The frantic mother saw him gather himself together and spring to what seemed to be certain death. His fingers grip the window sill, but, as his weight drags upon them, they slip. Ah! he never can hold that smooth surface—and many turn away their faces, unable to bear the sight. But look! he is still there. His fingers desperately tighten their grip upon the sill, and now he begins to draw himself up, slowly, reaching inside the window for a firmer hold. He has his knee on the sill—and a great shout goes up from the crowd as he drops inside the window beside the child.
But their relief was short-lived, for now the same thought seized everyone. How was he to get back? He could not return the way he went up, for, even unhampered by the child, he could not make the leap back to the pipe. With anxious, despairing eyes, they watched the window from which great clouds of smoke were pouring now, mingled with tiny tongues of flame.
It seemed an hour that they had waited, but it was only a few moments before the brave fellow reappeared at the window, with the child wrapped in a blanket, strapped firmly to his shoulders. Another moment and a long woolen blanket dangled from the window sill, and with the agilityof a monkey Bert began to let himself down hand over hand. With beating hearts into which hope had begun again to creep, the breathless people watched him.
But surely the flames, sweeping now up and out from the second story window will shrivel that blanket and burn it through. But they do not, for though they wrap themselves fiercely about it, they seem unable to destroy it; and now his feet touch the topmost round of the ladder. Another moment and his hands are upon it also.
Now at last the crowd bursts into cheer upon cheer. Willing hands reach up and seize the now almost exhausted young hero, and lift him and his burden to the ground.
The child, thanks to the blanket in which Bert had wrapped her, was unhurt and in a moment was sobbing in her mother’s arms, that happy mother who, overcome with joy, could only strain her rescued treasure to her heart with murmured words of love and thanksgiving.
Bert’s friends crowded around him with joyful congratulations, while Mr. Hollis, filled with rejoicing at his young friend’s wonderful escape from death and with admiration for his fearless bravery, grasped him by the hand, saying, “I’m proud of you, Bert, I’m proud of you! You’re a hero.”
Bert winced at that close grip and Mr. Hollis,looking down, saw that the hands were badly burned and hurried him from the scene, the admiring fellows closely following.
The mother with her child had been taken away by kind and sympathetic friends, but not before she had thanked Bert with full heart for giving her child back to her.
No king ever held higher court or with more devoted or admiring subjects than did Bert while they waited at Mr. Hollis’ home for the coming of a doctor to dress his burns. Nothing was talked of but the exciting events of the day and Bert’s share in them. With faces still glowing with excitement, they lived over again all the events of the early morning, and Bert had to answer all sorts of questions as to “How he ever came to think of that leader pipe?” “What he would have done if the blanket had burned through?” and a dozen others.
“Well,” Shorty summed up, “Bert sure is a wonder,” to which there was a hearty assent.
The arrival of the doctor put an end to all this to Bert’s great relief, for he was much too modest to enjoy being praised.
The burns were found to be not very serious, but the pain added to the great physical exertion and the intense nervous strain had brought poor Bert almost to the breaking point, and the doctor ordered him to bed.
Very gladly he settled down after so many hours of excitement with Mr. Hollis’ parting words in his ears, “If I had a son like you, Bert, I should be very proud of him to-day.”
He was drifting happily into dreamland when Tom poked his head inside the door and said, “You’ve got to answer one more question before you go to sleep, old man. What charm did you work around that old blanket you came down on from the window so that it would not burn?”
“Made it soaking wet, bonehead,” came the sleepy reply, and Tom vanished.
The team had been tested almost to its limit this season, and the strain was beginning to show. Each player was worked up to the highest possible nervous tension, and no man can last long under such conditions. Even with professional players this condition becomes very apparent in a hard-fought series, and so was even more plainly seen among these comparatively inexperienced contestants for the honor of their alma mater.
Another thing that tended strongly to demoralize them was the fact of Bert’s being unable to play. His burned hands, while rapidly mending, were still unable to grip the ball. Of course, they knew that this was merely a temporary calamity, but even to have the pitcher on whom they had based their strongest hopes out of commission for almost two weeks meant much to them. Winters and Benson, while undoubtedly good pitchers, fell considerably short of the standard set by Bert, and all the players realized this.
Of course, it may be argued that they shouldnot allow themselves to be affected by anything of this kind, but no one who has not actually been a ball player can fully realize what it means to a team, when they are nearing the end of a neck and neck struggle, to be deprived of their star pitcher. It must also be remembered that Bert, while not by any means as good a batter as he was a pitcher, was nevertheless a strong batsman, and had the happy faculty of “swatting them out” at the time when they would do the most good. On this account, his loss was felt more keenly than would have ordinarily been the case.
Another thing, but one that was never openly alluded to, was the knowledge that each boy had, that Winters was not the pitcher he had been once upon a time. His breaks from training were becoming more and more frequent, and all that the coach could say in the way of threat or entreaty seemed to have no effect. Winters had gotten in with a fast set, and no argument or persuasion could induce him to see the error of his way.
Reddy did not dare to remove him from the team, however, as that would have left him only one pitcher of any value, namely, Benson, and nobody knew better than the wily trainer that Benson could seldom be depended on to pitch good ball during an entire game.
Again and again Reddy had cursed the fatethat deprived him of his star pitcher at such a crucial time, but of course, as is usually the case, that did little good. It was too late now to try to develop another pitcher, even had he known of anyone capable of training for that important post, which he did not.
So he just set his jaw, and resolved to make the best of what he had. Up to to-day, which was destined to see one of the season’s most important battles, he had managed, by dint of skillful coaching and substituting at critical moments, to maintain the lead that the team had gained largely through Bert’s remarkable work in the box.
He felt that if the team won to-day’s game, they would have a comfortable lead until Bert was able to resume his pitching. If, on the other hand, they lost, he realized that they would have small chance of winning the championship. No one would have suspected from his outward appearance what thoughts were going on in his mind, but if they had, they would have been astonished. To the players, and to everybody else, he presented such a calm and composed exterior that the boys felt more confident the minute they saw him. As the time for the game drew near, he gathered the boys together in the clubhouse, and proceeded to make a little speech and give them some valuable advice.
They listened attentively, and went out on the diamond with a do-or-die expression written on their faces. Needless to say, Bert was there, and nobody felt worse than he over his misfortune.
“Gee!” he exclaimed to Tom, ruefully, “this is certainly what you might call tough luck. Here I am, with my arm feeling better than it ever did before, and just on account of a few pesky burns I can’t pitch.”
“It’s tough, all right, and no mistake,” sympathized Dick, “but never mind. If Winters can only do half way decent pitching, we’ll come through all right.”
Bert said nothing, not wishing to discourage his friend, but to himself he admitted that things had a rather bad aspect. The team they were to play to-day was noted for its heavy batters, and he knew that it would take a pitcher in the most perfect condition to stand the strain of nine long innings against such sluggers. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest, therefore, as he sat on the bench, nibbling a blade of grass, and watched the practice of the two teams with critical eyes.
Murray, reputed to be the heaviest hitter on the Maroon team, was knocking out flies to his teammates, and Bert was forced to admire the confident way in which he lined the ball out, without ever missing a swing.
His own team was playing with snap and ginger, though, and this fact comforted Bert somewhat.
“Well,” he thought to himself, “the teams seem to be about equally matched, and if nothing out of the ordinary happens, we ought to have a good show to win. I only hope that all the rumors I’ve been hearing about Winters lately are not true.”
As Bert had seen, both teams showed up well in the preliminary practice, and each made several plays that evoked applause from the grandstands and bleachers.
Soon the umpire walked out on the field, adjusting his mask and protecting pads, and the crowds settled down for a couple of hours of what they realized would be intense excitement.
“Battery for the Maroons, Moore and Hupfel!” shouted the umpire. “For the Blues, Winters and Hinsdale!”
As they were the visitors to-day, the Blues of course went to the bat first. They were quickly retired by snappy work and took the field. Winters seemed in fine form, and struck out the opposing batters in good shape, only one getting a hit, and he was caught stealing.
This ended the first inning, with no runs scored for either side, and Reddy began to feel more confident. However, little could be prophesiedregarding the outcome at this early stage of the game, and Reddy walked over to the bench and sat down beside Bert.
“Well, my boy,” he said, “if they don’t get any more hits off us than they did in that inning, we won’t be so bad off, after all. Winters seems to be in fine shape, don’t you think?”
“He certainly does,” replied Bert, “he’s holding them down in fine style. You couldn’t ask for better pitching than he’s putting up.”
“Ye couldn’t, fer a fact,” said the trainer, and both settled back to see what the Blues would accomplish in their turn at bat.
Dick was next on the batting list, and he strode to the plate with his usual jaunty step. He waited two balls before he got one to suit him, but then landed out a hot grounder, and just managed to beat it to first base.
“That’s good! that’s good!” yelled Reddy, dancing about on one leg. “The boys are beginning to get their batting caps on now, and it won’t be long before we have a string of runs longer than a Dachshund. Go to it, Blues, go to it!”
Poor Reddy! His high hopes were doomed to fall quickly. Hodge struck out, and with lightning-like rapidity the catcher snapped the ball down to second. For once, Dick was thefraction of a second too slow, and the ball beat him to the base by a hair’s breadth.
“Two out!” yelled the umpire, and Reddy dropped into his seat with a dismal groan. White, the strong hitting shortstop, was the next batsman, but after knocking two high flies, he was struck out by a fast inshoot.
However, Winters appeared to be pitching airtight ball, and while a few feeble flies were garnered from his delivery, the fielders had no difficulty in catching them.
When the home team came to bat, their first man up, who happened to be the catcher, cracked out a swift, low fly between Winters and Tom, and tore around to second base before the ball came in from the field.
To Reddy’s keen eyes, studying carefully every phase and mood of game and man, it was apparent that Winters’ confidence was shaken a little by this occurrence. His pitching to the next batter was wild, and he finally gave the man a base on balls. Bert leaned forward intently, and his eyes were fairly glued on the players. Oh, if he could only go out there and pitch for the rest of the game! But he knew this was impossible with his hands in the condition they were, and he uttered an impatient exclamation.
With two men on bases and none out, mattersbegan to look doubtful for the devoted Blues. The very first ball Winters pitched to the next batter was hit for a long two-bagger, and the runner on second cantered leisurely home.
Now even the fans in the bleachers realized that something was amiss with the pitcher of the Blues, and those opposed to them set up an uproarious clapping and hooting in the hope of rattling him still further. This was not wholly without effect, and Bert noted with ever-growing anxiety that Winters appeared to be unable to stand quietly in the box during the pauses in the game, but fidgeted around nervously, at one time biting his nails, and at another, shifting constantly from one foot to the other. A meaner nature than our hero might have been glad to note the discomfiture of one whom he had every reason to dislike, but Bert was not built after such a pattern. His one thought was that the college would suffer heavily if this game were lost, and he hardly gave a thought to his private grievances. The college was the thing that counted.
Winters, by a great effort, tightened up a little after this, and with the help of snappy support retired the Maroons, but not before the latter had garnered another precious run.
The visiting team did nothing, however, for although they got a runner to third at one time,he was put out by a quick throw from pitcher to first.
Thus ended the second inning, and to the casual observer it seemed as though the teams were pretty evenly matched. To Reddy’s practised eye, however, it was apparent that the Blues had a little the edge on their opponents, except in the matter of pitching. Here, indeed, it was hard to tell who was the better pitcher, the Maroon boxman or Winters. Both were pitching good ball, and Reddy realized that it would probably narrow down to a question of which one had the greater staying power.
“If only we had young Wilson pitching,” he thought to himself, “I would breathe a whole lot easier. However, there’s no use crossing a bridge till you come to it, and I may be having all my worriment for nothin’. Somethin’ tells me, though, that we’re goin’ to have trouble before this game is over. May all the Saints grant that I’m wrong.”
For the next three innings, however, it appeared as though the trainer’s forebodings were without foundation. Both teams played with snap and dash, and as yet only two runs had been scored.
At the beginning of the sixth inning, Tom was slated as the first man up, and he walked to the plate filled with a new idea Bert had given him.“Wait until about the fourth ball that that fellow pitches,” Bert had told him, “and then bounce on it good and plenty. The first two or three balls he pitches are full of steam, but then, if nobody has even struck at them, he gets careless, and puts one over that you ought to be able to land on without any trouble. You just try that and see what happens.”
This Tom proceeded to do, and found that it was indeed as Bert had said. The first ball pitched seemed good, but Tom let it go by, and had a strike called on him. The next one was a ball, but the third one was a hot curve that looked good, and ordinarily Tom would have taken a chance and swung at it. Now, however, he was resolved to follow Bert’s advice to the letter, and so allowed the ball to pass him. “Gee, that guy’s scared stiff,” someone yelled from the bleachers, and the crowd laughed. It certainly did seem as though Tom had lost his nerve, and his teammates, who were not in on the secret yet, looked puzzled. Tom paid no attention to the shouts from the grandstand, and his well-known ability as a “waiter” stood him in good stead. True to Bert’s prediction, the pitcher eased up a little when winding up for the next ball, and Tom saw that he shared the general impression that he had lost his nerve. The ball proved to be a straight, fast one, and Tom slugged it squarelywith all the strength in his body. Amid a hoarse roar from the watching thousands, he tore around the bases and slid into third before he was stopped by White, who was waiting for him.
“Gee, Tom!” ejaculated the excited and delighted shortstop. “How in time did you ever think of such a clever trick. You sure fooled that pitcher at his own game.”
“It wasn’t my idea, it was Bert’s,” said Tom, truthfully.
“Whoever’s it was, it was a crackerjack one, at any rate,” said White, jubilantly. “If Flynn can only get a hit now we’ll have a run, and it looks as though we would need all that we can get.”
Flynn, in accordance with instructions from Reddy, laid an easy bunt down toward first base, and, although he was put out, Tom scurried over the plate about two jumps in front of the ball, and the first run for the Blues had been scored.
The small band of loyal rooters for the Blues struck up one of the familiar college songs, and things looked bright for their team. The opposing pitcher was not to be fooled again, however, and while Drake was waiting for a ball to suit him he was struck out, much to the delight of the hostile fans.
Thus at the end of the seventh inning the score stood two to one in favor of the Maroons, andtheir pitcher was “as good as new,” as he himself put it.
Now Dick went to bat, and waited, with no sign of the nervousness that was beginning to be manifested by his teammates, for a ball that was to his liking. He let the first one go past, but swung hard at the second, and cracked out a hot liner right at the pitcher. Most pitchers would have let a smoking fly like that pass them, for fear of injuring their hands, but evidently this boxman was not lacking in nerve. The ball cracked into his outstretched mitt with a report like a pistol shot, and he held on to it.
“Out!” shouted the umpire, and Dick, who had started to sprint to first, walked to the bench with a disgusted air.
“Hang it all, anyway,” he exclaimed disgustedly, “who’d have thought he would stop that one? I could just see myself resting peacefully at second base, and then he has to go and do a thing like that. A mean trick, I call it.”
Dick made a pretence of taking the matter in this light manner in order to keep up the spirits of his teammates, but not by any means because he felt happy about it. Quite the contrary.
Hodge, the right fielder, came up next, but only succeeded in popping up a feeble fly that the third baseman caught easily after a short run in. White waited patiently for one to suit him, butwhile he was waiting, three strikes were called on him, and he retired in a crestfallen manner.
In the meantime, Reddy had been talking to Winters. “How do you feel, Winters?” he had inquired anxiously, “do you feel strong enough to hold them down for the rest of this game?”
“Aw, don’t worry yourself about me,” Winters had replied in a surly voice. “I’m all right. I never felt better in my life,” but something in his voice belied his words.
“All right,” returned the trainer, “but remember this, my lad: if we put Benson in now, we might be able to hold them down. I’m going to take your say so, though, and let you pitch the next inning. If they get to you, however, you’ll have to take your medicine. It will be too late then to put Benson in, and of course Wilson is in no shape to pitch. Now, it’s up to you.”
“That’s all right,” growled Winters. Then he suddenly flared up: “I suppose if that blamed Freshie were in condition you’d have put him in to pitch long ago, wouldn’t you?”
“That I would, my lad,” returned Reddy, in an ominously quiet voice. “Now, go in there and pitch, and don’t give me any more back talk that you’ll be sorry for afterward.”
Winters seemed about to make some hot reply to this, but after a moment’s hesitation,thought better of it, and turned sullenly away, putting on his glove as he walked slowly to his position.
He vented his anger on the first few balls he pitched, and they went over the plate with speed and to spare. This did not last long, however, and after he had struck out one man his speed began to slacken. The second man up landed a high fly into right field that Hodge, although he made a brave try for it, was unable to get to in time. The runner raced around to third before he was stopped by the warning cries of his teammates.
“We’ve got ’em going! We’ve got ’em going!” chanted the home rooters in one mighty chorus, and Winters scowled at them viciously.
The next five balls he pitched were “wild as they make ’em,” and only one strike was registered. In consequence the batter walked leisurely to first, and as he neared Winters said, “Much obliged, old chap.” If looks could have killed, Winters would surely have been a murderer, but fortunately it takes more than that to kill a ball player, and so the game went on without interruption.
The following batter made a clever sacrifice bunt, and the man on third brought home a run, while the one on first reached second.
“Gee, it’s all over now, I’m afraid,” groanedBert to himself. “Winters is up in the air sky high, and after their argument Reddy probably will not put Benson in, because he’s cold and it would do no good. We’ll be baked brown on both sides before this game is finished.”
And Bert was not far wrong. The Maroons landed on Winters “like a ton of brick,” as Tom afterward said, and proceeded to wipe up the field with him. The game became a massacre, and when the home team was finally retired the score stood six to one in their favor.
When Winters came in from the field he was white and shaking, and Reddy felt sorry for him. “Just the same,” he reflected, “this will teach him a lesson, maybe, and it may lead to his sticking more closely to regulations and the training table. Midnight booze-fighting and good ball playing don’t mix very well.” Reddy might have gone further, and said that “booze fighting” did not mix very well with anything worth while, and not have been far wrong.
Actuated by these reflections, the trainer resolved to make Winters pitch out the rest of the game, as it was hopelessly lost anyway, in the hope of making him reform.
The Blues were thoroughly demoralized by this time, and their half-hearted attempts to score met with little success. Hinsdale, after both thebatsmen preceding him had been struck out, landed on the ball for a long high fly into center, and got to second on it. He went no further, however, as Tom lifted a high foul to the opposing catcher. Of course this ended the game, as it would have been useless to finish the ninth inning.
The Maroon rooters rose in a body and rent the air with their songs and college yells. The loyal Blues present did their best, but could not make themselves heard amidst the general uproar.
“The Blues haven’t got a chance for the pennant now,” exulted one rooter to his friend. “They’re on the downward road now, and will stay there till the end of the season. You watch and see if they don’t.”
But there was a Freshman pitcher on the bench that knew better.
Bert and Dick and some of the other fellows were having a discussion. They had been talking on various topics, and, as was usually the case, the talk had drifted around to baseball. They had discussed the game pro and con, when Dick said:
“I wonder how fast a pitcher really can throw a ball, anyway. Of course, there’s no possibility of such a thing, but it certainly would be interesting, if we could measure the speed of a pitched ball, and settle the question once and for all.”
“That’s easy,” laughed Bert. “You just stand up there, Dick, and give me a baseball and let me hit you with it. If it kills you, we will know it was going pretty fast, but if it just cripples you, we will be forced to the conclusion that the ball wasn’t traveling so very fast, after all.”
“Yes, that certainly is a brilliant idea,” snorted Dick, “and there is only one thing that keeps me from doing it. If, as you say, it should kill me, you fellows would have settled the question, all right, but then it would be too late for me toshare in the knowledge. Therefore, I guess we’ll leave the question open for the present.”
“Aw, gee, Dick,” laughed one of the others, “you certainly have a mean disposition. Here you are in college, and yet you evidently haven’t enough of the college spirit to make a sacrifice of yourself for the general good. Besides, it doesn’t show the scientific desire for knowledge that we would like to see in you, does it, fellows?” appealing to the laughing group.
Everybody seemed to think the same thing, judging from the unanimous chorus of assent to this speech, but, strange to say, Dick proved very obstinate, and refused to offer his services in the capacity of official tester.
“But seriously, fellows,” said one of the boys, John Bennett by name, “I don’t see why we couldn’t do something of the kind. I shouldn’t think it would be so hopeless, after all.”
At first they thought he was joking, but when they realized that he was in earnest, a chorus of ridicule arose. Bennett refused to be hooted down, however, and finally managed to get a hearing.
“You see, it’s this way,” he explained: “My father, as you all know, manufactures guns and rifles of all descriptions. Now, some people with a little more sense in their noodles than you poor boobs,” with a sarcastic inflection, “haveasked what the speed of a rifle bullet was, and what’s more, have managed to find out. Going on the same principle, I don’t see why we couldn’t find out the speed of a baseball.”
“How do they find that out?” asked one, unbelievingly, “a rifle bullet has been known to go pretty fast at times, you know.”
“You don’t mean it, do you?” asked Bennett, sarcastically. “I always thought bullets crept along the ground something after the manner of snails, or something equally fast, didn’t you fellows?”
“Go on, go on,” they laughed, “if you’ve got an idea in what you call your brain, for heaven’s sake get it out before you forget it. Go on and tell us how it is that they measure the speed of a bullet.”
“Well, it’s this way,” said Bennett, “they arrange an electric wire in front of the muzzle of the gun, so that as the bullet comes out it is bound to break it. Then, the object at which the gun is aimed is also connected up by electricity. Observe, gentlemen, what happens when the gun is discharged. The bullet, as it saunters from the gun, cuts the electric wire, and by so doing registers the exact fraction of a second that this happens. When it hits the target, a similar process takes place, and then of course it is a simple matter to subtract the time the bullet leftthe gun from the time it hit the target, and thus, gentlemen, we arrive at the result, namely, the time it took the bullet to go across the intervening distance. I trust, gentlemen (and others), that I have made myself perfectly clear."
“Aw,” spoke up one of the fellows, popularly known as “Curley,” “who couldn’t think of a simple thing like that. The only reason that I didn’t think of it right off was that it was too easy for me even to consider.”
“Oh, sure, we all understand that perfectly,” replied Bennett, “but, seriously, fellows, if you would care to try the experiment, I am sure that my father would help us all he could. It wouldn’t be any trick at all for him to rig up something on the same principle that would give us an accurate idea of how fast Bert, for instance, could propel a baseball through the surrounding atmosphere. Say the word, and I’ll write to him about it to-night. We ought to hear from him by the day after to-morrow, at the latest.”
Bert saw that Bennett was in earnest, and so said:
“It certainly would be very interesting, old man. I’ve often wondered just what speed I was capable of, and I don’t see why your plan shouldn’t be feasible. What do you think, Dick?”
“I think it would be well worth the try, at all events,” replied Dick, “and say, fellows, while we were about it, Bennett’s father might be willing to show us over the factory and give us an idea of how the guns are made. Do you think he would, old top?” addressing Bennett.
“Surest thing you know,” responded the latter, heartily. “I know he would be glad to have you come, even if you are a bunch of bums,” smilingly.
“All right, we’ll consider that settled, then,” said Bert. “You write to him right away, and we’ll try our little experiment as soon as possible. Believe me, I’m anxious to try it. I sure would like to know.”
Thus the matter was settled, and after a little more talk and speculation on the same subject, the boys dispersed to their rooms to prepare recitations for the morrow.
A day or so later, when some of them had forgotten about the proposed test, Bennett came up to the group assembled in Bert’s and Dick’s room, and said:
“See here, fellows! What did I tell you? I just received this letter from dad, and he says to go as far as we like. He says that he spoke of the matter to the foreman of the testing department, and he thinks our plan is feasible.”
“Gee, that’s fine,” exclaimed Tom, who wasof the group. “How long did he think it would be before he would be ready?”
“Oh, pretty near any time that we could get to the factory. Of course, it will take him a few days to rig up the apparatus, but he says he will have it ready by next Saturday, and as that is a holiday for most of us, I think it would be a good time to go. How would that suit you, Bert?”
“First rate,” replied Bert, “I’ll take it as easy as I can this week in the line of pitching, so that I will have full strength for the test. I’ll have to establish a record,” laughingly.
“I’ll tell you what we can do,” said Walter Harper, one of the “subs” on the team, “let’s get up a race between Bert’s baseball and a bullet. I think that Bert ought to beat a bullet easily.”
“Well,” laughed Bert, “maybe I can’t exactly beat a bullet, but I’ll bet my ball will have more curve on it than any bullet ever invented.”
“That reminds me of a story I heard the other day,” spoke up one. “The father of a friend of mine went out to hunt deer last fall. He had fair luck, but everybody was talking about a deer that had been fooling all the hunters for several seasons. It seems that this deer was such an expert dodger, that when anyone started to shoot at him he would run around in circlesand thus avoid the bullet. Well, my friend’s father thought over the matter for a long time, and finally hit on a plan to outwit the deer. Can you guess how he did it?”
Many were the schemes offered by the ingenious listeners, but none of them seemed satisfactory. Finally all gave up the problem, and begged the story teller to give them the explanation.
“Well,” he said, “it’s very simple, and I’m surprised and grieved that none of you fatheads have thought of it. Why, he simply bent the barrel of the gun around, so that when the bullet came out it chased the deer around in circles, and killed him without any trouble. Now——” but here he was interrupted by a storm of indignant hoots and hisses, and rushed from the room amid a perfect shower of books of all descriptions.
“Gee,” said Tom, “I’ve heard some queer hunting stories, but that one was the limit. Many a man has died for less.”
“Oh, well, he’s more to be pitied than scorned,” laughed Dick, and they proceeded to discuss the details of Saturday’s trip.
“It will be no end of fun, I can promise you,” said Bennett. “It’s really an education in itself to go through that factory and see the way things are done. You can bet there’s no time or effortwasted there. Everything is figured down to the very last word for efficiency, and if all the world were run on the same basis it would be a pretty fine place to live in.”
“List to the philosopher, fellows,” said Bert. “I’m afraid Bennett’s studies are going to his head, and he’s actually beginning to believe what the profs tell him.”
“That is indeed a sign of failing mental powers,” laughed Tom. “I’m afraid that if we don’t do something for our poor friend, he will degenerate until finally he becomes nothing but a ‘greasy grind.’ After that, of course, he can sink no lower.”
“Aw, you fellows think you’re funny, don’t you,” grunted Bennett, disgustedly, “you’re such boneheads that when somebody with real brains, like myself, for instance, gets off a little gem of thought you are absolutely incapable of appreciating it.”
“Fellows,” said Bert, gravely, “we have made an important discovery. Bennett has brains. We know this is so, because he himself admits it. Well, well, who would have suspected it?”
This sally was greeted with laughter, but, seeing that Bennett was becoming a little angry, Bert changed the subject, and they were soon deep in details of the forthcoming trip. Dick was delegated to buy the tickets, and when all hadpaid in their money it was seen that twenty-four were going.
“That will just be a good crowd,” said Bert. “We’ll leave here on the 9:21 train, and that will take us to W—— at a little after ten. We can look over the factory in the morning, and tell Mr. Bennett how to run it,”—with a mischievous glance at Bennett, “and in the afternoon, gentlemen, I will make my world renowned attempt to pitch a baseball against time. Do you think that will suit your father, John?”
“Sure, that will be all right,” answered Bennett, and so the matter was settled.
The following Saturday turned out to be ideal, and everybody was in high spirits when they gathered at the station. They had to wait ten or fifteen minutes for the train, which had been delayed, but they found plenty to do in the meantime. They sang, played leap frog, and in a dozen other ways gave vent to their high spirits. Some of the passengers envied their light hearts, and remembered the days when they, too, had been full of life and fun, and the world had just been a place to be merry in.
The waiting passed like a flash, and before they knew it the train came into sight around a curve. When it drew up they all made a rush to get on, and before the train was finally started again had almost driven the conductor frantic.
“Byes will be byes, though,” he grinned to himself, later on, “and be the same token, Oi don’t begrudge the youngsters any of their fun, even if it did hold the thrain back a full three minutes. Have a good time while yer living, says Oi, for yez’ll be a long time dead.”
The train fairly flew along, as the engineer was making up for lost time, and it was not long before the conductor sang out, “W——!” and they had arrived. They all tumbled off, and Tom, to save time, went through the car window.
“Be gorry, yez are a wild bunch of youngsters,” said the old conductor to Bert. “But Oi remember when Oi was a lad Oi was the same way, so Oi fergives yez the delays and worriments yez have caused me this day. Have a good toime, and luck be wid yez.”
“Thanks,” laughed Bert; “won’t you come along?”
“Thank ye kindly, but Oi guess Oi’ll have to deny meself the pleasure, me bye,” grinned the conductor, and the train drew out of the station.
“Gee,” said Tom, as he gazed around, “I don’t think we’ll have much trouble locating the factory, Bennett. It seems to be a rather conspicuous part of the landscape.”
It was, indeed. The whole town was founded on the factory industry, and practically every able-bodied man in the place worked there. Thefactory was an immense six-story affair, with acres and acres of floor space. All around it were streets lined with comfortable-looking cottages, in which the workmen lived. Everything had a prosperous and neat appearance, and the boys were agreeably surprised. Most of them had expected to see a grimy manufacturing town, and were quite unprepared for the clean community they saw spread out before them.
Bennett headed them straight toward the factory, but as they went along pointed out features of the town.
“You see,” he explained, “the whole town is practically part of the factory. When that was established a few houses were built around it, and as the factory grew, the town grew along with it, until now it is what you see it. We have one of the biggest gun manufacturing plants in the world here,” he added, proudly.
“It certainly is some class, John,” admitted Bert; “it’s bigger and cleaner than I ever expected it would be.”
Soon they had reached the factory itself, and Bennett ushered them into the office. There they were presented to a gray-haired man whom John proudly introduced as his father, and they were made perfectly at home.
After a little talk, Mr. Bennett pressed a button, and a capable looking man appeared.
“Sawkins,” said Mr. Bennett, “here are the young men for whom we’ve been turning the factory upside down the last few days. Just show them around, will you, and explain things to them a little.”
“Certainly,” acquiesced Sawkins, who was the foreman. “Step right this way, gentlemen.”
The following two hours were probably among the most interesting any of the boys had ever known. The foreman started at the beginning, showing them the glowing molten metal in immense cauldrons. He was a man of considerable education, and great mechanical ability. He explained every process in words as free as possible of technicalities, and the young fellows felt that they understood everything that he undertook to explain. He showed them how the metal was cast, how the guns were bored out, the delicate rifling cut in, and a thousand other details. His listeners paid close attention to everything he said, and seeing this, he took extra pains to make everything clear to them. As he said to Mr. Bennett afterward, “It was a pleasure to talk to a bunch of men that understood what was told them.”
Finally they came to the testing room, and this proved, if possible, even more interesting than what had gone before. The foreman showed them the various ranges, and some of the penetratingfeats of which the rifles were capable. It was almost unbelievable.
“See this little toy?” he said, picking out a beautifully made gun from a rack on the wall. “The projectile discharged from this arm will penetrate over forty-five planks, each one seven-eighths of an inch thick. And then, look at this,”—holding up an ax-head with three clean holes bored through it—“here’s what it can do to tempered steel. I don’t think it would be very healthy to stand in its way.”
“No, I guess it wouldn’t,” said Dick. “I’d prefer to be somewhere else when one of those bullets was wandering around loose.”
Mr. Sawkins then showed them some photographs of bullets taken while in flight. At first sight this seems an impossibility, but nevertheless it is an accomplished fact. The method used is much the same as John Bennett has described in the early part of this chapter. As the bullet leaves the gun it cuts a wire, which in turn snaps the shutter of a very high-speed camera. The lenses on a camera of this kind are very expensive, a single lens sometimes costing five hundred dollars.
Then the foreman showed them the apparatus that they had rigged up to test the speed of Bert’s pitching. After examining the ingenious arrangement the boys were lavish in their praise. Mr.Sawkins made light of this, but it was easy to see that he was pleased.
“Oh, it’s nothing much,” he said. “I just fooled around a little bit, and soon had this planned out. It was easy for me, because when I was a little younger I used to do a little myself in the pitching line on our local team, so I knew about what would be required.”
While they were discussing this, Mr. Bennett strolled in, and asked the enthusiastic group what they thought of what they had seen so far.
“Gee,” said Tom, impulsively, “it certainly is the greatest ever, Mr. Bennett. I never had any idea there was such an awful lot to know about gun-making. On thinking it over,” he added, laughing, “I don’t think of a single way that we could improve matters; do you, fellows?”
“You are more modest than my son, then,” said Mr. Bennett, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. “Every time John comes here he has a lot of ideas that he is sure will better anything we have here at present. However, I have just been in this line for the last thirty years or so, and so, of course, have lots to learn.”
“Aw, cut it out, Dad,” grumbled the younger Bennett. “As far as I can find out, you’ve never tried any of the things I’ve proposed, and so how do you know how good or bad they are?”
“Well, the only objection to your plans wasthat they would generally have meant building a new factory to carry them out. Otherwise I have no fault to find with them,” returned Mr. Bennett.
After a little further talk, Mr. Bennett insisted that the boys come home to his house for luncheon. Needless to say, they had no very strong objections to this, and were easily persuaded.
The proprietor’s home was a large, comfortable mansion, and the good cheer offered within carried out the impression received without. There was an abundance of good fare, and the young fellows rose from the table at last with a satisfied air.
Mr. Bennett had quite a long talk with Bert during the progress of the meal, and seemed very much interested in him. It turned out that Mr. Bennett was quite a baseball enthusiast himself, so he entered heartily into Bert’s enthusiasm over the game.
“I used to be quite some player myself when I was your age,” he told Bert, “only I used to play a different position. I usually played catcher, and was on my team at H——. In those days we never bothered with catcher’s mitts, however, and we catchers worked with bare hands. Once I was catching in this manner, and a ball caught my thumb and half tore it off. I was so excited at the time, though, that I never noticed it, untilone of my teammates noticed blood on the ball and called my attention to it. After that, when my thumb healed, you may be sure I caught with a glove. You can see the scar still,” and he showed the boys the scar of what had evidently been a nasty wound.
“Well, boys,” he said, at the conclusion of this narrative, “what do you say if we go on back to the factory and make that test of young Wilson’s speed. I am very much interested, I assure you.”
Of course there were no objections raised to this, and after a pleasant walk they arrived again at the factory. They proceeded directly to the testing room, and Bert shed his coat and vest.
“Come ahead, Dick; you catch for me until I warm up, will you?” he said, and Dick ran to the requisite distance and donned a catcher’s mitt that he had brought along for the purpose. Bert pitched him a few easy balls, and then began to work up a little speed. As he shot them to Dick with ever-increasing pace, Mr. Bennett’s face lighted up with interest, and finally he said, “Say, just let me try catching a few, will you, Trent? It’s a long time since I’ve had a catcher’s mitt on, but I’d like to take a try at it just for the fun of the thing.”
“Certainly,” responded Dick, promptly, andhanded his glove to Mr. Bennett. The latter donned it quickly, and punched it a few resounding blows to “put a hole in it.” “All right, my boy,” he said, when the glove was prepared to his satisfaction. “Shoot ’em over, and don’t be afraid to put some speed into ’em. You can’t send them too fast to suit me.”
Bert sent over a few easy ones at first, just to see how Mr. Bennett would handle them. The latter caught the offerings in a practised manner, and said, “Come on, young man, put some whiskers on the ball. That wasn’t the best you could do, was it?”
Bert made no answer to this, but on his next pitch his arm swung around like a flail, and the ball left his hand as though propelled by a catapult. The factory owner managed to catch the ball, but he wrung his hand. “Ouch!” he exclaimed, “that ball stung my hand pretty hard right through the glove.”
Young Bennett laughed in unholy glee, and danced about first on one foot and then on the other. “That’s one on you, dad,” he crowed; “but you ought to feel lucky that you even caught the ball. If Bert wanted to, he could pitch a ball that you couldn’t even touch. Give him a fadeaway, Bert.”
“Fadeaway, you say,” grunted his father. “There never was a pitcher yet that could pitcha ball that I couldn’t even touch. Give me a sample of this wonderful ball, Wilson.”
“All right, sir,” said Bert, and grinned. He wound up in the old familiar way that the boys knew so well, and shot over a ball that Mr. Bennett figured was a “cinch.” He held his glove in what he thought was the proper place, but at the last moment the ball dropped abruptly and swung under the glove, missing it by several inches.
“Well, I’ll be hanged,” muttered Mr. Bennett, gazing stupidly at his glove. He soon recovered himself, however, and handed the glove back to Dick. “You’ve certainly got a wonderful ball there, Wilson,” he said. “You fooled me very neatly, and I have no excuse to offer.” Which showed the fellows that Mr. Bennett was a “good sport.”
Pretty soon Bert announced himself as ready for the speed test, and Mr. Bennett led the way over to what looked like an empty hoop, but which, upon closer inspection, was seen to be crossed and recrossed by a web of fine, hairlike wires.
“These wires are so connected,” explained Mr. Bennett, “that no matter where the ball goes, provided, of course, that it goes somewhere inside the hoop, it will break a wire, and the exact second will be recorded. Then, there is anotherhoop fifty feet away,” pointing to a similar contrivance nearer the other end of the testing room, “and all you have to do, Wilson, is to pitch the ball through both hoops. That back hoop is a good deal bigger than any catcher’s glove, so you oughtn’t to have any difficulty doing it. Do you think you can manage that all right?”
“Why, I guess I can do that,” replied Bert, and took up his position about eight or ten feet this side of the front hoop. Dick tossed him the ball, and Bert fitted it carefully in his hand. Then he drew his arm back as far as possible, and a second later the ball shot from his fingers at a terrific pace. It struck almost the exact center of the first hoop, parting the fragile wires as though they had been so many cobwebs, and shot through the second hoop about a foot from its edge.
“Good shot!” exclaimed Mr. Bennett, and he and the foreman hurried to the recording instruments, and started figuring up the time.
“Gee, Bert,” said Tom, “I don’t think I ever saw you pitch a faster ball, even when the team has been in a tight place in the ninth inning. I’d almost swear I saw it smoke as it went through the air.”
“Well, fast or slow, it was the best I could do, anyway,” said Bert, “so there’s no use worrying about it.”
In a short time, Mr. Bennett and the foremanhad arrived at a result, and hurried over to where the boys were discussing the probable outcome of the test.
“You sent that ball at the rate of 114 feet a second, which is equivalent to about eighty-three or eighty-four miles an hour!” he exclaimed. “In other words, you could throw a ball after the Twentieth Century express traveling at its average speed and overtake it. As you probably know, any object traveling at a speed of a mile a minute traverses eighty-eight feet in one second, and it is on this that we have based our calculations.”
“Say, Bert, that certainly was going some,” said Dick, proudly, and the others were not far behind in congratulating our hero on his truly astonishing performance. It is safe to say that few professional pitchers could better Bert’s record.
After the excitement had died down somewhat, John Bennett proposed that they have a shooting contest, and his idea met with instant approval. John had had unlimited facilities for perfecting himself in this art since a boy, however, and outclassed any of the others both at long and short-distance shooting.
When they had grown tired of this, it was growing late, and Bert proposed that they return. Needless to say, nobody wanted to go, but theyhad no choice, and so proceeded to take their leave. They all thanked their host heartily, also the good-natured and obliging foreman.
Mr. Bennett shook Bert’s hand last of all, and as he ushered them to the door, said, “I’m going to take a holiday and see the next big game in which you pitch, Wilson. I’m quite anxious to see you in action.”
“We’ll all be glad to see you, I’m sure,” returned Bert, “and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to show you over the college after the game.”
“Much obliged,” replied Mr. Bennett, and watched the laughing, singing group until it was hidden by a turn in the road.
The return journey seemed much longer than it had that morning, but they arrived at last, and voted it one of the best days they had ever known. The news of Bert’s feat soon spread over the campus, and when it reached Reddy’s ears, he nodded his head sagely.
“Just make believe I don’t know a crack pitcher when I see one,” he grinned to himself.
“Say, fellows, what have you got on hand for to-day?” asked Tom, as he burst into the “sanctum-sanctorum,” as Bert and Dick called their room, and sank into an easy chair.
“Nothing,” said Bert, turning from a not too promising survey of the surrounding country, “absolutely and emphatically nothing! This promises to be one of the slowest days in my short and brilliant career——”
“Hear, hear!” cried Tom from the depths of his chair. “That’s fine for a starter, old top. Keep it up and perhaps you can actually persuade us that you amount to something. It’s rather a hopeless task, but it wouldn’t do any harm to try.”
“You’re such a bonehead that you don’t recognize real worth when you see it,” Bert retorted, good-naturedly. “There’s another one,” he added, pointing to Dick, who was trying to figure out a calculus problem. “He prefers grinding in calculus to listening to an interesting tale of my trials and tribulations.”
“It isn’t a question of preference, it’s a case of dire necessity,” Dick sighed, despondently. “If only I hadn’t cut class the other day I would be all right, but as it is I’ll have to cram to make up for it. Oh, if I only had the fellow who invented calculus here, I’d——” and in the absence of anything better Dick pulled his own mop of tangled hair and applied himself furiously to the solving of what he called “an unsolvable problem.”
“Poor old chap, never mind,” consoled Tom. “When I come back to-night with old Pete under my arm I’ll tell you just how I caught him.”
“Do you mean to say that you are going fishing for old Pete to-day?” Dick asked, forgetting all about calculus in his excitement.
“Sure,” Tom replied, placidly. “Didn’t we agree that the first clear Saturday we had off we’d take for our fishing trip?”
“So we did, but that was so long ago that I’d clean forgotten it. Why didn’t you remind us of it sooner, Tom? You would have spared me a lot of useless worry as to how I was going to spend a baseball-less day.”
“I didn’t think of it myself until I came into the room,” Tom admitted, “but I suppose Dick can’t go with us now. It’s too bad he cut the other day,” he added, with a sly glance at the discarded calculus.
“Don’t let it worry you,” Dick retorted. “Do you suppose that anything in earth could keep me from hunting Old Pete to-day, now that you have brought him so forcibly to my mind? Go on down and get your tackle, Tom. Bert and I will join you in no time.”
“But, really, Dick,” Tom protested, with mock severity, “don’t you realize that duty——”
“Get out before I put you out,” roared Dick, making a dash for Tom, who promptly disappeared through the door.
“Since you insist,” laughed the fugitive through the keyhole, “meet me on the campus in half an hour.”
“We’ll be there with bells on,” said Bert and Dick with one voice, and at once began their preparations for the trip.
As Dick put the calculus back on the shelf, he said, half apologetically, “I’ll see you to-night, old fellow.”
Half an hour later, the trio were swinging rapidly down the road, carrying their fishing poles and tackle. This was an outing that they had planned for early in the season, but up to this time they had had no opportunity to carry it out. Nearly every Saturday they had had extra baseball practice, or something unexpected had come up, but now at last they had their chance andwere only too anxious to take advantage of it. Besides them was Pete.
Old Pete was a huge pickerel who was sly and wary beyond the general run of fishes. Many a confident angler had come to the lake, absolutely certain of his ability to land the big fellow, only to return, sheepish and crestfallen, to acknowledge his defeat.
So it was no wonder that our fellows were excited at the prospect of a game of hide-and-seek with the biggest and most cunning of the pickerel family.
“Just think,” Bert was saying, “what it will mean if we land him. Almost all the other fellows in college have tried it without success, and if we could manage to bring back Old Pete we would be popular heroes.”
“I know, but there’s not much chance of that,” Tom sighed. “If old Si Perkins couldn’t catch him napping, I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Never say die, Tom,” Dick said, gaily. “A day like this makes you feel equal to anything.”
“So say I,” Bert added, heartily. “Say, do you see that mill in front of us? Well, that belongs to Herr Hoffmeyer, and it’s one of the classiest little mills I ever saw.”
“It sure is working some, but where do they get the power?” Dick asked.
“Why, there’s a dam right back of the mill.You can’t see it from here, but when we get a little nearer I’ll point it out to you. See,” he added, as they neared the mill, “isn’t that a great arrangement. Alongside the mill there is a narrow, deep sluice. In this is arranged a large paddle wheel and, as the water rushes through, it acts on the paddles and turns the wheel. By a system of cogs the power is then transmitted to the grinding stone.”
“That sure is fine,” said Tom. “I don’t know that I have ever had a chance to see a working mill at such close range. Just look how the water rushes through that sluice. I wouldn’t like to get in the way.”
“Nor I,” said Dick. “The current must be very strong the other side of the dam.”
“You bet your life it is. If anybody should get caught in it, I wouldn’t give that,” snapping his fingers, “for his chance of life.”
At this moment a bald-headed, red-faced man appeared at the door of the mill. He regarded the boys with a broad smile on his face as he carefully dusted his hands on his white apron.
“Goot morning, young shentlemens,” he said, affably. “Fine morning, fine morning, fine morning,” and after each repetition of this sentiment he shook his head vigorously and his smile became broader.
“It is, indeed, sir,” Bert said. “We stoppedfor a moment to see your mill in operation. It’s a very fine mill,” he added.
“Yah, yah,” the big miller assented, cheerfully, “it’s a very goot mill. For over five year now by me it has worked. Von’t you step on the insides for a minute, young shentlemens?”
“Sure thing,” said Tom. “Come on, fellows. It isn’t often you get a chance to see a real mill working. Old Pete can wait, I guess,” and so, led by the good-natured Herr Hoffmeyer, the trio entered the mill.
For the better part of an hour they wandered around to their hearts’ content. The miller showed the working of the mill wheels, and led the way into every nook and cranny, explaining as they went.
At last, when they had seen everything there was to be seen, the boys thanked their host heartily, and started on their way once more. Before they rounded a bend in the road, they turned for a last look at the mill. At the door stood their erstwhile host, honest, round face shining like the moon, while the rays of the sun glanced off in little golden darts from the smooth surface of his bald head.
“Well, that was some adventure,” Bert exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a mill, and now I’ve realized my heart’s desire.”
“I like Herr Hoffmeyer, too,” Tom said, “even if I did think he was a trifle weak in the head at first. Isn’t this the pickerel stream?” he asked, a minute later.
“Yes, but the fellows say that the big pickerel is further down the stream. Come along.” With these words, Bert led them down the bank until they reached a shady spot, shaded by spreading trees, and carpeted with green and velvety moss.
“This place looks good to me,” said Dick; “let’s camp here.”
“I guess this ought to be about right,” Bert agreed.
In a few minutes the reels were fixed, the hooks were baited, and the lines were lowered carefully into the clear depths of the stream.
“This is what you might call comfort,” said Tom, as he leaned lazily against a convenient tree.
“Bet your life,” Bert agreed.
“Now, if Pete will only consent to come along and get the hook, like any other respectable, right-minded fish, my contentment would be absolute.”
“Huh,” Tom grunted sarcastically. “He’d be likely to do that, wouldn’t he, especially if you keep up this gabfest?”
“I guess a little polite conversation won’t scare that wary old reprobate. I imagine he’s heard so much conversation that couldn’t be called exactlypolite, especially when he calmly detaches the bait from the hook without stopping to leave his card, that he wouldn’t mind our talk at all.”
“Shut up,” said Tom, in a low voice, “I’ve got a bite, and the line’s pulling hard.”
Then, amid a breathless silence, Tom gave a quick, experienced pull to the line, and landed—not the renowned old Pete, but a small-sized sunfish, that wriggled and twisted desperately in its efforts to get away.
At this minute Bert happened to glance at Tom’s face, and the look he found there was so eloquent of absolute dismay and chagrin, that he burst into a shout of uncontrollable laughter, in which Dick joined him.
“That was sure one on you, old man,” he said, when he had breath enough.
“Humph,” Tom grunted, disgustedly, “it sure was a sell. I thought I had old Pete cinched that time. However,” he added, “I don’t see that you fellows have much to say. You haven’t even caught a sunfish.”
“Not so you could notice it,” Dick agreed cheerfully. “There’s plenty of time yet, though, and all things come to him who waits. I’m right on the job, when it comes to waiting.”
Bert, who had been thinking his own thoughts, suddenly broke into the conversation with an irrelevant “Say, fellows, did you ever hear thestory of the man who went for a sail on a windy day——”
“And a man coming out of the cabin asked him,” Tom broke in, “if the moon had come up yet, and he answered, ‘No, but everything else has’? Yes, we’ve heard that old chestnut cracked before.”
“Well, it just struck me,” Bert mused, “that it fitted your case pretty well.”
“I suppose it does, in a way,” Tom admitted, “but you just wait and see if I don’t land that old rascal before night.”
“Go in and win, my boy, and take my blessing. It doesn’t make much difference who does the catching so long as he is caught,” Dick said, and once more leaned his broad back against the tree with a sigh of content.
But into Tom’s head had come a scheme, and he determined to carry it out at the very first opportunity. For a long time the trio sat on the grassy bank, listening to the myriad indescribable sounds of spring. They watched the gorgeous butterfly as it winged its lazily graceful way from blossom to blossom, and heard the buzzing of the bee as it invaded the heart of flowerland, and stole its nectar. The perfumed air, hot from the touch of the sun, stole upon their senses, and made them delightfully lazy.
Suddenly, Bert gave a jerk to his line andlanded a fair-sized pickerel. Their luck had changed, and in a short time they had a very good mess of fish. But the great pickerel seemed farther from showing himself than ever.
Tom landed the next fish, but, instead of taking it off the hook, he threw the line, fish, and all back into the water.
“What’s that for?” Dick asked. “We have plenty of bait left, and there’s no use in wasting a perfectly good fish.”
“Wait,” Tom remarked, laconically.
They had not long to wait, however, for in a few minutes there was another jerk on Tom’s line.
“Catch hold, fellows,” Tom cried, “and help me pull. Gee, I can’t hold it, much less pull it in.”
Intensely excited, Dick added his strength to Tom’s and pulled hard.
“Pull, pull!” Tom cried, almost crazy with excitement. “We can’t lose him now. Come on! Come on!—now!”
And with one concerted effort they pulled the line up, falling over one another in their attempt to keep their balance. And there, at their feet, was the largest pickerel they had ever seen—old Pete. Quick as a flash, Tom landed on the prize, just in time to keep it from slipping back into the water.
“Look at him, look at him, fellows!” Tom shouted. “Here’s old Pete, the biggest pickerel in the world, the wary old codger that has defied every fisherman for miles around, and has even eluded the deadly machinations of Si Perkins. Don’t stand there like wooden statues—come here and help me unhook this old reprobate. Why don’t you say something?”
“For the very good reason,” Bert answered, drily, “that you haven’t given us a chance. And for the second reason, I am so dazed I can’t realize our good fortune.”
“Our good fortune,” Tom repeated, scornfully. “You mean my brains and common sense. Who thought of putting that fish back into the water to fool old Pete, I’d like to know?”
“You did, and we are perfectly willing to give you all the credit,” said Bert. “The really important thing is that he’s caught. I can hardly believe it yet. Isn’t he a beauty?” he added, enthusiastically. “Look at the length of him, and the thickness—— Say, fellows, I bet we could feed the whole college on him for a month.”