship. So it
was that Erskine’s defeat by Arrowden brought encouragement
to Robinson; for Robinson had met Arrowden
ten days before and had shut her out to the tune of
5 to 0. What pleased Robinson worried Erskine. The
college at large, with last year’s overthrow in memory,
scented defeat. Hanson wrote four telegrams on Sunday.
The tenor of all was the same; that to Thomas
G. Higgins, captain of the defeated nine of the spring
previous, read as follows:</p>
<p>“Need you badly. Come at once. Wire when.”</p>
<p>Joe Perkins dropped a pound of weight every day
until the middle of the week. Examinations were imminent,
and this fact, with his own condition to think
of and the worry caused by the general slump, came
very near to making him quite useless on the diamond
or in class-room. There was no practise on Monday<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
for those who had played against Arrowden. They were
told to stay away from the field and rest. Joe moped
in his room until Tracy called for him and again took
him out in the automobile.</p>
<p>Jack went to second base that afternoon, and during
the hour and a half’s practise made a good showing.
His throwing to first and to the plate pleased Hanson
vastly. On Tuesday the first nine was still largely
composed of substitutes. Joe and Tracy remained out
and the battery was Knox and Griffin. “Wally”
Stiles, the regular second-baseman, was out, but as he
wore his every-day clothes Jack knew that the second
bag was his for the afternoon.</p>
<p>Showell played Bissell’s place at center-field during
the fielding practise, and later, when base-running began,
was selected to start the procession. He played well
off of first in obedience to Hanson, and when Mears
cracked a short grounder toward third base he was able
to reach second with time to spare. Jack was standing
just in front of the base-line, arms outstretched toward
third-baseman, and Showell saw his opportunity to get
even for the uncomfortable position in which Jack had
placed him on the occasion of the mass-meeting. Lunging
out of the base-line he struck Jack in the back with
his left shoulder with all the force he could summon.
Jack pitched forward on to his face, rolled over, and lay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
there, feebly kicking the turf with his heels, and Showell
flung himself on to the bag.</p>
<p>The nearest players ran to Jack’s assistance and
found him, white of face, gasping painfully for breath.
“Baldy” reached his side almost with the first, and,
kneeling above his head, he took his arms and
“pumped” them until the air was forced back into
his lungs. After a liberal dousing with water, Jack
sat up, gasping, and looked about him. His eyes fell
on Showell, who was sitting on the bag watching proceedings
disinterestedly, and a wave of color swept
into his face. “Baldy” lifted him and supported him
for a moment while he tried his feet. Jack was angry
clear through and wished that he and Showell were
alone that he might have it out with him. But he
said nothing, and only two or three near-by players
knew that the affair was not an accident.</p>
<p>“Are you all right?” asked “Baldy.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Jack answered. Knox handed him his gray
cap and he pulled it down over his forehead again and
went back to the bag. Showell eyed him sharply,
evidently on the lookout for retaliation.</p>
<p>“You want to get out of the way,” he blustered.</p>
<p>“You’d better keep out of my way,” Jack replied
grimly.</p>
<p>“Why, what would you do?” growled the other.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p>
<p>But Jack made no answer, save for a glance of contempt
that brought an angry flush into the somewhat
sallow face of the other, and the game went on.</p>
<p>After he had cooled off a little, Jack was heartily
glad that he had not got into a fuss with Showell, for
Hanson hated any approach to disagreement during
practise, and was quick to show his displeasure by putting
the offenders on to the bench for long terms of
idleness. But Jack had the satisfaction of twice putting
Showell out, once between first and second, and
once between second and third, and of knowing that
when the runner was replaced by another he had not
made any too good a showing. In the locker-house
Showell kept his eye on Jack, still not quite satisfied
that the latter did not mean to resort to his fists to
even the score, and saw Jack go out accompanied by
Clover and Northup with feelings of relief.</p>
<p>The next day, Wednesday, Erskine played State
University with a team still largely made up of substitutes.
Joe Perkins was back behind the plate and
Gilberth went into left-field, King occupying the box.
But Motter’s place at first was taken by Mears, and
Jack again held down second. Knox was back at
shortstop, but the outfield, aside from Gilberth, was
made up of substitutes. The most encouraging feature
of the contest was the improved condition and hard,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
sharp playing of Joe. The rest, in spite of the fact
that he had fretted continually under the enforced idleness,
had done him lots of good. Erskine won, 5 to 0,
and the students strolled back to the college talking
more encouragingly of the nine’s chances.</p>
<p>On Friday “Wally” Stiles got back into the practise
and Jack, greatly to his disgust, retired again to
the bench, or, to be more exact, to the net where
Bissell was coaching a squad in bunting. Saturday’s
game was with Erstham, and before it was half over
Jack was morally certain that unless Stiles improved
greatly during the next few days the second-baseman
in the Robinson game would be one Jack Weatherby.</p>
<p>Stiles, unlike most of the other players, had not recovered
from the slump, and his playing that afternoon
was deplorable. Yet, since Erskine took the lead in
the second inning and held it throughout the contest,
he was not replaced, Hanson hoping that he would find
his pace before the last man was out. But he didn’t,
even for a moment. The team, as a whole, showed up
strongly, and Erstham went home with a 10 to 2 score
against her.</p>
<p>Jack was sorry for Stiles, really and truly sorry,
he told himself; yet he would have been less than
human had he not experienced a feeling of delight in
the thought that, after all, it was not improbable that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
he would get into the Robinson game. There was no
certainty about it, of course, he reflected, for Stiles
might, in fact probably would, take a brace on Monday,
and, during the five days that would then intervene before
the last contest, win back his title to the position.
But there was ground for hope, and since Jack had
hitherto never for a moment really expected to have a
chance in the big game, that slender hope brought happiness.
He went back to Elm Street and the sympathetic
and patient Anthony, whistling merrily or humming
“Down with Robinson,” much out of tune.</p>
<p>His poetical production had duly appeared, among
many others, in the Purple, and for several days he
had been highly delighted. Each contribution had been
signed with the author’s name, and Jack had experienced
not a little good-natured teasing by his friends. But
there had been praise also, for his verses were better
than the rest, and even Professor White had congratulated
him.</p>
<p>Jack was discovering that he had a good many
friends. Not many were intimate, to be sure, but all
were apparently genuine. Joe Perkins had promptly
spread the story of Jack’s swimming lessons, and at last
the true reason for the latter’s failure to distinguish
himself in the rôle of life-saver had become generally
known. If the college had been quick to condemn, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
was equally prompt to acknowledge its mistake, and
while few fellows made mention of the matter to Jack,
yet many of them went out of their way to show him
courtesy and kindness.</p>
<p>Tracy Gilberth had never mentioned the subject
to any one since the truth had come out, not even to
Joe. But Jack was aware that the varsity pitcher very
frequently sought his companionship nowadays and
seemed intent upon making up for the injustice he had
done him. Jack willingly met him half-way, his olden
longings for revenge forgotten in his present content.
Nor, as has been said, was Tracy the only one who
sought to ease his conscience by paying little attentions
to the fellow he had formerly despised. From
an object of scorn and derision Jack had changed into
something approaching a hero.</p>
<p>On the Sunday succeeding the Erstham game Jack
and Anthony were seated in the latter’s room shortly
after noon when Mrs. Dorlon knocked on the door and
announced a caller, presently ushering in with many
excited sniffles Professor White. The professor carried
a newspaper in one hand and his immaculate silk
hat in the other. He greeted the two and took the
chair that Anthony promptly pushed forward. But remarks
on the beauty and seasonableness of the weather
seemed to interest him but little, and as soon as politeness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
would permit he plunged into the subject which
had brought him.</p>
<p>“Do you own a watch, Tidball?” he asked.</p>
<p>Anthony stared, shot a glance at Jack, and after a
moment of hesitation answered: “Yes, that is—well,
in a way.”</p>
<p>“You have it now?” the professor went on. Jack
scented mystery, and listened attentively, wondering the
while why Anthony looked so uncomfortable. Surely
it was no disgrace to borrow money on one’s own property!
Anthony hesitated again, then answered “No.”</p>
<p>“Was it stolen?” continued the professor.</p>
<p>“Stolen? Well, now— But, look here, professor,
suppose you tell me why you want to know?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps I had better,” responded the other.
“You’re probably thinking me pretty cheeky and inquisitive.
But I was reading the paper a few minutes
ago, and saw that they’d arrested a tramp over in Gerrydale,
and had found a lot of pawn-tickets on him. When
they visited the pawn-shop and recovered the property
they found among other jewelry a watch with the inscription—let
me see.” He found the place in the
paper he held and read: “‘Gold watch and chain; former
inscribed Anthony Z. Tidball, from Henry Wright
Porter—July, 1902.’ That’s your name, and I thought
perhaps the watch was yours. Is it?”</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</a><br />
<small>OFF TO COLLEGETOWN</small></h2>
<p>Ere Professor White had finished Anthony was on
his feet with hands stretching forth for the paper. The
look of delight which he had flashed across at Jack and
which still illumined his face caused that youth much
wonderment.</p>
<p>“Guess it’s mine, all right,” Anthony cried. The
professor yielded the paper, and Anthony read the
article through in silence. When he handed it back
his eyes were dancing behind the lenses of his spectacles.
“It’s mine, sir; no doubt about it! The paper says all
I need do is prove my ownership, and I can do that
easily enough, for I have the number of the watch!”</p>
<p>“But, Anthony,” Jack objected, “you said that
you’d——”</p>
<p>“I’ll go over to Gerrydale in the morning,” Anthony
interrupted hurriedly, shooting a warning glance
at his friend. “I’m much obliged to you, sir; if you
hadn’t seen that and told me I don’t believe I’d ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
have got it back; I don’t read the papers very often myself.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m glad I saw it, Tidball. When was it
stolen?”</p>
<p>“About a month ago,” answered Anthony somewhat
vaguely. “I left it in my room, and when I came
back for it it was gone. Of course I never knew who’d
taken it. But—I’m plaguy glad to find it again.”</p>
<p>“Of course, especially since it was presented to
you. What is the story, Tidball?”</p>
<p>So Anthony told the professor about the rescue at
Jonesboro, making it sound very casual and far from
thrilling. But neither of his hearers was deceived, and
insistent questioning and cross-examining finally gave
the incident a different aspect.</p>
<p>“Well, yes,” Anthony acknowledged, “there was
quite a sea running— Danger? Nothing to speak of
if you knew how to manage a dory— The kid? Oh, he
came round all right after a while; pretty near thing,
though; another second or two would have finished
him, likely. Father of the boy wanted me to take some
money, but I wouldn’t; a fellow doesn’t take money
for saving a life. So after he got home he sent me
the watch. That’s all. Good deal of fuss about it.”</p>
<p>After the professor had taken his departure, insisting,
for some reason, on shaking hands with the tall,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
ungainly junior, Jack turned upon Anthony and began
his questions.</p>
<p>“I didn’t come right out, Jack, and say I’d pawned
the watch,” Anthony explained, “but I gave you to understand
that. The fact is I didn’t know what had become
of it, and there wasn’t any use saying it had been
stolen as long as I wasn’t certain about it. I left it in
the room one morning when I went to recitation. I
missed it in class, and came back, and couldn’t find it.
I guess the tramp found the door open and walked
in.”</p>
<p>“When was it?” asked Jack.</p>
<p>“Oh, well, about a month ago.”</p>
<p>Jack looked thoughtful, and Anthony eyed him uneasily.
At last Jack brought one fist into the palm of
his other hand and jumped up.</p>
<p>“Anthony! Was it the morning I went off?”</p>
<p>Anthony hesitated; but the boy’s face showed that
he had no suspicion that Anthony had for a while connected
him with the missing article.</p>
<p>“Why, yes, it was,” replied Anthony.</p>
<p>“I thought so!” Jack cried. “I remember now
that I saw a trampish-looking fellow on the street when
I came from breakfast. I passed him. I didn’t pay
much attention, though, because I was—feeling sort of
knocked out. But once I heard a noise in the entry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
here while I was packing. I’ll bet it was the tramp.
And I remember seeing your watch on the table in your
room, Anthony, when I took that note in there, and—why,
come to think of it, I put the note under the
watch!”</p>
<p>“He followed you in, I guess,” said Anthony.</p>
<p>“That’s just what he did. And when I went out
he was in your room, I’ll bet. And—and he took my
money, too, don’t you suppose? I must have left it
out somewhere!”</p>
<p>“That’s about what happened,” Anthony replied,
grinning jovially. “I wish you could get your money
back; but I guess that’s too much to hope for.”</p>
<p>“I suppose so. Oh, I don’t care now. But I am
glad you’re going to recover your watch, Anthony.
Wouldn’t it have been funny if I’d gone back into your
room again and found him there?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but you might have got laid out!”</p>
<p>“Laid out nothing! I’ll bet I could have whipped
that chap. And I would have saved your watch,
and——”</p>
<p>“Missed your train!”</p>
<p>“Yes, so I would have. I wonder if it would have
made any difference? I fancy it’s best the way it all
happened.” He considered the subject for a moment
in silence. Anthony beamed across at him happily. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
was glad he was to get his watch back, but gladder still
that the last doubt as to Jack’s honesty was dispelled;
and, oh, so very glad that Jack knew nothing of his
idiotic suspicions!</p>
<p>“There’s something I ought to tell you, Anthony,”
said Jack suddenly. He looked rather ashamed and
apologetic and very serious. “I’ve thought of owning
up several times, but—I never did,” he continued.</p>
<p>“Owning up? Well—what is it, Jack? Murder?”</p>
<p>“No, it’s—it’s robbery!” Anthony stared.</p>
<p>“That morning I went away,” he continued, “I—I
took something of yours with me. It wasn’t much,
but I shouldn’t have taken it.”</p>
<p>“Why, what was it?” Anthony asked wonderingly.
“I haven’t missed anything.”</p>
<p>“No; but then, I put it back afterward. It was
a pencil.”</p>
<p>“A pencil!”</p>
<p>“Yes, the green one with the rubber tip; the one
you used to have on your desk. I—I wanted something
to remember you by,” he added shamefacedly. “And
so I took that. I thought you wouldn’t care. I was
going to write and tell you when I got home.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Anthony. “I
missed that pencil for two or three days, and then one
morning it turned up again on the desk. But, hang it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
Jack, you were welcome to the old thing, of course!
I’m glad you took it—glad you cared to remember such
a silly old codger as I! Why, that was nothing; not
worth mentioning. Besides, you gave me that charm,
and fair exchange is no robbery!”</p>
<p>“I’m glad you don’t mind now that you know,” said
Jack simply. And, after a moment: “When you get
your watch back again you can wear that bean, can’t
you?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Well, I should say so!” replied Anthony with
much decision. “And what’s more, Jack, I’ll wear it
as long as the chain holds together!”</p>
<p>There was no difficulty the next day in recovering
the watch. Anthony gave a detailed description of it,
and explained the circumstances of the robbery, and his
property was handed over to him at once. But it is
needless to say that Jack’s roll of money was not among
the objects recovered from the pawn-shop, nor was it
found on the prisoner. Anthony was told that it might
become necessary for him to attend the trial and give
evidence. But he begged off very eloquently, and in
the end the police decided that perhaps there would be
evidence enough to convict the thief without calling
upon Anthony. And, as it turned out, the decision was
correct.</p>
<p>Jack never learned that Anthony had for a while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
suspected him of the theft of the watch; and it was
better so. For while Anthony’s suspicions were certainly
justified by circumstances, yet Jack could never
have seen the matter in the same light, and would have
been greatly hurt had he ever learned of it.</p>
<p>In the second week of June two things began
simultaneously, final examinations and morning baseball
practise. Naturally, the first seriously interfered
with the second, and it was only by the most complicated
arrangement on the part of Hanson that the players
were able to report at the nets during the forenoons
for batting practise. Three assistant coaches had put
in appearance in response to his telegrams, among them
the captain of the unsuccessful nine of the year before.
Higgins was a good player and turned out to be as good
a coach. His heart was set on witnessing a victory over
the Brown and he worked enthusiastically and tirelessly.
Afternoon practise began every day at three-thirty, and
never let up as long as there was a ray of light left.
The slump was a thing of the past, and every man responded
well to the demands of the coaches. Stiles
gradually recovered his form, and in the last game before
the final contest—played on Thursday with Harwich
Academy—he superseded Jack at second, and Jack, his
hopes dead, sat on the bench and tried to be philosophic.</p>
<p>That Thursday game attracted the biggest audience<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
of any thus far played; not because the Academy team
was strong enough to promise a hard-fought battle, but
for the reason that it was given out that the Erskine
nine was to play just as it would in the game at Collegetown
the next day but one. The batting list was as
follows:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="noi">Perkins, catcher.<br />
Gilberth, pitcher.<br />
Motter, first base.<br />
Bissell, center-field.<br />
Stiles, second base.<br />
Knox, shortstop.<br />
Billings, third base.<br />
King, left-field.<br />
Northup, right-field.</p>
</div>
<p>Allowing for the fact that every man had been
worked hard all the week up to the very beginning of
the game, and that examinations were in progress, the
exhibition of ball-playing made by them was decidedly
encouraging. The cheering was a notable part of the
contest. Led by the senior class president and five
assistants, the stands did heroic work, and cheers and
songs thundered forth unceasingly.</p>
<p>Jack, sitting forlornly on the bench, wedged in between
other substitutes quite as forlorn, found balm for
his disappointed hopes in the fact that the song that
went the best of any, and the one which was most often
sung, was his. The way in which the throng emphasized
the “Poor old Robinson!” was good to hear.</p>
<p>When the game was at an end—it was almost dark
by then—the spectators marched back down William<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
Street to the college, cheering and singing all the way.
Jack, trotting over to the locker-house in the wake of
the other players, heard from down the street the refrain
arising splendidly to the summer sky:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Purple are the violets above the lonely grave<br /></span>
<span class="i7">Of poor old Robinson!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i11">Glory, glory to the Purple!<br /></span>
<span class="i15">And down with Robinson!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>The enthusiasm didn’t cease until late at night.
After dinner the fellows thronged the yard in front of
Walton and the cheers and songs were gone through
with again and again.</p>
<p>There was little work the following day for the
players. Morning practise was omitted, and in the
afternoon a little running and throwing to bases constituted
the program. In the evening there was a reception
to the nine and substitutes in Brown Hall, and
again enthusiasm was rampant. The Glee Club sang,
the college band played, the fellows cheered, the dean
and Professor Nast and the coaches and Captain Joseph
Perkins made speeches, and there was a grand hullabaloo
until half past nine.</p>
<p>Jack bade good-by to Anthony that night, for the
nine and substitutes were to go to Collegetown in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
morning on a train that left at half past six. The
supporters were to follow on a later train, but Anthony
was not to be among them.</p>
<p>“I wish I were going,” he said, “but I just can’t
afford it, Jack. But I’ll be down on the street in the
afternoon, and while you’re knocking base runs and
such things you’ll know that I’m flinging my cap for you
here at home.”</p>
<p>“It’s little chance I’ve got,” said Jack sadly. “But
I may get on for a while, Anthony. Anyhow, I wish
you were going along.”</p>
<p>“So do I. Good night, Jack, and good luck to you
and the nine and old Erskine. You’ll play, of course;
they can’t win without you, Jack! Good night!”</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</a><br />
<small>AT THE END OF THE SIXTH</small></h2>
<p>If you are so fortunate as to be occupying a seat
in the stand running parallel with the line to first base,
and if you are about midway between that base and
the home plate, you may congratulate yourself upon
being in the best place of all from which to watch the
game. Under ordinary conditions you have a clear
view of every player, the batsman, unless he is left-handed,
is facing you, and the run to first base is made
directly in front of you. Make yourself as comfortable
as the narrow board seat and uncompromising back will
permit, be grateful for the clear sky and warm sunlight,
which, if it beats a little too ardently upon your cheek,
makes up for it by limbering the joints and muscles of
the players and urging them to their best efforts, and
watch the game, prepared to applaud good work, joyfully
if performed by your side, ungrudgingly if by
the other, and to accept victory with gratitude and
defeat with equanimity.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p>
<p>From where you sit you see first the Erskine players
on their bench at the foot of the sloping stand, their
purple caps thrust back on their heads or held in their
hands. You can’t see their faces, but their broad
shoulders suggest the best of physical condition. Beyond
them to the right a white deal table is occupied
by four men who are busy writing the history of the
contest.</p>
<p>At the feet of the players the field begins, a level
expanse of closely cropped turf, which stretches away
for a quarter of a mile like a great green carpet. Beyond
the field is a thicket of trees, elms, chestnuts, and
maples. Beyond that, again, the warmly red roof of
the gymnasium peers forth, the forerunner of many
other roofs and turrets and towers set sparsely at first
amid the foliage, but quickly grouping together about
the campus. There lies Robinson College. To the
left, where the white spire pierces the tree-tops and
glistens against the blue sky, the village of Collegetown
commences and straggles away to a tiny river,
no wave or ripple of which is from here visible.</p>
<p>But you have wandered far afield. About you the
tiers are gay with purple flags and ribbons, but farther
along to your left the purple gives place grudgingly to
brown, and from there on in a long sweep of color the
brown holds sway even beyond third base. Four hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
among four thousand is as a drop in a bucket.
Yet the four hundred is massed closely together, and
every unit of it flaunts a purple banner, and is tireless
in cheering and in song. Across the diamond the Robinson
band plays lustily between the innings; you can
see the leader swinging his little black wand, the cornetist’s
cheeks rising and falling like a pair of red bellows,
the player of the base drum thumping away with
his padded stick; but you hear nothing—nothing save
an occasional muffled boom from the big drum; how can
you when all about you cheers are thundering forth for
“<em>Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!</em>” Your throat is dry
and parched, the perspiration is trickling down your
cheek, and your eyes are dazzled with the sunlight; but
you’re as happy as a clam at high tide, for the sixth
inning has begun, neither side has yet scored, Erskine
is at bat, and your heart’s in your mouth!</p>
<p>Five innings without a tally doesn’t sound exciting,
and yet, if we except the second, every one of those five
innings had kept the audience on the edges of the seats.
In every inning save the second Robinson had placed
men on bases, and at the end of each the supporters
of the Purple had heaved sighs of heartfelt relief, finding
sufficient satisfaction in the fact that the Brown had
not scored. Only once had Erskine dared hope for a
tally. That was in the third. The tally didn’t come. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
had been a pitcher’s battle, and the palm had gone to
Vose, the tall, thin fellow whose spindle-shanks were encased
in brown stockings. Not a single hit had been
made off him, while Gilberth had been struck freely, yet
had frequently managed to puzzle the batsman when a
single would have brought in a run, or possibly two.
When summed up it came to this: Erskine had been outplayed,
and that Robinson did not now lead by several
tallies was due to her inability to make her hits at
the right time. The players of each college, in batting
order, were as follows:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="smcap">Erskine</span><br />
Perkins, catcher, captain.<br />
Motter, first base.<br />
Gilberth, pitcher.<br />
Bissell, center-field.<br />
Knox, shortstop.<br />
King, left-field.<br />
Northup, right-field.<br />
Stiles, second base.<br />
Billings, third base.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Robinson</span><br />
Cox, first base.<br />
Condit, catcher.<br />
Hopkins, third base.<br />
Morgan, shortstop.<br />
Devlin, left-field.<br />
Wood, center-field, captain.<br />
Richman, second base.<br />
Regan, right-field.<br />
Vose, pitcher.</p>
</div>
<p>At the beginning of the sixth inning it was anybody’s
game. Billings, the tag-ender, went to bat. On
the Erskine stand the cheering died away and the
purple flags ceased waving and fluttering in the still
afternoon air. Across the diamond the band laid aside
its instruments, and the shadow of the western stand
crept along the turf until its edge touched the line<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
of white that marked the coacher’s box. On the
players’ benches the men leaned forward anxiously
and watched Billings thrust his cap back and grip
his bat determinedly.</p>
<p>But it was soon evident to the watchers that Erskine
was not to score. Billings hit a short grounder to first-baseman
who scooped it up and tagged the bag before
the batsman was half-way toward it. Joe Perkins had
two strikes called on him ere he found the ball, and sent
a high foul into the hands of left-fielder. He tossed
aside the bat with a look of disgust and paused on his
way back to the bench to whisper into the ear of Motter,
the next victim to the deceptive curves of the merciless
Vose. Joe crowded into a space between Billings and
Tracy Gilberth.</p>
<p>“<em>I</em> can’t find him,” he sighed.</p>
<p>“No, hang him,” growled Tracy, “he’s too much
for any of us. But I’ll bet he’ll let down before the
game’s over; and then—well, then we want to be ready,
Joe!”</p>
<p>“Do you think he will? It doesn’t look like it.”</p>
<p>Tracy nodded knowingly.</p>
<p>“His arm’s getting stiff. I know the signs. So’s
mine, for that matter, and I’ve pitched perfectly rotten
ball, Joe!”</p>
<p>“Nonsense, you’ve done good work. But let me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
know as soon as you want to quit, Tracy. How about
the next inning?”</p>
<p>“That’s for you to say,” answered Tracy. “But I
guess I can hold out through the seventh, if you don’t
mind.”</p>
<p>“All right; I’ll put King in for the eighth. Oh,
hang! Come on, fellows! Out on the run!”</p>
<p>Motter had struck out, and was trotting to his position
at first, drawing on his glove and looking wofully
sad. The Robinson band struck up again, and the
Erskine contingent, not to be outdone, started the
cheers once more, while the purple-sleeved players
spread out over the diamond.</p>
<p>Joe thumped his big mitten and Tracy picked up the
ball. The umpire, a rotund little man in a navy-blue
blouse shirt, ran nimbly to his position.</p>
<p>“First man!” cried Joe confidently.</p>
<p>The batsman was the Robinson captain and center-fielder,
Wood. Tracy was not greatly afraid of Wood,
and so saved his arm by pitching a few slow balls, none
of which the Robinson captain was able to touch. When
he struck out the Erskine cheers rang across the field.
Richman came next. He was the first of the Brown’s
tail-enders on the batting list, and he followed the
way of his captain, while the purple flags fluttered
joyously.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p>
<p>Perhaps Tracy was overconfident, for when Regan,
the enemy’s right-fielder, stepped to the plate, he shook
his head at Joe’s signal for an outshoot, and sent a
straight, slow ball over the corner of the base. And
Regan got it on his bat and sent it arching in easy flight
toward second, and raced for the bag.</p>
<p>“Mine!” called Stiles.</p>
<p>“Take it!” shouted little Knox, backing him up.</p>
<p>But Stiles didn’t take it. Instead he let it slip
through his fingers, and so when Knox had recovered
and fielded it to Motter the runner was safe.</p>
<p>“Twenty minutes!” yelled the Robinson coach derisively.
Then he began a desperate effort to rattle
Gilberth. “On your toes!” he shrieked. “Go on, go
on! He daren’t throw it! Way off now! I’ll look
out for you! Way off! Now! <em>Now!</em> NOW!”</p>
<p>Tracy was disgusted because he had allowed Regan
to hit him, and the shrieks of the coacher annoyed him.
Earlier in the game he would not have minded twenty
coachers, but now his arm was aching and growing stiff
and tired and his temper and nerves were not so well
in command. The next batsman was Vose, the Robinson
pitcher. Vose was the poorest performer with the
stick of any of his team, and in the natural order of
things should have been struck out without difficulty.
But this time he found the second ball that came to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
him and hit it safely into right-field, and Regan took
second. Then came Cox, the head of the batting list,
and swung his ash wickedly while he waited.</p>
<p>There were coaches behind both first and third now,
and their shrieks hurtled back and forth across the
diamond. Tracy looked bothered, and Joe strove to
hide his anxiety under a show of confidence.</p>
<p>“Next man, fellows!” he called cheerily. Motter
took his cue from him and added his voice. “He’s a
goner, Tracy! Strike him out, old man!”</p>
<p>And for a while it seemed that Tracy would do it.
But when the little fat umpire had called two strikes
and two balls on him Cox managed to find something
that suited him, and cracked it out past shortstop. Regan
reached third, and, with two out, the bases were full.
Joe and Tracy had a whispered consultation, while the
Robinson stands hooted derisively, and then took their
places again. Condit, the Brown’s catcher, and one
of the best batters, tapped the plate and looked as though
he meant to bring in a run. The coachers kept up their
medley of taunts and warnings, but Tracy had found
his head again and paid not the slightest attention.</p>
<p>The first ball went wide, and Joe’s brilliant stop
brought forth a burst of applause. Tracy hurried up,
apologetic, keeping an eye on the bases. “Sorry, Joe,”
he said.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p>
<p>“All right, old man,” answered the captain cheerfully.
“Now let’s put him out.”</p>
<p>Two strikes followed.</p>
<p>“Good eye, Tracy!” “Fine work, old man!”
“That’s the pitching!” encouraged the infielders.
Then the batsman elicited laughter and applause from
his supporters by crossing the plate and suddenly becoming
a left-handed batter. Tracy looked surprised,
and his next two efforts were pronounced balls. Joe
leaned far to the left and squeezed his hands between
his knees. Tracy nodded. But the batsman was an
old hand, and was not deceived by the inshoot that followed.
“Three balls!” cried the umpire. Everything
depended on the next pitch. Tracy straightened his
arms, swung his foot, and hurled a straight ball waist
high for the plate. Condit met it with his bat, but
failed to hit it squarely, and it went high into the air,
and the men on bases raced toward home.</p>
<p>When the sphere came down it was undeniably second-baseman’s
ball, and Stiles stood ready for it. Regan
reached home, and the next man, Vose, swung
around third. Suddenly a shout of joy burst from the
Robinson stands and the coachers were screaming like
mad. Stiles had muffed!</p>
<p>Vose, with a coacher racing along beside him, sped
for home. But Knox had seized the ball almost before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
it had touched the ground, and now he threw it straight
and sure toward the plate. Vose hurled himself forward
when fully ten feet distant, and slid for his goal,
but the ball was there before him, and Joe’s right hand
swept down and tagged him. The side was out. The
Erskine players hurried in to the bench, and Gilberth
picked out his bat.</p>
<p>It was the beginning of the seventh inning, but the
score was no longer a blank; Robinson led 1 to 0. The
band played wildly. Jack Weatherby, on the bench,
felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find Hanson
speaking.</p>
<p>“You cover second, Weatherby,” said the coach.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</a><br />
<small>A TRIPLE PLAY</small></h2>
<p>The seventh inning began with Tracy Gilberth at
bat. He watched Vose with interest while that lanky
youth settled himself to his task, hopeful that at last
Robinson’s star player was weary enough to allow the
opponents to hit him. But Tracy was doomed to disappointment.
Vose’s arm was tired, beyond a doubt,
but he only took more time at his work, his curves remaining
as puzzling as ever. Tracy struck out ingloriously,
just as he had done pretty much all through
the game. Vose was still on his mettle.</p>
<p>Bissell’s fate was the same, while as for Knox, although
he managed, by good judgment, to get three
balls to his credit, yet in the end he too tossed aside
his bat in deep disgust; and the nines again changed
sides.</p>
<p>Robinson’s first man up was the redoubtable Hopkins;
he had gained the sobriquet of “Hard-hitting
Hopkins” last season. So far to-day, while he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
managed to find Tracy rather frequently, his hits had
netted little. But Tracy judged discretion the better
part of valor, and deliberately gave Hopkins his base,
while the purple-decked stands hooted loudly. Having
given the other his base, Tracy next tried to take it
away from him, but Hopkins was quick on his feet and
time and again Motter got the ball too late to tag him
out. Tracy gave it up finally, and turned his attention
to the next batsman, Morgan.</p>
<p>Morgan popped a foul to the foot of the stand, and
Joe, hurling aside his mask, got it after a brilliant sprint
of twenty yards. Devlin struck out and Hopkins stole
second. The Brown’s captain came to the plate with
determination to do great deeds written large on his
face. After getting two strikes on him, Tracy couldn’t
put the ball over the base, and Wood walked to first.</p>
<p>Then, with two on bases, Robinson saw visions of
another tally. But Tracy settled down again and struck
out the third man, Richman, and again the Erskine contingent
sighed with relief and cheered gleefully.</p>
<p>Jack, who during the inning had had nothing to do,
trotted in and examined the score-book over Patterson’s
shoulder. He found that he would be the third man
at bat, and wondered a bit nervously whether he would
have any better success with the mighty Vose’s curves
than had his predecessor, who was now sitting weary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
and dispirited on the bench. King, who during the
first half of the previous inning had been limbering up
his arm, was put in for Tracy, and Lowe took his place
in left-field. Tracy sprawled himself down on the grass
beside Jack with a sigh.</p>
<p>“I wish to thunder I’d been able to hit that dub
Vose just one!” he growled.</p>
<p>“What’s he like?” Jack asked.</p>
<p>“Like a Chinese puzzle,” Tracy replied grimly.
“When you try him, Weatherby, look out for his drops;
they’re the worst; they come straight to about four feet
from the plate, then they go down so fast that you can’t
see ’em. His inshoots are simple compared with those
drops. Watch for fast balls, and when you see one
coming, slug it! Make him think you can’t bat,
Weatherby; it’s your first time up, and maybe you can
fool him.”</p>
<p>“I’ll try,” Jack answered dubiously. “<em>Good work,
King!</em>”</p>
<p>King was speeding to first, having made a clean hit
to the outfield just over shortstop’s head. The Erskine
stand burst into wild and confused cheering. Northup
selected his bat and went to the plate, and Joe Perkins,
after whispering directions into his ear, ran to the white
line back of first base and began coaching King at the
top of his lungs. Vose settled the ball in his hands,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
tapped the earth with his brass-toed shoe, and glanced
sharply toward the runner.</p>
<p>“Play off, Greg!” shouted Joe. “He won’t
throw! He’s too tired! Now, now, now! This time!
<em>Look out!</em>”</p>
<p>King scuttled around back of the bag and reached it
before the baseman swung at him with the ball.</p>
<p>“Hold it, he’s got the ball!” cautioned Joe. “All
right, now; on your toes. Down with his arm! He
won’t throw again!”</p>
<p>Vose looked as though he intended to, then turned
quickly and pitched. The ball went wide, and had it
not struck Northup on the hip would have given King
two bases, since the Robinson catcher would never have
stopped it. As it was, King, who was almost to second,
trotted back and tagged base. The umpire waved his
hand to Northup, and the latter went limping to first.
King jogged to second, and the Erskine cheers drowned
every sound for several minutes. Two on bases and
none out! It looked like a tally.</p>
<p>Joe yielded his place to Motter, sent Bissell to coach
King from third, and caught Jack on his way to the
plate. He had to put his mouth to Jack’s ear in order
to make himself heard above the shouting.</p>
<p>“We’ve got to advance King, Jack,” he said.
“Wait for a good one, and make a slow bunt toward<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
third; you know the way, old man. Swipe at the first
ball as though you were going to knock it over the
fence! Then wait for what you want. Keep steady,
Jack!” He clapped him on the shoulder encouragingly
and sped back to first.</p>
<p>Jack’s hope of rapping out a two-bagger was gone.
Joe’s directions were not to be disregarded, and it was a
case of substituting team-play for ambition. He settled
his cap, wiped his perspiring hands on his trousers, and
gripped his bat. When he faced Vose he found that
person eying him intently, appraising his ability as a
batsman. Jack smiled easily—despite that he felt
terribly nervous, and that the muscles at the back of his
legs were twitching—and waved his bat forward and
back a couple of times as though to say: “Right there,
please, and I’ll show you how it’s done!”</p>
<p>Vose looked about the bases very deliberately, and
then offered Jack an outshoot. Jack was glad that he
had been told to hit at the first delivery, for the mere
act of swinging his stick fiercely through the air eased
his nerves. He struck at least a foot too late, and the
Robinsonians laughed and jeered. Vose thought he
knew his man then, and tried the same ball again, and
the umpire shook his head and waved his left hand.
Jack waited; two balls; strike two; then he saw what
he wanted, turned a trifle to the left, brought his bat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
around quickly and easily, and, as he ran to first, knew
that he had succeeded.</p>
<p>The sphere, a new and very white one it was, went
rolling toward third base just inside the line. King
was making for that base, too, and the baseman indulged
in just that instant of hesitation that is fatal.
The ball was his to field, yet he feared that if he left his
bag none would cover it. When he finally got the ball,
reaching it a second before Vose, King was safe on
third, Northup was sliding for second, and Jack had
crossed first. He tossed the sphere to the pitcher, and
the latter went back to the box scowling wrathfully.
The Erskine stand was a bank of purple. The senior
class president, bareheaded, wilted of collar and crimson
of face, was standing on a seat leading the singing:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;<br /></span>
<span class="i7"><em>Oh, poor old Robinson!</em>”<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>Billings went to bat. Motter was whispering instructions
to Jack on first. Vose, calm of face, looked
about the bases, while his support called encouragingly
to him. Then, before his arm was well back, Jack had
started like an express-train toward second. At the
same instant King made as though to dash home, and
Northup played off half-way to third. The delivery<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
was a poor one, but Condit stopped it, threw off his
mask, and, bewildered, threw to second.</p>
<p>It was a costly mistake, for King was sliding across
the plate before second-baseman had received the ball,
and the Erskine fellows were hugging each other uproariously.
Jack had flown back toward first, but half-way
there he paused. Northup was caught on his way
to third, and now was dancing back and forth with the
ball crossing and recrossing above his head, and shortstop
and third-baseman closing in on him every second.
Then he stumbled and shortstop was on him
like a flash, and he crawled to his feet to dust the
loam from his shirt and trot off the field. Meanwhile
Jack had made a good slide for second, and had beaten
the ball.</p>
<p>The score was tied, there was but one out, and a
man on second! Is it any wonder that Erskine’s supporters
went mad with delight and danced and shouted
and threw flags and caps into the air?</p>
<p>When things had settled down once more Billings
stepped back into the box. From behind him came
imperative demands for a home run. Billings tried his
best to accommodate his friends the next instant, for
there was a loud <em>crack</em>, and the ball went arching high
and far toward right-field. But when it descended the
Robinson fielder was under it, and Billings stopped his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
journey around the bases and came back. The left-fielder
sped the ball home quickly, but not soon enough
to keep Jack from reaching third.</p>
<p>The Robinson band had started bravely to work
once more, but across the diamond the Erskine leaders
had brought order out of chaos, and four hundred
purple-flaunting enthusiasts were again cheering slowly
and in unison:</p>
<p>“<em>Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah, rah, rah!
Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Erskine! Erskine!
Erskine!</em>”</p>
<p>And the cheers took on new force when it was seen
that the Purple’s captain was the next batsman. Joe
had given a message to King, and now King was imparting
it to Jack down at third base, and Jack was
nodding back to Joe. Robinson’s catcher, Condit, was
badly rattled, and Joe knew it and was planning accordingly.
The stands settled down into comparative
quietude, and Vose, still calm and confident-looking,
pitching the game of his life, faced his new opponent.
The outfield came in a bit.</p>
<p>Vose’s first delivery was easily a ball, and his second
was undeniably a strike. Then followed an outshoot
and a drop, neither of which did Joe take to.
Back went the ball to Vose, and, with King shouting
weirdly at third, he shot his arms overhead and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
sped it again toward the plate. Then an odd thing
happened.</p>
<p>The ball was a drop. Joe struck at it hard, dropped
his bat, and flew toward base. The catcher, who had
stopped the ball on the ground, stood up, glared bewilderedly,
and then, concluding that it had been the
third strike, threw to first-baseman, Vose shouting
warnings which he did not hear. Jack, the moment
Joe had struck, had started warily toward home, and
although first-baseman caught the ball and hurled it
back to the plate in the next instant, he was lying above
the base in a cloud of dust ere the catcher tagged him.
Again pandemonium broke lose on the Erskine stand.
The Purple was one run ahead.</p>
<p>Joe trotted back to the plate and picked up his bat,
and Jack went to the bench, dusty, panting, and happy,
to be hugged and slapped by the delighted occupants.
There followed a pause in the game’s progress during
which Robinson’s captain sought to find a rule that
would put Jack back on third. But Joe’s strategy was
within the law, and presently the Robinson catcher
picked up his mask miserably and the captain, disgruntled,
went slowly back to his position in center-field.</p>
<p>The incident appeared to have discouraged both the
battery and the support. Vose took up his work listlessly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
and in a moment Joe was walking to first on
four balls. A minute later he had stolen second. Motter
bunted toward first, and beat the ball to base. Joe
took third. Vose was now plainly rattled, and a wild
pitch became a passed ball, and Motter went to second,
Joe, however, fearing to attempt to score. Then Lowe
took up the stick.</p>
<p>Lowe bided his time, and had two strikes called on
him before he swung his bat. When he did he found
the ball fairly, and drove a terrific grounder into outfield
between first and second bases. Joe jogged home
from third, and Motter, his legs making a purple streak,
sped like the wind to third. Lowe sat down on first
and tied his shoe. Bissell went to bat, and was deceived
by a drop that absolutely hit the plate. And right there
the half ended, for Lowe tried to steal second, and was
put out four feet from the bag.</p>
<p>There was joy in the Erskine camp. The score
stood now 3 to 1. If her players could hold Robinson
from further scoring the day was won. And, with King
in the pitcher’s box, it seemed that it might be done.
Regan went to bat for Robinson, and stood there idly
swinging his stick while the umpire sang: “Strike
one!... Strike two!... Striker’s out!”
And then, to fill Erskine’s cup overflowing with delight,
King struck out Vose and Cox in just the same way;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
and the cheering broke forth anew, loudly, triumphantly.
And the ninth and last inning began with
little Knox at the bat.</p>
<p>It would be pleasant to relate how Knox knocked a
home run and how Erskine continued the performance
inaugurated in the preceding inning. Unfortunately,
that is impossible. Knox was struck out, King was
thrown out at first, Northup made a base hit, but was
left there a minute later when Jack flied out miserably
to Vose. The stands were emptying themselves of their
throngs and supporters of the rival colleges crowded
along the base-lines cheering doggedly or ecstatically,
as the case might be. King picked up the ball, Joe
donned his mask, Motter thumped his mit, and Jack, at
second, danced about from one foot to the other out of
sheer joy. Near at hand Knox was grinning like a
schoolboy, and calling shrilly to King to “Eat ’em up,
Greg!”</p>
<p>“First man, fellows!” cried Joe cheerfully.</p>
<p>Condit stepped to the plate. He was pale, and
looked an easy victim. But luck turned its back upon
the Purple, for at his second delivery King struck the
Robinson catcher on the elbow, and the latter took his
base. Robinson’s friends took courage, and their cheers
thundered over the field. Then came Hopkins, the
“hard-hitter,” and swung his bat knowingly. King realized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
that here was foeman worthy of steel, and was
accordingly careful.</p>
<p>But Hopkins was desperate. He found the second
ball, and it went flying toward center-field. Bissell
failed to reach it in time to get his hands on it before
it struck the ground, and Hopkins gained second, Condit
going to third. Morgan followed with a slow
grounder toward King. King fielded it to first too late,
after making sure that Condit was not trying to score,
and the bases were full. A home run would win for
Robinson! A two-base hit would tie the score!</p>
<p>The brown banners flaunted and gyrated in the air,
throwing strange dancing silhouettes upon the turf. The
shadow of the western stand had lengthened across the
infield. Back of the stand the sky was aglow with
orange, while toward the village a golden haze filled
the air.</p>
<p>The throng at large was silent, intense, expectant.
Yet here and there sections of the throng still shouted,
and back of the dense wall of spectators on the Robinson
side of the field the band was playing. A cheer,
undismayed yet faint, ran along the ranks of the Erskine
supporters. It is hard to shout when your heart is throbbing
away up in your throat. Devlin went to bat, his
determined chin thrust forth and his sharp eyes sparkling
from between half-closed lids as he watched the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
pitcher. Joe Perkins half knelt behind him and held a
big mitten invitingly open on his left knee.</p>
<p>“Steady, fellows!” he called cheerfully. “Play
for the plate!”</p>
<p>His voice rang true, with never a quiver in it. Yet
now and then his heart raced and thumped for an instant
in a way that turned him half faint. Despite the tiny
beads of perspiration that trickled down his face, he was
livid, and the fingers in the hot leathern mit trembled
and twitched. If he could keep those brown-legged
players from crossing the plate the game was won for
Erskine and his labors and hopes were crowned with
success. If! He groaned as he thought of all that
might happen ere the third man was put out. For the
first time during the contest he was nervous; for the first
time almost in memory he was frightened through and
through. Then his gaze swept over the field and he
saw Motter at first carelessly flipping a pebble across the
grass, Weatherby alert and impatient at second, Northup
shading his eyes with his hand as he stood motionless
in right-field, Knox calling blithely to King as he
slapped his hands together, and beyond, Bissell and
Lowe, their figures throwing long, slanting shadows
across the turf. Then King’s left hand wandered carelessly
across his forehead, his arms shot up, and Joe,
reaching out, drew in the first delivery.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p>
<p>“Strike,” droned the umpire.</p>
<p>Joe’s fright passed with the settling of the sphere in
his hands. The blood crept back into his cheeks and
courage into his heart. Returning the ball, he eased
his mask, thumped his hands together, and called confidently
to King.</p>
<p>“That’s the eye, Greg; once more!”</p>
<p>Erskine applauded grandly. Then followed two
balls. The coaches were shouting like maniacs and the
runners were set, like sprinters on the mark, ready to
spring into flight on the instant. Joe signaled a drop.
It came, and Devlin tried and missed.</p>
<p>“Strike two,” droned the little umpire.</p>
<p>Again the supporters of the Purple shouted and
waved their colors against the evening sky. King swept
a glance about the bases, unmindful of the coachers’
taunts, settled himself once more, and pitched. Devlin’s
body moved quickly forward, ball and bat met
squarely, Devlin raced toward first, and the runners on
the bases sprang away.</p>
<p>Out by second, Jack, on his toes, alert and ready for
anything, heard the <em>crack</em> of bat against ball, and instinctively
ran toward base. Hopkins, head down,
started like a flash toward third. Then Jack’s eyes
found the ball. It was speeding toward him, straight,
swift and well over his head. He stopped in his tracks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
a foot or two behind the base-line, threw his hands high
into the air, put his weight on to his toes, and then <a href="#image07">sprang
straight upward until there was a good two feet between
him and the turf</a>. To the excited watchers it seemed
that for an instant he hung there suspended, a lithe,
slim figure against the golden sunset haze. Then the
ball stung his hands, the throng broke into confused
shouting, and—</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="image07" id="image07">
<img src="images/image07.jpg" width="400" height="600"
alt="Weatherby sprang straight upward, two feet above the turf."
title="Weatherby sprang straight upward, two feet above the turf." />
</a><br />
<div class="caption"><a href="#Page_237">Weatherby sprang straight upward, two feet above the turf.</a></div>
</div>
<p>“Back! Back!” shrieked the coaches.</p>
<p>The runners turned in their tracks and scuttled for
the bases they had left like rabbits for their burrows.
Jack, the ball securely clutched, reached second in two
strides, and then, with a lightning survey of the situation,
threw straight and sure to Billings at third. Condit,
arrested ten feet from the plate by the coaches’
warnings, had doubled back, and now was racing desperately
for third base and safety. Six feet from the
bag he launched himself forward, arms outstretched.
A trailing cloud of red dust arose into the still air, and
the ball thumped into the baseman’s hands. The little
fat umpire swung his hand circling toward the bases.</p>
<p>“Game!” he said.</p>
<p>The long ranks broke like waves, and the players
were engulfed, then caught and tossed to the surface.
Jack, rocking perilously about on the shoulders of comrades,
looked dazedly yet happily down over a sea of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
waving purple banners and upraised, excited faces,
while against his ears beat the thunderous refrain of
“<em>Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!</em>”</p>
<table class="boxscore" summary="BoxScores1">
<tr>
<th class="tdc"> ERSKINE. </th>
<th class="tdrb">R.</th>
<th class="tdrb">H.</th>
<th class="tdrb">P.</th>
<th class="tdrb">A.</th>
<th class="tdrb">E.</th>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<th class="tdc"> ROBINSON. </th>
<th class="tdrb">R.</th>
<th class="tdrb">H.</th>
<th class="tdrb">P.</th>
<th class="tdrb">A.</th>
<th class="tdrb">E.</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Perkins, c.</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">8</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Cox, 1b.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">3</td>
<td class="tdrb">9</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Motter, 1b</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">8</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Condit, c.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">13</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Gilberth, p.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Hopkins, 3b.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">3</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Bissell, cf.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Morgan, ss.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">3</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Knox, ss.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Devlin, lf.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">King, lf., p.</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Wood, cf.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Lowe, lf.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Richman, 2b.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Northup, rf.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Regan, rf.</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Stiles, 2b.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl">Vose, p.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Weatherby, 2b.</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">2</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl"> </td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Billings, 3b.</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">0</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl"> Totals</td>
<td class="tdrb">1</td>
<td class="tdrb">8</td>
<td class="tdrb">27</td>
<td class="tdrb">12</td>
<td class="tdrb">3</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"> </td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrb">—</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"> Totals</td>
<td class="tdrb">3</td>
<td class="tdrb">8</td>
<td class="tdrb">27</td>
<td class="tdrb">7</td>
<td class="tdrb">6</td>
<td class="tdrl"> </td>
<td class="tdl"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
<td class="tdrb"> </td>
</tr>
</table>
<table summary="BoxScores2">
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Erskine </td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">3</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">—3</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Robinson </td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">1</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">0</td>
<td class="pr tdrb">—1</td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Two-Base Hits—Wood, Hopkins. Triple Play—Weatherby to
Billings. Bases on Balls—Off Gilberth, 3; Off Vose, 2; Off King, 1.
Hit by Pitched Ball—Northup (2), Condit. Struck Out—By Gilberth,
8; By King, 3; By Vose, 13. Sacrifice Hits—Knox, Richman,
Regan. Umpire—Cantrell. Time of Game—2.40. Attendance—4,000.</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</a><br />
<small>WEATHERBY’S INNING</small></h2>
<p>“Good morning, Mr. Tidball!”</p>
<p>Anthony, making his way briskly down Main Street,
raised his head at the greeting, and glanced across the
street. Professor White, immaculate in his Sunday
attire of black frock coat, gray trousers, and silk hat,
was picking his way gingerly between the little puddles
left by the night’s shower. Anthony returned the salutation,
and waited for the other to join him. Then they
went on together down the quiet street in the shade of
the elms. The village seemed deserted. It was an
hour after noon, and staid, respectable Centerport was
dining on all the indigestible luxuries that comprise
the New England Sunday dinner. As for the college—well,
the college was at the depot awaiting the arrival
of the 2.12 train.</p>
<p>“Going down to welcome the victors?” asked the
professor gaily.</p>
<p>“Yes,” answered Anthony. “And I guess you are
too. Sort of late, aren’t we?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p>
<p>He produced his big gold watch, removed it tenderly
from its pouch, and saw that it announced eight
minutes after the hour. The professor nodded, and
they mended their pace.</p>
<p>“You didn’t go down, did you?” asked the latter.</p>
<p>“No, I wanted to, but couldn’t afford it. But we
got the news at Butler’s by innings. We had quite a
celebration all to ourselves before the rest of you got
home.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t keep you from taking a hand in the bonfire
last night, though, did it?” laughed the professor.</p>
<p>“No, I guess every one went out to the field. It
must have been an interesting game, professor.”</p>
<p>“It was. But it was rather conducive to heart-disease
toward the end. We came pretty near to being
outplayed, and a good deal nearer to being beaten.
When Robinson had the bases full in the ninth and their
left-fielder rapped out that liner—well, I shut my eyes
and held my breath! I didn’t see Weatherby make his
catch; when I looked he was throwing to third. Well,
it was great, simply great!”</p>
<p>“Yes, but I didn’t quite understand what it was
Jack did. If he hadn’t caught the ball the other chaps
would have made three runs, isn’t that it?”</p>
<p>“Well, two runs anyway, three probably; you see,
the bases were full, and that hit was good for a two-bagger,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
I think, if Weatherby hadn’t got his hands on
it. It was a hot one, too, and ’way over his head. As
it was, he put out the batsman by catching the ball,
tagged second before the runner from that base could
get back, and then threw to third and put out the man
there. You see, a runner is required to hold his base
until a fly has either been caught or has touched the
ground. Well, Robinson thought Devlin’s hit was a
safe one; it surely looked like it; and every one ran.
Then when Weatherby caught it they had to get back to
their bases; but they couldn’t. Condit was almost home.
It was very pretty. Triple plays like that have been
made before, but they don’t happen very often. And
then the difficulty of Weatherby’s catch added to the
brilliancy of the thing. Well, he’ll be a hero now as
long as yesterday’s game is remembered.”</p>
<p>“I’m mighty glad,” said Anthony quietly. “Jack’s
had sort of a hard time of it, take it all ’round. I’m
glad things look better for next year.”</p>
<p>“Oh, he can have pretty near anything he wants
after this,” laughed the professor. “I’m quite as well
pleased as you are, Tidball. There’s one thing, however—”
He hesitated. “We can’t get around the fact
that Weatherby’s been largely to blame for his own
unhappiness, Tidball. We’re both friends of his, and
we can afford to recognize the truth. It was his duty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
to himself and more especially to others, to put himself
right. He should have explained why he apparently
made no effort to go to the rescue of that boy in the
river. It looked bad; I saw the whole thing, and to
all appearances it was just a case of cowardice. I was
mistaken; and I said what was in my mind, which was
a still greater mistake. But don’t you see, Tidball, he
should have spoken up and said that he couldn’t swim.
None would have blamed him then. He had no right
to allow others to misjudge him. Then, too, his attitude
wasn’t of the kind to attract friends to him.
From what I can make out he appears to have taken
umbrage because the fellows didn’t seek him and make
his acquaintance when he first came, and subsequently
repelled every advance by his apparent indifference
and self-sufficiency. It was—unfortunate.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I guess you’re right. But I can’t altogether
blame Jack, for I know just how sensitive he is. Sometime
he’ll get over it, but it’s something you can’t change
at once. Wasn’t that the whistle?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t hear anything, but if you like we’ll sprint
a bit.”</p>
<p>And they did, reaching the station just as the train
rolled in, and the victorious baseball team and attendants
descended into the dense throng of students to an
accompaniment of wild cheers. For a moment the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
players were swallowed from sight. Then they came
into view again on the shoulders of privileged friends,
and were borne to the three hacks that were to take
them in triumph up to the college. Jack caught a brief
glimpse of Anthony’s tall form as he was borne, swaying
and bobbing, across the platform, and waved a hand to
him. Then, with the cheering crowd jostling and shoving
about the carriages, the journey was begun.</p>
<p>Jack found himself in the second of the hacks,
sandwiched between Billings and Knox. Facing them,
on the front seat, sat King, Motter, and Showell. As
they turned into the Square, the horses prancing excitedly
because of the crowd and the noise, Jack caught
a glimpse of the carriage ahead and of Joe Perkins
leaning out to shake hands with the nearest of his admirers.
There was no attempt at conversation between
Jack and his companions. Even had the tumult allowed
it they were all too sleepy and tired to talk much.</p>
<p>Training had ended for the season with the ending
of the game. They had remained in Collegetown as
Robinson’s guests, and had been dined, and, later, had
attended a performance at the little Opera House in
company with their hosts. After that they had returned
to the hotel, assembled in Joe’s room, and
chosen a new captain. The honor had fallen to King.
There had been no dissenting voice. King, although<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
only a junior next year, was already a veteran player,
having captained his school team before coming to
Erskine, and having played two years with the varsity.
Jack was pleased. He liked King better than any of
the fellows who would be eligible for the next year’s
nine. And King, he believed, liked him.</p>
<p>Jack forgot the cheers and the singing and the enthusiastic
throngs that filled the sidewalks and almost
surrounded the carriage, and closing his eyes, leaned
back and gave himself over to thought. In three days
the term would come to an end, and he would go home
for the summer, a summer which promised to be one of
the pleasantest of his life. Anthony was to visit him in
July for a week, and later, if all went well, he was to
spend a few days in Jonesboro, and finish his natational
education with surf bathing. Then, in September,
Erskine once more. But what a difference there would
be! He would return to college to find fellows not
merely willing but eager to claim his acquaintance, to
call him friend. The stigma of cowardice would no
longer be placed upon him; rather he would be looked
upon as a hero, as the one who had saved the college
from defeat.</p>
<p>Already he had tasted the intoxicating draft of
popularity. Ever since the crowd had poured on to the
field the day before he had never for an instant been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
allowed to forget that the college looked upon him as
one whom it was a pleasure to honor. The time when
he had read “Coward!” in each averted face seemed
very dim and far. And yet the vindication of which he
had dreamed then, a vindication of his physical courage,
had not come. Well, perhaps next year——</p>
<p>He came to earth with a start. King had leaped to
his feet, and was staring excitedly down the street. The
tumult had changed from joyous cheers to cries of
alarm. The crowd about the carriage was frantically
struggling toward the sidewalks and above its voice
sounded the pounding of hoofs on the hard road. Jack
turned and looked. Behind them, sweeping down the
narrow street between the fleeing throngs, swayed the
third hack, the horses, frightened beyond control, plunging
forward with outstretched heads. On the box the
driver tugged vainly at the lines and shouted warnings
to the crowd. A moment or two and a collision was inevitable.</p>
<p>Their own driver had heard and seen; the hack
sprang forward, and King tumbled into Jack’s arms.
At the same instant Showell struggled to his feet with
pale, drawn face, and, with an inarticulate groan of
terror, threw open the carriage door and leaped blindly
into the road. Over and over he rolled in the path of
the oncoming team. Jack pushed King from him, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
in a moment was balancing himself on the sill, clinging
to the woodwork beside him. Some one strove to get by
him, and he pushed him back.</p>
<p>“Stay where you are,” he shouted.</p>
<p>Then he jumped.</p>
<p>As he did so he saw dimly the crowd crushing back
against the shops, panic-stricken, struggling for safety.
He landed and kept his feet, and even before the momentum
had passed had swung himself about, and was
racing back down the street toward the motionless form
of Showell and the plunging horses. As he ran there
was no fear in his heart; rather an exultant consciousness
of power; here was the opportunity to wipe out
forever the stigma of cowardice.</p>
<p>“It’s my inning at last!” he thought gladly.</p>
<p>If it has taken long in the telling, yet in the doing it
was the matter of a moment. He reached the inert
body of Showell, and, with desperate strength, sent it
rolling toward the sidewalk. Then the horses were
upon him. <a href="#image08">With a gasp for breath he leaped forward</a>,
arms outstretched, as it seemed into the path of death.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 404px;">
<a name="image08" id="image08">
<img src="images/image08.jpg" width="404" height="600"
alt="With a gasp for breath he leaped forward."
title="With a gasp for breath he leaped forward." />
</a><br />
<div class="caption"><a href="#Page_246">With a gasp for breath he leaped forward.</a></div>
</div>
<p>But brief as had been his moment of preparation, he
had not misjudged. His clutching hands caught at
rein and mane, and he was swept off his feet and borne
onward. Then his left hand found a place beside the
right, and with all his weight back of the bit and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
horse’s hoofs grazing his legs at every plunge, he clung
there desperately with closed eyes. For an instant
there was no diminishment of the pace; then the horse’s
head came down, and Jack’s feet again touched earth.
Plunge after plunge followed; a confusion of cries and
cheers filled his ears; the team veered to the left, and
his feet felt the sidewalk beneath them. There was a
crash as the heavy pole splintered against one of the
granite posts of the college fence, and Jack, striking
violently against something that drove the last breath
from his body, loosed his hold and fell backward into
darkness.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>When he opened his eyes again, a minute later, he
was lying, weak, shaken, and gasping, just inside the
fence, his swimming head supported on the knee of
Professor White. About him excited yet kindly faces
looked down, while on the sidewalk the trembling horses
were being unharnessed from the carriage. He strove
to sit up, but the professor restrained him.</p>
<p>“Hurt, Weatherby?” he asked.</p>
<p>Jack stretched himself carefully, shook his head,
and struggled into a sitting posture.</p>
<p>“No,” he gasped, “all right; breath—knocked out—that’s
all.”</p>
<p>“Well, sit still a minute.” Jack obeyed, and closed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
his eyes. About him were low voices and whispers, and
his name being repeated over and over. Then he became
aware of a sudden commotion, and opened his
eyes to see Anthony pushing his way through the ring.</p>
<p>“I found him,” he gasped. “He’s coming right
over. How is he?” He dropped to his knees at Jack’s
side, sending an anxious glance at the professor.</p>
<p>“Nothing broken; just out of breath.”</p>
<p>Anthony seized Jack’s hand and held it tightly, his
broad mouth working yet unable to voice his words.
Jack grinned up into his face.</p>
<p>“You’re a sight, Anthony,” he said. “You’ve
gone and lost your specs. Help me up.” The professor
nodded. Anthony seized him about the shoulders
and lifted him to his feet. Jack tried his legs tentatively,
and found them apparently sound. Then he
turned to Anthony.</p>
<p>“Showell?” he asked anxiously.</p>
<p>“He’s all right, Jack; just stunned a bit from the
fall.”</p>
<p>“Take him over to his room, Tidball,” said Professor
White. “I’ll send the doctor when he comes.”</p>
<p>The throng made way for them. As they passed
through, Anthony supporting Jack as carefully as
though the latter were a basket of eggs, the crowd
found its voice. Jack glanced into some of the faces<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
and read therein a new respect and liking. He dropped
his eyes, the color flooding into his cheeks, and hurried
on. The throng grew momentarily. In front it broke
and parted, and Joe Perkins and Tracy Gilberth confronted
them.</p>
<p>“All right, Jack?” panted Joe.</p>
<p>“Of course I am,” Jack muttered sheepishly.</p>
<p>“All right, then. Up you go, old man!” Before
he could resist he found himself on the shoulders of
Anthony and Joe, with Tracy supporting him behind.</p>
<p>“Let me down, you idiots!” he pleaded.</p>
<p>But they paid no heed. The individual voicing of
approval suddenly merged into a confused cheering that
grew and grew in volume until Jack’s remonstrances
were drowned beneath it. He clung to Anthony’s head,
and tried to look as though he didn’t mind, and only
succeeded in looking like a thief on the way to the
stocks. Of late, he silently marveled, he seemed to be
continually swaying about on fellows’ shoulders!</p>
<p>Near the museum the chaos of sound took form and
substance, and Jack, still somewhat confused and dizzy,
found that he was bobbing along in time to the loud,
deep, and measured refrain of “<em>Weatherby! Weatherby!
Weatherby!</em>”</p>
<p class="p2 noic">THE END</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="noic adtitle bbdbl btdbl">NEW BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG.</p>
<p class="noi adtitle">With the Flag in the Channel; or, The Adventures
of Capt. Gustavus Conyngham.</p>
<p class="adauthor">By <span class="smcap">James Barnes</span>, Author of “Midshipman Farragut,” “Commodore
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<p>The wonderful story of adventure at sea which Mr. Barnes tells in his new
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<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Behind the Line.</span> <span class="adauthor">A Story of School and Football.</span></p>
<p class="adauthor">By <span class="smcap">Ralph Henry Barbour</span>, Author of “The Half-Back,”
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<p>This is an exciting football story by a writer who has placed himself at the head
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<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Miss Lochinvar.</span> <span class="adauthor">A Story for Girls.</span></p>
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<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Jacks of all Trades.</span> <span class="adauthor">A Story for Girls and Boys.</span></p>
<p class="adauthor">By <span class="smcap">Katharine N. Birdsall</span>. Illustrated in two colors by Walter
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<p>Here is a story that shows conclusively that “the child is father of the man.”
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<p class="noic adauthor bb bt">D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="noic adtitle bbdbl btdbl">APPLETONS’ HOME-READING BOOKS.</p>
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Cloth, 80 cents.</p>
<p>This book is a history of national flags, standards, banners, emblems, and
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<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Uncle Sam’s Secrets.</span></p>
<p class="adauthor">A Story of National Affairs for the Youth of the Nation By
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<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Uncle Sam’s Soldiers.</span></p>
<p class="adauthor">By <span class="smcap">O. P. Austin</span>. 75 cents.</p>
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<p class="noic adauthor bb bt">D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="tnote">
<p class="noi tntitle">Transcriber’s Notes:</p>
<p>Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.</p>
<p>Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.</p>
<p>Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.</p>
<p>The Author’s em-dash and long dash styles have been retained.</p>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45142 ***</div>
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