CHAPTER XVIIANDY'S DESPAIR
“Pretty bad; was I, Andy?”
“Yes.”
“Whew! What a headache! Any ice water left?”
“I’ll get some.”
“Never mind. What’s there’ll do.”
It was morning—there always is a “morning after.” Perhaps it is a good thing, for it is nature’s protest against violations of her code of health.
Dunk drank deep of the water Andy handed him.
“That’s better,” he said, with a sigh. “Guess I won’t get up just yet.”
“Going to cut out chapel?”
“I should say yes! My head is splitting now and to go there and hear that old organ booming out hymns would snap it off my neck. No chapel for me!”
“You know what it means.”
“Well, I can’t be in much worse than I am.I’ll straighten up after a bit. No lectures to-day.”
“You’re going the pace,” observed Andy. It was not said with that false admiration which so often keeps a man on the wrong road from sheer bravado. Andy was rather white, and his lips trembled.
“It does seem so,” admitted Dunk, gloomily enough.
“Any more water there?” he asked, presently.
“I’ll get some,” offered Andy, and he soon returned with a pitcher in which ice tinkled.
“That sounds good,” murmured his roommate. “Was I very bad last night?”
“Oh, so-so.”
“Made a confounded idiot of myself, I suppose?” and he glanced sharply at Andy over the top of the glass.
“Oh, well, we all do at times.”
“I haven’t seen you do it yet.”
“You will if you room with me long enough, Dunk.”
“Yes, but not in the way I mean.”
“Oh, well, I’m no moralist; but I hope you never will see me that way. Understand, I’m not preaching, but——”
“I know. You don’t care for it.”
“That’s it.”
“I wish I didn’t. But you don’t understand.”
“Maybe not,” said Andy slowly. “I’m not judging you in the least.”
“I know, old man. How’d you get me home?”
“Oh, you were tractable enough. I got a taxi.”
“I’ll settle with you later. I don’t seem to have any cash left.”
“Forget it. I can lend you some.”
“I may need it, Andy. Hang Gaffington and his crowd anyhow! I’m not going out with them again.”
Andy made no reply. He had been much pained and hurt by the episode in the theater. Public attention had been attracted to him by Dunk’s conduct; but, more than this, Andy remembered a startled and surprised look in the eyes of Miss Fuller, who came out on the stage when Dunk interrupted the tramp act.
“If only I could have had a chance to explain,” thought Andy. But there had been no time. He had helped to take Dunk away. When this Samaritan act was over the theater had closed, and Andy did not think it wise to look up Miss Fuller at her hotel.
“I’ll see her again,” he consoled himself.
The chapel bell boomed out, and Andy started for the door.
“What a head!” grumbled Dunk again. “I say, Andy, what’s good when a fellow makes an infernal idiot of himself?”
“In your case a little bromo might help.”
“Got any?”
“No, but I can get you some.”
“Oh, don’t bother. When you come back, maybe——”
“I’ll get it,” said Andy, shortly.
He was late for chapel when he had succeeded in administering a dose of the quieting medicine to Dunk, and this did not add to the pleasures of the occasion. However, there was no help for it.
Somehow the miserable day following the miserable night ended, and Andy was again back in the room with Dunk. The latter was feeling quite “chipper” again.
“Oh, well, it’s a pretty good old world after all,” Dunk said. “I think I can eat a little now. Never again for me, Andy! Do you hear that?”
“I sure do, old man.”
“And that goes. Put her there!”
They shook hands. It meant more to Andy than he would admit. He had gone, that afternoon, to the theater, where Miss Fuller was on for a matinee, and, sending back his card, with some flowers, had been graciously received. Hemanaged to make her understand, without saying too much.
“I’m so glad it wasn’t—you!” she said, with a warm pressure of her hand.
“I’m glad too,” laughed Andy.
“No sir—never again!” said Dunk that evening, as he got out his books. “You hear me, Andy—never again!”
“That’s the way to talk!”
It was hard work at Yale. No college is intended for children, and the New Haven University in particular has a high aim for its students.
Andy “buckled down,” and was doing well. His standing in class, while not among the highest, was satisfactory, and he was in line for a place on the freshman eleven.
How he did practice! No slave worked harder or took more abuse from the coaches. Andy was glad of one thing—that Gaffington was out of it. There were others, though, who tackled Andy hard in the scrimmages, but he rather liked it, for there was no vindictiveness back of it.
As for Mortimer, he and his crowd went on their sporting way, doing just enough college work not to fall under the displeasure of the Dean or other officials. But it was a “close shave” at times.
Dunk seemed to stick to his resolution. He, too, was studying hard, and for several nights after the theater escapade did not go out evenings. Andy was rejoicing, and then, just when his hopes were highest, they were suddenly dashed.
There had been a period of hard work, and it was followed by a football disaster. Yale met Washington and Jefferson, and while part of the Bulldog’s poor form might be ascribed to a muddy field, it was not all that. There was fumbling and ragged playing, and Yale had not been able to score. Nor was it any consolation that the other team had not either. Several times their players had menaced Yale’s goal line, and only by supreme efforts was a touchdown avoided. As it stood it was practically a defeat for Yale, and everybody, from the varsity members to the digs, were as blue as the cushions in the dormitory window seats.
Andy and Dunk sat in their room, thankful that it was Saturday night, with late chapel and no lessons on the morrow.
“Rotten, isn’t it, Andy?” said Dunk.
“Oh, it might be worse. The season is only just opening. We’ll beat Harvard and Princeton all right.”
“Jove! If we don’t!” Dunk looked alarmed.
“Oh, we will!” asserted Andy.
Dunk seemed nervous. He was pacing up and down the room. Finally, stopping in front of Andy he said:
“Come on out. Let’s go to a show—or something. Let’s go down to Burke’s place and see the fellows. I want to get rid of this blue feeling.”
“All right, I’ll go,” said Andy, hesitating only a moment.
They were just going out together when there came the sound of footsteps and laughter down the corridor. Andy started as he recognized the voice of Gaffington.
“Oh Dunk! Are you there?” was called, gleefully.
“Yes, I’m here,” was the answer, and it sounded to Andy as though his chum was glad to hear that voice.
“Come out and have some fun. Bully show at the Hyperion. No end of sport. Come on!”
Mortimer, with Clarence Boyle and Len Scott, came around the corner of the corridor, arm in arm.
“Oh, you and Blair off scouting?” asked Gaffington, pausing before the two.
“We were going out—yes,” admitted Dunk.
“We’ll make a party of it then. Fall in, Blair!”
Andy rather objected to the patronizing tone of Mortimer, but he did not feel like resenting it then. Should he go?
Dunk glanced at his chum somewhat in doubt.
“Will you come, Andy?” he asked, hesitatingly.
“Yes—I guess so.”
“We’ll make a night of it!” cried Len.
“Not for mine,” laughed Andy. “I’m in training, you know.”
“Well, we’ll keep Dunk then. Come on.”
They set out together, Andy with many misgivings in his heart.
Noisy and stirring was the welcome they received at Burke’s. It was the usual story. The night wore on, and Dunk’s good resolutions slipped away gradually.
“Come on, Andy, be a sport!” he said, raising his glass.
Andy smiled and shook his head. Then a bitter feeling came into his heart—a feeling mingled with despair.
“Hang it all!” he murmured to himself. “I’m going to quit. I’ll let him go the pace as he wants to. I’m done with him!”
CHAPTER XVIIIANDY’S RESOLVE
“Come on back!”
“Don’t be a quitter!”
“It’s early yet!”
“The fun hasn’t started!”
These cries greeted Andy as he rose to leave Burke’s place. His eyes smarted from the smoke of many pipes, and his ears rang with the echoes of college songs. His heart ached too, as he saw Dunk in the midst of the gay and festive throng surrounding Gaffington and his wealthy chums.
“I’ve got to turn in—training, you know,” explained Andy with a smile. It was the one and almost only excuse that would be accepted. Two or three more of the athletic set dropped out with him.
“Goin’, Andy?” asked Dunk, standing rather unsteadily at a table.
“Yes. Coming?” asked Andy pausing, and hoping, with all his heart, that Dunk would come.
“Not on your life! There’s too much fun here. Have a good time when you’re living, sayI. You’re an awful long time dead! Here you are, waiter!” and Dunk beckoned to the man.
Andy paused a moment—and only for a moment. Then he hardened his heart and turned to go.
“Leave the door open,” Dunk called after him. “I’ll be home in th’ mornin’.”
And then the crowd burst out into the refrain:
“He won’t be home until morning,He won’t be home until morning.”
Over and over again rang the miserable chant that has bolstered up so many a man who, otherwise, would stop before it was too late.
Andy breathed deep of the cool night air as he got outside. The streets were quiet and deserted, save for those who had come out with him, and who went their various ways. As Andy turned down a side street he could still hear, coming faintly to him through the quiet night the strains of:
“We won’t go home until morning.”
“Poor old Dunk!” mused Andy. “I hate to quit him, but I’ve got to. I’m not going to be looking after him all the while. It’s too muchwork. Besides, he won’t stay decent permanently.”
He was angry and hurt that all his roommate’s good resolutions should thus easily be cast to the winds.
“I’m just going to quit!” exclaimed Andy fiercely. “I’ve done all I could. Besides, it isn’t my affair anyhow. I’ll get another room—one by myself. Oh, hang it all, anyhow!”
Moody, angry, rather dissatisfied with himself, wholly dissatisfied with Dunk, Andy stumbled on. As he turned out of Chapel into High Street he saw before him two men who were talking earnestly. Andy could not help hearing what they said.
“Is the case hopeless?” one asked.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Yet he’s promised time and again to reform, and every time he slips back again.”
“Yes, I know. He isn’t the only one at the mission who does that.”
Andy guessed they were church workers.
“Don’t you get tired?” asked the questioner.
“Oh, yes, often. But then I get rested.”
“But this chap seems such a bad case.”
“They’re all bad, more or less. I don’t mind that.”
“And you’re going to try again?”
“I sure am. He’s worth saving.”
Andy felt as though some one had dealt him a blow. “Worth saving!” Yes, that was it. He saw a light.
The two men passed on. Andy hesitated.
“Worth saving!”
It seemed as though some one had shouted the words at him.
“Worth saving!”
Andy’s heart was beating tumultuously. His head and pulses throbbed. His ears rang.
He stood still on the sidewalk, near the gateway beside Chittenden Hall. His room was a little way beyond. It would be easy to go there and go to bed, and Andy was very tired. He had played a hard game of football that day. It was so easy to go to his room, and leave Dunk to look after himself.
What was the use? And yet——
“He is worth saving!”
Andy struggled with himself. Again he seemed to hear that voice whispering:
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Andy turned resolutely away from the college buildings. He set his face again down High Street, and swung out into Chapel.
“I’ll go get him,” he said, simply. “He’s worth saving. Maybe I can’t do it—but—I’ll try!”
CHAPTER XIXLINK COMES TO COLLEGE
With hesitating steps Andy pushed open the door of Burke’s place and entered. At first he could make out little through the haze of tobacco smoke, and his return was not noticed. Most of the college boys were in the rear room, and the noise of their jollity floated out to Andy.
“I wonder if Dunk is still there?” he murmured.
He learned a moment later, for he heard some one call:
“Stand up, Dunk! Your eye on us!”
“He’s in there—and I’ve got to save him!” Andy groaned. Then, with clenched teeth and a firm step he went into the rear room, among that crowd of roistering students.
Andy’s reappearance was the signal for a burst of good-natured jibing, mingled with cries of approval.
“Here he comes back!”
“I knew he couldn’t stay away!”
“Who said he was a quitter?”
From among the many glasses offered Andy selected a goblet of ginger ale. He looked about the tables, and saw Dunk at one, regarding him with a rather uncertain eye.
“There he is!” cried Andy’s roommate, waving his hand. “That’s him. My old college chum! I’m his protector! I always look after him. I say,” and he turned to the youth beside him, “I say, what is it I protect my old college from anyhow? Hanged if I haven’t forgotten. What is it I save him from?”
“From himself, I guess,” was the answer. “You’re all right, Dunk!”
“Come on, Dunk,” said Andy good naturedly. “I’m going to the room. Coming?”
Instantly there was a storm of protest.
“Of course he’s not coming!”
“It’s early yet!”
“Don’t you go, Dunk!”
Mortimer Gaffington, fixing an insolent and supercilious stare on Andy, said:
“Don’t mind him, Dunk. You’re not tied to him, remember. The little-brother-come-in-out-of-the-wet game doesn’t go at Yale. Every man stands on his own feet. Eh, Dunk?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re not going to leave your loving friends and go home so early; are you, Dunk?”
“Course not. Can’t leave my friends. But Andy’s my friend, too; ain’t you, Andy?”
“I hope so, Dunk,” Andy replied, gravely.
Somebody interrupted with a song, and there was much laughter. Mortimer alone seemed to be the sinister influence at work, and he hovered near Dunk as if to counteract the good intentions of Andy.
“Here you are, waiter!” cried Dunk. “Everybody have something—ginger ale, soda water, pop, anything they like. Cigars, too.” He pulled out a bill—a yellow-back—and Andy saw Mortimer take it from his shaking fingers.
“Don’t be so foolish!” exclaimed the sophomore. “You don’t want to spend all that. Here, I’ll hand out a fiver and keep this for you until morning. You can settle with me later,” and Gaffington slipped the big bill into his own pocket, and produced one of his own—of smaller denomination.
“That’s good,” murmured Dunk. “You’re my friend and protector—same as I’m Andy’s protector. We’re all protectors. Come on, fellows, another song!”
Andy was beginning to wonder how he would get his chum home. It was getting very late and to enter Wright Hall at an unseemly hour meant trouble.
“Come on, Dunk—let’s light out,” said Andyagain, making his way to his roommate’s side.
“No, you don’t!”
“That game won’t go!”
“Let Dunk alone, he can look out for himself.”
Laughing and expostulating, the others got between Andy and his friend. It was all in good-natured fun, for most of the boys, beyond perhaps smoking a little more than was good for them, were not at all reckless. But the spirit of the night seemed to have laid hold of all.
“Come on, Dunk,” appealed Andy.
“He’s going to stay!” declared Mortimer, thrusting himself between Andy and Dunk, and sticking out his chin in aggressive fashion. “I tell you he’s going to stay! We don’t want any of your goody-goody methods here, Blair!”
Andy ignored the affront.
“Are you coming, Dunk?” he repeated softly.
Dunk raised his head and flashed a look at his roommate. Something in Dunk’s better nature must have awakened. And yet he was all good nature, so it is difficult to speak of the “better” side. The trouble was that he was too good-natured. Yet at that instant he must have had an understanding of what Andy’s plan was—to save him from himself.
“You want me to come with you?” he asked slowly.
“Yes, Dunk.”
“Then I’m coming.”
Mortimer put his arm around Dunk and whispered in his ear.
“You don’t want to go,” he insisted.
“Yes, he does,” said Andy, firmly.
For a moment he and the other youth faced each other. It was a struggle of wills for the mastery of a character, and Andy won—at least the first “round.”
“I’m going with my friend,” said Dunk firmly, and despite further protests he went out with his arm over Andy’s shoulder. There were cries and appeals to remain, but Dunk heeded them not.
“I’m going to quit,” he announced. “Had enough fun for to-night.”
Out in the clear, cool air Andy breathed free again.
“Shall I get a cab?” he asked. “There must be one somewhere around.”
“Certainly not,” answered Dunk. “I—I can walk, I guess.”
They reached Wright Hall, neither speaking much on the way. Andy was glad—and sorry. Sorry that Dunk had allowed his resolution to be broken, but glad that he had been able to stop his friend in time.
“Thanks, old man,” said Dunk, briefly, as theyreached their room. “You’ve done more than you know.”
“That’s all right,” replied Andy, in a low voice.
Dunk went to chapel with Andy the next morning, but he was rather silent during the day, and he flunked miserably in several recitations on the days following. Truth to tell he was in no condition to put his mind seriously on lessons, but he tried hard.
Andy, coming in from football practice one afternoon, found Dunk standing in the middle of the apartment staring curiously at a yellow-backed ten-dollar bill he was holding in both of his hands.
“What’s the matter?” asked Andy. “A windfall?”
“No, Gaffington just sent it in to me. Said it was one he took the other night when I flashed it at Burke’s.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” spoke Andy. “You were getting too generous.”
“I know that part of it—Gaffington meant all right. But I don’t understand this.”
“What?” asked Andy.
“Why, this is a ten-spot, and I’m sure I had a twenty that night. However, I may be mistaken—I guess I couldn’t see straight. But I was sure it was a twenty. Don’t say anything about it,though—probably I was wrong. It was decent of Gaffington not to let me lose it all.”
And Dunk thrust the ten dollar bill into his pocket.
It was several days after this when Andy, crossing the quadrangle, saw a familiar figure raking up the leaves on the campus.
“What in the world is he doing here—if that’s him?” he asked himself. “And yet it does look like him.”
He came closer. The young fellow raking up the leaves turned, and Andy exclaimed:
“Link Bardon! What in the world are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’ve come to college!” replied the young farm hand, smiling. “How do you do, Mr. Blair?”
“Come to college, eh?” laughed Andy. “What course are you taking?”
“I expect to get the degree B. W.—bachelor of work,” was the rejoinder. “I’m sort of assistant janitor here now.”
“Is that so! How did it happen?”
“Well, you know the last time I saw you I was on my way to see if I could locate an uncle of mine, just outside of New Haven. I didn’t, for he’d moved away. Then I got some odd bits of work to do, and finally, coming to town with a young fellow, who, like myself was out of work,I heard of this place, applied for it and got it. I like it.”
“Well, I’m glad you are here,” said Andy. “If I can help you in any way let me know.”
“I will, Mr. Blair. You did help a lot before,” and he went on raking leaves, while Andy, musing on the strange turns of luck and chance, hurried on to his lecture.
CHAPTER XXQUEER DISAPPEARANCES
“Come in!” cried Andy as a knock sounded.
“I’m not going out, I don’t care who it is!” exclaimed Dunk, fidgeting in his chair. “I’ve justgotto get this confounded Greek.”
“Same here,” said Andy.
The door was pushed open and a shock of dark, curly hair was thrust in.
“Like to look at some swell neckties!” a voice asked.
“Oh, come in, you blooming old haberdasher!” cried Andy with a laugh, and Ikey Stein, with a bundle under his arm, slid in.
“Fine business!” he exclaimed. “Give me a chance to make a little money, gentlemen; I need it!”
“No more of that Japanese ‘vawse’ business!” warned Dunk. “I won’t stand for it.”
“No, these are genuine bargains,” declared the student who was working his way through college. “I’ll show you. I got ’em from a friend of mine, who’s selling out. I can makea little something on them, and you’ll get swell scarfs at less than you’d pay for them in a store.”
“Let’s see,” suggested Andy, rather glad of the diversion and of the chance to stop studying, for he had been “boning” hard. “But I don’t want any satsuma pattern, nor yet a cloisonne,” he added.
“Say, forget that,” begged Ikey. “That Jap took me in, as well as he did you fellows.”
“Well, if anybody can takeyouin, Ikey, he’s a good one!” laughed Dunk.
“Oh, don’t mind me!” exclaimed the merchant-student. “You can’t hurt my feelings. I’m used to it. And I’m not ashamed of my nature, either. My ancestors were all merchants, and they had to drive hard bargains to live. I don’t exactly do that, you understand, but I guess it’s in my blood. I’m not ashamed that I’m a Jew!”
“And we’re not ashamed of you, either!” cried Andy, heartily.
“Same here,” added Dunk. “Trot out your ties, Ikey.”
In spite of the fact that he sometimes insisted on the students buying things they did not really need, Ikey was a general favorite in the college.
“There’s a fine one!” he exclaimed, holding up a hideous red and green scarf. “Only a dollar—worth two.”
“Wouldn’t have it if you paid me for it!” cried Andy. “Show me something that a fellow could wear without hearing it yell a block away.”
“Oh, you want something chaste and quiet,” suggested Ikey. “I have the very thing. There!” holding it up. “That is a mere whisper!”
“It’s a pretty loud whisper,” commented Dunk, “but at that it isn’t so bad. I’ll take it, if you don’t want it, Andy.”
“You’re welcome to it. I want something in a golden brown.”
“Here you are!” exclaimed Ikey, sorting over his stock.
He succeeded in selling Andy and Dunk two scarfs each, and tried to get them to take more, but they were firm. Then the merchant-student departed to other rooms.
“It’s a queer way to get along,” commented Andy, when he had finished admiring his purchases.
“Yes, but I give him credit for it,” went on Dunk. “He meets with a lot of discouragement, and some of the fellows are positively rude to him, but he’s always the same—good-natured and willing to put up with it. He’s working hard for his education.”
“Harder than you and I,” commented Andy. “I wonder if we’d do it?”
“I’d hate to have it thrust on me. But I do give Stein credit.”
“Yes, only for that Japanese vase business.”
“Oh, well, I believe that oily Jap did put one over on him.”
“Possibly. Oh, rats! Here come some of the fellows!”
The sound of footsteps was heard in the corridor. Andy glanced at Dunk. If it should prove to be Mortimer Gaffington, who, of late had tried in vain to get Dunk to go out with him, what was to be done? Andy caught his breath sharply.
But it proved to be a needless alarm, for Bob Hunter, Ted Wilson and Thad Warburton came in with noisy greetings.
“Look at the digs!”
“Boning away on a night like this!”
“qlCome into the garden, Maud!’ Chuck that, you fellows, and let’s go downtown. What’s the matter with a picture show?”
It was Thad who asked this, but Bob, with a wry face, put his hand in his pocket and drew out seven cents.
“It doesn’t look much like a picture show for me to-night,” he said.
“Oh, I’ll stake you!” exclaimed Ted. “Come on.”
“Shall we?” asked Dunk doubtfully of Andy.
“Might as well, I guess,” was the answer. Andy was glad it had not been Gaffington, and he realized that it might be better to take this chance now of getting Dunk out, before the rich youth and his fast companions came along, as they might later in the evening. He knew that with Bob, Ted and Thad, there would be no long session at Burke’s.
“I haven’t done my Greek,” objected Dunk, hesitatingly.
“Oh, well, I’ll set the alarm clock, and we’ll get up an hour earlier in the morning and floor it,” suggested Andy.
“Burning the candle at both ends!” protested Dunk, with a sigh. “Ain’t I terrible? But lead me to it!”
As they went out of Wright Hall, Andy looked across the campus and saw Gaffington, and some of his boon companions, approaching.
“Just in time,” he murmured. When Gaffington saw Dunk in charge of his friends he and the others turned aside.
“That’s when I got ahead of him!” exulted our hero.
They spent a pleasant evening, and Andy and Dunk were back in their room at a reasonable hour.
“I declare!” exclaimed Dunk, “I feel pretty fresh yet. I think I’ll have another go at thatGreek. We won’t have to get up with the chickens then.”
“I’m with you,” agreed Andy, and they did more studying than they had done in some time.
“Well, I’m through,” yawned Dunk, flinging his book on the table. “Now I’m going to hit the hay.”
The next day Dunk was complimented on his recitation.
“Oh, I tell you it pays to bone a bit!” Andy cried, clapping Dunk on the back as they came out.
“That’s right,” agreed the other.
In the days that followed Andy watched Dunk closely. And, to our hero’s delight, Gaffington seemed to be losing his influence. Several times Dunk refused to go out with him—refused good-naturedly enough, but steadfastly.
Andy tried to get Dunk interested in football, and did to a certain extent. Dunk went out to the practice, and Andy tried to get him to go into training.
“No, it’s too late,” was the answer. “Next year, maybe. But I like to see you fellows rub your noses in the dirt. Go to it, Andy!”
Link Bardon seemed to find his employment at Yale congenial. Andy met him several times and had some little talk with him. The young farmer said he hoped to get permanent employmentat the college, his present position being only for a limited time.
Andy had received letters from some of his former chums at Milton. Among them were missives from Ben Snow and Chet Anderson. Chet wrote from Harvard, where he had gone, that he would see Andy at the Yale-Harvard game, while from Ben, who had gone to Princeton, came a similar message, making an appointment for a good old-fashioned talk at the annual clash of the Bulldog and Tiger.
“I’ll be glad to see them again,” said Andy.
It was about two weeks after the arrival of Link Bardon at Yale that some little disturbance was occasioned throughout the college, when an announcement was made at chapel one morning. It was from the Dean, and stated that a number of articles had been reported as missing from the rooms of various students.
“You are requested to keep your doors locked when you are out of your rooms,” the announcement concluded.
There was a buzz of excitement as the students filed out.
“What does it mean?”
“Who lost anything?”
“I have,” said one. “My new sapphire cuff buttons were swiped.”
“I lost a ring,” added another.
“And a diamond scarf pin I left on my dresser walked off—or someone walked off with it,” spoke a third.
There were several other mysterious losses mentioned.
“How did it happen?” asked Andy of a fellow student who had said a few dollars had been taken from his dresser.
“Hanged if I know,” was the answer. “I left the money in my room, and when I came back it was gone.”
“Was the room locked?”
“It sure was.”
“Did any of the monitors or janitors see anyone go in?”
“Not that I know of; but of course it could happen. There are a lot of new men working around here, anyhow.”
Andy thought of Link, and hoped that the farmer lad would not be suspected on account of being a stranger.
But as the days went on the number of mysterious thefts grew. Every dormitory in the quadrangle had been visited, but the buildings outside the hollow square seemed immune.
CHAPTER XXIA GRIDIRON BATTLE
Harvard was about to meet Yale in the annual football game between the freshman teams. The streets were filled with pretty girls, and more pretty girls, with “sporty” chaps in mackinaws, in raglans—with all sorts of hats atop of their heads, and some without hats at all.
There had been the last secret final practice on Yale Field the day before. That night the Harvard team and its followers had arrived, putting up at Hotel Taft.
Andy, in common with other candidates for the team, was sitting quietly in his room, for Holwell, the coach, had forbidden any liveliness the night before the game. And Andy had a chance to play.
True, it was but a bare chance, but it was worth saving. He had played brilliantly on the scrub team for some time, and had been named as a possible substitute. If several backs ahead of him were knocked out, or slumped at the last moment, Andy would go in. And, without inthe least wishing misfortune to a fellow student, how Andy did wish he could play!
There came a knock at the door—a timid, hesitating sort of knock.
“Oh, hang it! If that’s Ikey, trying to sell me a blue sweater, I’ll throw him down stairs!” growled Andy. He was nervous.
“Come in!” called Dunk, laughing.
“Is Andy Blair——Oh, hello, there you are, old man!” cried a voice and Chet Anderson thrust his head into the room.
“Well, you old rosebud!” yelled Andy, leaping out of the easy chair with such energy that the bit of furniture slid almost into the big fireplace. “Where’d you blow in from?”
“I came with the Harvard bunch. I told you I’d see you here.”
“I know, but I didn’t expect to see you until the game. You’re not going to play?”
“No—worse luck! Wish I was. Hear you may be picked.”
“There’s a chance, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, we’ll lick you anyhow!”
“Yes, you will, you old tomcat!” and the two clasped hands warmly, and looked deep into each other’s eyes.
“Oh!” exclaimed Andy. “I forgot. Chet, this is my chum, Duncan Chamber—Dunk forshort. Dunk—Chet Anderson. I went to Milton with him.”
The two shook hands, and Chet sat down, he and Andy at once exchanging a fund of talk, with Dunk now and then getting in a word.
“Did you come on with the team?” asked Andy.
“Yes, and it’s some little team, too, let me tell you!”
“Glad to hear it!” laughed Andy. “Yale doesn’t like to punch a bag of mush!”
“Oh, you won’t find any mush in Harvard. Say, have you heard from Ben?”
“Yes, saw him at the Princeton game.”
“How was he?”
“Fine and dandy.”
“That’s good. Then he likes it down there?”
“Yes. He’s going in for baseball. Hopes to pitch on the freshman team, but I don’t know.”
“You didn’t play against the Tiger?”
“No, there wasn’t any need of me. Yale had it all her own way.”
“She won’t to-morrow.”
“Wait and see.”
Thus they talked until Chet, knowing that Andy must want to get rest, in preparation for the gridiron battle, took his leave, promising to see his friend again.
The stands were a mass of color—blue like the sky on one side of Yale Field, and red like a sunset on the other. The cheering cohorts, under the leadership of the various cheer leaders, boomed out their voices of defiance.
Out trotted the Yale team and substitutes, of whom Andy was one. Instantly the blue of the sky seemed to multiply itself as a roar shook the sloping seats—the seats that ran down to the edge of green field, marked off in lines of white.
“Come on now, lively!” yelled the coaches, hardly making their voices heard above the frantic cheers.
The players lined up and went through some rapid passes and kicking. Andy and the other substitutes took their places on the bench, enveloped in blankets and their blue sweaters.
Then a roar and a smudge of crimson, that flashed out from the other side of the field, told of the approach of the Harvard team.
“Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!”
It was an acclaim of welcome.
Andy watched Yale’s opponents go through their snappy practice.
“They’re big and beefy,” he murmured, “but we can do ’em. We’ve got to! Yale has got to win!”
The captains consulted, the coin was flipped, and Harvard was to kick off. The teams gatheredin a knot at either end of the field for a last consultation. Then the new ball was put in the center of the field.
Andy found difficulty in getting his breath, and he noticed that the other players beside him had the same trouble.
The whistle shrilled out, and the Harvard back, running, sent the yellow pigskin sailing well down the field. A wild yell greeted his performance. One of the Yale players caught it and his interference formed before him. But he had not run it back ten yards before he was tackled. Now would come the first line-up, and it would be seen how Yale could buck the crimson.
“Signal!” Andy could hear their quarterback yell, and then the rest was swallowed up in a hum of excitement in the songs and cheers with which the students sought to urge on the defenders of the blue.
There was a vicious plunge into the line, but the gain was small.
“They’s holding us!” murmured Blake, at Andy’s side.
“Oh, it’s early yet,” answered Andy. He wondered why his hands pained him, and, looking at them found that he had been clenching them until the nails had made deep impressions in his palms.
Again came a plunging, smashing attack atHarvard’s line, and a groan from the Yale substitutes followed. The Yale back had been thrown for a loss.
“We’ve got to kick now,” murmured Andy, and the signal came.
Then it was the Yale ends showed their fleetness and they nailed the Harvard man before he had gained much. An exchange of punts followed, both teams having good kickers that year.
Then came more line smashing, in which Yale gained a little. It was a fiercely fought game, so fierce that before five minutes of play Harvard had to take one man out, and Yale lost two, from injuries that could not be patched up on the field.
“I’ve got a chance! I’ve got a chance!” exulted Andy.
But it was not rejoicing at the other fellows’ misfortunes. Unless you have played football you can not understand Andy’s real feelings.
The first quarter ended with neither side making a score, and there was a consultation on both teams during the little breathing spell.
“We’ve got to do more line plunging,” thought Andy, and he was right, for Yale began that sort of a game when the whistle blew again. The wisdom of it was apparent, for at once the ball began to go down toward Harvard’s goal, onceYale got possession of the pigskin after an exchange of kicks.
“That’s the way! That’s the way!” yelled Andy. “Touchdown! Touchdown!”
This was being yelled all over the Yale stands. But it was not to be. After some magnificent playing, and bucking that tore the Harvard line apart again and again, time for the half was called, Yale having the ball on Harvard’s eight-yard line. Another play might have taken it over.
But both teams had been forced to call on more substitutes, and Harvard lost her best punter. Yale suffered, too, in the withdrawal of Michaels, a star end.
The third quarter had not been long under way when, following a scrimmage, a knot of Yale players gathered about a prostrate figure.
“Who is it? Who is it?” was asked on all sides.
“Brooks—right half!” was the despondent answer. “This cooks our goose!”
“Blair—Blair!” cried the coach. “Get in there! Rip ’em up!”
A mist swam before Andy’s eyes. Some one fairly pulled him from the bench, and his sweater was ripped off him, one sleeve tearing out. But what did it matter—he had a chance to play!
“We’ve got to buck their line!” the freshmancaptain whispered in his ear. “They’re weak there, and we dare not kick too much. Our ends can’t get down fast enough. I’m going to send you through for all you’re worth.”
“All right!” gasped Andy. His mouth was dry—his throat parched.
“Steady there! Steady!” warned the coach.
“Ready, Yale?” asked the referee.
“Yes!”
Again the whistle blew. Yale had the ball, and on the first play Andy was sent bucking the line with it. He hit it hard, and felt himself being pushed and pulled through. Some one seemed in his way, and then a body gave suddenly and limply, and he lurched forward.
“First down!” he heard some one yell. He had gained the required distance. Yale would not have to kick.
Panting, trembling, with a wild, eager rage to again get into the fight, Andy waited for the signal. A forward pass was to be tried. He was glad he was not to buck the line again.
The pass was not completed, and the ball was brought back. Again came a play—a double pass that netted a little. Yale was slowly gaining.
But now Harvard took a brace and held for downs so that Yale had to kick. Then the Crimson took her turn at rushing the ball down thefield by a series of desperate plunges. Yale’s goal was in danger when the saving whistle for the third quarter shrilled out.
“Fellows, we’ve got to get ’em now or never!” cried the Yale captain, fiercely. “Break your necks—but get a touchdown!”
Once more the line-up. Andy’s ears were ringing. He could scarcely hear the signals for the cheering from the stands. He was called upon to smash through the line, and did manage to make a small gain. But it was not enough. It was the second down. The other back was called on, and went through after good interference, making the necessary gain.
“We’ve got ’em on the run!” exulted Yale.
The blue team was within striking distance of the Harvard goal. The signal came for a kick in an attempt to send the ball over the crossbar.
How it happened no one could say. It was one of the fumbles that so often occur in a football game—fumbles that spell victory for one team and defeat for another. The Yale full-back reached out his hands for the pigskin, caught it and—dropped it. There was a rush of men toward him, and some one’s foot kicked the ball. It rolled toward Andy. In a flash he had it tucked under his arm, and started in a wild dash for the Harvard goal line.
“Get him! Get that man!”
“Smear him!”
“Interference! Interference! Get after him!”
“It’s Blair! Andy Blair!”
“Yale’s ball!”
“Go on, you beggar! Run! Run!”
“Touchdown! Touchdown!”
There was a wild riot of yells. With his ears ringing as with the jangle of a thousand bells, with his lungs nearly bursting, and his eyes scarcely seeing, Andy ran on.
He had ten yards to go—thirty feet—and between him and the goal was the Harvard full-back—a big youth. Andy heard stamping feet behind him. They were those of friends and foes, but no friends could help him now.
Straight at the Harvard back he ran—panting, desperate. The Crimson player crouched, waiting for him. Andy dodged. He was midway between the side lines. He circled. The Harvard back turned and raced after him, intent on driving him out of bounds. That was what Andy did not want, but he did want to wind his opponent. Again Andy circled and dodged. The other followed his every move.
Then Andy came straight at him again, with outstretched hand to ward him off. There was a clash of bodies, and Andy felt himself encircled in a fatal embrace. He hurled himself forward, for he could see the goal line beneath his feet.Over he went, bearing the Harvard player backward, and, when they fell with a crash, Andy reached out, his arms over his head, and planted the ball beyond the goal line. He had made the winning touchdown!