“Red paint!” exclaimed Ricky.
“Who put it there?” asked Spike, and he looked queerly at Joe.
“Not I,” replied the pitcher. “And yet it’s fresh. I can’t understand. You say you heard someone in here, Ricky?”
“As sure as guns.”
“Maybe it was some of those pesky Freshies trying some of their funny work,” suggested Spike.
“Hazing and tricks are about over,” came from Joe, as he looked more closely at the red spot. “And yet someone seems to have been in here, daubing up my clothes. I wonder if they tried it on any more? Lucky it was an old suit.”
He looked in the closet, but the coat, with the crimson spot on the sleeve, seemed to be the only one soiled.
“I have it!” suddenly cried Spike.
“What, for cats’ sake?” asked Ricky.
“It’s good luck!”
“Good luck?” demanded Joe. “How do you make that out? These aren’t my glad rags, that’s a fact, but still paint is paint, and I don’t want it daubed all over me. Good luck? Huh!”
“Of course it is,” went on Spike. “Don’t you see? That’s red—Harvard’s hue. We play them next week, you’ll pitch and we’ve got their color already. Hurray! We’re going to win! It’s an omen!”
“Cæsar’s pineapples!” exclaimed Ricky. “So it is. I’m going to grind out a song on it,” and, having rather a knack with verse, he was soon scribbling away in rhyme. “How’s this?” he demanded a few minutes later. “Listen fellows, and pick out a good tune for it,” and he recited:
“We’ve got Harvard’s colors,We’ll tell it to you.The red always runsAt the sight of the blue.So cheer boys, once more,This bright rainbow hue,The Red will turn purpleWhen mixed with the blue!”
“We’ve got Harvard’s colors,We’ll tell it to you.The red always runsAt the sight of the blue.So cheer boys, once more,This bright rainbow hue,The Red will turn purpleWhen mixed with the blue!”
“Eh? How’s that?” he asked proudly. “Pretty nifty I guess! Your Uncle Pete isn’t so slow. I’m going to have the fellows practice this for the game, when you pitch, Joe.”
“Maybe I won’t.”
“Oh, yes you will. But what do you think of it?”
“Rotten!” exclaimed Spike.
“Punk!” was the opinion of Slim Jones, who had entered in time to hear the verse. “Disinfect it, Ricky.”
“Aw, you fellows are jealous because you can’t sling the muse around when you want to. Guess I’ll try a second spasm.”
“Not in here,” declared Spike, quickly. “This is a decent, law-abiding place, and, so far, has a good reputation. I’m not going to have the Dean raiding it just because you think you’re a poet. That stuff would give our English Lit. prof. a chill. Can it, Ricky, can it.”
“You’re jealous, that’s all,” and despite the protest Ricky proceeded to grind out a second verse, that he insisted on reading to his audience, which, by this time had increased to half a dozen lads from neighboring rooms. There was quite a jolly little party, and Ricky demanded that they sing his new song, which they finally did, with more or less success.
The strains wafted out of doors and passing students were attracted by the sound until the place was swarming with congenial spirits, and nothing was talked of but the coming game with Harvard.
“It’s queer though, about that red paint,” said Spike, later that night, when he and Joe were alone.
“It sure is,” agreed the pitcher.
“Maybe Hoppy sent someone around to do a bit of daubing, and the chap got in here by mistake,” suggested his chum. But inquiry developed that this was not so, and the mystery remained unsolved for a time.
But after he got in bed, Joe did some hard thinking. He recalled the red paint episode of the spoiled manuscript, and wondered, without believing, if Weston could have come to his room.
“He might have,” reflected Joe, “and he might have had a hardened spot of red paint on his clothes from daubing it on the steps that time. If the hardened upper crust rubbed off, it would leave a fresh spot that might have gotten on my coat. And yet what would he be doing in my closet, let alone in the room here? No, it can’t be that. Unless he sneaked in here—knowing Spike and I would be away—looking for something to use against me.
“He doesn’t want me to pitch, that’s a fact, and if he could find something against me he’d use it. But he can’t. I’m glad I’m not a candidate for any of their queer secret societies here, or I’d be worrying about them not asking me to join. I’mgoing to keep out of it. But that red spot is sure queer.”
All Yale was on edge on the day before the Harvard game, which was to take place on the Cambridge diamond. The team and the substitutes were trained to the minute, and all ready to make the trip, together with nearly a thousand “rooters” who were going along to lend moral support. Particular pains had been taken with the pitching staff, and Joe, Weston, McAnish and Avondale had been worked to the limit. They had been coached as they never had been before, for Yale wanted to win this game.
As yet it was not known who would pitch. At least the ’varsity candidates did not know, and Joe was hoping for at least half a game. He was modest, for Weston arrogantly declared that he would last the nine innings. His friends said little, but he had a certain power in college not to be overlooked.
The stadium was thronged with spectators as the teams trotted out for a little warming-up practice. In the cheering stands for the wearers of the blue the locomotive cry, the Boola song, a new one—“Bulldog Grit!”—and Ricky’s effusion were gone over again. “Hit the Line!” came as a retort, and the cheerers tried to outdo each other.
“Do you think you’ll pitch, Joe?” asked Spike,in a low tone, as he and his chum practised off to one side.
“I don’t know. There are all sorts of rumors going about. I’d like to—I guess you know how much—just as you would like to catch—but we can’t always have what we want. The coaches are having a talk now. Weston seems pretty confident.”
“Yes, the cad! I wish he’d play fair.”
“Oh, well,” said Joe, with an air of resignation, “I suppose he can’t help it. I guess I shouldn’t like it if I’d pitched for a year, and then found a new man trying for my place.”
“But if the new man was better than you, and it meant the winning of the game?” asked Spike, as he took a vicious ball that Joe slugged to him.
“Oh, well, of course in theory the best man ought to play—that’s not saying I’m the best man by a long shot!” Joe hastened to add; “but even in theory it’s hard to see another man take your place.”
“Something’s doing,” said Spike suddenly. “The conference has broken up.”
Joe looked nervously to where the coaches and captain had been talking. Tom Hatfield was buttoning on his shortstop glove, and then taking it off again as though under a strain.
He walked over to the umpire, and Weston, seeing him, made a joking remark to a companion. He started for the players’ bench, for Harvardwas to bat last, and Yale would come up first for the stick-work.
“It looks like him,” remarked Spike in a low voice.
“Well, I’ll be ready when they call me,” said Joe, with a good nature he did not feel.
The umpire raised his megaphone. There was a hush, and then came the hollow tones:
“Batteries for to-day. Harvard: Elkert and Snyder—Yale: Matson and Kendall.”
“By Halifax!” cried Spike, clapping Joe on the back with such force that he nearly knocked over his chum. “You pitch, old man!”
Shouts and yells greeted the announcement of the umpire—cheers from the admirers of the respective batteries.
“Yah!” voiced the wearers of the crimson. “That’s our one best bower! Oh you Elkert! Tear ’em apart, Snyder!”
Back came the challenge from the sons of Yale.
“You’re our meat, Harvard! Keep your eye on the ball—that’s all you’ll be able to do. Fool ’em, Matson. ’Rah for Baseball Joe!”
Our hero was becoming quite a favorite with his classmates, many of whom now knew of his one ambition. But Kendall had his admirers too.
“He eats ’em alive—Shorty Kendall does!” came the cry. “Look out for our bear-cats, Harvard!”
Once more came a riot of cheers and songs, each college group striving its best to outdo the other, giving its favorite cries or songs.
“Come, get together, you two, and make sureyou don’t have any mix-up on signals,” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook to Joe and the catcher. “We want to win this game. And, Joe, don’t forget what I told you about getting in on all the plays you can. We’ll need every man if we take this game. Harvard has several good twirlers, and she’s been playing like a house afire. Watch yourselves.”
“Then I’m really going to pitch?” asked Joe. It was almost the only thing he had said since hearing the announcement, after Spike had clapped him on the back with such force.
“Pitch! Of course you’re going to pitch,” declared the head coach. “And I want you to pitch your head off. But save your arm, for there are going to be more games than this. But, mind!” and he spoke with earnestness. “You’ve got to make good!”
“I will!” exclaimed Joe, and he meant it.
“Come over here,” suggested Shorty. “Plug in a few and we’ll see if you’re as good as you were yesterday,” for Joe and he had had considerable practice, as, in fact, had all the pitchers, including Weston. As for that lad, when he heard the announcement a scowl shot across his face, and he uttered an exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” asked De Vere, who had become rather intimate with Ford of late.
“Matter! Isn’t there enough when that—when he pitches?” and he nodded his head toward Joe.
“Why; do you think they’ll get his goat, or that he’ll blow, and throw the game?”
“He might,” sneered Weston, “but I have a right to be on the mound to-day. I was half promised that I could pitch, and now, at the last minute, they put him in. I’m not going to stand for it!”
“It’s a sort of a raw deal,” declared his friend. “I don’t see why they let such fellows as he come to college. First we know there’ll be a lot of hod-carriers’ sons here instead of gentlemen,” and De Vere turned up, as far as possible, the point of his rather stubby nose. He himself was the son of a man who had gotten his start as a contractor, employing those same “hod-carriers” at whom the son now sneered.
“That’s right,” agreed Weston. “I should think they could keep Yale a little more exclusive.”
“I agree with you,” came from the other. “Why I even understand that they are talking of forming a club where even those who eat at commons, and are working their way through, can join. It’s going to be fierce. But none of them will get in the Blue Ribbon Association,” he added, referring to an exclusive college organization.
“Nor the Anvil Club either,” added Weston. “This is all Hasbrook’s fault. He’s taken some silly notion to Matson, and he thinks he’s a wonderful pitcher. It seems they met somewhere, andMatson did him a favor. Now he’s taking advantage of it.”
“But he can pitch,” said De Vere, who, for all his snobbishness, was inclined to be fair.
“Yes, after a fashion, but he hasn’t anything on me. I won against Harvard last year.”
“So you did.”
“And I could do it again.”
“I believe you. Anyhow I think only the fellows in our own class—socially—should play. It makes it rather awkward, don’t you know, if you meet one of the team out anywhere, and he isn’t in your set. You’ve got to notice him, or there’d be a howl, I s’pose; but really some of the fellows are regular clod-hoppers, and this Matson doesn’t train in with us.”
“You’re right. But if things go the way I think he may not last very long.”
“How do you mean? Will he put up such a rotten game that they won’t stand for him?”
“That’s all I can say now,” rejoined Weston, somewhat mysteriously. “But something may happen.”
“And you’ll pitch?”
“I hope so. I may get in this game, for I did beat Harvard one year.” But Weston forgot to add that he pitched so wretchedly the remainder of the season that Yale finished a poor third, losing the championship.
“Play ball!” called the umpire. Those who had been practicing straggled to the bench, or walked out to take their fielding positions.
“I guess you’ll do,” declared Kendall to Joe, with a nod of encouragement. “Don’t let ’em get your Angora.”
“I’ll try not to,” came the smiling answer. “Are they hard hitters?”
“They are if they get the ball right, but it’s up to you not to let ’em. Give ’em twisters and teasers.”
“Play ball,” called the umpire again, and the first of the Yale batsmen took his place. Once more came the yells and cheers, and when the lad struck out, which he did with an ease that chagrined his mates, there was derisive yelling from the Harvard stands.
“Two more and we’ve got ’em going!” was shouted.
But Jimmie Lee, the diminutive first baseman, was up next, and perhaps the Harvard pitcher did not think him a worthy foeman. At any rate Jimmie caught a ball just where he wanted it, and rapped out a pretty two-bagger.
“That’s the way! Come on in!” was shouted at him, but Jimmie caught the signal to hug the half-way station, and stayed there. He stole third while they were throwing his successor out at first, and this made two down, with Jimmie ready tocome in on half a chance. But the Harvard pitcher tightened up, and the fourth man succumbed to a slow twister on his final strike, making the third out, so that poor Jimmie expired on the last sack.
“Now, Joe, show ’em that we can do better than that,” begged Shorty, as he donned mask and protector. “Throw me a few and warm up. Then sting ’em in!”
Joe was a bit nervous as he went to the box, but he managed to control himself. He seemed to guess just what kind of a ball would fool the batter, and, after two balls had been called on him, sent over two in succession that were named strikes.
“That’s the way we do it!” yelled a Yale admirer, in a high-pitched voice. “One more and he’s done.”
But the one more did not come. Instead, apparently getting the ball just where he wanted it, the Harvard man swung on it to the tune of three sacks, amid a wild riot of cheers.
“Now we’ve got ’em going!” came Harvard’s triumphant yells, and Joe felt the hot blood rush to his face. Kendall saw it, and, guessing the pitcher’s state of mind, walked out to the box and whispered:
“Don’t mind. That was a fluke. It won’t happen again. Hold on to yourself—tighten up and we’ll get ’em.”
Joe felt better after that bit of advice, and wascalmer when he wound up for the next batter. Though he had been told that Harvard would play a foxy game, he was hardly prepared for what followed. The next player up hit lightly, for a sacrifice, thinking to bring in the run. As it happened, Joe stumbled as he raced to pick up the twisting ball, and though he managed to recover himself, and throw home, while on his knees, the man racing from third beat the throw and the first run for Harvard was in. Then such cheering as there was!
Yale was nonplussed for the moment, and her rooters in the stands sat glum and silent. But the spirit of the blue could not long be kept down, and soon the Boola song came booming over the field. It cheered Joe mightily, even though he saw the sneering look on the face of Weston, who sat on the bench, hoping for a chance to supplant him.
“Here’s where we walk away!” crowed a Harvard man, but the wearers of the crimson did not, for that run was the only one they got that inning. But it was a start, and it looked big below the goose egg that adorned Yale’s score.
The game went on, varyingly. Yale managed to get two runs in the fifth inning, putting her one ahead, for Joe had done such good work, aided by the rest of the team, when a hit was made, that Harvard had not scored again.
“Matson’s pitching a great game!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, as he watched eagerly. “I toldyou we wouldn’t make any mistake if we let him go in first,” and he looked at his colleagues.
“But that was a costly fumble,” declared Mr. Benson.
“Yes, but no one is perfect. Besides we’re ahead.”
“Only one run.”
“That’s enough to win the game.”
“But hardly with four more innings to go,” rejoined Mr. Whitfield, dubiously.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, in excitement, as Joe grabbed a hot liner and whipped it over to first in time to catch the man napping there. “Matson’s more than just a pitcher.”
“You seem interested in him,” spoke Mr. Benson.
“I am. I think Joe is going to make one of the finest ball players we’ve ever had at Yale. He hasn’t found himself yet, of course, and he needs more judgment. But he’s got a future. I think we’ll hear of him somewhere else besides on a college team, too.”
“I understand he has professional ambitions,” admitted Mr. Benson. “But he’s got a hard life ahead of him.”
“Oh, he’ll make good!” declared Mr. Hasbrook.
And it seemed that Joe was going to in this game. He was pitching wonderfully well, andHarvard only found him for scattering hits.
On her part Yale was doing very well. Harvard had tried another pitcher when she found that her first one was being pounded, but it availed little, and when the ninth inning closed, as far as the wearers of the blue were concerned, they were two runs ahead.
“We’ve got ’em! We’ve got ’em!” yelled Shorty with delight, capering about Joe. “All you’ve got to do is to hold ’em down!”
“Yes—all—but that’s a lot,” declared the pitcher. “They’re going to play fierce now.”
“But they need three runs to win. You can hold ’em down!”
“I’ll try,” promised Joe, as he went to the mound.
It looked as if he was going to make good, but luck, that element that is always present in games, especially in baseball, deserted the blue for the red. The first man up knocked a long, high fly to deep centre. So sure was he, as well as everyone else, that it would be caught, that the player hardly ran, but the ball slipped through the fingers of Ed. Hutchinson as if it had been greased, and the man was safe on second.
“Now we’ve got ’em going,” came the cry. “A couple more hits and we’ve got the game.”
Joe was wary, but he was playing against experienced youths, and when he found the man onsecond trying to steal third he threw down, hoping to catch him. His throw was wild, the baseman jumped for it in vain, and the runner went on to third.
“Never mind—play for the batter,” advised Shorty.
Joe did, but somehow he could not get the right twist on the ball. He was hit for a single, and the man on third scored.
“Two more and we’ve got ’em!” yelled the delighted wearers of the crimson. “None down yet.”
Then, whether it was the effect of luck, or because the Yale team was hypnotized by the wearers of the crimson, was not manifest; but certain it was that the blue players went to pieces. It was not Joe’s fault—at least not all his, though he made one error. But this seemed to affect all the Yale team, and the result was a wild finish on the part of Harvard that put them two runs to the good, winning the game.
“Hard luck!” exclaimed Shorty, in a dejected voice, as he took off his glove and mask. “Hard luck!”
“We’d a right to that game!”
“Sure we had.”
“And we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the drain pipe, I guess.”
“It’s tough luck!”
The Yale team and its admirers—no, in this case its sympathizers—were coming off the field after the Harvard defeat. All sorts of comments, excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard. Joe said but little, though he thought much. Every error—every little point he had missed—seemed to stand out glaringly.
“Never mind, old man!”
It was Spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum’s shoulders.
“I—I can’t help it,” replied the pitcher, bitterly. “We lost the game.”
“That’s just it—we did—not you. Cæsar’s ghost, man! You can’t carry the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim thewhole credit when we win. It’s all in the day’s work.”
“I know, but——”
“‘But me no buts,’ now Joe. Just brace up. This is only one of the championship games. There are more to come, and we’ll get enough to put us on top of the heap. I only wish I had your chances to perform in public.”
“I wish you had, Spike. But I guess this was my last chance.”
“Nonsense! They’ll play you again. Why Weston—or Avondale either, for that matter—wouldn’t have done half as well, I think.”
“Oh, so that’s your opinion; is it?” snapped a voice behind them. There was no need to turn to know that Weston was there, and it took but a glance to show that he was frowning and sneering.
“It sure is,” retorted Spike, sturdily, for he was not afraid to air his opinions.
“Well, you’ve got another think coming,” snapped Weston. “I’ll pitch a game pretty soon, and show you what’s what.”
Joe did not make reply, but he wondered if Weston’s words held significance.
“Maybe they won’t let me pitch after this,” he mused. Spike, reading his thoughts, said:
“Now don’t you go to thinking gloomy thinks, Joe. You’re all right if you only believe so. Have some confidence in yourself.”
“I have, but after the way things went to pieces in the last inning I don’t know what to think.”
“Oh, bosh! If you’d had anything like decent support it never would have happened. Hutchinson muffing that ball started us down hill.”
“That’s what!” chimed in Jimmie Lee, coming along just then. “This is only one game—the fortunes of war. We’ll beat ’em next time; wallop Princeton, and take the championship.”
“West Point is next on the list,” went on Joe. “I wonder what sort of a game they play?”
“Like clockwork,” explained Spike. “I saw one, once, and they put it all over Yale. But we’ve got to win this one.”
“That’s what!” declared Jimmie. “I say, I know a nice place where we can get a dandy rabbit. Let’s stay over to-night. I can stand some cuts, we’ll take in a show, and have supper after it. Come on, and we can go to New Haven in the morning.”
“No, I guess I’ll go back with the team,” said Joe, slowly. “They might think I was trying to dodge if I sneaked off. I’ll go back with the rest.”
“All right—then we’ll go to Glory’s and have a feed,” insisted Jimmie. “I’ve got to do something to raise my spirits.”
They went to the dressing rooms, and soon the players and their friends were moving to the hotel where they had stopped.
Yale had cheered her successful rivals, and had been cheered in turn, and now, as the team walked through the Cambridge streets they heard, on all sides of them, the jubilant expressions that told of joy over the victory. To Joe it was gall and wormwood, for, in spite of the efforts of his friends to make him feel better, he half blamed himself for the defeat.
On the way home in the special train he was gloomy and silent, but later, when he and his chums went to the well-known resort, and heard the Yale songs, and saw the jolly faces of the students—jolly in spite of the defeat—he felt better.
“It’s only once in a while that the bulldog loses his grip,” declared Ricky Hanover. “We’ll get a strangle hold on the rest of the games and come out on top of the heap.”
College life resumed its usual routine after this big game. There were others in prospect, though, and practice went on unceasingly.
Joe half feared he would be displaced from his position on the ’varsity, but he was not. True, Weston and Avondale were called on at times, for the policy of the coaches was to have the best pitchers always in reserve. But Joe seemingly was the first one to be called on. Nor did Mr. Hasbrook reproach him, personally, for the defeat.
All the players received a calling down for theirloose methods in the Harvard game, and their faults were pointed out in no uncertain fashion. In a way the loss of the contest did good, for, following it, the practice was snappier than it had been in a long while.
“We want to defeat the army lads!” exclaimed the head coach a few days before the West Point game.
Contrary to the general custom the two who were to pitch and catch were announced the night before. It was at a meeting of the team, during which the coaches gave some good advice. Joe saw Weston in close conversation with Mr. Benson and Mr. Whitfield, and he had a fear that the deposed pitcher was trying to “pull strings” and make a place for himself.
“Of course you’ll pitch, Matson,” said Mr. Hasbrook, in such a matter-of-fact voice that Joe was rather startled. “And Kendall will catch.”
There was a murmur, possibly at the remembrance of the Harvard game, but no one said anything. Joe, who sat beside Spike, whispered:
“I wonder when you’ll get your chance?”
“Oh, some day, maybe,” was the answer. “I can wait. I’m glad you’ve had yours.”
“I must make good, though,” declared Joe, half fearful that he would not.
They arrived at West Point to be enthusiastically greeted by the cadets, who took charge of theteam, the substitutes and the “rooters” in right royal fashion. A big crowd had assembled, and as the day was a fine one there was every prospect of a game that would be all that was desired.
“I wonder if we’ll win?” mused Joe, as he got into his uniform and started out on the field. The cadets were already at practice, and showed up well.
“A fine, snappy lot of fellows,” observed Jimmie Lee. “We’ve got our work cut out all right.”
“That’s what,” declared Hen Johnson.
As Joe left the dressing room, he saw Weston talking to Mr. Benson, who was having a conversation with the trainer. The former ’varsity pitcher—who was now second choice it seemed—was much excited, and as Joe passed he heard Weston say:
“Well, I want half the game, anyhow. Can’t I have it?”
“I—I’ll see what I can do,” replied Mr. Benson. “I’ll do all I can.”
“I’m tired of playing second fiddle,” snapped Weston, as he drifted out behind a knot of players. Joe began to think of many things.
Yale won the toss and chose to go to the bat last—always an advantage it seems—so Joe had to go on the mound as soon as practice was concluded. The usual practice of the home team batting last did not prevail on this occasion.
The stands were filled with a mass of spectators, in which pretty girls seemed to predominate. At least Joe assumed that they were pretty for they had escorts who looked on them with eyes that seemed to bear witness to this designation. Many of them were “stunning,” to quote De Vere, who took a position in the outfield during practice.
“Just so he could be nearer some of the girls,” declared Jimmie Lee, who had the reputation of being a “woman hater.”
“Some crowd,” remarked Joe to Spike.
“Yes, and a good one, too,” declared Joe’s room-mate. “It isn’t all howling for Yale blood. There are a lot of old grads. here to-day, as well as a lot of army men, and we’ve got our friendswith us. You’ve got to play for all you’re worth.”
“I intend to,” declared Joe, “but——”
“Now there you go!” interrupted his chum. “Getting doubtful of yourself. Stop it, I tell you! Just make up your mind that you’re going to make good and you will. These fellows are only human, and, though they’ve got the game down to a fine point, and play together like machinery, on account of their drill practice, yet baseball is always uncertain. Yale luck is bound to turn up sooner or later.”
“It had better be sooner then,” remarked Joe, with a grim smile. “Two defeats, hand running, would about put me out of business. I’d resign.”
“Nonsense!” declared Spike. “You can make good all right. Remember that Weston is just hankering for a chance to displace you, so don’t give it to him. Hold on to the mound.”
“I intend to. And yet I heard something that set me thinking,” and Joe related what he had inadvertently listened to, adding:
“I may be taken out after two innings.”
“Not much!” declared Spike emphatically. “I see what’s going on. Weston is trying to work his society pull and get the trainers to pitch him. The cad!”
“Well, I can’t find the heart to blame him,” said Joe, softly.
“I can,” snapped Spike. “He’s putting himself above the team.”
“Well, maybe it will all come out right,” said Joe, but his tone did not support his words, for he ended with a doleful sigh.
“Oh, you get out!” cried Spike cheerfully. “You’ve got the losing bugaboo in a bad form. Cheer up—the worst is yet to come.”
“Yes, a defeat,” murmured Joe, and then Spike hit him such a thump in the back that the pitcher had to gasp to recover his breath, and in doing so he forgot some of his gloomy thoughts.
The practice went on over the field, until the umpire called the captains together for the final conference, and an agreement on the ground rules. These were adjusted satisfactorily, and once more the inspiring cry rang out:
“Play ball!”
“Get ’em over, Joe,” advised Shorty Kendall, as the young pitcher walked out to his place. “Shoot ’em in good and hard, but keep ’em over the plate. I know this umpire. He’s fair, but he’s careful. You’ll have to work for all the strikes you get.”
“And I’m willing to,” declared Joe.
Somehow his confidence was coming back, and as he caught the new ball which the umpire tossed to him, he felt that he could pitch as he never had before. He was aware of the scowling glance ofWeston, who sat on the bench, and, as Joe stooped over to rub some dirt on the ball, to render it less slippery, he wondered if the deposed pitcher had so managed to “pull strings” as to gain his end.
“Anyhow, I’ll pitch as long as I can,” thought Joe with grim determination.
The game started. There was nothing remarkable about it, at least at first, so I shall not weary you with details of the strikes, balls, the sliding for bases, the decisions, and the runs. Sufficient to say that at first neither side could score. Joe and the rival pitcher were in good form, and, aside from scattering hits, which were usually only good for a single bag, little was done.
For four innings neither side scored a run, though on one decision of the umpire, when Joe came sliding home on a sacrifice by Jimmie Lee, and was called out, there was a howl of protest.
“Robber!”
“Blind man!”
“He was safe by a yard!”
“Don’t give it!” were some of the mildest epithets and expressions of opinion hurled at the umpire.
“Hold on! That isn’t Yale’s way,” said the captain quietly. “It’s all right,” and the decision stood, though had it been otherwise it would have meant a run for Yale.
And so the game went on until the eighth inning, which put West Point one run ahead. There was excitement on the part of the army and its supporters, for in the last half of it Yale had been unable to score, and it looked as if she might lose.
“We’ve got to get ’em!” declared Captain Hatfield grimly, as he and his men took the field for the beginning of the ninth. “Don’t let one get past you, Joe, and then we’ll bat out two runs.”
The young pitcher nodded, but he did not smile. He was a little in doubt of himself, for there was a strange numb feeling in his right arm, and he knew that the muscles were weakening. He had worked himself to the limit, not only in this game, but the one with Harvard, and now he began to pay the penalty.
Once or twice as he wound up to deliver he felt a sharp twinge that alarmed him. He had not asked to have one of the professional rubbers with the team massage him, for fear the rumor would get out that Yale’s pitcher was weakening. So he bore it as best he could. But his arm was sore.
Joe had struck out one man, and then he was found for a two-bagger. This man was a notorious base stealer and managed to get to third, while the player following him, who was the heaviest hitter on the team, had been passed by Joe on a signal from the captain, who did not want to take chances.
“He’s afraid!” came the taunt, and Joe was beginning to get nervous, especially as his pain increased.
With two on bases, and only one out, Joe saw come to the bat a man who was an expert bunter. He could lay the ball almost anywhere he wanted to, and our hero realized that he was in for a bad few minutes. It would not do to walk another. He must get this man.
What he had feared came to pass. The player bunted and the ball came lazily rolling toward the pitcher. Joe and Kendall started for it, and then Joe yelled:
“I’ll get it—go back!”
He felt himself slipping on a pebble, but recovered with a wrench that strained his sore arm. With an effort he managed to get the ball. He knew that if he threw it from the unnatural and disadvantageous position he had assumed in recovering it, he would make his sore arm worse. But there was no help for it.
The man on third had started for home. Joe, with a mighty effort, threw to Kendall, who caught it and tagged his quarry.
“Out!” called the umpire. One run was saved.
Then, like a flash the catcher threw to third, for the man who had been on first, having reached second, rather imprudently tried for another bag. He was tagged there by as neat a double play as couldbe desired, and the West Pointers had finished, with but the one run to their advantage.
“We need one to tie and two to win,” exclaimed Shorty to Joe, as he tossed his big mitt into the air. “Why,” he added, “what’s the matter with your arm?” for he saw it hanging down limp.
“A strain,” replied Joe shortly. “I’m all right.”
“You are not! McLeary must look at you. We’ll play somebody else this inning. You go get rubbed.” And Joe was glad enough to do so.
Yale won from West Point. It was almost a foregone conclusion after that sensational inning when Joe went down and out with his sprained arm, after saving the game. His mates rallied to the support of, not only himself, but the whole team, and, the cadets, having been held runless, the wearers of the blue made a determined stand.
Weston was called on to go in and replace Joe, and the former ’varsity pitcher, in spite of his feeling against our hero, had that in him which made him do his best in spite of the odds against him.
Weston was half hoping that the game would be a tie, which would give him a chance to go on the mound and show what he could do at pitching against a formidable opponent of Yale. But it was not to be, though he brought in one of the winning runs for the New Haven bulldog.
The crowd went wild when they saw what a game fight the visitors were putting up, and eventhe supporters of the army lads hailed them with delight as they pounded the cadet pitcher, for everyone likes to see a good play, no matter if it is made by the other side.
“Oh, wow! A pretty hit!” yelled the throng as Weston sent a two-bagger well out in the field. His face flushed with pleasure, as he speeded around, and, probably, had he been taken in hand then, subsequent events might not have happened, for his unreasonable hatred against Joe might have been dissipated. But no one did, and the result was that Weston felt he had been wrongly treated, and he resolved to get even.
“Well played, boys, well played!” exclaimed the captain of the cadets, as he came up to shake hands with Hatfield. “You did us up good and proper. We can’t buck such a pitcher as you have. What happened to him!”
“Sprained arm,” explained Spike, who stood near.
“Too bad! Tell him to take care of it,” rejoined the cadet. “Such twirlers as he is are few and far between. Well, you beat us, but that’s no reason why you can do it again. We’ll have your scalps next year. Now, boys, altogether! Show ’em how West Pointers can yell.”
The cheer for the Yale team broke out in a gladsome yell, tinged with regret, perhaps, for West Point had been sure of winning, especiallytoward the end, but there was no ill-feeling showing in the cries that echoed over the field.
In turn the New Haven bulldog barked his admiration of the gallant opponents, and then came a special cheer for Joe Matson, whose plucky play had made it possible for Yale to win.
Joe, in the dressing room, heard his name, and flushed with delight. Trainer McLeary was rubbing his sore arm.
“Hurt much?” the man asked, as he massaged the strained muscles.
“Some,” admitted Joe, trying not to wince as the pain shot along his arm. “How are we making out?”
“We win,” declared McLeary, as a scout brought him word. “And you did it.”
“Not by pitching,” asserted Joe.
“No, perhaps not. But every game isn’t won by pitching. There are lots of other plays besides that. Now you’ve got to take care of this arm.”
“Is it bad?”
“Bad enough so you can’t use it right away. You’ve got to have a rest. You’ve torn one of the small ligaments slightly, and it will have to heal. No baseball for you for a week.”
“No!” cried Joe aghast.
“No, sir! Not if you want to play the rest of the season,” replied the trainer.
Now Joe did want to finish out the season,whether he came back to Yale or not, for there were big games yet in prospect, particularly that with Princeton, and, if it was necessary to play a third one, it would take place on the big New York Polo Grounds.
“And, oh! if I could only pitch before that crowd!” thought Joe, in a moment of anticipated delight.
“There, I guess you’ll do, if you keep it well wrapped up, stay out of draughts and don’t use it,” said the trainer finally, as he bound up Joe’s twirling wing. “No practice, even, for a week, and then very light.”
Joe half groaned, and made a wry face, but there was no help for it, he realized that. He was surrounded by his mates, as the game ended, and many were the congratulations, mingled with commiserations, as they greeted him.
Weston even condescended to say:
“Hope you won’t be knocked out long, old man.”
“Thanks,” replied Joe dryly. “It’ll be a week anyhow.”
“A week!” exclaimed Weston, and he could not keep the delight from showing on his face. Then he hurried off to see one of the coaches. Joe had little doubt what it meant. Weston was going to try for his old place again while Joe was unable to pitch.
“Well,” remarked De Vere, as his crony came out of the dressing rooms, whither he had gone. “I should think you could drop your other game, now that’s he out of it.”
“Not much!” exclaimed Weston, with some passion. “This won’t last. He’ll be back pitching again, and do me out of it. What I’m going to do won’t hurt him much, and it will give me a chance. I’m entitled to it.”
“I guess you are, old man.”
The Yale team went back jubilant, and there was a great celebration in New Haven when the ball nine arrived. Fires were made, and the campus as well as the streets about the college were thronged with students. There were marches, and songs, and Joe Matson’s name was cheered again and again.
Meanwhile our hero was not having a very delightful time. Not only was he in pain, but he worried lest the injury to his arm prove permanent.
“If I shouldn’t be able to pitch again!” he exclaimed to Spike, in their room.
“Forget it!” advised the other. “You’ll be at it again in a little while. Just take it easy.”
And Joe tried to, but it was hard work. It was galling to go to practice and watch others play the game while he sat and looked on—especiallywhen Weston was pitching. But there was no help for it.
And then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, it came.
The week had passed and Joe, who had done some light practice, was sent in to pitch a couple of innings against the scrub. Weston was pulled out, and he went to the bench with a scowl.
“I’ll get him yet,” he muttered to De Vere. “He’s put me out of it again.”
“I’d go slow,” was the advice.
“It’s been slow enough as it is,” growled the other.
The day for the first Princeton game was at hand. It was to be played at Yale, and everyone was on edge for the contest. Joe was practically slated to pitch, and he felt his responsibility. His arm was in good shape again.
The night before the game the Dean sent for Joe to come to his office.
“What’s up now?” demanded Spike, as his friend received the summons. “Have you won a scholarship, or is the Dean going to beg of you not to throw the game?”
“Both, I guess,” answered Joe with a laugh. In his heart he wondered what the summons meant. He was soon to learn.
“I have sent for you, Mr. Matson,” said the Dean gravely, “to enable you to make some answerto a serious accusation that has been brought against you.”
“What is it?” faltered the pitcher.
“Do you remember, some time ago,” the Dean went on, “that some red paint was put on the steps of the house of one of the professors? The gentleman slipped, fell in the paint, and a very rare manuscript was ruined. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” answered Joe quietly, wondering if he was to be asked to tell what he knew.
“Well,” went on the Dean, “have you anything to confess?”
“Who, me? Confess? Why, no, sir,” answered Joe. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then I must tell you. You have been accused of putting the red paint on the steps, and, unless you prove yourself innocent you can take no further part in athletics, and you may be suspended.”
Joe fairly staggered back, so startled was he by the words of the Dean—and, not only the words, but the manner—for the Dean was solemn, and there was a vindictiveness about him that Joe had never seen before.
“Why—why, what do you mean?” gasped Joe. “I never put the red paint on the steps!”
“No?” queried the Dean coldly. “Then perhaps you can explain how this pot of red paint came to be hidden in your closet.”
“My closet!” cried Joe, and at once a memory of the crimson stain on his coat came to him. “I never——”
“Wait,” went on the Dean coldly. “I will explain. It is not altogether circumstantial evidence on which I am accusing you. The information came to me—anonymously I regret to say—that you had some red paint in your closet. The spoiling of the valuable manuscripts was such an offence that I decided to forego, for once, my objectionto acting on anonymous information. I did ignore one letter that accused you——”
“Accused me!” burst out Joe, remembering the incident in chapel.
“Yes. But wait, I am not finished. I had your room examined in your absence, and we found—this.” He held up a pot of red paint.
“I had the paint on the steps analyzed,” went on the Dean. “It is of exactly the same chemical mixture as this. Moreover we found where this paint was purchased, and the dealer says he sold it to a student, but he will not run the risk of identifying him. But I deem this evidence enough to bar you from athletics, though I will not expel or punish you.”
Barred from athletics! To Joe, with the baseball season approaching the championship crisis, that was worse than being expelled.
“I—I never did it!” he cried.
“Do you know who did, if you did not?” asked the Dean.
Like a flash it came to Joe. He could not tell. He could not utter his suspicions, though he was sure in his own heart that Weston was the guilty one—the twice guilty one, for Joe was sure his enemy had put the paint in the closet to direct suspicion to him.
“Well?” asked the Dean, coldly.
“I—I have nothing to say,” faltered Joe.
“Very well. You may go. I shall not make this matter public, except to issue the order barring you from athletics.”
Without a word Joe left. Inside of an hour it was noised all over the college that he could not pitch against Princeton, and great was the regret, mingled with anxiety.
“What in thunder is up?” asked Captain Hatfield, as he sought out Joe.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, come off! Can’t you tell?”
“No,” answered Joe, and that was all he would say.
Joe did not go to the Yale-Princeton game. Yale won. Won easily, though had Weston, who pitched, not been ably supported the story might have been a different one.
“One scalp for us,” announced Spike.
“Yes,” assented Joe gloomily.
“Oh, you get out!” cried Spike. “I’m not going to stand for this. You’ve got to keep in form. There’s no telling when this thing will all come out right, and you want to be in condition to pitch. You and I will keep up practice. The Dean can’t stop you from that.”
Nor did he try, and, though Joe was hard to move at first, he soon consented to indulge in pitching practice with his chum. And then life at Yale went on much as before, though Joe’s heart wasbitter. He seldom saw Weston, who was again first choice for ’varsity pitcher.
Weston did fairly well, too, though some games Yale should have won she lost. But it was to Princeton that all eyes turned, looking for the college championship. Could Yale win the next contest?
The answer was not long delayed. Two weeks later the bulldog invaded the tiger’s lair and was eaten up—to the end of his stubby tail. Yale received the worst beating in her history.
“And it’s up to Weston!” declared Spike savagely, when he came back from Princeton. “He was absolutely rotten. Went up in the air first shot, and they got seven runs the first inning. Then it was all over but the shouting, for Avondale and McAnish couldn’t fill in the gap. Oh, Joe, if you could only pitch!”
“But I can’t.”
“You’ve just got to! Yale has a chance yet. It’s a tie now for the championship. The deciding game will be played on the New York Polo Grounds in two weeks. You’ve got to pitch!”
“I don’t see how I can.”
“Well, I’m going to!” and Spike strode from the room, his face ablaze with anger and firm with determination.
It seems that one of the janitors about the college had a son who was an epileptic. The ladwas not badly afflicted and was able, most of the time, to help his father, sometimes doing the cleaning at one of the student clubs.
It was to this club that Spike went when he burst out of his room, intent on finding, in some fashion, a way of vindicating Joe, for he was firm in his belief that Joe was innocent in spite of the silence.
There had been rain the night before, and on a billboard adjoining the club room some of the gaudy red and yellow posters, announcing the final Yale-Princeton game, had been torn off.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, Spike picked up part of a sheet, colored a vivid red. At that moment, from the side entrance, Charlie, the janitor’s son, came out, and Spike, who had often given him odd tasks to do, and who felt sorry for the afflicted one, playfully thrust the red paper at him, saying:
“Here, Charlie, take it home, and let your little sister cut out some paper dolls.”
He slapped the paper on the lad’s hand, and being damp and pasty it stuck there, like a splotch of blood.
Charlie shrank back, cowering and frightened, whimpering like a child, and mumbling:
“Don’t! Oh, don’t Mr. Poole. Don’t put that on me. I—I can’t bear it. It’s been haunting me. I’ll tell all I know. The red paint—I put it there. But he—he made me. Some of it got onmy hand, and I wiped it off on his coat. Oh, the blood color! Take it away. I—I can’t stand it!”
“What’s that?” fairly yelled Spike. “Red paint? Here, tell me all you know! Jove, I begin to see things now!”
“Take it off! Take it off!” begged Charlie, and he trembled so that Spike feared he would have a seizure.
“There—there—it’s all right,” he said soothingly. “I’ll take it off,” and he removed the offending paper. “Now you come with me, and tell me all about it,” he went on quietly. And Charlie obeyed, like a child.
A little later Spike was closeted with the Dean, taking Charlie with him, and when they came out Joe’s room-mate said:
“Then the ban is removed, sir?”
“Certainly, Poole,” replied the Dean, “and I will make a public explanation in the morning. I am very sorry this occurred, and I deeply regret it. But circumstances pointed to him, and I felt I had to act. Never again, though, shall I place any faith in an anonymous letter. Yes, everything will be all right. If Matson had only spoken, though!”
“It’s just like him not to,” said Spike.
“Hurray! Matson is going to pitch for us!”
“Get out! He’s barred!”
“Not now. It’s all off. He’ll pitch against Princeton!”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“What’s the matter with Weston?”
“Oh, he’s gone—vamoosed—flew the coop. Couldn’t stand the disgrace. It’ll all be out in the morning.”
Student meeting student on the campus, in dormitories, in the commons, at Glory’s—anywhere in fact, passed these, and similar remarks.
“And to think you knew, all the while, that Weston put that red paint on the steps, and you wouldn’t squeal!” cried Spike, clapping his chum on the shoulder.
“Would you?” asked Joe quietly.
“Well—er—now you have got me, old man! But it’s all right. Come on out and celebrate.”
And they celebrated as they never had before.Joe was given an ovation when he entered Glory’s, and every member of the nine—substitutes and all—were there to do him honor. That is, all but Weston and De Vere. They had quietly taken themselves from Yale.
The explanation was simple. Weston had, as my readers know already, put the red paint on the professor’s steps. He was not discovered, for Joe kept quiet. Then, when our hero was preferred as pitcher, in the bitterness of his heart, Weston planned to throw suspicion on him. He sent the first anonymous letter, though Avondale knew nothing of it. Then Weston took De Vere into his confidence and the two evolved the scheme of smuggling the pot of red paint, that Weston had used, into Joe’s closet. The epileptic lad, Charlie, was the innocent medium, and once the paint was hidden Weston sent the second anonymous letter to the Dean, telling about it.
What happened is well known. Joe was accused, and would not inform on another to save himself. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do—certainly he owed it to himself to have the right to vindication. I am not defending him, I am only telling of what happened.
Then came the dramatic episode, when Spike unwittingly brought out the truth from Charlie. It seems that the boy’s conscience had been troubling him, for though Weston pretended itwas only an innocent joke he was playing on Joe, the lad suspected something.
And so the full explanation was made to the Dean, and the latter, publicly, at chapel the next morning, begged Joe’s pardon, and restored him to his full rights. As for Weston and De Vere, they were not in evidence. They had left Yale.
“Sharp practice from now on,” ordered Mr. Hasbrook, when the excitement had quieted down somewhat. “We’ll have to replace De Vere at right field, but otherwise the team will be the same as before. Matson, you’ll pitch, of course.”
“And he’ll win for us, too!” cried Spike.
“I’m sure I hope so,” went on the head coach. “Spike, if it wasn’t so late in the season I’d let you catch. You deserve something for your share in this.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think of catching now, though it would be great,” declared Joe’s chum. “Give me a chance next season.”
“I sure will,” said the head coach. “Get busy now, everybody. We’ve got to beat Princeton!”
“Oh, Joe, do you think we’ll win?” asked Spike, half nervously, the night before they were to start for New York to meet their rivals.
“Win! Of course we’ll win!” cried Joe, and though so much depended on him, he was the coolest member of the team.