“Now if we can shut them out we’ll win!” yelled Billy Wakefield, the scrub captain, clapping Joe on the back. “Can you do it?”
“I’ll try, old man,” and the pitcher breathed a trifle faster. It was a time to try his soul.
He was so nervous that he walked the first man, and the ’varsity began to jeer him.
“We’ve got his goat! Play tag around the bases now! Everyone gets a poke at it!” they cried.
Joe shut his lips firmly. He was holding himself well in, and Mr. Hasbrook, watching, murmured:
“He’s got nerve. He may do, if he’s got the ability, the speed and the stick-to-it-iveness. I think I made no mistake.”
Joe struck out the next man cleanly, though the man on first stole to second. Then, on a puzzling little fly, which the shortstop, with no excuse in the world, missed, another man got to first.
There was a double steal when Joe sent in his next delivery, and the catcher, in a magnificent throw to second, nearly caught his man. It was a close decision, but the umpire called him safe.
There were now two on bases, the first sack being unoccupied, and only one out.
“Careful,” warned the catcher, and Joe nodded.
Perhaps it was lucky that a not very formidable hitter was up next, for, after two balls had been called, Joe struck him out, making two down.
“Now for the final!” he murmured, as the next batter faced him. There were still two on bases, and a good hit would mean two runs in, possibly three if it was a homer.
“I’m going to strike him out!” thought Joe fiercely.
But when two foul strikes resulted from balls that he had hoped would be missed he was not so sure. He had given no balls, however, and there was still a reserve in his favor.
“Ball one!” yelled the umpire, at the next delivery. Joe could hear his mates breathing hard. He rubbed a little soil on the horsehide, though it did not need it, but it gave him a moment’s respite. Then, swift and sure, he threw the bail. Right for the plate it went, and the batter lunged fiercely at it.
But he did not hit it.
“Striker out—side’s out!” came from the umpire.
Joe had made good.
“’Varsity beaten! What do you know about that?” gasped Ricky Hanover, as the crowd that had watched the game swarmed out on the diamond.
“And Joe Matson did it!” added Spike. “Jove! but I’m glad for his sake! And him only a Freshman, playing on a scrub class team. I’m glad!”
“So am I,” added Jimmie Lee, who joined them.
“Will this get him a permanent place?” asked Ricky. “He’s entitled to it.”
“Well, he’s got his foot on the first rung of the ladder anyhow,” was Jimmie’s opinion. “But it’ll be a good while before he pitches for the ’varsity. He’s got to show the coaches that it was no freak work. Besides he’s got a year to wait.”
“And he can do it!” declared Spike. “I haven’t been catching him these last two weeks for nothing. Joe isn’t a freak pitcher. He’s gotcontrol, and that’s better than speed or curves, though he has them, too.”
On all sides there was talk about the result of the practice game. Of course the second nine had, in times past, often beaten the ’varsity, for the element of luck played into the hands of the scrub as well as into those of its opponents.
But the times were few and far between when the first nine had to go down to defeat, especially in the matter of a scrub Freshman pitcher administering it to them, and Joe’s glory was all the greater.
“Congratulations, old man!” exclaimed Avondale, the scrub twirler whom Joe had temporarily displaced. “You saw your duty and you done it nobly, as the poet says. You didn’t let ’em fuss you when you were in a tight corner, and that’s what tells in a ball game. Shake!”
“Thanks!” exclaimed Joe. He knew just what it meant for his rival to do this, and he appreciated it. “You can have a whack at them next.”
“I’m afraid not,” returned Avondale. “You did so well that they’ll want to keep you at scrub, and you’ll be on the ’varsity before you know it.”
“I wish I could think so,” laughed Joe. As he spoke he saw Ford Weston passing behind him, and the ’varsity pitcher had heard what was said. A scowl passed over his face. He did not speak to Joe, but to Captain Hatfield, who was with him,the pitcher murmured, loudly enough to be heard:
“It was just a fluke, that was all. We could have won only for the errors the fielders made.”
“Maybe—maybe not,” agreed the captain. “I think we were outpitched, and I’m not afraid to acknowledge it. We’ve got to do better!”
“Do you mean me?” There was challenge in Weston’s tone.
“I mean all of us,” was the quiet answer. “Matson, you did us up brown, but you won’t do it again,” and the captain laughed frankly.
“I’ll try—if I get the chance,” was the grim retort.
Meanwhile the coaches had singled out some of the ’varsity members whose playing had shown faults, and were giving instructions how to correct them. Merky Bardine, who played on third, had sprained his leg slightly, and the trainer, McLeary, had taken him in hand to treat him. Mr. Hasbrook walked up to Joe.
“You did very well,” the chief coach was good enough to say, “and I’m glad you had your chance. You have a number of faults to correct, but I think you can master them. One is that you don’t get enough into the game yourself. A pitcher must do more than merely deliver the ball. Twice in this game you didn’t get after the bunts as you might have done.”
Joe felt a little discouraged. He had hopedfor unqualified praise from the head coach, but he was sensible enough to realize that it was all said for his benefit, and he resolved to profit by it. In fact it was this quality and ability of Joe’s—enabling him to receive advice graciously—that made him the wonderful pitcher he afterward became.
“You must play into the game more,” went on Mr. Hasbrook. “Outside of the catcher, you’re the only man on the team who can handle certain bunts—I mean the pitcher. For that reason you want to study a style of delivery that won’t leave you in a bad position to look after the ball if it is hit your way. You have the right idea now in throwing, but you can improve, I’m sure.”
“I’ll try,” spoke Joe.
“I know you will, and that’s why I’m taking the trouble to talk to you. Then you’ve got to be on the watch for base stealing. There are some catchers who can pretend to throw to second, and yet so suddenly change as to deliver the ball to the pitcher. This deceives the man on third, who starts for home, and if you have the ball you can nip him. So far we haven’t had a catcher who can work this trick, but we may develop one before we get through.”
“Then Kendall isn’t sure of his place?” asked Joe eagerly, thinking of the desire of his chum Spike to fill the position behind the plate later on.
“Well, he’s reasonably sure of it,” went on the head coach cautiously. “But we never can tell what will develop after the season opens. Another point I’d like to impress on you is, that sometimes you’ve got to help out on first base. Particularly is this the case when a bunt comes that the first baseman can take care of. Then it’s your duty to hustle over to first.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Joe. It was all he could think of to say at the time. In fact he was rather dazed. There was a deal more to this baseball game than he had imagined. He was beginning to get an inkling of the difference between the amateur sport and the professional way of playing.
“I don’t want to burden you with too much advice at the start,” went on Mr. Hasbrook, “for I want you to remember what I tell you. From time to time, as I see your weak points, I’m going to mention them to you.”
“I’ll be glad if you will,” spoke Joe earnestly.
“On the whole you did very well to-day,” concluded the head coach, “and I’m glad we gave you the chance. Report for light practice to-morrow, and the next day we’ll try another game. Look after your arm. You used it a good bit this afternoon.”
Joe felt in rather better spirits after Mr. Hasbrook had finished than when he began.
“I’m going to get a fair chance to show whatI can do, anyhow,” declared our hero, as he went to his room. On the way he was joined by Spike, who had dropped back when the head coach started his instructions.
“Well?” asked Joe’s room-mate.
“Fairly well,” was the answer. “Say, I believe you’ve got a chance, Spike.”
“Me? How?”
“Why, it isn’t settled that Kendall will catch all of next season.”
“Oh, I guess it is as much as anything is settled in this world. But I can wait. I’ve got four years here.”
Joe was elated at his triumph, and little was talked of in baseball circles that night but how the scrubs had “put one over” on the ’varsity. There was some disposition to criticize the first team for loose and too confident playing, but those who knew gave Joe credit for what he had done.
And so the baseball season went on until the ’varsity was fully perfected and established, the class teams improved and the schedule made up. Then came hard and grilling work. Joe was doing his best on his Freshman class team, and often played against the college nine, either in conjunction with his mates, or, when it was desired to give one of the other Freshmen pitchers a chance, taking part with a mixed “scrub” team, composed oflads from various classes in order to give the ’varsity good opposition.
And Yale swept on her way. Of course Joe bewailed the fact that he would have to lose a whole year before he could hope for a chance to be on the first team, but he bided his time. Weston was doing fairly well, and the feeling between him and our hero had not changed.
The Spring term was drawing to a close. Yale and Princeton had met twice, and there was a game apiece. Yale had also played other colleges, losing occasionally, but winning often enough to entitle her to claim the championship if she took the odd game from the Tiger. But she did not, and though her players insisted, none the less, that Yale was at the top of the heap, and though the sporting writers conceded this, still Princeton won the third game. And Yale was bitter, though she stood it grimly,—as she always does.
“Well, we’ll see what next year will bring forth,” said Spike to Joe, at the wind-up of the baseball season. “You’re coming back; aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything now. Though, as a matter of fact, I didn’t expect to. I thought I’d take one year here, and if I could get on the ’varsity nine long enough to say I had been on it, I’d quit, and go in for the professional end of it.But, since I can’t, I’ll come back and make another stab at it.”
“That’s the way to talk. Well, I hope to be here, too.”
The Summer vacation came, and Joe had passed his examinations. Not brilliantly, but sufficiently well to enable him to enter the Sophomore class.
“And if I don’t make the ’varsity next Spring, it will be my own fault!” he cried, as he said good-bye to his chums and packed up for home.
The Summer passed pleasantly enough. Joe’s family took a cottage at a lake resort, and of course Joe organized a ball team among the temporary residents of the resort. A number of games were played, Joe pitching in fine style. One day a manager of one of the minor leagues attended a contest where Joe pitched, and when word of this was carried to our hero he had a nervous fit. But he pulled himself together, twirled magnificently, and was pleased to see the “magnate” nod approvingly. Though later, when someone offered to introduce Joe to him, the lad declined.
“I’ll wait until I’ve made a better reputation,” he declared. “I want the Yale Y before I go looking for other honors;” and he stuck to that.
“Joe seems to care more for college than you thought he would, father,” said Mrs. Matson, when it came time for her son to go back as aSophomore for the next Fall term. “I think he’ll finish yet, and make us all proud of him.”
“Joe will never do anything that would not make us proud of him,” said his father. “But I rather fancy the reason he is so willing to go back to Yale is that he didn’t make the ’varsity baseball nine last season. There’s a rule against Freshmen, you know.”
“Oh dear!” lamented Mrs. Matson. “I did hope he would like college for its own sake, and not for baseball.”
“It’s hard to separate baseball and football from college likings, I guess,” conceded her husband.
And so Joe went back. It was quite different from entering New Haven as a Freshman, and even in the old elms he seemed to have a proprietary interest. He took his old room, because he liked it, and a number of his other Sophomore friends did likewise, though some Freshmen held forth there as usual.
Then came the football season, and, though Joe took an interest in this, and even consented to try for the scrub, he was not cut out for that sort of work, and soon gave it up.
Yale made her usual success on the gridiron, though the far-famed game with Princeton resulted in a tie, which made the baseball nine all the more anxious to win the championship.
The Winter seemed endless, but soon there was the beginning of baseball talk, as before, and this was regarded as a sign of Spring. There was no question now but what Joe was eligible for the ’varsity, though that was far from saying that he would be picked for it. All his old friends had returned to the university, and there was little change in the baseball situation as regards new names. Most of the old ones kept their same places.
Nothing definite had been learned about the red paint episode, and though it was mentioned occasionally, and often in a censorious manner as against the perpetrator of it, the latter was not discovered.
Then there began to gather at Yale the oldtime players, who acted as coaches. Mr. Hasbrook, who from long familiarity with the game, and from his intense love of it, and for hisalma mater, was again named as head coach.
“Well, we’ve got a pretty good nine, I think,” said Weston one day, after hard practice against the Freshmen. How Joe did thank his stars that he was not in the latter team, though he was first pitcher on the Sophomore team.
“Yes, we have,” admitted several. “It looks as if we could trim Princeton this time.” Joe had pitched for the ’varsity in some informal practice games, though Weston was regarded still as firstchoice. And Joe was fearful that his cherished ambition was yet far from being realized.
“We’re playing good ball,” said Weston. “I don’t say that because I’m pitching,” he added quickly, as he saw some looking at him curiously, “but because we have got a good team—mostly old players, too,” and he glanced meaningly at Joe, as though he resented his entrance as an aspirant for the mound.
“One thing—we’ve got to tighten up considerably,” declared Captain Hatfield. “We’ll play our first match game with Amherst in two weeks, and we want to swamp ’em.”
“Oh, we will,” said Weston easily.
“Not unless you pitch better—and we all play better,” was the grim answer.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. You’ve got to strike more men out, and play a livelier game.”
“Well, I guess I can,” answered the pitcher, sullenly.
There was only light practice the next day, and Joe was told to perfect himself in signals with the class captain. Then came another hard practice contest, and, somewhat to Joe’s surprise, he was not called on to pitch, as he fully expected. But he resigned himself cheerfully when Avondale went to the mound. Had our hero but known it, Mr. Hasbrook had deliberately omitted to start Joe,wishing to discipline him, not, however, because of anything Joe had done.
“I think there’s championship material for one of the big leagues in that lad,” mused the head coach, to justify himself, “and he’s got a hard row ahead of him unless he learns to take disappointment. I’ll start him on the right track, though I would like to pitch him steadily.”
And so Joe sat on the bench, while his rival pitched. Whether it was on this account, or because the ’varsity had tightened, was not at once apparent, but the fact was that the first team began to pound out runs, and the scrub did not.
“That’s the way!” exclaimed the enthusiastic assistant coaches. “Eat ’em up, ’varsity!”
Mr. Hasbrook smiled, but said nothing. At the end of the seventh inning Joe was sent in to pitch, but it was too late for the scrubs to save the game for themselves, since the ’varsity had it by six runs. Nor did Joe escape hitless, though from the time he went in no runs were made by his opponents.
“Joe, you’re a better pitcher than I am,” declared Avondale, frankly. “I can see where I’ve made mistakes.”
“Well, it isn’t too late to fix ’em.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” and, as it developed, it was, for from then on Joe did most of the pitching for the scrub. Occasionally, when his arm wasa bit lame, Avondale was sent in, or one of the other pitching candidates, but the result was nearly always disastrous for the scrub.
Not that Joe always made good. He had his off days, when his curves did not seem to break right, and when his control was poor. But he was trying to carry out Mr. Hasbrook’s instructions to get into more plays, and this handicapped him a bit at the start.
The head coach saw this, and made allowances, keeping Joe on the mound when the assistants would have substituted someone else.
“Wait,” advised the head coach. “I know what I’m doing.”
The season was beginning to open. Schedules were being arranged, and soon Yale would begin to meet her opponents. The practice grew harder and more exacting. The voices of the coaches were more stern and sharp. No errors were excused, and the scrub was worked doubly hard to make the ’varsity that much better.
Ford Weston had improved considerably and then one day he went to pieces in the box, when playing a particularly close and hard game with the scrub.
There was surprise and consternation, and a hasty conference of the coaches. An attempt was made to stem the tide by putting in McAnish, the southpaw, and he did some excellent work, but thescrub seemed to have struck a winning streak and took everything that came their way. Joe was pitching, and held the first team well down.
There was gloom in Yale that night, for the game with Amherst was not far off, and the Amherst lads were reported to be a fast and snappy lot.
There was a day of rest, and then came the final practice against the scrub. There was a consultation among the coaches in which the first and second captains participated before the contest. Then Mr. Hasbrook separated himself from the others.
“Matson!” he called sharply. “You and Kendall warm up a bit, and get a line on each other’s signals. Matson, you’re going to pitch for the ’varsity to-day!”
Joe Matson was trembling when he went to his place, even after some lively warming-up practice with the catcher. The very thing he most wanted had come to him very unexpectedly. And yet he was sensible enough to realize that this was only a trial, and that it did not mean he would pitch against Amherst. But he had great hopes.
“Come!” he exclaimed to himself, as he got ready for the opening of the game. “I’ve got to pull myself together or I’ll go all to pieces. Brace up!”
The sight of Weston glaring at him helped, in a measure, to restore Joe to himself.
“He’s hoping I won’t make good,” thought Joe. “But I will! I must!”
It may have been because of Joe’s natural nervousness, or because the scrub team was determined to show that they could bat even their own pitcher, that was the cause of so many runs coming in during the first inning. No one couldrightly say, but the fact remained that the runs did come in, and it began to look bad for the ’varsity.
“I told you how it would be—putting in a green pitcher,” complained Mr. Benson.
“Perhaps,” admitted the head coach. “But wait a bit. Joe isn’t as green as he looks. Wait until next inning.”
And he was justified, for Joe got himself well in hand, and the ’varsity, as if driven to desperation by another defeat staring them in the face so near to the Amherst game, batted as they never had before. Avondale was all but knocked out of the box, and the scrub captain substituted another pitcher, who did much better. Joe’s former rival almost wept at his own inability.
Meanwhile our hero was himself again, and though he did give three men their bases on balls, he allowed very few hits, so that the ’varsity took the game by a good margin, considering their bad start.
“That’s the way to do it!” cried Captain Hatfield, when the contest was over.
“Do it to Amherst,” was the comment of the head coach.
“We will!” cried the members of the first team.
“Good work, Matson,” complimented Hatfield. “Can you do it again?”
“Maybe—if I get the chance,” laughed Joe, who was on an elevation of delight.
“Oh, I guess you’ll have to get the chance,” spoke the captain. He did not notice that Weston was close behind him, but Joe did, and he saw the look of anger and almost hate that passed over the face of the pitcher.
“He looks as though he’d like to bite me,” murmured Joe. “And yet it’s all a fair game. I may get knocked out myself. But even then I’m not going to give up. I’m in this to stay! If not at Yale, then somewhere else.”
If Joe imagined that his work that day had been without flaws he was soon to be disillusioned, for Mr. Hasbrook, coming up to him a little later, pointed out where he had made several bad errors in judgment, though they had not resulted in any gain for the scrub.
“Still,” said the head coach, “you don’t want to make them, for with a sharp team, and some of the big college nines playing against you, those same errors would lose the game.” And he proceeded to give Joe some good advice.
When Avondale, the twice-humiliated pitcher, walked off the diamond that afternoon, he was joined by Weston, who linked his arm in that of the scrub twirler.
“Well, we’re both in the same boat,” remarked Avondale. “A better man has ousted us.”
“Not at all—nothing of the sort!” cried Weston, and his voice showed how much he was nervously wrought up. “I don’t admit for a minute that Matson can pitch better than I can.”
“Well, I do, in my own case, and the coaches seem to in yours.”
“I’m a little out of form to-day,” admitted Weston, quickly. “I’ll be all right to-morrow, and I’ll pitch against Amherst.”
“It’ll be a great game,” spoke Avondale.
“Maybe. But say, what do you think of a fellow like him—a regular country clod-hopper—coming here, anyhow?”
“Who do you mean?”
“Matson. What right has he got to butt in at a college like Yale, and displace the fellows who have worked hard for the nine?”
“The right of ability, I suppose.”
“Ability nothing! He doesn’t belong here, and he ought to be made to quit.”
“Well, I confess I don’t like to lose the place I worked so hard for, and I don’t see much chance of making the ’varsity now,” admitted Avondale; “but at the same time I must give Matson credit for his work.”
“Bah! It’s only a flash in the pan. He can’t last. I think I could make him quit if I wanted to.”
“How?”
“Would you join me in a little trick if we could?”
“I don’t know. What do you mean?” and Avondale looked curiously at his companion.
“I mean that red paint business and the spoiling of the ancient manuscripts. If it was known who did it he’d get fired.”
“You don’t mean to say Matson had a hand in that!” cried Avondale aghast.
“I’m not saying anything. But if it could be shown that he did it, he’d not pitch for Yale—that’s sure. Shall I say any more? Remember I’m making no cracks yet. But I know some things about Matson no one else knows.” This was true enough, but Avondale did not take it in the sense in which it could have been truthfully said, but, rather, as Weston meant he should—wrongly.
Now Avondale had one fault. He was too easily led. He was brilliant, full of promise, and a jolly chap—hail-fellow-well-met with everyone, and that is not the best thing in the world, though it makes for temporary popularity. Avondale was his own worst enemy, and many a time he had not the courage to say “no!” when the utterance of it would have saved him from trouble. So when Weston thus temptingly held out the bait, Avondale nibbled.
“Shall I say any more?” went on the other.“Remember, you’ve got to be as tight as a drum on this.”
“Of course. I—er—I—that is——”
“Come over here and I’ll tell you something,” went on the ’varsity pitcher, and the two were soon in close conversation.
“Have you seen theNews?” gasped Jimmie Lee, bursting into the room of Joe and his chum one afternoon, following some baseball practice. “It’s great!”
“You mean have weheardthe news; don’t you?” questioned Spike. “You can hear news, but not see it, that is unless the occurrence which makes news happens to come under your own observation. Where is your logic, you heathen?Seennews!”
“Yes, that’s what I mean!” snapped Jimmie. “I mean have you seen the last copy of the YaleNews?”
“No; what is it?” asked Joe quickly. “Something about the baseball nine?”
“No, it’s about those musty old manuscripts that got spoiled the time Professor Hardee slipped on his doorsteps in the red paint.”
“What about ’em?” demanded Joe, thinking of the time he had seen Weston slipping into hisroom, trying to conceal his hand on which was a scarlet smear. “What’s new?”
“Why, it seems that some learned high-brow society wrote on to borrow them, to prove or disprove something that happened in the time of Moses, and they had to be refused as the sheepskins are illegible. The powers that be tried to clean off the paint, but it took some of the lettering with it, and Prof. Hardee and some of his friends are wild over the loss. TheNewssays it’s irreparable, and there’s even an editorial on it.”
“Well, that isn’t much that’s new,” went on Joe, as he took the college paper which Jimmie held out to him. “It was known before that the parchments were pretty well on the blink. It’s a shame, too, for they are the only ones in the world of that particular dynasty. What else?”
“Lots,” went on Jimmie. “TheNewshints that a committee of Seniors is working with Professor Hardee and some of the faculty, trying to find out who was responsible. If they do find out they may make the joker’s folks pay heavy damages.”
“Yes, if they find out,” put in Spike. “But it happened some time ago, and they haven’t got a hint of it yet. It was a mean trick—I’ll say that—but there are no welchers or squealers at Yale.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” murmured Jimmie.
“What do you mean?” asked Joe quickly.
“Why this screed goes on to hint that the investigators have a line on who did it. They have some clews, it seems, and an exposure is hinted at.”
“Get out!” cried Joe, thinking of the effect it would have on Weston should the truth—as Joe thought it—come out. He had half made up his mind to deny everything he had seen, even if questioned.
“That’s right,” asserted Jimmie. “This article says it may soon be known who did the ‘dastardly deed’—note the ‘dastardly’—guess the editor dipped his pen in sulphuric acid. But it was a mean trick, and I guess we all feel the same way about it. The fellow who did it ought to be fired. Fun is fun, and I like it as much as anybody, but this passes the limits.”
“Right!” exclaimed Spike. “But does it say anything about who it might be—what class?”
“Oh, it as much as says a Freshman did it, of course—as if we did everything last year. Anyhow, it’s stirred up a lot of talk, I can tell you. I just came across the campus and theNewssold more copies than ever before, I guess. Everyone seems to have one, and they’re all talking about it. I hope if they do find out who did it, that he won’t happen to be any of our crowd—or on the ball nine.”
“Why?” asked Spike.
“Why—he’d be expelled, of course, and if it was one of the ’varsity nine it might have a bad effect on winning the championship. We’ve got to win that this year.”
“Oh, I guess it’s mostly talk,” asserted Spike, as he read the article after Joe had finished. As for Joe he said little. But he thought much.
“Maybe,” agreed Jimmie. “And yet it looks as if there was something back of it all. I only hope there isn’t. It would be tough for our class to have to stand for this.”
There was more talk along the same line, and, a little later, some other of the second-year class dropped in and continued the session. There were differences of opinion, as might have been expected.
“Well, after all is said and done,” came from Bert Fost, who by reason of weight was ineligible for the nine, but who was an enthusiastic supporter, “when it’s all over, I think we’ll wipe Amherst off the map.”
“We will—if the nine isn’t broken up,” declared Jimmie.
“Broken up—what do you mean?” and Bert glared at the questioner.
“I mean that if it’s proved that some member of the team did this red paint business it’s all off with him having a chance to play against Amherst.”
“Oh, piffle!” declared Bert. “That punk is written by some lad who’s trying to make good on theNewsso he’ll get tapped for Scroll and Keys. Forget it.”
But it was not so easily forgotten, for the article seemed to have some definite knowledge behind it, and the editorial, though student-inspired, as all knew, was a sharp one.
“If it really is Weston I’m sorry for him,” thought Joe, little thinking how near he himself was to danger.
There were new developments the next morning—a certain something in the air as the young men assembled for chapel told that there was about to be a break. And it came.
“Here comes the Dean!” the whisper went round, when the exercises were nearly over. “Something’s going to be cut loose.”
The Dean addressed the students. He began mildly, but soon he had almost worked himself up to a dramatic situation. In veiled terms he referred to the red paint outrage, and then, after telling what it meant to have the valuable manuscripts ruined, he added:
“I assume that you have all seen the article which appears in the college paper. With that, though I might, I take no issue. On another phase I do.
“I have received an anonymous letter, accusinga certain student of the outrage. I shall, in this matter, take the course I always do when I receive such a cowardly communication as an anonymous letter—I destroy it unread,” and, as he spoke the Dean tore into fragments a piece of paper. The pieces he carefully put in his pocket, however, with the remark that they would be consigned to the fire unlooked at, as soon as possible.
“I wonder who was accused?” said Spike.
“I wonder?” added Joe.
“That’s the way to do it!”
“Yale always can do it!”
“Bull dog grit!”
“The blue always wins!”
“They came—they saw—but—we conquered!”
It was the close of the Yale-Amherst baseball game, and the sons of Eli had gloriously triumphed. They had trailed the banners of their opponents in the dust, they had raced around the bases, they had batted the ball into the far corners of the field, and they had raced home with the runs.
“I told you so!” chirped Jimmie Lee.
“Hold on!” cried Slim Jones. “Didn’t you start to be a calamity howler, and say Yale wouldn’t win?”
“Never!” asserted Jimmie.
“Yes, you did!”
“Well, I was only bluffing. I knew we could put it all over them.”
“And we did,” said Spike in a low voice to Joe. “Only——”
“Only I didn’t have much share in it,” interrupted the aspirant for pitching honors.
There had indeed been a “shake-up” on the nine the day of the game. Until the last moment it was not definitely settled who would pitch, and there were many rumors current. It lay between Joe, Weston, and McAnish, the left-handed one, and on the morning of the game—the first important one of the season for Yale—the newspapers had various guesses as to who would be the twirler.
Joe had hoped to go in at the start, but when the game was called, and Captain Hatfield submitted his list, it was seen that Weston had the coveted place.
“Well, old man, you’re back where you belong,” said Avondale to him, as the name was called. “I suppose now, that little matter, which you were speaking to me about, can drop?”
“It can—if I remain pitcher,” answered Weston. “But I’ve got it all cocked and primed to explode if I have to. I’m not going to sit tight and let some country whipper-snapper put it all over me.”
“I don’t know as I blame you—and yet he seems a pretty decent sort.”
“Oh, he’s not in our class!”
“Well, maybe not. Do your best!”
And Weston did. Never had he pitched a better game—even his enemies, and he had not a few, admitted that. It was a “walkover” soon after the first few innings had demonstrated the superiority of Yale. Amherst was game, and fought to the last ditch, but neither in batting, fielding nor pitching was she the equal of the wearers of the blue.
Joe, sitting on the bench, with the other substitutes, fretted his heart out, hoping for a chance to play, but he was not called on until the eighth inning. Then, after a conference of the coaches, during which the head one could be seen to gesticulate vigorously, Joe was called on to bat in place of another, which gave him the call to pitch the next inning.
“What’s the matter?” was asked on all sides. “Is Weston going stale?”
“Glass arm,” suggested some of his enemies.
“No, they’re saving him for the Harvard game,” was the opinion of many. “They don’t want to work him too hard.”
“And we have this game anyhow.”
“But what’s the matter with McAnish?”
“Oh, he’s out of form.”
And so Joe had gone in at the eleventh hour, before that sitting on the bench, eating his heart out.
“Show what you can do!” exclaimed the head coach to him as he took the mound. “And don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” repeated Joe.
“That’s what I said. Remember what I told you, and don’t try to win the game by merely pitching.”
Joe recalled his instructions about backing up first base in an emergency, of taking care of the bunts, of watching the catcher, who might try to deceive the man on third.
And it was well for Joe that he did. For, though he did well from the pitching end, there came several opportunities to distinguish himself in making infield plays. Once he made a fine stop of a bunt that, had it been a safety, would have done much to lower Yale’s lead. Again he managed, by a quick play, on getting the ball from the catcher, to throw out the man at second, who was trying to steal third. There was applause for Joe Matson that day, though he did not pitch the team to victory.
“Well?” asked Mr. Hasbrook of his colleagues, after the contest. “What did I tell you? Isn’t he an all-around good player?”
“He seems so,” admitted Mr. Benson. “But I think Weston did most excellently.”
“Yes, he did,” said the head coach, “but mark my words, he’s overtrained or he hasn’t the grit tostick it out. Here we are at the beginning of the season, and he has failed us several times. I don’t want to force my judgment on you gentlemen, but I think we ought to give Matson a better trial.”
“All right, we’ll send him in earlier in the Cornell game next week,” suggested Mr. Whitfield, and to that the head coach agreed.
There were all sorts of baseball politics discussed in the dormitories, on the campus, and at Glory’s and other resorts that night.
“It begins to look as if the coaches didn’t quite know where they were at,” declared Ricky Hanover. “They make a shift at the last minute.”
“A good shift—according to the way the game went,” declared Hen Johnson, who held down second base.
“That’s yet to be seen,” asserted Jimmie Lee. “Amherst was fruit for us to-day.”
The opinions went back and forth—proandcon—and it was, after all, a matter of judgment. Yet back of it all was the indomitable Yale spirit that has often turned defeat into victory. This was to hearten up those who picked flaws in the playing of the blue, and who predicted a slump in the following week, when the strong Cornell team would be met.
“Oh, Cornell may row us but she can’t play ballus,” declared Jimmie Lee. “We’ll dump ’em.”
“We may—if Joe Matson pitches,” spoke Spike, in a low voice.
“Here! Cut that out,” advised Joe, in a sharp whisper.
Meanwhile no more had been heard about the red paint matter, and it looked to be but a flash in the pan—what theNewshad printed. The Senior committee of investigation was not in evidence—at least as far as could be learned.
Baseball practice went on, sometimes Joe pitching for the ’varsity, and again one of his rivals being called on. There was a tightening up on the part of the coaches—they were less tolerant—the errors were less excused. Bitter words were the portion of those who made mistakes, and Joe did not escape.
“You must do a little better,” the head coach urged him. “We’re not playing school teams, remember, but teams that are but little removed from the professional class, as regards ability. Play harder—sharper—more accurately—don’t get rattled.”
And Joe tried to tell himself that he would do or not do these things, but it was hard work. He had begun to realize what a career he had marked out for himself.
“Well, are you going to spring it?” askedAvondale of Weston, a day or so before the Cornell game. “What about the red paint?”
“Oh, I guess it will keep—if I pitch the game,” was the answer.
“Did you send the anonymous letter?”
“Don’t ask me,” snapped Weston.
The day of the next game came—one of the great battles of the diamond, on the winning or losing of which depended, in a measure, the gaining of the championship.
The Cornell host, many strong, descended on New Haven, and made the air vibrant with their yells. They cheered Yale, and were cheered in turn.
Out on the diamond they trotted—a likely looking lot of lads.
“Husky bunch,” commented Jimmie Lee.
“They sure are,” agreed Shorty Kendall.
“Who’ll pitch for you?”
“Don’t know. They’re just going to announce it.”
The umpire, the captains, managers, and coaches were holding a conference. Joe, in spite of his seeming indifference, watched them narrowly. Over in their section the Cornell hosts were singing their songs and giving their cheers.
The wearers of the blue had given their great cry—they had sung the Boola song—some hadeven done the serpentine dance. All was in readiness for the game.
“If he doesn’t pitch me,” murmured Weston, “I’ll be——”
Mr. Hasbrook motioned to the umpire, who raised his megaphone to make the announcement.
“The battery for Yale will be Weston and Kendall, and for Cornell——”
But the last announcement was given no heed by the supporters of the blue—at least by the players themselves, the substitutes, and Joe Matson in particular. A murmur went around.
“Weston! Weston’s going to pitch!”
“After the work Baseball Joe’s done too!”
“Why, Weston isn’t in form.”
“Oh, he’s practiced hard lately.”
“Yes, and he was doing some hot warming-up work a little while ago. I guess they’ll pitch him all right.”
“He must have put up a kick, and Hasbrook gave in to him.”
“It looks so, and yet Horsehide generally doesn’t play a man unless he can make good. That’s Yale’s way.”
These were only a few of the comments that were being heard on all sides. The Yale team looked somewhat amazed, and then, lest theirenemies find out that they feared they had a weak spot, they braced up, smiled and acted as if it was a matter of course. And, as far as Cornell was concerned, they knew that there was rivalry between Weston and Joe, but as a pitcher is an uncertain quantity at best, they were not surprised that the ’varsity twirler whom they had faced the season before should again occupy the mound. It might be a part of the game to save Matson until later.
“Tough luck, Joe,” said Spike, as he passed his friend.
“Yes—Oh, I don’t know! I hadn’t any right to expect to pitch!”
Joe tried to be brave about it, but there was a sore feeling in his heart. He had hoped to go into the game.
“Sure you had a right to expect it!” declared Spike. “You’re the logical pitcher. There’s been some funny work going on, I’m sure. Weston has pulled off something.”
“Be careful, Spike.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. Why, look at Horsehide’s face!”
Joe glanced at the head coach. Indeed the countenance of Mr. Hasbrook presented a study. He seemed puzzled as he turned away from a somewhat spirited conversation with Mr. Benson. For an instant his eyes met those of Joe,and the young pitcher thought he read in them pity, and yet a trace of doubt.
“I wonder if he has lost confidence in me?” thought Joe. “I wonder if he thinks I can’t pitch in a big game?”
Yet he knew in his own heart that he had not gone back—he was sure he could pitch better than he ever had before. The days at Yale, playing with young men who were well-nigh professionals, had given him confidence he had not possessed before, and he realized that he was developing good control of the ball, as well as speed and curves.
“I wonder why he didn’t pitch me?” mused Joe.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and the hearts of all were eager for the battle of stick and horsehide to begin. Cornell went to the bat first, and Weston faced his man. There was a smile of confidence on the pitcher’s face, as he wound up, and delivered a few practice balls to Kendall. Then he nodded as if satisfied, and the batter stepped up to the plate.
“Strike!” called the umpire, at the first delivery, and there was a murmur of amazement. The batter himself looked a bit confused, but made no comment. The ball had gone cleanly over the plate, though it looked as if it was going to shoot wide, and the player had thought to let it pass. Weston smiled more confidently.
He was hit for a foul, but after getting threeand two he struck the batter out, and there was a round of applause.
“I couldn’t have done it any better myself,” said Joe, with honest praise for his rival.
“Wait,” advised Spike. “Weston’s got to last over eight more innings to make good, and he’ll never do it.”
But when he struck out the next man, and the third had retired on a little pop fly, Yale began to rise in her might and sing the beginning of a song of victory.
“Oh, we’ve got the goods!” her sons yelled.
“How’s that for pitching?” demanded someone.
Joe joined in the cheer that was called for Weston, but his heart was still sore, for he felt that those cheers might have been for him. But he was game, and smiled bravely.
Yale managed to get one run during the last half of the first inning, and once more the sons of Eli arose and sent forth a storm of cheers, songs and college cries.
“Go back home, Cornell!” they screamed.
But the Cornell host smiled grimly. They were fighters from start to finish.
Joe noticed that Weston did not seem quite so confident when he came to the mound the second time. There was an exchange of signals between him and the catcher, and Weston seemed to be refusing to do what was wanted. After gettingthree and two on his man, the batter sent out a high one that the left fielder was unable to connect with, and the runner reached second.
“Never mind, play for the next one,” advised Kendall, and though the runner stole third, Weston pitched the second man out. Then, whether it was nervousness or natural inability cropping out at the wrong time, was not known, but the pitcher “went up in the air.”
With only one out, and a man on third, he began to be hit for disastrous results. He made wild throws, and the whole team became so demoralized that costly errors were made. The result was that Cornell had four runs when the streak was stopped.
“We’ve got to do better than this,” declared the head coach, as the Yale men came in to bat. “Rap out a few heavy ones. Show ’em what Yale can do in a pinch.”
They tried, but Cornell was fighting mad now, with the scent of victory to urge her players on. The best Yale could do was two, leaving their opponents one ahead at the beginning of the third.
And then Weston went to pieces more than ever, though in the interval his arm had been rubbed and treated by the trainer. He had complained that it was stiff.
I shall not give all the details of that game. Yale wanted to forget it after it was over. Butwhen, at the ending of the fifth inning, the score stood eight to four in favor of Cornell there was a quick consultation among the coaches. What was said could not be heard, but Mr. Hasbrook seemed to be insisting on something to which the other two would not agree. Finally Horsehide threw up his hands in a gesture of despair.
“Avondale, take the mound!” he exclaimed.
“Avondale!” gasped the players. The scrub pitcher to go in and Joe, who was his master, kept on the bench? It was incredible.
“Well, what do you know about that?” demanded Spike. “I’ve a good notion to——”
“Be quiet!” begged Joe. “They know what they’re doing.”
But it seems they did not, for Avondale was worse by far than Weston had been. He was hit unmercifully, and three more runs came in. But he had to stick it out, and when the miserable inning for Yale ended he went dejectedly to the bench.
Weston, who had been having his arm rubbed again, and who had been practicing with a spare catcher, looked hopeful. But this time, following another conference of coaches, Mr. Hasbrook evidently had his way. Fairly running over to where Joe sat the head coach exclaimed:
“Quick—get out there and warm up. You’llpitch the rest of the game. It’s a forlorn hope, but we’ll take it!”
Joe’s face shone as he ripped off his sweater, grabbed up a ball and his mitt, and started for the practice stretch. His heart was in a tumult, but he calmed himself and began his work.
But it was too much to expect to pull the contest out of the fire by such desperate and late-day methods. In the part of the game he pitched Joe allowed but one hit, and with howls of delight his friends watched him mow down the Cornell batters. Not another run came in, but the lead of the visitors was too big, and Yale could not overcome it, though her sons did nobly, rising to the support of Joe in great style.
“Well, it’s over,” remarked Spike gleefully as he caught Joe’s arm at the close of the contest.
“You seem glad that Yale lost,” said the pitcher.
“Never! But I’m glad you showed ’em what you could do when you had the chance. If you’d gone in first Yale would have won!”
“Oh, you think so—do you?” sneered a voice behind them. They turned quickly, to see Ford Weston, scowling with rage.
“Yes, I do,” declared Spike boldly.
“Then you’ve got another think coming!” was the retort. “I’m the ’varsity pitcher, and I’m going to hold on to the job!”
“What do you think of him, anyhow?” asked Spike of his room-mate, as Weston passed on. “Isn’t he the limit!”
“He certainly doesn’t seem to care much for me,” replied Joe, with a grim smile. “But I suppose it’s natural. Almost anyone would feel that way at the prospect of being replaced.”
“Oh, he makes me tired!” exclaimed Spike. “He ought to stand for Yale—not for Ford Weston. It’s the first time in a good many years that any player has placed himself above the team.”
“But Weston hasn’t done that yet.”
“No, but that’s what he’s scheming for. He as good as said that he’ll pitch for the ’varsity no matter what happens.”
“Who’s that? What’s up?” asked another voice, and, turning, the two chums saw Ricky Hanover. “Oh, you’re talking about Weston,” he added, as he noted the defeated pitcher walking away. “What’s he been saying?”
They told him, and Ricky, making a wry face, went on:
“So that’s how things are; eh? Well, if Weston tries that sort of game, I can see the finish of the Yale nine. It’ll be the tail end of the kite, and the championship will be in the soup. In fact it’s beginning to gravitate that way now, with the loss of this Cornell game.”
“But where does Weston get his pull?” demanded Spike. “How is it that they put him in to-day, when it was almost known that he couldn’t make good. And here was Joe all ready to go on the mound. You saw what he did when he got there and yet——”
“Spare my blushes! I’m a modest youth!” laughed Joe.
“That’s all right, there’s something back of all this,” continued Spike, vigorous in defence of his chum. “Why should the coaches put Weston in, and then, when he slumped, call on Avondale before they did you, Joe? It isn’t right, and I think Horsehide should have made a better fight for you. You claim he’s a friend of yours, Joe.”
“Well, yes, in a way. And yet if I had to depend on his friendship to get on the mound I’d never go there. I want to stand on my own feet and have the right to pitch because I can do better than some other fellow. That’s all I ask—a fair show. I don’t want any favors, and Mr. Hasbrook isn’t the man to give them to me, if I’d take them.”
“I guess you’re right there,” commented Ricky.
“But what I can’t understand,” went on Spike, “is how Horsehide seemed to give in to the other two coaches. It was as plain as a flagpole that he didn’t want to pitch Weston to-day, and yet he had to in spite of himself. Why was it?”
“Do you really want to know?” asked Ricky, and his voice was lowered, while he glanced around as if to make sure that no one would hear him save his two friends. “Do you really want to know?”
“Certainly,” declared Spike, and Joe wondered what was coming.
“Well, it’s because Weston is a member of the Anvil Club,” said Ricky. “It’s a class secret society, and it has a lot of influence—more so than even some of the big Senior clubs. Weston belongs and so do Horsehide and the other two coaches. They were in college, and they still keep up their affiliations. Now you know why they pitched Weston to-day—because he demanded it as a part of his right as a member of the Anvil Club.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Spike, “that the secret society is bigger than Yale—that it could make her lose a ball game?”
“No, not exactly,” replied Ricky. “But it is powerful, and a member has an unwritten right to demand almost anything in reason of the othermembers, and by their promises made they are obliged to help him.”
“But this wasn’t anything in reason,” said Spike. “Joe should have pitched the game, and then we’d have won. It was unreasonable to let Weston go in.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Ricky. “I don’t mean to say that Yale men would do any underhand work to make any athletic contest go by the board. But you can’t say, right off the bat, that Weston’s demand was unreasonable. He thought he could pitch to a victory, and he probably said as much, very forcibly. It was a chance that he might, and, when he appealed for a try, on the ground that he was an Anvil man—they had to give it to him, that’s all. It was all they could do, though I guess Horsehide didn’t want to.”
“But there’s Avondale,” went on Ricky. “What about him?”
“He’s an Anvil man, too.”
“And I’m not,” broke in Joe. “Say,” he asked with a laugh, “how do you join this society?”
“You don’t,” spoke Ricky solemnly. “You have to be asked, or tapped for it, just as for Wolf’s Head, or Skull and Bones. Oh, it’s an exclusive society all right, and as secret as a dark cellar.”
“And you really know this to be so?” asked Spike, almost incredulously.
“Well, no one says so out and out, but I’ve heard rumors before, and to-day they were strong enough to hear without a megaphone. Oh, Weston’s got the thing cinched all right.”
“Then I haven’t a chance,” sighed Joe, and more than ever he regretted coming to Yale. Yet, deep in his heart, was a fierce desire to pitch the college to a championship.
“Haven’t a chance!” cried Spike, indignantly. “Do you mean to say, Ricky, that they’ll let Weston go on losing games the way he did to-day?”
“No, not exactly. But they’ll pitch him because he will appeal to their society side, and bamboozle ’em into thinking that he has come back strong, and can sure win.”
“And if he doesn’t—if he slumps as he did to-day?”
“Then they’ll put in Avondale or McAnish.”
“And Joe won’t get a show until last?” asked Spike.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“I don’t believe so.”
“All right. Just watch,” said Ricky, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Of course,” he went on, “the coaches may wake up to the fact before it’s too late, or there may be such a howl made that they’ll have to can the society plea. But it’s a queer situation. Come on down to Glory’s and we’ll feed our faces.”
“Wait until we get un-togged,” suggested Spike, for he, too, had on a uniform, hoping for a chance to play. But it had not come.
It was late when Joe and his chum got back to their room. They had met congenial spirits at the popular resort, and a sort of post-mortem had been held over the game. But, though the faults of many players were pointed out, and though Joe received due praise for his work, little had been said of Weston’s poor pitching.
“It’s just as I told you,” declared Ricky. “There are too many members of the Anvil Club, and affiliated societies, and they hate to hurt Weston’s feelings, I guess.”
The ’varsity pitcher was not present.
“Well, it sure is a queer state of affairs,” commented Spike, as he and Joe reached their apartment. “I wish we could do something. It’s a shame, with a pitcher who has your natural abilities, Joe, that——”
“Oh, forget it, old man, and go to sleep,” advised Joe. “I’m much obliged for your interest in me, but maybe it will come out right after all.”
“Humph! It won’t unless we make it,” murmured Spike.
The coaches tried some shifting about of players when the next practice came on, though Weston was still retained on the mound. Joe was told to go in at shortstop, and he made good there,more by hard work than natural ability, for he wanted to show that he would do his duty wherever he was placed. Weston seemed to be doing better, and he got into more plays, not being content to merely pitch.
“We’ll trim Harvard!” was the general opinion, and Yale stock, that had gone down, took an upward move.
The Harvard game was soon to come—one of the contests in the championship series, though Yale generally regarded the fight with Princeton as the deciding test.
It was one afternoon following some sharp practice, when the ’varsity seemed on edge, that Joe said to Spike:
“Come on, let’s take a walk. It’s too nice to go back and bone.”
“All right—I’m with you. We’ll get out in the country somewhere.”
Weston passed as this was said, and though he nodded to the two, there was no cordiality in it.
Joe and Spike thoroughly enjoyed their little excursion, and it was almost dusk when they returned. As they entered their room, Ricky came out to greet them.
“What have you fellows been doing?” he demanded. “I came in to have a chat, and I found your room empty. A little later I heard you in it, and then, after I had found my pipe which Idropped under the bed, and went in again, you weren’t to be seen. Yet I was sure I heard you moving about in it.”
“We haven’t been home since practice,” declared Spike.
“You say you heard someone in our room?” inquired Joe.
“I sure did.”
“Maybe it was Hoppy.”
“No, for I asked him, and he said no.”
“Any messages or letters left?” asked Spike, looking around, but no missives were in sight.
“Oh, well, maybe it was spooks,” declared Joe. “I’m going to get on something comfortable,” and he went to the clothes closet, presently donning an old coat and trousers. Ricky made himself comfortable in an armchair, and the three talked for some time.
“I say, what’s that on your sleeve?” asked Ricky of Joe during a pause. “It looks like red ink. See, you’ve smeared Spike’s trigonometry with it.”
“Quit it, you heathen!” exclaimed the aggrieved one.
“Red ink,” murmured Joe, twisting his sleeve around to get a look at the crimson spot. He touched it with his finger. “It’s paint—red paint!” he exclaimed, “and it’s fresh!”