"WHY, SOME OF 'EM ARE SO SLICK THAT WHEN THEY COME IN I LOCK THE CASH DRAWER AND STUFF COTTON IN MY EARS"
"All clear," said the Tennessee Shad from the window.
"All's well on the Rappahannock," returned the scout at the door.
Macnooder, with a well-executed double shuffle, the Tennessee Shad, with a stiff-jointed lope of his bony body, advanced and shook hands.
"Al, we come not to take your hard-earned money, but do you good," said Macnooder as usual, genially shaking an imaginary hand.
The Tennessee Shad camped on the back of a chair, drew up his thin, long legs, laid one bony finger against a bony nose and looked expectantly at Macnooder.
Meanwhile Al, without turning his back, carefully moved over to the glass counter that sheltered appetizing trays of éclairs, plum cakes and cream puffs and, whistling a melancholy note, locked the door, scanned the counter, and placed a foot on the cover of the jigger tub.
Doc Macnooder, whose round, bullet head and little rhinoceros eyes had followed the hostile preparation, said sorrowfully:
"Al-bert, your conduct grieves us."
"Go ahead, now," said Al in a tired voice.
"Go ahead?" said Macnooder, looking in surprise at the equally impassive Tennessee Shad.
"What's the flimflam to-day?"
"Al," said Macnooder, in his most persuasivetones, "you wrong me. My motives are honorable. At four o'clock this very afternoon Turkey Reiter will proceed to cash a check and settle for a fountain pen, a pair of suspenders and a safety razor I sold him. Just trust me till then—will you?"
"Nothing doing," said Al.
"Honor bright, Al!"
"No use."
"Youmusttrust me till then."
Al, producing a patent clipper, began to pare his nails.
"Al?"
"What?"
"Won't you trust me?"
"Don't make me laugh!"
"Al's right, Doc," said the Tennessee Shad, entering the discussion. "You ought to put up some guarantee."
Al slowly turned his gaze on the Tennessee Shad and waited hopefully for the real attack.
"Well, what?" said Macnooder.
"How about your watch?"
"It's loaned."
"You haven't got a stick-pin on you?"
"Left 'em at home—never thought Al would go back on me."
Al smiled.
"That's a very nice spring coat you've got on,"said the Tennessee Shad, as though struck by an inspiration. "Why don't you put that up for a couple of hours?"
"Not on your life," said Macnooder indignantly. "This coat's brand new, worth thirty dollars."
Al, suddenly shifting, leaned forward, both elbows on the counter, and studied the coat with a reminiscent air.
"Oh, put it up," said the Tennessee Shad.
"Never. I've got associations about this coat and, besides, I've got to make a swell call in Princeton to-morrow."
"What's the diff?" said the Tennessee Shad, yawning. "It's only a couple of hours; and you know you said you were going to clean off the whole slate with Al, sure as Turkey boned up."
Macnooder seemed to hesitate.
"It's idiotic to put up a real, high-life coat for a couple of jiggers."
"Hurry up; I'm hungry."
"Stop," said Al, drawing back satisfied. "I wouldn't bother about that coat if I were you."
"Why not?" exclaimed the two partners.
"'Cause I remember that coat gag now," said Al with a far-off look. "I bit once—way back in '89. It's a good game, specially when the real owner comes ramping in the next day."
"What do you mean?" said Doc Macnooder indignantly.
"I mean that it don't button, you young pirate," said Al scornfully, but without malice. "When you try anything as slick as that again you want to be sure the real owner ain't been around. That coat belongs to Lovely Mead."
Doc Macnooder looked at the Tennessee Shad.
"Have we really got to pay for them?" he said mournfully.
"Looks that way."
"Oh, well," said Doc, slapping down a quarter, "fill 'em up."
Al heaped up the glasses, adding an appreciative extra dab with the magnanimity of the victor, and said:
"Say, you boys want to rub up a little. Here's Stover, over there, just come. He's about your size."
The Tennessee Shad and Doc Macnooder about faced and stared at Stover, who all the while had remained in quiet obscurity, dangling his legs over the counter.
"Just come, Stover?" said Macnooder at last.
"Yes, sir."
"On the noon stage?"
"Yes, sir."
"What form?"
"Second, sir."
"Why, shake, then, brother," said the Tennessee Shad, offering his hand. "Shake hands with Doc Macnooder."
Doc Macnooder grasped his hand with extra cordiality, saying:
"What house?"
"Green House, sir," said Stover, awed by the sight of a 'varsity jersey. "I'm rooming with—with Mr. White."
"What'll you have?"
"I beg pardon."
"What'll you have?"
"Why," said Stover, quite taken back by the offer, "I think it's up to me, sir."
"Rats!" said Macnooder. "If you've been in tow of Butsey, I'll bet you've been paying out all day. Butsey White's a low-down, white-livered cuss, who'd take advantage of a freshman. Step up."
"I'll have another one of these," said Stover gratefully, feeling his heart warm toward the unexpected friends.
"Bet Butsey's stuck you pretty hard," said the Tennessee Shad, nodding wisely. "He's just loaded with the spondulix, too."
"Well, he did sort of impose on me," said Stover, thinking of the frankfurters at Laloo's.
"It's a shame," said Macnooder indignantly.
"You're pretty slick?"
"As slick as they make 'em."
"Say, bub," said Al, with his dreamy drawl, "is this the line of talk you've been putting out to that bunch of Indians down in the Green?"
"Oh, I'll put it out."
"Say, you're going to have a wonderful time here!"
"Watch me," said Dink, cocking his head; but with less confidence than when he had announced his intentions on the stage-coach.
"Young fellow," said Al, leaning back and looking at him from under his eyelids, "you're in wrong. You don't know what you've come to. Why, there's a bunch of young stock jobbers around here that would make a Wall Street bunco-steerer take to raising chickens! Slick?Why, some of 'em are so slick that when they come in I lock the cash drawer and stuff cotton in my ears."
"Bring 'em on," said Dink disdainfully.
At this moment there was a loud flop by the window in the rear, and the Tennessee Shad rose slowly from the floor. At the same moment Doc Macnooder, ambling innocently by on the farther sidewalk, turned, dashed across the street, bounded into the shop and, returning to the door, carefully surveyed the approaches.
"Glad to do it," said Macnooder, without enthusiasm. "Finish up and we'll fit you out in a jiffy."
When the three went shuffling down the street Al did an unusual, an unprecedented thing. He actually made the turn of the counter and stationed himself at the door, watching the group depart—Macnooder with his arm on Stover's shoulder, the Tennessee Shad guarding the other side.
When they disappeared beyond Bill Orum's, the cobbler's, in the direction of the Dickinson, he said slowly, in profound admiration:
"Well, I'll be jiggered! If those body-snatchers don't get electrocuted, they'll own Fifth Avenue!"
"Come up to my room and we'll see what's on hand," said Doc, enteringthe Dickinson. "Too bad you're stuck down in the Green—no house spirit there—you must get in with us next year."
"Doc's a great fellow," said the Tennessee Shad, as Macnooder went quickly ahead, "a great business man. He's a sort of clearing house for the whole school. Say, he's taken a regular fancy to you."
"What did he get his 'L' for?" said Stover, as the Tennessee Shad, to gain time, showed him the lower floor.
"Quarter on the eleven last fall. Here's the Triumphant Egghead's room. Isn't it a peach? They've got a good crowd here; you must be with them or us next year. Here's Turkey Reiter's and Butcher Stevens' quarters. They're crackerjacks, too; on the eleven and the nine. Come on, now. We'll strike Doc. You know he studies medicine and all that sort of thing. Wait till I give the countersign. Doc's most particular."
Stover found himself in a den, a combination of drug-store, taxidermist's shop and generalwarehouse. All about the room were ranged an extraordinary array of bottles—green bottles that lurked under the bed, red, blue and white bottles that climbed the walls and crowded the mantelpiece, tops of bottles that peered out of half-opened boxes, all ticketed and mustered in regiments. From the ceiling a baby alligator swung on a wire, blinking at them horribly with shining glass eyes; a stuffed owl sat in one corner; while opposite, a muskrat peered into a crow's nest. The closet and all available floor space were heaped high with paper boxes and wooden cases, while over all were innumerable catalogues.
"Pretty fine, isn't it?" said the Tennessee Shad.
"It's wonderful," said Stover, not quite at ease.
"It's not bad," said Doc. "I'd like to have a nice, white skeleton over there in that corner; but they're hard to get, nowadays. Now let's get down to business. Sit down."
Stover took the only chair; the Tennessee Shad curled up languidly on the bed, after brushing aside the débris; while Macnooder, perched on a drygoods box, poised a pencil over a pad of paper.
"You want a crockery set, first; a student lamp, and an oil can to keep your oil in."
"Especially the can," said the Tennessee Shadgravely. "Better get a padlock with it, or the whole Green House will be stealing from you."
"I don't know whether I have a can on hand," said Macnooder anxiously. "But here's a lamp."
He placed a rather battered affair in the middle of the floor, saying:
"It's a little squee-geed, but you don't care about looks. They ask you all kinds of prices for them when they're new; but you can have this for two-twenty-five. There's a bite out of the shade, but you can turn that side to the wall. They're rather hard to get second hand."
"All right," said Stover.
"Better light it up first," said the Tennessee Shad professionally.
"That's business-like," said Macnooder, who lit a match and, after an unsuccessful attempt, said: "There's no oil in it. Still, if Stover wants——"
"Never mind that," said Stover loudly, to show his confidence.
"Now for the toilet set."
"Say, how about the can?"
"Oh, the can. Let me look," said Macnooder, disappearing among the packing boxes in the closet.
"You want that," said the Tennessee Shad confidentially.
"Hope he's got one," said Stover.
Macnooder reappeared with an ordinary kerosene can and a padlock, announcing:
"This is the only one I've got on hand. It's my own."
"Let him have it," said the Tennessee Shad. "No one can get in here; you're always locked and bolted."
Macnooder hesitated.
"How does it work?" said Stover, interested.
"The spigot is plugged up and the top cover is padlocked to the side. See? Now no one can get it. I don't particularly care about selling it, but if you want it take it at one-twenty-five."
"That's too much," said the Tennessee Shad. "One plunk's enough."
"You're paying cash?" said Macnooder, considering.
"Sure!" said Stover.
"Well, call it one bone, then."
Stover looked gratefully at the Tennessee Shad, who winked at him to show him he was his friend.
"Now, about a crockery set," said Macnooder, scratching his head. "I've got two, plain and fancy, what we call a souvenir set—but you wouldn't understand that. I'll show you the regular kind."
"What's a souvenir set?" said Dink, mystified.
"Oh, it's a sort of school fad," said the Tennessee Shad, as Doc disappeared. "Every piece is different, collected from all sorts of places—swap 'em around like postage stamps, don't you know. We've got rather tired of the ordinary thing, you know."
"Say, that's a bully idea," said Dink, whose imagination was appealed to.
"Some of the fellows have perfect beauts," said the Tennessee Shad, yawning; "got at hotels, and house parties, and all that sort of thing."
"Why, that beats hooking signs all hollow," said Dink, growing enthusiastic.
"I didn't know you'd be interested," said the Tennessee Shad carelessly. "Like to see one?"
"You bet I would."
"I say, Doc, old boy," said the Tennessee Shad; "bring out the souvenir set, too, will you, like a good fellow?"
"Wait till I get this out," said Macnooder, who, after much rummaging, puffed back with a blue-and-white set which he ranged on the floor.
"How's that appeal to you?" he said with a flourish of his hand. "Good condition, too; only the soap dish has a nick. You can have it for two-fifty."
But Dink had no eyes for the commonplace.
"Could I see the other," he said, "before I decide?"
Macnooder appeared loth to exert himself to no purpose.
"You wouldn't cotton to it, bub," he said, with a shake of his head.
"I'm not so sure about that," said the Tennessee Shad. "This chap's no bottle baby; he's more of a sport than you think. I'll bet you he's got a few swagger trophies, in the line of signs, himself."
"I've got two or three might strike your fancy," said Dink with a reckless look.
"Come on, Doc, don't be so infernally lazy. You're the deuce of a salesman. Out with the crockery."
"What's the use?" said Doc half heartedly, moving back into the litter of the closet.
"Don't get it unless you can afford it," said the Tennessee Shad in a friendly whisper.
When at length the souvenir set had been carefully displayed on the top of a box, cleared for the occasion, Stover beheld a green and white pitcher, rising like a pond lily from the depths of a red and white basin, while a lavender tooth mug, a blue cup and a pink soap dish gave the whole somewhat the effect of an aurora-borealis.
The Tennessee Shad sprang up and examined each piece with a connoisseur's enthusiasm.The lavender tooth mug, especially, attracted his curiosity. He looked it over, handled it gingerly, holding it to the light.
"Don't think this is up to the rest," he said finally, looking at Doc. "It's cracked."
"Suppose it is!" said Doc scornfully. "Do you know whose that is? That was swiped out of the set of Brother Baldwin."
"No?"
"Fact. Last day of spring term, when he was giving a math exam."
"You don't say so!"
"What are the rest?" said Stover, wondering what sum could possibly compensate for such treasures.
"The rest are not so much; from the other houses, but they're good pieces. The water pitcher was traded by Cap Kiefer, catcher of the nine, you know. But there's one article," said Doc, pointing melodramatically, "that's worth the whole lot. Only I'll have to put you under oath—both of you."
The Tennessee Shad, puzzled, looked hard at Macnooder and raised his right hand. Stover, blushing, followed suit.
"That," said Macnooder, "came direct from Foundation House. That belonged to his Nibs himself!"
"Come off!" said the Tennessee Shad, not daringto look at Macnooder. "That's a bunco game."
"I didn't say it was swiped," said Macnooder indignantly. "Just give me a chance, will you? It was smashed up at the fire scare and thrown away with a lot of other things. Tough McCarty, down at the Green, I think, has got the slop jar."
"Excuses!" said the Tennessee Shad. "I did think for a moment you were trying to impose on my young confidence. Gee! Just think, of it!Cracky, what a prize! The Doctor himself—well—well! Say, I'd like to make a bid myself."
"It goes with the set," said Macnooder. "It ain't mine; I'm only getting the commission."
Stover, having caressed each article, drew a long breath and said falteringly:
"I suppose it comes pretty high!"
"Of course it's worth more than the other set."
"Oh, of course."
"The price set on it was four flat."
"That's a good deal of money," said the Tennessee Shad. "Specially when you've got to fit yourself out."
"Well, the other's cheaper at two-fifty," said Macnooder.
"Stover's sort of set his heart on this," said the Tennessee Shad. "Haven't you, Sport?"
"CRACKY, WHAT A PRIZE! SAY, I'D LIKE TO MAKE A BID MYSELF."
Stover confessed that he had.
"Come on; make him a better price, Doc.".
"I'd have to consult my client."
"Well, consult your old client."
Macnooder disappeared.
"Stand firm now," said the Tennessee Shad, "you can beat him down. Doc wants to make his commish. I tell you what I'd do if I were you."
"What?"
"If I were looking for a real trophy I'd make him a bid on this. This is the best thing in the whole caboodle. Come over here. Say, just cast your eyes on this!"
Stover gazed in awe. On the wall, suspended on the red and black flag of the school, were a pair of battered and torn football shoes, while underneath was a photograph of Flash Condit and the score—Princeton 'Varsity, 8; Lawrenceville, 4.
"Gee!" said Stover. "He wouldn't sell those!"
"He might," said the Tennessee Shad. "Between you and me and the lamppost, Doc is devilishly hard up. Offer him a couple of dollars and see."
"The shoes that made the touchdown," said Dink reverentially. The Tennessee Shad did not contradict him.
Half an hour later Dink Stover sallied forthwith the ecstasy of a collector who has just discovered an old master. Klondike Jackson, who shook up the beds at the Dickinson, preceded him, drawing in an express wagon the lamp, the padlocked kerosene can and the souvenir set, slightly reduced. Wrapped in tissue paper, tucked under Stover's arm, were the precious shoes, which he had purchased on the distinct understanding that Macnooder should have the right to redeem them at any time before the end of the term, on the payment of costs and fifty-per-cent interest. In Stover's pocket was a new fountain pen, a box of elastics, a pair of Boston garters and a patent nail clipper. Only the limits of his exchequer had prohibited his availing himself of the opportunity to purchase, at a tremendous bargain, a pair of snow-shoes, a tobogganing cap and a pair of corduroy trousers, slightly spotted.
Luckily for Dink, marching warily behind the vanguard, the three o'clock recitation had begun, and but a scattering of his schoolmates were abroad to witness his progress.
He arrived thus, virtually unnoticed, at the Green and, with the help of Klondike, arranged his possessions so as to make the greatest display.
He was standing in the middle of the floor, clutching the historic shoes and searching thewalls for the proper place of honor, when Butsey White blew in.
"Where in thunder have you been?" he exclaimed, and then stopped at the sight of the twisted lamp. He looked at Dink, gave a grunt and examined the new purchase.
"Broken-winded, spavined, has the rickets—bet it leaks and won't burn. Where in——"
All at once he perceived the kerosene can, with its attached padlock.
"What's this thing?" he said, in genuine surprise, picking it up with two fingers and regarding it with a look of blank incomprehension.
"That's the safety can," said Stover, yielding to a vague feeling of uneasiness.
"What's this?"
"That's a padlock."
"What for?"
"Why, for the kerosene."
"What kerosene?"
"The kerosene for the lamp."
"Why, you nincompoop, we don't furnish the kerosene."
"We don't?" said Stover faintly, with a horrible sinking feeling. "Don't furnish the kerosene?"
"Who got hold of you?" said Butsey, too astounded to laugh.
"I met Macnooder——"
"And the Tennessee Shad, I'll bet my pants on it," said Butsey.
"Yes, sir."
"What else did they unload on you?"
"Why—why, I bought a souvenir set."
"A what?"
"A souvenir toilet set."
Butsey wheeled to the washstand, uttered a shriek and fell in convulsions on the bed.
Stover stood stockstill, gazing in horror from the variegated crockery to Butsey, who was thrashing to and fro in hysterical flops, holding both the pillows where they would most ease the agony. Then, with a sudden deft movement, Dink dropped the historic shoes, sent them under the bed with a savage kick and, rushing to the window, threw the safety can into the tall grass of the fields beyond. Then he returned solemnly, sat down on the edge of the bed, took his head in his hands and began to do some rapid thinking. Butsey White, prone on the bed, burying his head in the covers, by painful degrees returned, gasping, to self-control.
"Mr. White," said Dink solemnly.
There was a slight commotion opposite and a hand fluttered beseechingly, while Butsey's weak voice managed to say:
"Take it away—take it away."
Dink rose and cast a towel over the set of seven colors, and then resumed his seat.
"It's all right; I've hidden it," he said.
Butsey rolled from the bed, tottered over to his own washstand and drank deeply from the water pitcher. Then he turned on the melancholy Stover.
"Say!"
"Go ahead! Soak it to me!"
"I thought you were old enough to go out alone."
"They lied to me," said Stover, kicking a chair.
"Say that again."
"They lied," repeated Dink, but with a more uncertain note.
"This from you!" said Butsey maliciously.
A great ethical light burst over Dink. He scratched his head and then looked at Butsey, grinning a sheepish grin.
"Well, I guess it was coming to me—but they are wonders!" he said, with reluctant admiration. "I'll take my medicine, but I'll get back at them, by jiminy! You see if I don't."
"For the love of Mike, give us the story!"
"You'll keep it twenty-four hours?"
"So help me——"
"I'm a sucker, all right," said Dink ruefully. Then he stopped and blurted out: "Say, White,I guess it was about what I needed. I guess I'm not such a little wonder-worker, after all. I've been fresh—rotten fresh. But, say, from now on I'm holding my ear to the ground; and when it comes to humbly picking up a few crumbs of knowledge you'll find me ready and willing. I'm reformed. Now, here's the tale:"
Dink, under the influence of the new emotion, made a fairly fullconfession, merely overlooking the shoes that Flash did not carry over the Princeton goal line, and suppressing that detail of the Foundation House's supposed contribution, which had lent such a peculiar value to the souvenir crockery set. By four o'clock Butsey White had sufficiently recovered to remember the afternoon baseball match.
Ten minutes later Dink, lost in a lapping baseball suit lent by Cheyenne Baxter, re-enforced with safety pins, stationed himself in the outfield behind a catcher's mitt, for preliminary practice with little Susie Satterly and Beekstein Hall, who was shortsighted and wore glasses.
The result of five minutes' frantic chasing was that Dink, who surprised every one by catching a fly that somehow stuck in his glove, was promoted to centerfield; Susie Satterly, who had stopped two grounders, took left; while Beekstein was ignominiously escorted to a far position in rightfield and firmly requested to stop whatever he could with his chest.
The Cleve cohorts arrived, thirty strong, likebanditti maching to sack a city, openly voicing their derision for the nine occupants of the Green House. The contest, which at first sight seemed unequal, was not in reality so, Tough McCarty and Cheyenne Baxter being an unusually strong battery, while the infield, with Butsey White at first, the White Mountain Canary at second, Stuffy Brown short-stop and the Coffee-colored Angel at third, quite outclassed the invaders. The trouble was in the outfield—where the trouble in such contests are sure to congregate.
Stover had never been so thoroughly frightened in his life. His imagination, boylike, was aghast at the unknown. A great question was to be decided in a few minutes, when his turn would come to step up to the box and expose himself to the terrific cannonade of Nick Carter, the lengthy pitcher of the Cleve. The curious thing was that on this point Stover himself was quite undecided. Was he a coward, or was he not? Would his legs go back on him, or would he stand his ground, knowing that the stinging ball might strike anywhere—on the tender wrist bones, shattering the point of the elbow, or landing with a deadly thud right over his temple, which he remembered was an absolutely fatal spot?
His first two innings in the field were a completesuccess—not a ball came his way. With his fielding average quite intact he came in to face the crisis.
"Brown to the bat, Stover on deck, Satterly in the hole," came the shrill voice of Fate in the person of Shrimp Davis, the official scorer.
Stover nervously tried one bat after another; each seemed to weigh a ton. Then Cheyenne Baxter joined him, crouching beside him for a word of advice.
"Now, Dink," he said in a whisper, keeping his eye on Stuffy Brown, who, being unable to hit the straightest ball, was pawing the plate and making terrific preparatory swings with his bat. "Now, Dink, listen here. (Pick out an easy one, Stuffy, and bang it on the nose. Hi-yi, good waiting, Stuffy) Nick Carter's wild as a wet hen. All he's got is a fast outcurve. Now, what you want to do is to edge up close to the plate and let him hit you. (Oh, robber! That wasn't a strike! Say, Mr. Umpire, give us a square deal, will you?) Walk right into it, Dink, and if it happens to hit you on the wrist rub above the elbow like the mischief."
"Above the elbow?" said Dink in a hollow voice.
"That's it. You've got a chance to square yourself with the House. Step right into it. What? Three strikes? Say, Mr. Umpire,you're not taking Nick Carter's word for it, are you?"
Amid a storm of execrations Stuffy Brown retired, appealing frantically to the four quarters of the globe for justice and a judge.
Impelled by a resounding whack, Dink approached the plate as a balky horse tries his hoofs in a pool of water. He spread his feet and shouldered his bat, imitating the slightly-crouching position of Cheyenne Baxter. Then he looked out for a favorable opening. The field was thronged with representatives of the Cleve House. He turned to first base—it was miles away. He looked at Nick Carter, savagely preparing to mow him down, and he seemed to loom over him, infringing on the batter's box.
"Why the devil don't they stick the pitcher back and give a fellow a chance?" he thought, eying uneasily the quick, jerky preparations. "Why, at this distance a ball could go right through you."
"Come on, Nick, old boy," said a voice issuing from the iron mask at his elbow. "We've got an umpire that can't be bluffed. This is nothing but a Statue of Liberty. Chop him right down."
Dink shivered from the ground up, Carter'slong arms gyrated spasmodically, and the ball, like the sweep of a swallow from the ground, sprang directly at him. Stover, with a yell, flung himself back, landing all in a heap.
"Ball one," said the umpire.
A chorus of taunts rose from the Green House nine.
"Trying to put him out, are you?"
"Mucker trick!"
"Put him out!"
"Good eye, Dinky!"
"That's the boy."
Stover rose, found his bat and ruthfully forced himself back to his position.
"I should have let it hit me," he said angrily, perceiving Baxter's frantic signals. "It might have broken a rib, but I'd have showed my nerve."
Clenching his bat fiercely he waited, resolved on a martyr's death. But the next ball coming straight for his head, he ducked horribly.
"Ball two—too high," said the umpire.
Stover tightened his belt, rapped the plate twice with his bat, as Butsey had done, and resumed his position. But the memory of the sound the ball had made when it had whistled by his ears had unnerved him. Before he could summon back his heroic resolves Carter, with a sudden jerk, delivered the ball. InvoluntarilyStover stepped back, the ball easily and slowly passed him and cut the corner of the plate.
"Ball three," said the umpire hesitatingly.
The Cleve catcher hurled his mask to the ground, Carter cast down his glove and trod on it, while the second baseman fell on his bag and wept.
When order was restored Stover dodged the fourth wild ball and went in a daze to first, where to his amazement he was greeted with jubilant cheers.
"You're the boy, Dinky."
"You've got an eye like Charlie De Soto."
"They can't fool Rinky Dink."
"Why, he's a wonder."
"Watch him steal second."
Stover slapped his foot on first base with the joy of unhoped-for victory. He glowered about his own possessions. The perspective had suddenly changed; the field was open, all his, the Cleve House representatives were a lot of dubs, butterfingers and fumblers, anyhow! Under Cheyenne Baxter's directions he went plunging down to second, slid, all arms and legs, safely on to the bag, thanks to a wild pitch, and rose triumphantly, blowing the dust from his mouth.
There he remained, as Susie Satterly and Beekstein methodically struck out.
But the joy of that double voyage was stillon him as he went back to centerfield, ready to master the hottest liner or retrieve the sky-scraping fly. It was a great game. He felt a special aptitude for it and wondered why he had never discovered the talent before. He began to dream of sizzling two-baggers and long home-runs over the fence.
"I wish I'd get a chance," he said, prancing about digging vicious holes in the glove, that looked like a chest protector. "I'd show 'em what I can do out here."
But no chance came. The battle was between pitchers, and to the surprise of every one the Green House came up to the last inning with the score of 2 to 1 in their favor, the solitary run of the Cleve being due to a fly that Beekstein had failed to notice.
The Green House nine went jubilantly out into the field for the last half of the ninth inning, determined to shut out the Cleve and end the season with at least one victory.
Dink ran out on his tiptoes, encased himself in his mitt and turned, tense and alert. He had gone through his first ordeal triumphantly. No chances had come to him in the field, but at bat he had accidently succeeded in being hit, and though he had struck out the next time he had hit a foul and knew the jubilant feeling that came with the crack of the bat.
"Give me a week and I'll soak 'em out," he said, moving restlessly, and he added to himself: "Strike 'em out, Cheyenne, old man! They're easy."
But the Cleves suddenly woke up and began to fight. One man beat out a grounder, and one struck out; another error of the temperamental White Mountain Canary put a man on third and one on second. Then Cheyenne, pulling himself together, made his second strike-out.
"Two out, play for the batter," came Cheyenne Baxter's warning hallo.
"Two out," said Dink to his fellow-fielders. "One more and we spink 'em. Come on, now!"
Both sides settled for the final play, the man on second leading well up toward third.
"Steady!" said Cheyenne.
Stover drew in his breath and rose to his toes, as he had done thirty times already.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and the ball meeting the bat, floated fair and free, out toward centerfield.
Dink did not have to move a step; in fact, the ball rose and fell straight for the massive mitt as though it had chosen his glove from all the other gloves in the field. It came slowly, endlessly, the easiest, gentlest, most perfect fly imaginable, directly for the large brown mitt that looked like a chest protector.
BEHIND HIM, PELL-MELL, SHRIEKING AND MURDEROUS, —— CAME THE VANQUISHED.
Stover, turned to stone, saw it strike fair in the middle, and then, irresistibly, slowly, while, horribly fascinated, he stood powerless, slowly trickle over the side of the mitt and drop to the ground.
Dink did not stop for a look, for a second thought, to hesitate or to deliberate. He knew! He gave a howl and broke for the House, andbehind him, pell-mell, shrieking and murderous, like a pack of hounds in full cry, came the vanquished, thirsting body of the Green.
He cleared the fence with one hand, took the road with two bounds, fled up the walk, burst through the door, jumped the stairs, broke into his room, slammed the door, locked it, backed the bed against it and seized a chair.
Then the Green House struck the door like a salvo of grapeshot.
"Open up, you robber!"
"Open the door, you traitor!"
"You Benedict Arnold!"
"Open up, you white-livered pup!"
"You quitter!"
"You chickenheart!"
"You coward!"
Stover, his hair rising, seized the wooden chair convulsively, waiting for the door to burst in.
All at once the transom swung violently andthe wolfish faces of Tough McCarty, the White Mountain Canary, Cheyenne and the Coffee-colored Angel crowded the opening.
"Get back or I'll kill you," said Dink in frantic fear, and, advancing, he swung the chair murderously. In a twinkling the transom was emptied.
The storm of voices rose again.
"The freshest yet!"
"The nerve of him!"
"Let's break in the door!"
"Come out!"
"Come out, Freshman!"
"He did it on purpose!"
"He chucked the game!"
"Wait till I get my hands on him!"
"I'll skin him!"
All at once the face of Butsey White appeared at the transom.
"Dink, you let me right in, you hear?"
No answer.
"You let me in right off!"
Still no answer.
"It's my room; you let me in to my room, do you hear?"
Stover continued silent.
"Dink," said Butsey in his loudest tones, "I'm coming right over the transom. Don't you dare to touch me!"
Stover again seized the chair.
Butsey White, supported from behind, carefully drew up one foot, and then convulsively disappeared as Stover charged with the chair.
There was a whispered consultation and then the battling face of Tough McCarty appeared with a new threat:
"You lay a hand on me and I'll rip the hide off you!"
"Keep back!" said Stover hoarsely.
"Put down that chair, you little varmint; do you hear me?"
"Don't you come over!"
"Yes, I'm coming over, and you don't dare to touch me. You don't——"
Stover was neither a coward nor a hero; he was simply in a panic and he was cornered. He rushed wildly to the breach and delivered the chair with a crash, Tough McCarty barely saving himself.
This open defiance of the champion angered the attacking party.
"He ought to be lynched!"
"The booby!"
"Wait till to-morrow!"
Tough McCarty reappeared for a brief second.
"I'll get you yet," he said, pointing a finger at the embattled Stover. "You're a muff, a low-down muff, in every sense of the word!"
Then succeeded the Coffee-colored Angel:
"Wait till I catch you, you Rinky Dink!"
Followed the White Mountain Canary:
"You'll reckon withmefor this!"
Down to Beekstein Hall, with his black-rimmed spectacles, each member of the outraged nine climbed to the transom and expressed his unflattering opinion.
Stover sat down, his chin in his hands, his eyes on the great, lumbering mitt that lay dishonored on the floor.
"I'm disgraced," he said slowly, "disgraced. It's all over—all over. I'm queered—queered forever!"
Until dusk, like Gilliatt in Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea, waitingfor the tide to swallow him up, Stover sat motionless, brooding. There was only one thing to do—to run away. His whole career had been ruined in a twinkling. He knew. There could be no future for him in the school. What he had done was so awful that it could never be forgiven or forgotten. Why had he run? If only he had made a quick dive at the ball as it had trickled off the glove and caught it before it reached the ground, instead of standing there, horrified, hypnotized. Yes, he would escape, run off to sea somewhere—anywhere! But he wouldn't go home; no, never that! He would ship around the Horn, like the hero in that dreadful book, Two Years Before the Mast. He would run away that night, before the story spread over the whole school. He would never face them. He hated the school, he hated the Green, he hated every one connected with it!
A tap came on the door, and the voice of Butsey White said coldly:
"Open up! Fuzzy-Wuzzy's in the House;you're safe. Open up. I've got to get ready for supper."
Stover drew back the bed, unlocked the door and waited with clenched fists for Butsey to spring at him. Butsey White, whose tempestuous rage had long since spent itself in hilarious laughter, as, indeed, had been the case with the rest, thought it best, however, for the purposes of authority, still to preserve a grave face.
"You're a fine specimen!" he said curtly. "You've had a beautiful day of it."
"Yes, I have," said Dink miserably, "a beautiful day!"
Butsey, to whom the tragedy of the century was nothing but an incident, had not the slightest suspicion of Stover's absolute, overwhelming despair. Yet Butsey, too, had suffered, and profited by the suffering.
"You better square up with Tough McCarty," he said, failing to read the anguish in Stover's eyes. "You certainly were the limit."
"I hate him!" said Dink bitterly.
"Why?"
"He's a bully."
"Tough McCarty? Not a bit of it."
"He tried to bully me."
"Why didn't you let them in?" said Butsey, putting the part in the middle of his hair with a dripping comb.
"Let them in!"
"Why, what do you think they'd have done to you?"
Stover had never thought of that. After all, what could they have done to him?
"I didn't think——"
"Rats!" said Butsey. "They might have pied you on the bed; but that's nothing if you lie face down and keep your elbows in. That's all you'd have got. Then it would have been over; now you've got to square yourself. Well, brush up and come down to supper, and for the love of Mike smile a little."
Butsey White's sentiments neither consoled nor convinced. Stover was too firmly persuaded of the enormity of his offense and the depth of his ignominy.
In all his life he had never done a more difficult thing than to follow Butsey into the dining-room and face the disdainful glances of those from whom he had so lately fled.
He sat in abject mental and physical suffering, his eyes on his plate, tasting nothing of what went into his mouth, chewing mechanically.
Mr. Jenkins, to be affable, asked him how he had enjoyed the day. He mumbled some reply, he never knew what, hearing only the dreadful snicker that ran the table. He refused the dessertand left the table. It had been a nightmare.
He stayed in his room, watching from behind the curtains his fellow-beings romping and shrieking over a game of baby-in-the-hat. The bottom had, indeed, dropped out of things—the universe was topsy-turvy. More keenly than in the afternoon he felt the utter hopelessness of his disgrace. If he could only get away—escape from it all. If he only had had five dollars in his pocket he could have reached Trenton and worked his way to some seaport town. He looked at the now ridiculous souvenir toilet set and bitterly thought where the precious dollars had gone—that story, too, would be abroad by the morrow. The whole school would probably rise and jeer at him when he entered chapel the next morning. That night he crept into his bed to the stillness of the black room, to suffer a long hour that first overwhelming anguish that can only be suffered once, that no other suffering can compare to, that is complete, because the knowledge of other suffering has not yet come, and he who suffers suffers alone. Then the imagination came to the rescue. He fell into blissful unconsciousness by a process of consoling half dreams in which he vindicated himself by feats of extraordinary valor, carrying the suffocating Tough McCarty and the Coffee-coloredAngel out of burning houses at the risk of his own life, and earning the plaudits of the whole school.
Suddenly a peal of thunder shook the building; he landed all in a heap in the midst of the sunlit floor, rubbing his eyes. Outside, the morning came in with warm embrace; green things stirred against the window-panes; the flash of a robin's wing cut a swift shadow on the floor and was gone. Below, the horrid clanging of the gong rattled the walls and called on the dead to rise.
Dink gazed at the opposite bed. Butsey, with the covers wound around him, with his knees under his chin, was actually asleep. In great alarm he went over and shook him gently. One eye opened and reproachfully fastened on him.
"I say, the gong—the gong's rung, Mr. White," said Dink.
"The rising gong?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, when the breakfast gong explodes wake me up."
The eyes shut, but presently reopened and a muffled voice added:
"Pour out water—washbasin—stick my shoes over here."
Dink obeyed, mystified. Then, going to the window, he drank in all the zest and glory ofgreen fields and blue skies with woolly clouds drifting over the tingling air. Joyfully he turned for a plunge in cold water and the unspeakable crockery set met his eye. Then he remembered. A shadow fell across the room; the day went into eclipse. Mechanically, heavily, he dressed, and the fever of yesterday sprang up anew.
Meanwhile, not a sound in the House except down the hall a snore—a glorious, triumphant note. A second time the gong took up its discordant march. Then from the cocoon on the bed a flash of legs and arms sprang out and into the waiting garments. There was a splash in the basin that spattered the water far and near, and Butsey, enveloped in a towel, rushed into his upper garments, flung back his hair with a masterful swooping stroke of the comb, and bolted out of the door, buckling his belt and struggling into a sweater. Down the stairs they went in the midst of floating coats, collars to be buttoned and neckties to be tied; and when the last note of the gong had ended not a place was vacant, though every eye still drooped with drowsiness.
Breakfast over, Dink followed Butsey to their room and, after the more permanent preparations had been attended to, they left for chapel.
The much-dreaded breakfast had passed withbut one incident; the Coffee-colored Angel, in passing him the sugar, had said in a terrific whisper:
"I'll get you to-day. I'll tame you!"
But, being still in a nodding state, his anger was contented with this slight expression. Tough McCarty had given him just one look, but somehow he remembered nothing else. The instinctive hostility he had felt at the first meeting of their eyes rose anew. The Coffee-colored Angel and the White Mountain Canary were but incidents; the enemy,le sacréAlbion, was Tough McCarty.
He went in the current of boyhood past Foundation House and around the circle toward chapel. For the first time the immensity of the school was before him in the hundreds that, streaming across the campus in thin, dotted lines, swelled into a compact, moving mass at the chapel steps. It was more than an institution; it was a world, the complex, marvelously ordered World of Youth.
Somehow, he did not attract the attention he had expected. His entrance into the pew was attended by no hilarious uprisingen masse. He found his place in the gallery, between Pebble Stone and Duke Straus, who sleepily asked his name and went off for a supplementary nap on the shoulder of D. Tanner. Stone evidently hadheard nothing of his disgrace, or else was too absorbed in a hurried conning of the Latin lesson to make remarks.
Dink lifted his head a little and stole a glance—strange, no one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him. Somewhat astonished and unutterably relieved he gazed down at the body of the school marshaled below, at the enormous fifth-formers who seemed—and never was that illusion to fade—the most terrifically immense and awesome representatives of manhood he had ever seen. The benches were hard, decidedly so; but he lost himself pleasantly in the vaulted roof, and gazed with respect at the distant pulpit.
The Doctor ascended and swept the school with that glance peculiar to head masters which convinces each separate boy it is directed at him. Stover felt the impact on his own forehead and dropped his eyes uneasily. When the hymn began he looked curiously among his classmates, located Doc Macnooder and caught the eye of the Tennessee Shad, who winked at him to show him he was still his friend.
Somehow, his awful disgrace seemed to slip from him—the Green House was but a grain in the sand. There were friends, undiscovered friends, in the mass before him, to be won and held. An easier feeling came to him. Whenthe school shuffled out he sought the Tennessee Shad and, holding out his hand said:
"Say, you are wonders; and I'm the only living sucker!"
"Dink, you're a real sport," said the Tennessee Shad, pleased; "but we did come it pretty strong. Now, if you want to turn in those shoes——"
"Not on your life!" said Dink. "I deserved it, but—but look out for next year!"
"All right," said the Tennessee Shad with an approving look. "If you do us we'll take you into the firm. Tack on to me, and I'll pilot you to The Roman's."
Following his lanky guide Stover went in the churning, lagging mass across to Memorial Hall, rubbing elbows with the heroes, who stalked majestically in their voluminous bulk, with the coveted 'Varsity caps riding on the backs of their cropped heads, or being jostled by the freckled imps who ran zigzag, shrieking chases past him.
At the steps they divided, some surging upward and others crowding into the lower corridor.
"Below for us," said the Tennessee Shad, pushing his way forward.
Dink found himself outside of one of the dozen classrooms in a throng that waited hopefully, asother classes waited hopefully every hour of every day in the hopes of an improbable cut.
"The Roman," said the Tennessee Shad wisely, "is the one master you want to stand in with. Study like the devil the first two weeks; and say, get up on the gerund and the gerundive—they're his pets."
"I will," said Dink.
"You can't bluff him and you can't beat his system," continued the Tennessee Shad. "If you guess don't hesitate; jump at it. The only thing you can do is to wait for his jokes, and then grab the desk and weep for salvation—it's his one weak spot."
"I will," said Dink.
A cry of dismay went up from the sentinels at the window.
"Oh, rats! Here he comes."
"Oh, peanuts!"
"Oh, melancholy!"
"All in!"
Dink modestly took a seat in the back, at the end of the row of S's where he must sit. On four sides, like prison walls that no convict might hope to scale, the slippery blackboards rose up and bound them in. On a raised stand was the master's pulpit where presently The Roman would come and sit, like the watcher of the galley slaves in Ben Hur, with his eagleglance sweeping the desks that, in regimental file, ran back from him.
Outside, through two open windows, was the warm, forbidden month of April, and the gateway to syntax-defying dreams. At this moment Dink's copy of Cæsar's Gallic Wars slid on to the floor. He bent down, laboriously collecting the scattered pages and straightened up. Then he glanced at the pulpit. Directly in front of him, his eyes on his eyes, sat the big consular frame of his stage companion of the day before.
Dink gasped in horror; twice his hand went instinctively toward his lip, stopped half-way and dropped. Then his mouth opened, set, and galvanically he rose to his feet, while the room seemed to tip up.
He grasped the desk to keep from slipping, never taking his eyes from the Ciceronian countenance and the twinkling orbits above the slightly twitching lips.
"Dear me," said a low, mocking voice with a curious rising and falling infection, "who's here? Another delegate to this congress of scintillating intelligences?"
"Yes, sir," said Dink in a whisper.
"Quite a valuable addition, I hope. Yes? What is the name?"
"John."
"Well—well?"
"John Humperdink Stover," said Dink with difficulty.
"Ah, yes, Stover: the name is familiar—very familiar," said The Roman, with a twitch to his lip and a sudden jump of the eyebrow. "Haven't we met before?"
Dink, suffocating, nodded. The class, at a loss, turned from one to the other, watching for the cue.
"Well, Stover, come a little nearer. Take the seat between Stone and Straus. Straus will be better able to take his little morning nap. A little embarrassed, Stover? Dear me! I shouldn't have thought that of you. Sit down now and—try to put a little ginger into the class, Stover."
Dink looked down and blushed until it seemed as though his hair would catch on fire. The class, perceiving only that there was a point for laughter, burst into roars.
"There—there," said The Roman, stilling the storm with one finger. "Just a little joke between us two; just a little confidential joke. Now for a bee-ootiful recitation. Splendid spring weather—yesterday was a cut; of course you all took the hour to study conscientiously—eager for knowledge. Fifth and sixth rows go to the board."
While The Roman's modulated accents doledout conjugations and declensions Stover sat, without a thought in his head, his hands locked, staring out at the green and yellow necktie that rose on Pebble Stone's collar.
"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" he said at last. "Dished! Spinked! He'll flunk me every day. I certainly am in wrong!"
He raised his eyes at the enthroned Natural Enemy and mentally threw down the gage of battle with a hopeless, despairing feeling of the three years' daily conflict that was to come. For, of course, now there could be no question of The Roman's mortal and unsparing enmity. But after the first paralyzing shock Dink recovered himself. It was war, but the war he loved—the war of wits.
The Roman, having flunked a dozen by this time, had Channing, the Coffee-colored Angel, on his feet, on delicate matters of syntax.
"Top of page, third word, Channing—gerund or gerundive?" said The Roman.
"Gerund, sir."
"Too bad!" said The Roman musically, and on a lower octave repeated: "Too bad! Third line, fifth word—gerund or gerundive?"
"Gerund, sir," said the Coffee-colored Angel with more conviction.
"No luck, Channing, no luck. Tenth line, last word—gerund, Channing, or gerundive?"
"Gerund-ive," said the Coffee-colored Angel hesitatingly.
"Poor Channing, he didn't stick to his system. The laws of probability, Channing——"
"I meant gerund," said the Coffee-colored Angel hastily.
"Dear me! Really, Channing?"
"Yes, sir."
"Positive?"
"Absolutely, sir."
"Itwasthe gerundive, Channing."
The Coffee-colored Angel abruptly sat down.
"Don't want to speculate any more, Channing?"
"No, sir."
"No feeling of confidence—no luck to-day? Try the gerundive to-morrow."
The discouraged began to return from the boards, having writ in water. The Roman, without malice, passed over the rows and, from flunking them individually, mowed them down in sections.
"Anything from the Davis House to-day? No, no? Anything from the Rouse House combination? Nothing at all? Anything from the Jackson twins? Alas! How about the D's this morning? Davis, Dark, Denton, Deer, Dickson, nothing from the D's. Let's try the F's. Farr, Fenton, Foster, Francis, Finch? Nothing fromthe F's—nothing from the D F's! Nothing at all?"
Dink burst into laughter, and laughed alone. The Roman stopped. Every one looked surprised.
"Ah, Stover has been coached—well coached," said The Roman. "But, Stover, this is not the place to laugh. The D F's are not a joke; they are painful, every day facts. Well, well, it has been a beautiful recitation in the review—not exceptional, not exceptional at all. Has any one the advance? Don't all rise at once. Strange what trying weather it is—too sunny, not enough rain—every one rises exhausted. Will Macnooder kindly lead the massacre?"
Macnooder disdained to rise; one or two faltered and tripped along for brief spaces, and then sat down. The Roman, counting his dead, hesitated and called:
"Stover."
"Me, sir?" said Dink, too astonished to rise. "Why, I'm unprepared, sir."
"Unprepared?" said The Roman with a wicked smile. "I never thought you would be unprepared, Stover."
The smile decided Stover.
"I'll try, sir," he said.
"Very kind of you, Stover."
Dink rose slowly, put the book on his desk,tightened his belt, buttoned his coat and took up the prosy records of Cæsar. Pebble Stone showed him the place. He straightened up and, glancing at the first line, saw:
"Ubi eo ventum est, Cæsar initio orationis..."
"Cæsar," began Dink in a firm voice.
"Excellent!" said The Roman.
"Cæsar, wherever the wind blew him, initiated the orators ..." Dink continued smoothly, after a rapid glance.
The Roman, from a listless attitude, gripped the desk, pivoted clear on one leg of his chair, staring at the familiar text as though it had suddenly taken on life and begun to crawl about the page.
Dink, resolved not to be bested, gravely and fluently continued to glide on, without pause or hitch, turning syllables into words, building sentences wherever he met an acquaintance. On and on he went, glib and eloquent, weaving out of the tangled text a picture that gradually, freeing itself from the early restraints, painted in vivid detail a spirited conference between Cæsar and the German envoys. The class, amazed, resorted to their books; many of the unprepared, quite convinced, stared at him as though a new rival to the high markers had suddenly appeared.
The Roman, fascinated, never quitted the text,marveling as the tale ran on, leaping adverbs and conjunctions, avoiding whole phrases, undismayed by the rise of sudden, hostile nouns, impressing into service whatever suited it, corrupting or beating down all obstacles.
Once or twice he twitched spasmodically, twice he switched the leg of his chair, murmuring all the while to himself. Finally he rose and, slowly approaching to where Stover stood, glanced incredulously at his book.
"Shall I stop, sir?" said Stover.
"Heaven forbid!"
Stover completed the page with a graphic, rushing account of the athletic exercises of the ancient Germans, and sat down without a smile.
The Roman, back at his post, wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and spoke:
"Very well run, indeed, Stover; excellently well run. Take your breath. Very fluent, very vivid, very persuasive—a trifle free, a trifle—but, on the whole, a very creditable performance. Very! I was sure, whatever you did, Stover, you wouldn't bore us. Now, let us see how the same passage will appeal to a more prosaic, less richly-endowed mind."
Then Red Dog rose and, unfeelingly, brought the scene back to Rome and the deliberations of the Senate.
But this was a detail that did not interest Dink in the least. He had clashed with The Romanand not retreated. He had his first moment of triumph, attested by the admiring glances of the class and the muffled whisper of Straus, saying:
"Gee, you're a peach!"
The session ended with a solemn warning from The Roman.
"One word," he said in his deepest tones, "just one word to the wise. We have journeyed together for two whole terms; there is only one more between you and reassignment. Candor compels me to say that you have acquired not even a flunking knowledge." He turned and raked the awed ranks with the sweep of a pivot gun, and then took up again in cutting, chilling, spaced syllables: "I have, in the course of my experience as a teacher, had to deal with imbeciles, had to deal with mere idiots; but for sheer, determined,monumentalasininity I have never met the equal of this aggregation. I trust this morning's painful, disgraceful, disheartening experience may never, never be repeated. You may go."
And Stover, who had brazenly planned to remain and converse, went swiftly out with the rest, little imagining that he whom he had ranked as a deadly, unforgiving foe sat a long while chuckling over the marvelous route Dink had gone, murmuring gratefully to himself: