Kenneth lay in bed in Dr. Randall's spare chamber. His left hand was bandaged and a wet cloth lay across his closed eyes. A window was open and the lowered shade billowed softly up and down, letting into the darkened room quick splashes of sunlight. From without came the cheerful patter of melting snow upon the sill.
Kenneth had had his breakfast—how long ago he could not say, since he had slept since then—and had learned all the exciting news; that Lower House was so badly burned that there was no question of repairing it; that Mr. Whipple had been sent to the hospital at Lynnminster, seriously but not dangerously hurt; that Grafton Hyde had received no damage and was about this forenoon wearing a strangely blank expression due to the loss of his eyebrows; and that King, to whose disregard of the rules the fire had been due, had, previous rumors to the contrary, escaped unharmed.
Kenneth's informant had been the school doctor, who had also imparted the information that Kenneth's injuries were trifling, a couple of scorched fingers and a pair of badly inflamed eyes, but that nevertheless he would kindly spend the day in bed, "as heroes are scarce these days and must be well looked after when found."
There came a soft tapping at the door and Kenneth peeked eagerly out from under the bandage as Grafton Hyde entered and tiptoed across the floor. Kenneth looked for a moment and grinned; then he chuckled; then he threw an arm across his face and gave way to laughter unrestrained. Grafton laughed, too, though somewhat ruefully.
"Don't I look like a fool?" he asked.
Kenneth regained his composure with a gasp.
"I—I didn't mean to be rude," he said contritely, "but—"
"Oh, I don't mind," answered Grafton. "Besides, I'll bet you're the same way."
"Me?" Kenneth looked startled and passed a finger questioningly across his eyebrows. "There's nothing here!" he gasped. Off came the bandage. "How do I look?"
A smile started at Grafton's lips and slowly overspread his face. Kenneth smiled back.
"We must be a pair of freaks," he said, chuckling. "Do they ever grow back again?"
"Yes, in no time," answered Grafton. "Besides, Joe says that all you have to do is to take a pencil and rub it over and no one can tell. I'm going to try it." He sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling!" he asked.
"All right. Kind of tired, though. How about you?"
"Fine." There was a silence during which he played nervously with a shoe strap. At last:
"I say, Garwood," he blurted, "it's—it's all right about—about that, you know. I told President Randall."
"You needn't have," muttered Kenneth.
"I wanted to! And I'm sorry. It was a sneaky thing that I did to you. I—I don't know why I cared so much about staying on the team; I don't now."
"Did he—was he mad about it?"
"Wasn't he! I am to be suspended for a month."
"I'm sorry," said Kenneth honestly. "It—it was decent of you to tell."
"Decent nothing! It was decent of you not to blow on me the other day. Why didn't you?" he asked curiously.
"Oh, I don't know," answered Kenneth embarrassedly. "I—I didn't like to, I suppose. When are you going?"
"This afternoon. That's why I came to see you now, I wanted to—to tell you that I was sorry about it and see if you wouldn't be friends."
"That's all right," said Kenneth. "I—I'm glad you came."
Had they been older they would have shaken hands. As it was they merely avoided looking at each other and maintained an embarrassed silence for a moment. It amounted to the same thing.
The silence was broken by a knock on the door.
"Come!" called Kenneth.
"Look at the heroes having a convention," said Joe gayly as he crossed the floor. "The Society of the Singed Cats! Well, how are you feeling, chum?"
"Fine and dandy," answered Kenneth.
"Good! Say, we had lots of fun last night! They bunked us in with the Upper House fellows, and maybe there wasn't a circus! Every time we see King we ask him if it's hot enough for him! I wouldn't be surprised if he folded his pyjamas like the Arabs—that's all he saved, you know—and as silently stole away. We've sure got him worried!" He paused and looked inquiringly from Kenneth to Grafton. "Did Graft tell you?" he asked.
Kenneth nodded.
"I always told you he wasn't a bad sort, didn't I? Don't you care, Graft; we'll keep a place warm for you, and a month is just a nice vacation. Wouldn't mind it myself! Say, are you going to be fit to play in Saturday's game, Kenneth?"
"I don't know. Will they let me?"
"Why not? They haven't anything against you now, have they? How about your blessed eyes?"
"Oh, they'll be all right, I guess. But I wish—Graft was going to play."
"Oh, I don't care," declared that youth stoutly. "Go in and give 'em fits, Kenneth. And—one of you fellows might write me about the game," he added wistfully.
"We'll do it," said Joe. "We'll write a full account and send diagrams of the broken heads of the Uppers. Only thing I'm afraid of," he added soberly, "is that now that Kenneth hasn't any eyebrows they may take his head for the ball!" Kenneth was up the next day feeling as fit as ever, but when the subject of returning to basketball practice was broached to the doctor, Kenneth met with disappointment.
"I can't allow it," said the doctor kindly but firmly. "I'm sorry, but you know we're responsible for you while you're here, my boy, and I think you'd better keep away from violent exercise for a week or two. No, no more basket ball this year."
The verdict brought gloom to Lower House, or, as Upper facetiously called them now, the Homeless Ones. For with Grafton gone and Kenneth out of the game the team's plight was desperate. But there was no help for it, and so Jim Marble went to work to patch up the team as best he might, putting Simms back at guard and placing Niles, a substitute, at right forward.
The Homeless Ones were quartered wherever space could be found for them. Joe and Kenneth were so fortunate as to get together again in an improvised bedroom, which had previously been a disused recitation room, at the top of School Hall. Most of the Lower House residents had saved their principal effects and those who had lost their clothing were reimbursed by the school.
Friday morning two announcements of much interest were made.
"On Monday next," said the doctor, "we receive a new member into the Faculty, Mr. George Howell Fair. Mr. Fair, who is a graduate of Princeton, will take the place left vacant by the resignation of Mr. Whipple, who was so unfortunately injured in the recent disaster. Mr. Fair will take up Mr. Whipple's work where that gentleman left off."
There was a stir throughout chapel, and murmurs of satisfaction. The doctor picked up another slip of paper, cast his eyes over it and cleared his throat.
"You will also be pleased to learn," he said, "that in our time of tribulation generous friends have come to our assistance. We have lost one of our buildings, but money has already been provided for the erection of a new and far more suitable one. I have received from Mr. John Garwood, of Cleveland, and Mr. Peter L. Hyde, of Chicago, a draft for the sum of one hundred thousand dollars for the erection of a large dormitory capable of housing the entire student body. The generous gift seems to me especially, singularly appropriate, coming as it does from the fathers of those two students who recently so bravely distinguished themselves. With this thought in mind the Faculty has already decided that the new dormitory when completed shall be known as Garwood-Hyde Hall."
Well, Kenneth's secret was out! I hope and believe that his fellows held him in no higher esteem because they found out that he was the son of one of the country's wealthiest men. But true it is that for the next few days he was the object of violent interest not altogether unmixed with awe.
But Joe had to have everything explained, and as the shortest means to that result Kenneth produced a letter which he had received from his father the day before and gave it to Joe to read. Only portions of it interest us, however.
"The newspaper account" (ran the letter) "says that neither of you sustained serious injuries. I trust that it is so. But I think I had better satisfy myself on that point, and so you may look for me at the school on Saturday next. Your mother is anxious to have you come home, but I tell her that a little thing like pulling a professor out of the fire isn't likely to feaze a Garwood!
"Now, another thing. You recollect that when you decided to go to Hilltop we talked it over and thought it best to keep dark the fact that you were my son. You wanted to stand on your own merits, and I wanted you to. Then, too, we feared that Hyde's boy, because of the misunderstanding between Peter Hyde and myself, might try to make it uncomfortable for you. That alarm seems now to have been groundless, since surely a boy who could do what he did—and join you in doing it—wouldn't be likely to pick on another. But that's of no consequence now, as it happens.
"Quite by accident I met Peter here the day after the papers published the story of your little stunt. Well, he was so tickled about it that we shook hands and had a 'touching reconciliation,' quite like what you see in the plays. We talked about 'those worthless kids' of ours and it ended up with his coming home to dinner with me. So you see you did more than save a professor's life; you brought about a renewal of an old friendship. After dinner we got to talking it over and decided the least we could do was to replace that building. So I've sent your principal a draft by this mail which will cover the cost of a good new hall. I'm giving half and Peter's giving half. I hope you and young Hyde will be good friends, just as his father and I are going to be hereafter. You may expect me Saturday."
"Now," cried Joe triumphantly when he had finished reading, "now I understand about those brushes!"
"What brushes?" asked Kenneth.
"Why, the night of the fire I threw your suit case out of the window, and when I went down to get it, it had bust open and was full of swell silver-backed things. I thought at first I'd got some one else's bag, but I found I hadn't. And I wondered why you hadn't had those brushes out."
"Oh," laughed Kenneth, "I thought they looked a bit too giddy!"
It was Saturday night and the gymnasium was crowded. The Faculty was there to a man, and with them, the honored guest of the evening, sat Mr. John Garwood, trying hard to make out what all the fuss was about and looking more often toward a bench at the side of the hall than toward the struggling players. On the bench, one of several red-shirted players, sat Kenneth. He was forbidden to enter the game, but there was nothing to prevent his wearing his uniform once more and sitting with the substitutes. But the fellows with him were not all subs. One was Simms, weary and panting, nursing a twisted ankle which a moment before had put him out of the game. And Upper House had suffered, too, for across the floor Carl Jones was viewing the last of the contest from the inglorious vantage of the side line. Upper and Lower were still shouting hoarsely and singing doggedly. On the scoreboard the legend ran:
Upper House 11—Lower House 11.
No wonder every fellow's heart was in his throat! It had been a contest to stir the most sluggish blood. In spite of the absence of Grafton and Kenneth, Lower had played a hard, fast game, and had she made a decent per cent of her tries at goal would have been the winner at this moment. But Jim Marble had missed almost every goal from foul, and Collier, who had tried his hand, had been scarcely more successful. And now the score was tied and it seemed ages agone since the timekeepers had announced one minute to play.
The ball hovered in the middle of the floor, passed from side to side. Then Hurd of Upper secured it, and, with a shout to Knox, sped, dribbling, down the side line. But a red-shirted youth sprang in front of him and the two went to the floor together, while the ball bounded into the ready hands of Jim Marble.
"Oh, good work, Joe!" shouted Kenneth, as Joe sprang to his feet and dived again into the play.
Jim, taking long and desperate chances, tried for a basket from near the center of the floor and missed by a bare six inches. A groan went up from the supporters of the Red, while Upper House sighed its relief. Then there was a mix-up under Upper's goal and the whistle shrilled.
"Double foul!" called the referee.
A sudden stillness fell over the hall. Not a few of the players sank to the floor where they stood, while Knox picked up the ball and advanced to the line. Kenneth, watching with his heart in his throat, had a vague impression of Jim Marble bending across the rail in consultation with one of the Faculty. Then the ball rose gently from Knox's hands, arched in its flight and came down square on the rim of the basket. For a moment it poised there while hearts stood still. Then it toppled gently over the side to the floor. Knox had missed!
Lower House set up a frantic chorus of triumph. If only Marble or Collier could succeed where Knox had failed! But neither Jim nor the left guard was going to try, it seemed. For over at the Red's bench a lithe form was peeling off his sweater, and in a moment the cry swept the hall:
"Garwood's going to throw! Garwood! Garwood!"
"It's all right," Jim had whispered. "I asked the doc. Do your best. If you make it we win, Garwood!"
Kenneth, his pulses far from calm, walked out on the floor and picked up the ball. The shouting died away and the sudden stillness seemed appalling. He toed the black streak across the boards and measured the distance to the basket. Then, his legs astraddle, his knees slightly bent, he swung the ball once—twice—
There was a moment of suspense, and then—
Then pandemonium broke loose! The ball dropped to the floor unheeded, but above it the tattered meshes of the netting swayed where it had struck them going through! It was the cleanest kind of a basket, and it won the game and the series and the Shield for Lower House!
Kenneth, fighting off the howling fellows who would have perched him on their shoulders, caught a glimpse of his father's amused face, and broke for the stairway.
"I'm awfully sorry," said Ned Gaynor earnestly, "but it isn't as though you had been blackballed, Jerry."
"I don't see what difference it makes," replied Gerald Hutton disconsolately. "I don't get taken in, do I?"
"No, but when a fellow's name is 'postponed' he can try again any time. If he's blackballed, he's a goner until next year."
"Oh, well, I don't want to join the old Lyceum, anyhow," said his roommate with a scowl.
"Yes, you do," responded Ned, "and I want you to. And I'm going to bring your name up again just as soon as I think there's a chance of getting you elected."
"When will that be?" asked Jerry dubiously. Ned hesitated.
"I don't just know, Jerry," he answered finally. "You see, it's like this; the Lyceum is the only society we have here at Winthrop, and it's small, only thirty members, you know, while there are over seventy fellows in school this year. So of course there are lots of chaps who want to get in. And when it comes to selecting members the society naturally tries to get the best."
"Which means I'm not one of the best," said Jerry with a grin.
"No, it doesn't," replied his roommate. "It just means that you aren't very well known yet; you haven't proved yourself."
"Shucks! I've been here ever since school opened in September, and I know almost every fellow here to speak to."
"Well, but that isn't quite what I mean," replied Ned. "You—you haven't proved yourself."
"What do you mean by 'proved myself'?" asked Jerry.
"Well, you haven't done anything to—to show what you are. I can't explain very well, but—"
"What the dickens do you want me to do? Burn down Academy Hall or chuck one of the Faculty in the river?" inquired Jerry sarcastically.
"Oh, you know what I mean," answered Ned a trifle impatiently. "Sooner or later a fellow does something worth while, like getting a scholarship or making the Eleven or the Baseball Team. Then he's proved himself. You've been here only half a year, and, of course, yon haven't made yourself known."
"I've done my best," replied Jerry disconsolately. "I worked like a slave for two weeks trying to get on the Football Team, and I almost broke my neck learning to skate well enough so I'd have a show for the Hockey Team."
"Maybe you'll make the Nine," said Ned hopefully. "I guess if you do that there won't be any trouble about the Lyceum."
"I'll never get on the Nine while Herb Welch is captain," said Jerry with a shake of his head. "He doesn't care for me much."
"Well, I guess that's so," answered Ned thoughtfully. "The fact is, Jerry, it was Herb who objected to your election to the Lyceum."
"I guessed as much," Jerry replied dryly. "I knew he'd keep me out if he could. Just as he will keep me off the Nine."
"Oh, come now, Herb isn't that bad. He's sort of rough and bossy, but he's straight, Jerry. He was very decent at the election. He simply said—"
"I don't want to hear what he said," interrupted Jerry peevishly. "He's a big bully. He's hated me ever since I interfered the time he was ducking young Gordon. Gordon couldn't swim, and he was so scared that his face was as white as that block of paper."
"Well, it was pretty cheeky for a Sophomore to lay down the law to aSenior, you know," said Ned.
"And it was pretty mean of a Senior to haze a Freshman, wasn't it?" Jerry demanded. "Anyhow, I spoiled his fun for him."
"And got ducked yourself," laughed the other.
"That was all right. I could swim and wasn't afraid. I was better able to take it than young Gordon was. Ever since then Welch has had it in for me. I dare say that if I went and licked his boots he'd let me into the Lyceum and give me a fair show for the Nine, but I'm not going to do it. I can play baseball, and I'd like to make the team, but if it depends on my toadying to Welch, why, I'll stay off, that's all."
"Oh, come now, it isn't as bad as that," responded Ned. "Don't you bother. I'll get you elected before Class Day, Jerry. Grab your skates and come on down to the river."
"Skates!" exclaimed Jerry. "Why, you can't skate to-day. The ice is all breaking up. Look at it!"
From the dormitory window the river was visible for a quarter of a mile as it curved slowly to the south between Winthrop Academy and the town bridge. It was late February, and for two days the mercury had lingered around fifty degrees. Along the nearest shore the ice still held, but in midstream and across by the Peterboro side the river, swollen by melting snow and ice, flowed in a turbid, ice-strewn torrent. For a while at noon the sun had shone, but now, at four o'clock, the clouds had gathered and the moist air coming in at the open window of the room suggested rain.
"There's plenty of ice along this bank," answered Ned cheerfully, "and as it may be the last chance I'll get to skate I'm going to make the most of it. I promised Tom Thurber and Herb Welch I'd meet them at four. I must get a move on." He closed the book before him and arose from the study table. "You'd better come along, Jerry."
But Jerry shook his head, staring moodily out over the dreary prospect of wet campus and slushy road. A mile away the little town of Peterboro lay straggling along the river, the chimneys of its three or four factories spouting thick black smoke into the heavy air. Jerry was disappointed. It meant a good deal to win election to the Lyceum, and, in spite of what he had told Ned, he had all along entertained a sneaking idea that he would make it, Welch or no Welch. He wondered whether Ned couldn't have got him in if he had tried real hard. Ned and he were very good friends, even though they had never met until they had been roomed together in the fall, but Jerry was a new boy still, while Ned was a Junior and had known Herb Welch three years.
"I suppose," he thought, "Ned didn't want to offend Welch. Much he cares whether I'm elected or not!"
"Coming?" asked Ned, pausing at the door. Jerry shook his head.
"No, I guess not. I think I'll walk over to town and get some things."
"Well, buy me half a dozen blue books, will you?" asked Ned eagerly. He tossed a coin across and Jerry caught it deftly and dropped it into his pocket with a nod. Ned slammed the door behind him and went clattering downstairs. Jerry watched him emerge below, jump a miniature rivulet flowing beside the board walk and disappear around the corner of the dormitory. Then he got into his sweater, put his cap on, and in turn descended the stairs.
It was a good twenty-minutes walk to the village. By keeping along the river path to the bridge he might have saved something in time and distance, but the river path was ankle-deep in slush and mud, while the road, although longer, gave firmer foothold. When he reached the old wooden bridge he paused and watched the water rushing under between the stone pillars. He had never seen the stream so high. The surface appeared scarcely eight feet beneath the floor of the bridge. Huge cakes of ice, broken loose upstream, went tearing by, grinding against each other and hurling themselves at the worn stones. And between the fragments of ice the surface was almost covered with a layer of slush. Jerry flattened himself against the wooden railing while a team of sweating horses, tugging a great load of hay, went creaking by him. Then he followed it across and turned to the right at the end of the bridge into the main street of the town.
His purchases didn't take him long, and soon he was back at the bridge again. Upstream, on the Academy side of the river, he could see the skaters. Apparently half the school had decided to seize this last chance for indulging in the sport, for the long and narrow strip of ice remaining was quite black with figures. At the end of the bridge Jerry decided to take the river path, for a glance at his shoes and stockings convinced him that it was no longer necessary to consider them; they were already as wet and muddy as it was possible for them to be. He felt rather more cheerful after his tramp, and told himself that if there was time he would run up to the room, leave his purchases, get his skates, and join the group on the ice. By the time he had covered half the distance between bridge and Academy he could distinguish several of the skaters. There was Morris, with his blue sweater, and the tall fellow was, of course, Jim Kennedy; and there was Burns, and young Gordon; Gordon, even if he couldn't swim, was a dandy skater.
"Only," thought Jerry, "if he got into the river it would be a bad outlook for him."
He had left the bridge a full quarter of a mile behind when a sudden commotion among the skaters attracted his attention. There was a scurrying together and the skating stopped. Jerry paused and watched intently, but for a moment saw nothing to account for the actions of the fellows. They were lined up along the edge of the ice in little groups. Then several of them turned and skated frantically toward the bank. Jerry's first thought now was that some one had fallen into the water, that the ice had given way, as it was quite likely to do in its present half-rotten state, and he looked anxiously for young Gordon's slight figure. He couldn't see him, but that signified little, since the fellows were packed together and the light was failing.
But in another instant Jerry saw that his surmise was wrong. For suddenly a single figure came into view, a figure huddled on hands and knees a full fifty feet away from his companions. For an instant Jerry couldn't understand. Then the huddled figure was swept farther away toward the opposite shore and a clear expanse of angry river showed between it and those on the ice. One of the fellows had ventured too far, the ice had broken away, and now he was being borne swiftly down the stream! Already the current had swept him away from all hope of assistance from his companions, for up there the channel ran close to the Peterboro shore. The fragment of ice to which he clung seemed to be fairly large, perhaps ten feet long by half that in width, but Jerry knew that the chance of its remaining unbroken for long was very slim. If the fellows had gone for a boat they might have saved themselves the effort, for no boat could be managed in that seething mass of broken ice. And a rope would be quite as useless, since the current would keep the boy along the farther shore and no one on earth could throw a coil of rope half the distance.
Jerry had already broken into a run, but now he pulled himself up and glanced behind him toward the bridge. He could be of no more use up there than were the fellows grouped helplessly at the edge of the ice. If the boy was to be rescued it must be downstream somewhere, always supposing the cake of ice hung together and that he managed to retain his place on it. Jerry thought rapidly with fast-beating heart. Already the boy on the ice had covered half the distance to where Jerry stood, and the fellows up there where the accident had happened were leaving the ice, frantically freeing themselves from their skates and running down the path. Jerry turned and ran back the way he had come. If he could reach the bridge first there might be a chance!
His feet slipped in the ice and slush of the path and it was slow going. Once he fell flat on his face, but was up again in a twinkling, wet and bruised. A glance over his shoulder told him that the pitching, whirling slag of ice with its human burden was gaining on him. If only he had started before! he thought. But he ran on, sliding and tripping, his breath coming hard and his heart pounding agonizedly against his ribs. He was almost there now; only another hundred yards or so remained between him and the end of the bridge. He prayed for strength to keep on as he glanced again over his shoulder. The boy had thrown himself face down on the ice and Jerry saw with a sinking heart that already the cake had diminished in size. If it struck one of the stone pillars of the bridge it would go to pieces without a doubt, and it would be a hard task for the strongest swimmer to battle his way clear of that rushing current.
With his breath almost failing him, Jerry reached the bridge and ran out upon it. He was none too soon. Close to the farther shore the jagged fragment still held together as it dipped and turned, glancing from the jutting points of the shore ice and grinding between its fellows in the ugly green torrent. Face down lay the boy, limp, his hands outthrown beside him. Under the bridge the river rushed with a loud rushing sound, swift and relentless.
Jerry ran with aching limbs to the third span, toward which the current was bearing the helpless, huddled figure. In the brief moment of time left him Jerry noted two things. One was that those in the van of the straggling line hurrying toward him along the river path were but a couple of hundred yards distant. The other was that his left shoulder was aching dully. He must, he thought, have struck on it when he fell. Then his gaze was on the motionless form sweeping toward him, and he was leaning over the wooden rail, his hands at his mouth.
"Stand up!" he cried with all his might.
But there was no answering movement from the boy. Jerry's heart sank, but once more he shouted, putting, as it seemed to him, every remaining bit of breath into his call:
"Stand up and I'll save you!"
The head raised and a white face gazed up at him as the narrowing current seized the ice fragment. With a gasp of surprise Jerry looked down into the horror-stricken eyes of Herbert Welch! Then he had thrown himself down on the floor of the bridge, his head and shoulders over the water.
"Stand up!" he called again. And Welch staggered weakly to his knees, the ice beneath him tilting perilously. Jerry's hands stretched down over the rushing water.
"Catch hold!" he cried.
A momentary return of hope and courage came to Welch, and as his treacherous craft shot, crushing and grinding, into the maelstrom, he found his feet for a moment, and threw his arms above his head, his fingers clutching hungrily at the empty air. Then a corner of the ice fragment struck against the left-hand pillar and he lost his balance. But in that brief moment Jerry's left hand had grasped one of Welch's wrists, and now the latter hung between bridge and water, swinging slowly and limply. Then Jerry's right hand found a hold below his left, and he set his teeth and closed his eyes, praying, as he had done before on the river path, for strength and endurance. The strain was terrible. He felt the blood rushing to his head and throbbing there mightily.
His left shoulder hurt worse every moment. But he could hold on a moment longer. Surely the others would be here in just a second. He thought he heard cries, but the roar of the water beneath and the throbbing in his head made it uncertain. Then he heard a voice. It was Herb Welch speaking.
"Let me go, Hutton," said Welch quietly. "You can't hold me here."
Jerry tried to answer, but the pressure against his chest was too severe. His left hand began to slip from Welch's wrist; the fingers wouldn't hold; there was a strange numbness from hand to shoulder. With a smothered groan he tried to tighten his clasp again. Then help came. Eager hands took his burden, and he felt himself being pulled back from the edge. He glanced up once and had a glimpse of somber twilight sky and Ned's brown eyes….
When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a couch in a cottage at the edge of the village. There were several figures about him, and one was Ned's. He smiled and tried to rise, but was glad to lay back again and look curiously at his bandaged shoulder.
"It's only a busted collarbone," said Ned. "Doctor says it will be all right in two or three weeks. We're going to take you back in a minute. The carriage is coming now."
"That's nice," said Jerry drowsily. "How's Welch?"
"Not hurt a bit. He walked home. And say, Jerry," Ned went on, dropping his voice, "it's all right about the Lyceum. Herb says he's going to bring your name up himself at the next meeting. You—you proved yourself to-day, old chum!"
McTURKLE, THE BAND
We had had hard luck at Harvard all that fall. First Phinney, our 208-pound left guard, dislocated his shoulder in the Indian game; then Hobb, full back, got a swat on the head that sent him to the Infirmary for two weeks; then Jones, our best half, hurt his leg. Those were the principal troubles, but there were lots of smaller ones besides. Every team that came to Cambridge did something to us; if they didn't beat us they scored; if they didn't score they laid up one or two of our men just to show that there was no hard feeling. Then Penn rubbed it into us good and hard—which wasn't the way it was written—and about half the college began writing letters to theCrimson.
To make matters look worse, Yale had the best team she had had in several years; in fact, since the Gordon Browne aggregation. And our chance of winning from her was about one in one hundred. But we were a daffy lot that fall, and every time fate smote us we grinned harder and hitched up the enthusiasm another peg. On the Thursday before the game we had our fourth mass meeting in the Union. The captain, very much embarrassed, assured us that every man on the team was ready to do his level best and lay down his life for the honor of the Crimson—a fact which we knew before, but which we applauded wildly. Then the trainer told us that every "mon on the tame" was in the best physical condition, something which we seriously doubted, but which we also applauded wildly. Then the head coach informed us that it was a great sight to see the college get together in this way and that if we stood loyally behind the team on Saturday the team would do its part and fight to the last breath—or ditch, I forget which. We applaudedthatmore wildly. Then the captain of the Nine got up, brushed the perspiration from his marble brow, and started the singing. The University Band, eleven strong, got together after a fashion and we pretty near lifted the roof. After that we cheered and sung some more and the enthusiasm kept on bubbling up. Finally, a lot of us in the back of the room yelled in unison:
"We—want—another—meeting—to-morrow-night!"
"So-do-we!" yelled the others.
And we kept that up until the leader told us we could have it. And presently we stood up and sang "Fair Harvard"—or as much as we knew of it—and broke up.
In the morning theCrimsoncontained a notice which said that there would be no meeting that night. But we didn't believe it, because the meeting had been agreed upon. At least, a good many of us didn't. Some did, though, I guess, for at eight the room wasn't more than half full. We sat there and waited a while and did a little singing and cheering. But no one got on the platform to talk to us, and the band didn't show up. So about a quarter to nine we moseyed outside. But we were still full of enthusiasm, and we wanted to work it off. So we stood around, about eight hundred of us, and informed the world at large that we wanted the band. No one seemed to care. But, of course, every minute the crowd got bigger, just as it always will if you get out and yell something. After a bit we decided to do without the band, and so we formed in fours and marched over to the yard, singing and cheering like mad.
After we'd marched around twice we had depopulated the buildings. Fellows put their heads out of windows, had a look, yelled enthusiastically, turned the gas up high, and tumbled downstairs and into line. By a quarter past nine we had easily two thousand fellows in the procession. And when you get that many together something simplyhasto happen.
"What we need," said Bud, "is a band."
"But we can't get one," answered Withey.
"Then let's get part of a band."
"Where?"
"McTurkle," answered Bud, with a grin.
"A-a-aye!" we yelled. "McTurkle! We want McTurkle!"
So we left the gang yelling themselves hoarse in front of the university and scooted over to our dormitory. McTurkle was in. He was sitting at his table with a green drop light casting a wan glow over his classic features. The table was piled high with all sorts of books, and you could just hear McTurkle's wheels go round. When we walked in he slipped the glasses from his nose by wriggling his eyebrows and turned around and looked at us blinking.
McTurkle was a funny genius. He was forever grinding. When he wasn't grinding he was causing strange, painful sounds to emanate from his room. For a good while we had puzzled over those sounds. Then, finally, one fateful night, we had descended upon McTurkle in force and learned the truth. McTurkle performed on the French horn. A French horn is an instrument which is wound up in a knot like a morning-glory vine, and the notes have such a hard time getting out that they get all balled up and confused and are never the same afterwards. I'm not musical, and don't pretend to be, but I'll bet a hat that the man who invented the French horn was the same chap who invented French verbs. Well, we made McTurkle take a solemn oath never to practice after seven o'clock, because it was simply impossible to remember anything with those sounds sobbing along the entry. He was frightfully apologetic and promised at once.
When we went in Bud winked at us to leave the negotiations in his hands. We did so, drawing up in a semicircle behind him and looking very grave.
"McTurkle," said Bud, "we have come to you on behalf of the university."
McTurkle blinked harder than ever and looked a bit scared.
"Out there"—Bud waved his hand toward the window—"out there our college—your college—the college we all love awaits you."
McTurkle gasped and tried to find his glasses, which were hanging over the back of his chair at the end of a black cord which he wore around his neck.
"McTurkle," continued Bud, tensely, "as you know, we are on the eve of a great conflict. Tomorrow the pick of our athletic young manhood does battle with the brawny horde of Yale. Defeat looms ominous above—upon the horizon, but the unconquerable spirit of Harvard arises triumphant and—er—flaps its flaming pinions!"
"A-a-aye!" murmured Withey.
McTurkle found his glasses, fixed them on his lean nose, and regarded Bud with genuine alarm.
"Not for a moment do we acknowledge defeat, sir! Not until the pall ofevening settles over the trampled field of battle shall we abandon hope.The university stands firm and undismayed behind her loyal warriors.Listen, McTurkey—McTurkle, I mean!"
Bud held up a hand imperiously and we all listened, McTurkle with his mouth wide open and his near-sighted eyes fixed in fascination upon the speaker's face. From outside came a long, impatient wail from two thousand throats:
"We-want-to-go-to-the-Stadium!"
"What of that, McTurkle!" demanded Bud, sternly. "The spirit of Harvard speaks! Her sons demand to be led to the scene of the conflict that with mighty voices they may—er—consecrate the field to victory!"
"But—but—what is it you wish me to do?" stammered the dazed McTurkle, visibly affected.
"To lead them!" thundered Bud.
"Lead them?" cried McTurkle. "Who? Me? Me—ah—lead?"
"Ah! You, McTurkle! You, with your French horn!"
"You—you want me to play it?"
"We do. The college calls for you. Your duty, McTurkle, your duty to that college, to your fellows, summons you. Listen, McTurkle, to the voice of Duty and Patriotism!"
Apparently McTurkle's manner of listening was to hold his mouth open. He held it open now, wide open. Also his eyes. At last he said:
"But—but—I'm afraid I don't know any of the—ah—the college airs."
"What of that! It is your leadership we want; that and the inspiring strains of your dulcet horn. Play what you will, McTurkle, only play. Remember that the success of the team may depend upon you! That to-night it is our duty and pleasure to show the team that the whole college is behind them, eager and loyal in its support!"
Never before in three years of college life had any one ever wanted McTurkle to do anything. And now the knowledge that the whole university demanded his aid, his leadership, was too much for McTurkle. His face glowed; he leaped to his feet; a Greek lexicon crashed to the floor; McTurkle was transformed.
"I'll go!" he said, with majestic simplicity.
We cheered.
McTurkle feverishly wrested his French horn from its green bag, settled his glasses upon his aquiline nose, turned up the collar of his plaid lounging coat, and strode to the door.
We followed in triumph.
Over in front of the university they had cheered every one and everything, and now they were forming again into line of march.
"On to Soldier's Field!" they cried.
We hurried across to the head of the procession, McTurkle's long legs making us work hard to keep up with him. Arrived, Bud waved an arm for silence.
"Fellows!" he shouted. "Fellows!"
And when silence had fallen about us he swept his hand dramatically towardMcTurkle.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "the band!"
"A-a-a-aye!" they cheered. "Band! band!"
"Where's the band?" called those further down the line, and the news traveled fast until from far down by Thayer came wild paeans of delight.
"Where'd they get it? … Where is it? … We want 'On Soldier'sField'! … We want 'Veritas'! … Strike up! Move on, there! …'Ray for the band! … A-a-a-aye! Band! band!"
Up at the head of the line we were all laughing and shouting for fair. McTurkle, beaming delightedly through his glasses, his head held back inspiritingly and the folds of his plaid jacket waving in the November wind, placed the French horn to his lips, took a mighty breath and—the procession moved forward to the strains of "Annie Laurie!"
Now, I've heard since then that the French horn has a compass of only four octaves and is principally useful as an orchestral adjunct; that, in short, its ability is limited and its use as a solo instrument slight. All I can say is that the person who said that doesn't know a French horn; anyway, he doesn't know McTurkle's French horn. Four octaves be blowed! McTurkle went fourteen, or I'll eat my hat! Why, the way he put that thing through its paces was a caution! And as for—er—variations and such!—well, you ought to have heard him, that's all I've got to say!
Out into the avenue we turned, through the Square and down Boylston Street. The line was so long that the cars were held up for ten minutes, and Bud was for circling back and holding them up ten minutes more. And all the while McTurkle, thin, gaunt, but impressive, marched at the head and informed us startlingly and with convincing emphasis that for Bonnie Annie Laurie he'd lay him down and dee. And we took up the refrain, and hurled it back to the gray November sky. Further along they were singing, "Hard luck for poor old Eli," and still further down the line they were informing the dark front of the post office that the sun would set in Crimson as the sun had set before. And way, way back they were cheering like Sam Hill.
Oh, that was a glorious night! Talk about enthusiasm! We had it and to burn. We exuded it at every step. Enthusiasm was a drug on the market. Down by the river McTurkle gave Annie Laurie her final death blow and started in on the overture to "Martha." That carried us as far as the Locker Building, and we marched on to Soldiers' Field to the inspiriting strains of a selection from "Traviata." McTurkle told me what they were afterwards; that's how I know. Around the gridiron we marched once, the band still clinging to "Traviata" and the fellows singing whatever pleased them, generally "Up the Street." Then we had a snake dance, a wonder of a snake dance! The band got lost in the shuffle, but later on we found him standing serene and undismayed under the shadow of the west stand spouting "Auld Lang Syne" till you couldn't see.
Then Bud climbed up on to the edge of the Stadium and we did some more cheering, and when he called for "a regular cheer for the band" the way we hit it up was a caution.
Back in the Square, Bud led us over in front of the "Coop," mainly, I guess, so we would stop the cars for a while. We had some more cheering then, and then Bud leaped up on the steps and announced "Speech by McTurkle!"
Nobody except a few of us knew who McTurkle was, but everyone cheered gloriously. We conducted McTurkle gently but firmly up the steps, and when the crowd got a good look at him they simply went crazy. McTurkle was deeply affected. So was the crowd.
"Speech! speech!" they yelled. "Spe-e-eech!" McTurkle, embarrassed but courageous, his voice faint and tremulous with emotion, spoke.
"Gentlemen," he began.
"Apologize! … Take it back! … Who is he? … It's the band! … 'Ray for the band! … Go on! Say it!"
"Fellows," prompted Bud.
"Fellows," repeated McTurkle.
Deafening applause.
"I wish to thank you for this—ah—this flattering evidence of—shall I say esteem?"
"Don't say it if it hurts you, old man," some one advised.
"What's he talking about?" asked another.
"I appreciate the honor you have done me," continued McTurkle, warming to his work. "And it has been a pleasure, a great pleasure, as well as a privilege, to lead you this evening in your interesting—ah—exercises."
"A-a-a-aye!" yelled the audience.
"There is to be, I understand," said McTurkle, "a game to-morrow, a contest between this college and—ah—Yale."
Laughter and deafening applause.
"While lack of opportunity has kept me from a personal participation in your games and sports, yet I am heartily in sympathy with them. Physical exercise is, I am convinced, of great benefit. In conclusion let me say that I trust that in tomorrow's game of baseball—"
"Football, you blamed fool!" whispered Bud, hoarsely.
"Ah—I should say football—the mantle of victory will fall upon the shoulders of our—ah—representatives. I thank you."
McTurkle bowed with gentle dignity.
"What's his name?" cried a chap below.
"McTurkle," answered Bud.
"Wha-a-at?"
"McTurkle!"
"Cheer for McTurkey!" demanded the questioner.
"A-a-aye!" cried the throng.
Bud leaped to the top step.
"Regular cheer, fellows, for McTurkle!" he cried. And it came.
"Har-vard!Har-vard!Har-vard!Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! The Turkey! The Turkey! The Turkey!"
Then we went home.
I suppose this isn't much of a story, especially as there is no climax; and I've taken enough English to know that there ought to be some sort of a climax somewhere. Maybe, though, what happened next day will serve for one.
I got halfway over to the field and found I had forgotten my ticket, and had to go back to the room for it. McTurkle's door was ajar and through it came those awful sounds. I kicked it open and stuck my head in.
"Hello," I said. "Do you know what time it is? You'll be late."
McTurkle took the French horn from his face and wiped the mouthpiece gently with a silk handkerchief.
"Late?" he asked.
"Yes, for the game. You're going, of course, McTurkle?"
He shook his head, beaming affably through his glasses.
"No, no, I'm not going to attend the—ah—game." He waved a hand toward the book-covered table. "I shall be quite busy this afternoon, quite busy. But you have my—my best wishes. May the—ah—the mantle of victory fall upon the shoulders—"
Well, we got licked that day. But, say, honest now, it wasn't McTurkle's fault, was it?
"Curly" sat with head in hands, elbows on desk, and eyes fixed unseeingly on the half-opened door. The afternoon sunlight made golden shafts across the rows of empty seats. The windows were open, and with the sunlight came the songs of birds, the incessant hum of insects, and occasionally a quick, rattling cheer.
On the playground, under the bluest of blue skies, with a fresh, clover-perfumed breeze fanning their dripping brows, the boys of Willard's School were playing the third and deciding game of baseball with the nine of Durham Academy. But Curly neither heard the cheering nor had thought for the contest.
Curly's real name was Isaac Newton Stone. He had taken the "A.M." degree the preceding June at a Western university, and had entered his name in the long list of those wishing to be teachers.
As the summer had advanced his hope had waned. September found him without a position. During the fall and early winter he waited with what philosophy he could summon, and had studied doggedly, having in view the attainment of a Ph. D.
Then, in February, an unforeseen vacancy at Willard's School had given him his place as instructor in Greek and German.
It is a matter of principle at Willard's to haze new teachers. No exception was made in the case of Isaac Newton Stone, A. M.
He was twenty-three years old, but looked several years younger. He was small, slight and wiry, with pale blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose and a fresh pink-and-white complexion. His hair was of an indeterminate shade between brown and sand-color, and it curled closely over his head like a baby's. Three days after his advent at Willard's he had become universally known as Curly.
Former teachers at Willard's, with experience to guide them, had tolerated the hazing process, if not with enjoyment, at least with apparent good humor. But Curly, a novice, thought he saw his authority endangered, his dignity assailed. The ringleaders in the affair, five in number, were placed upon probation in exactly two seconds.
The class gasped. Such a thing had never happened before. The hazing died a violent death, and Curly sprang into sudden fame as a tyrant.
The role of iron-heeled despot was least of all suited to Curly or desired by him, but having momentarily adopted it, he had to continue it. He dared not take the frown from his face for a moment; intimidation was his only course.
Meanwhile the faculty viewed events with dissatisfaction. Once or twice Curly's punishments were not upheld. In May he was informed that unless he could maintain discipline without such severity the faculty would be forced to the painful necessity of asking his resignation. His election, the principal explained kindly, had been in the nature of an experiment, and unsuccessful experiments must of course be terminated.
The experiment was unsuccessful. It was June now, and class day was but two weeks distant. This morning there had been trouble in the German class, and as a result, two students had been placed on probation. The fact that one of them, Rogers, was the best pitcher in school, and that the loss of his services would in all likelihood mean the defeat of Willard's nine in this decisive game was most unfortunate. To be sure, Rogers had merited his punishment, but the school failed to consider that, and indignation ran high.
Curly himself, seated in the silent class room, acknowledged failure at last. He looked at his watch. It was quarter past three. With a sigh he drew paper toward him, dipped pen in ink and began to write.
The letter was brief, yet it took him nearly ten minutes. When at last it was finished, lacking only the signature, he read it over. He had made no attempt at explanation or extenuation, but had thanked the faculty for their kindness and patience, regretted their disappointment, and begged them to accept his resignation. He subscribed himself "Respectfully yours, Isaac Newton Stone," sealed the letter and addressed it to the principal.
This done, he gathered his books, took up his hat and stepped from the platform. Footsteps sounded in the echoing corridor, and a flushed, perspiring face peered into the room. Then a boy of sixteen hurried up the aisle.
"Mr. Stone, sir," he cried, "will you help us? It's the beginning of the sixth inning, and the score's eight to six in our favor. They've knocked Willings out of the box, sir, and we haven't anyone else. Apthorpe's cousin says you can pitch, and—and we want to know if you won't play for us, sir?" He ended with a gasp for breath.
"But—I don't quite understand!"
"Why, sir, we held 'em down until the fifth, and then they made six runs.Maybe they've scored some more. If you could only come right away!"
"But who said I could pitch, Turner?"
"Tom Apthorpe's cousin, sir; he's down for Sunday."
"But how did he know?"
"Why, sir, he knew you at college, and—"
"What's his name?"
"Harris, sir. He said—"
"Jack Harris!" The instructor's eyes lighted. He tossed the books on the desk. "Run back and tell them I'll come as soon as I leave this note at Dr. Willard's."
There came a cheer from the playground. It was not a Willard cheer.
Turner listened dismayed. "Couldn't you come now, sir?" he begged. "It may be too late. They're batting like anything. Couldn't you leave the note afterwards, sir!"
"Well, may be I could," said Curly. He dropped it into his pocket, put on his hat and strode down the aisle. "Come on, Turner!" he cried.
Along the terrace of the playground, under the elms, were gathered the spectators—the boys of both schools and their friends. At the foot of the terrace, just back of first base, a striped awning warded off the sunlight from a little group of professors and their families. On the field the blue-stockinged players of Willard's were scattered about, and on a bench behind third base a row of boys wearing the red of Durham Academy awaited their turns at bat. This much Curly saw as he crossed the terrace.
Then a tall, broad-shouldered man came toward him with a pleasant smile and outstretched hand. Curly recognized Harris, and sprang down the steps to meet him. At college they had been hardly more than acquaintances, yet to-day they met almost like fast friends.
"I never thought to find you in this part of the world, Stone," said Harris. "I'm awfully glad to see you again. You're badly needed. Tom Apthorpe, my cousin, was bewailing the fact that he hadn't anyone to pitch. I saw that Durham was playing her professor of mathematics on first base, and asked him if there wasn't anyone in the faculty who could take Willings's place. Willings is used up, as you can see. Tom said there was no one unless "—Harris paused and grinned—"unless it was Curly. He didn't know whether you could play or not. Inquiries elicited the astounding fact that 'Curly' was none other than Newt Stone, pitcher and star batsman on our old class nine. I told him to hurry up and get you out. And so, for goodness' sake, Stone, get into the box and strike out some of those boys from Durham! The score's eight to eight now, and if they get that man on second in they'll have a good grip on the game and championship."
"I'm afraid I'm all out of practice," objected Curly. "I haven't handled a ball for two years, but I'll do what I can. I wish you'd come round to my room afterwards and have a talk, if you've nothing better to do."
Time had been called, and Apthorpe, who was both captain and catcher, ran across to them.
"It's good of you, Mr. Stone," he said, wiping the perspiration from his face. "I don't think we fellows have much right to ask you to help us out, but if you'll do it for the school, sir, everyone will be mighty glad."
"For the school!" Curly wondered rather bitterly what the school had done for him that he should come to her rescue. But he only answered gravely:
"I'll do what I can, Apthorpe."
He threw aside his coat and waistcoat and tightened his belt. Then he walked across the diamond and picked the ball from the ground.
On the terrace bank a boy armed with a blue and white flag jumped to his feet, and amidst a ripple of clapping from the audience above, called for "three times three for Curl—for Mr. Stone!" There was a burst of laughter, but the cheer that followed was hearty.
The batsman stepped out of the box and Curly delivered half a dozen balls to Apthorpe to get his hand in. Then the two met and agreed on a few simple signals, the umpire called, "Play!" and the game went on again.
It was the first half of the sixth inning; the score was eight to eight; there was one man out, a runner on second, and Durham's left fielder at bat.
Curly looked over the field, glanced carelessly at the runner, turned, and sent a swift, straight ball over the plate. Durham's players were eager for just that sort, and the batsman made a long, clean hit into the outfield between first and second.
When the new pitcher got the ball again the man on second had gone to third, and Durham's left fielder was jumping about on first.
Durham's next man up was her catcher. Curly strove to wipe out the intervening two years and to imagine himself back at college, pitching for his class in the final championship game. But alas! his arm was stiff and muscle-bound, and creaked in the socket every time he threw.
There was a wild pitch that was just saved from being a passed ball by a brilliant stop of Apthorpe's; then the batsman hit an infield fly and was caught out.
"Two gone, fellows!" shouted the captain.
The runner on first took second unmolested, and the Durham coaches yelled themselves hoarse. But Curly was not to be rattled in that way; and besides, the stiffness was wearing out of his arm. He set his lips together and pitched the ball.
"Strike!" cried the umpire. Willard's cheered vociferously. Then came a ball. Then another strike. Then the batter swung with all his might at a slow, curving ball—and missed it.
"Striker's out!" called the umpire.
Willard's rose as one man and cheered to the echo. In the tent the principal and his associates forgot their dignity for an instant, and added their shouts to the general acclaim. The new pitcher, his eyes sparkling, retired to the bench.
The fielders, as they joined him, shot curious and admiring glances toward him. Harris leaned over the bench and talked with him about the incidents of old college games. And the boys near by listened, while the curly-haired instructor grew before their eyes into an athletic hero.
The last of the sixth inning ended without a score. Pretty as it was to watch, the first of the seventh would make tame history. Not a Durham player reached first base. One—two—three was the way they struck out.
Curly's arm worked now like a well-lubricated piece of machinery, and the outshoots and incurves and drops which he sent with varying speed into Apthorpe's hands puzzled the enemy to distraction.
Nor was the second half of the inning much more exciting. To be sure, Apthorpe put a fly where the Durham right fielder could not reach it, and so got to first base, and Riding advanced him by a neat sacrifice; but he had no chance to score.
Durham's best hitter was Mansfield, the instructor, who played first base. Just when or how the peculiar custom of recruiting baseball and football players from the faculty originated at Willard's and Durham is not known; but it was a privilege that each enjoyed and made use of whenever possible.
This year, for almost the first time, Willard's team had been, until to-day, composed entirely of students. On the other hand, Mansfield had been playing with Durham all spring, and to his excellent fielding and hitting was largely due the fact that she had won the second of the three games.
He was a player of much experience, and in the eighth inning, when he came to bat, he made a three-base hit. The little knot of Durhamites shrieked joyfully and waved their cherry-and-white banners.
Curly faced the next batsman, tried him with a "drop," at which he promptly struck and failed to hit, and then gave his attention to Mansfield on third. Curly watched him out of the corner of his eye and pitched again. The umpire called another strike.
Apthorpe threw back the ball to the pitcher; Curly dropped it, recovered it, and threw swiftly to third base.
Large bodies move slowly. Mansfield was caught a yard from the base. He retired in chagrin, while Willard's cheered ecstatically. Then the batsman struck out on a slow drop ball.
The third man made a leisurely hit and was thrown out at first.
During the next half inning Curly held his court on the players' bench. Little by little timidity wore away, and the boys gave voice to their enthusiasm. They wished they had known he was such a ball player early in the spring. Next year he would play on the team, would he not?
Curly remembered the letter in his pocket and sighed.
Again Willard's failed to get a man over the plate, although at one time there was a player on third. The ninth inning began with the score still eight to eight. The spectators suggested ten innings, and fell to recalling former long-drawn contests.
Curly had found his pace, as Harris put it. His white shirt was stained with the dust of battle; his shoes were gray and scuffed; his curly locks were damp and clung to his forehead; but his blue eyes were bright, and as he poised the ball in air, balancing himself before the throw, he no longer looked ridiculous.
Harris, observing him from the bench, rendered ungrudging admiration.
"Good old 'Newt' Stone!" he muttered. "It's the little chaps, after all, who have the pluck!"
But pluck alone would not have succeeded in shutting Durham out in that inning. Science was necessary, and science Curly had. He had not forgotten the old knack of "sizing up" the batsman. He found, in fact, that he had forgotten nothing.
Durham made the supreme effort of the contest in that first half of the ninth inning. It might be the last chance to score. The first man struck out as ingloriously as his predecessors; but the second batsman, after knocking innumerable fouls, made a slow bunt and reached his base.
At that Durham's supporters found encouragement, and her cheers rose once more. Then fate threw a sop to the wearers of the cherry and white.
The third man up was struck on the elbow with the ball, and trotted gleefully to first, the player ahead going to second. But Curly caught the runner on first napping, and the next batsman struck out. The blue-stockinged players came in from the field.
"Stone at bat!" called the scorer. "Brown on deck!"
"A run would do it, sir," said Apthorpe, eagerly.
"One of those old-fashioned home runs, Newt," laughed Harris.
Curly walked to the plate, and stood there, swinging the bat back of his shoulder in a way that suggested discretion to the wearied Durham pitcher.
From the bank came encouraging cheers for "Mr. Stone." He made no offer at the first ball, which was out of reach. Then came a strike.
The spectators fidgeted in their seats; the field was almost quiet. Then bat and ball met with a sharp crack, and Curly sped toward first.
Across that base he sped, swung in a quick curve, and made for second. The center fielder had picked up the ball and was about to throw it in.
It was a narrow chance, but when Curly scrambled to his feet after his slide, the umpire dropped his hand. Curly was safe. From the bank and along the base line came loud cheers for Willard's.
But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted a sacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner.
Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like a shot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third.
Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back and forth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two balls in his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at an outshoot.
The result—he swung through empty air—appeared to unnerve him. He struck again at the next ball, and again missed.
But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher.
Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised to go on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop the ball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it.
Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons and his legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line.
Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about him were cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from the plate he launched himself through space, with arms outstretched. The dust was in his eyes and nostrils.
He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of the ball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swinging arm, and——
"Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire.
At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels into the earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page. Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game and championship.
Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked into the arms of Harris.
"The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. As he went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaim proudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!"
Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flaunting bravely in the face of defeat.
Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In their possession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would be inscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a glass case in the trophy room.