CHAPTER XXIITREACHERY?
Spring swung swiftly onward toward June and the finals,—the examinations toward which every fellow in the school had been looking forward since mid-year with a certain amount of worry and not a few misgivings. And one after another the games on the baseball schedule were becoming history as each Saturday and Wednesday slipped by. Each game was becoming harder now, for the Pennington team was reaching the stiffest part of its schedule. But the team was making a fine record in spite of the strong combinations that the players were pitted against. Bedford Hall was well trounced in a sizzling game that brought out all sorts of fine baseball; Carlton Hill Prep was defeated by a narrow margin; Brunswick, the hard-hitting champions of Sussex County Scholastic League, were beaten in a ten-inning game, and even the Princeton Freshmen were humbled after an extra-inning session that reached a dramatic climax when Wade Grenville poled out ahome run right after a smashing double by Buck Hart. Binghamton High, Hanover Prep and the Crescent Club of Dover were humbled successively, and the Pennington team seemed to be moving along irresistibly toward a complete clean-up of its schedule, when quite suddenly it received a setback that probably did the team more good than several more victories.
The Washington-Childs School team came to Pennington. It was a little school and actually a little team. The nine was composed of boys none of whom was older than seventeen, and many of them looked to be about fifteen. They were all short, stocky, sturdy players except the pitcher, who was the giant of the squad, a long, rangy country boy with hands as big as fielders’ mitts; at least they looked that big as they dangled at the ends of his grotesquely long lean arms. His feet were big and his face was big and round and good-natured and covered with freckles that ranged from the size of pinheads to some the size of a dime. He looked more like a country clown than a baseball player, and the Pennington boys looked at him and smiled. Here, they thought, was a break in their stiff schedule. This wouldbe a romp; a veritable walkaway, and unfortunately they went onto the field with that attitude of mind.
Their supreme confidence was elevated to the heights of absolute conceit, after the first inning, for the visiting team was set down hitless while they poled out three safe drives off of the freckle-faced pitcher’s delivery which netted them a run. It certainly looked easy.
But the confident Penningtons soon discovered that things are not always the way they look from first appearances. Somehow, it really looked as if it were an accident, one of the Washington players landed on George Dixon’s delivery for a two-bagger in the second inning and the next man up placed a neat sacrifice hit between first and second and advanced the runner to third. Then in business-like fashion the next player up, a lad not a day older than fifteen, slammed a single just out of reach of Mickey Daily, and the man on third romped home. The inning ended with the next man up, but the score was tied.
The Pennington players came in, slightly puzzled to understand just how it all happened. They were still quite certain that it had all beenan accident and they decided to alter the score right there in the last of the second and take a lead that would just about discourage the visiting team.
But accidents seemed to continue to happen. Jed Stafford, always a reliable hitter, was the first man up, and the good-natured face full of freckles in the pitcher’s box proceeded to bend some mystifying curves over the plate that Jed could only marvel at but could not possibly find with the end of his bat. It took four pitched balls to send Jed back to the bench, as puzzled as ever.
“Jiminy, that boy has something on the ball, believe me,” he assured Coach Rice.
“Hum, I noticed you didn’t have anything on the end of your bat,” said the coach sarcastically; “you fanned like a novice. I guess when you kids get through you’ll know you’ve been up against a pitcher. He’s just about the best man to step in that pitcher box this season or I miss my guess.”
The coach was right. He of the long arms and the freckles made the heavy hitting Dutch Hecht, the next man up, look like an amateur. He gave him three balls, at which Hecht refused to strike,and then he proceeded to bend three more over the plate in such fashion that Dutch simply grunted as he swung at the last.
About that time the opposing catcher began to liven up, too, and talk a little. And the line of baseball “guff” he handed out completely took the wind out of the next batter’s sails, and he fanned, too. Pennington had gone down one, two, three,—three successive strike outs, an “accident” that had not happened to the team all season.
To be sure, the fellows took a brace right there. Their conceit had been nicely taken down and they decided that the only way they could beat the combination they were facing was to take them seriously and play their hardest. They did. But somehow their hardest did not seem to amount to much. The visiting players, with all the confidence in the world, waded right into George Dixon and spattered hits around the diamond and outfield something scandalous, and while the Pennington players did their best to keep these hits from developing into runs, their best was none too good and five runs did slip through.
As for the opposing pitcher, he of the freckles, long arms and a smile, there seemed to be nothingin the way of curves that he could not deliver to perfection when he had to. He had slow balls and swift balls, too, floaters and a mystifying assortment of almost everything in the pitching line, and the result was he made the Pennington players look like a lot of sand-lot kids. Indeed when the dust finally settled and the game was neatly folded away in the official score book, the Pennington players discovered that the Washington pitcher had left a humiliating record behind him. He struck out ten men, and allowed six hits from which they managed to get one run, and that in the first inning. That was all. They had been defeated to the tune of 5 to 1. The worst beating they had received during the entire season so far.
“Crackey,” said Wade Grenville to Jeff, in the locker room after the game, “I never faced anything like that for pitching. He’s going to be one of the best pitchers in the country when he gets three years more on his shoulders. There didn’t seem to be a thing he couldn’t make the ball do.”
“It surely was air-tight pitching. I begin to think we don’t know a thing about the game the way they trimmed us. Some pitching, I’ll say.”
“He was a wiz. I’d almost believe he was a ringer,—a semi-pro. or something like that,” said Buck Hart disconsolately, as he pulled off one cleated shoe and threw it into his locker.
“Oh, he’s no ringer,” said Coach Rice, who came up in time to hear Buck’s remark. “He’s an honest-to-goodness student at Washington-Childs and he sure had you fellows looking like a lot of posts.”
“I’ll tell the world,” said big George Dixon; “I’ll tell ’em, too, that he’s no ringer, either. I know who he is. He’s Badger Clark, a fellow from Iowa; rich ranchman’s son; and I’ve heard that Yale and Harvard and Princeton are all trying to make him believe that he’ll make the mistake of his life if he doesn’t register at their particular institution next year.”
“Well, whoever gets him will be mighty fortunate,” said Coach Rice.
But that defeat, coming as it did in the tightest and hardest part of the Pennington schedule, really helped the fellows, for whatever conceit and overconfidence had been accumulating as a result of their succession of victories disappeared over night. They suddenly realized that theywere just a baseball team and not a lot of champions, and they settled down to afternoon practice with more of a feeling that practice was necessary than they had had heretofore.
The team had not undergone any radical changes during the season. Rabbit Warren, Cas Gorham and Brownie Davis, the three first string substitutes, were given a number of chances to fill in for regulars who were taken out for some reason or another, and Gould, who still reported for each game in uniform, was given an occasional opportunity to fill in for Thatcher, Buck Hart or Mickey Daily; but he was listed as being among the substitutes and Thatcher became the permanent third baseman of the team, clinching his hold on the position by playing a steady and dependable game as he well knew how to play, giving his best to the team and occasionally flashing bits of brilliant baseball that pleased the coach and his assistant and made the rest of the players proud of him. He was Third Base Thatcher and living up to his name.
But Gould hung on despite the discouragement of losing his job as a regular. He hung on for much the same reason that Jeff had been eagerto become a fixture on the team. Gould was a Sophomore, and as a Freshman the preceding year he had been a substitute third baseman, but he had not been given the privilege of playing in the Lawrencetown game and thereby winning his letters,—winning the privilege of wearing a buff “P” on cap and blue jersey. He wanted that honor. He wanted to win his letters and that was the one reason why he stuck to the squad as a substitute, hoping, of course, that chance, or luck, or something would make it possible for him to play in the Lawrencetown game long enough to be entitled to that privilege.
The school ruling was that to win a letter for baseball a player had to play in seven scheduled games during one season, but one of those seven games had to be the game with Lawrencetown. Gould had taken part in more than seven games and so had Jeff, but it was necessary for both of them to play in the Lawrencetown game before they could be awarded the honor they strove for. So Gould clung on, although it was evident that Thatcher had made the regular position at third, hoping no doubt that something would happen, or that Coach Rice would relent at the last moment,as coaches frequently do, and shove him into the game just so that he could earn his letter.
But as the schedule was played it began to look as if there was small opportunity for Gould to get the chance he was looking for. Coach Rice did not seem to consider him with any more favor than he had immediately after the Fayville High School game. He made Gould earn every opportunity to play at all, and he demanded every bit as much energy and loyalty and attention to practice as he did from the regular players.
Gould was not of the temperament to accept a situation of this sort with good grace. The humiliation he had suffered at being put among the substitutes had been a bitter pill for him to swallow, but to be continued as a second-string man while he watched Thatcher make good in his old job hurt his natural conceit and pride more than he was willing to admit even to himself.
He went about with a perpetual grouch, and he did far less bragging than he had done before. He became very unpopular in his class, too, because of the disposition he developed, and there were few of his former friends who appeared to care very much about him. Yet in spite of it allone boy clung to him as closely as ever and seemed to admire him as much as he had in former days. That was Birdie Pell. It seemed very strange to most of the fellows that this should be so. Jeff, for one, could not understand why the little Sophomore should still insist on chumming with Gould, who to appearances had developed into a thoroughly unpleasant person. Others tried to understand it, too, and failing, classed Birdie Pell in the same category as Gould, and as a result had very little to do with him. Yet this seemed to make but very little difference to Pell, for he went blithely on his way of palling with Gould, until they became a thoroughly lonesome couple, finding their own pleasures and developing their own interests.
Jeff devoted a great deal of thought to this strange companionship and tried to analyze the reason for it. But in the end he had to give it up as a problem too deep for him to solve. For some reason he liked Birdie in spite of his associations and some unpleasant faults of personality. And Pell seemed to think well of him, for even though Gould hated Jeff with a hate that was almost sinister Birdie was always pleasant toThatcher even in Gould’s company. When they passed Thatcher on the campus, though Gould glowered and looked ugly, Birdie always smiled and had a cheery word, and in the halls of the school buildings Pell frequently stopped to chat just a moment with Thatcher while classes were changing.
As the spring term drew on toward June and the time for final examinations, Jeff found that he had a lot more to think about than baseball. School work was piling up fast and getting stiffer and stiffer for the entire year was being reviewed and new work was being crowded in as well. With the examinations looming ahead, Jeff, and most of the other fellows, were cramming hard, burning the midnight oil, so to speak, whenever they could find opportunity.
Especially were the baseball men studying hard, for there was a scholastic rule at Pennington that no boy could play on any of the athletic teams representing the school unless his school standing was all that it should be.
The final examinations were scheduled for the eighth of June and the last and crucial game of the season, the Lawrencetown game, was scheduledfor the following Saturday, which was the fifteenth of June, and all of the players realized that to be eligible for the big game of the season they would all have to pass the examinations with flying colors.
And besides this highly important reason Jeff had still another reason for wanting to make a good showing in his studies. The other reason was Mr. Davidson, the President of the Third National Bank, who was making it possible for Jeff to remain at Pennington. During the school term Jeff had written repeatedly to his benefactor just by way of keeping in touch with him and informing him of his school standing, and the few letters that he had received in answer to his messages were always hearty, encouraging and very cheerful. Indeed Mr. Davidson maintained what almost amounted to a fatherly interest in Jeff, and especially was he interested in his baseball career.
Several times he had motored over to Pennington of a Saturday afternoon and watched the team play, and he was always very careful to seek out Jeff and have a cheerful chat with him before the boy went back to the locker room.
Realizing this interest in him, Jeff studied hard as the final examinations approached. Indeed he soon became a veritable “bone,” to quote Wade Grenville, who frequently had to roar to Jeff to turn out the light and come to bed. In truth Jeff became so serious over his studies that he often carried one text book or another about with him, snatching odd moments to study. Especially did he carry around his Cæsar, for he realized that he was weaker in his Latin than in any other study. And strange to relate it was this conscientious habit that brought Jeff Thatcher no end of trouble and resulted in a situation that threatened again to wreck his whole career at Pennington.
Jeff carried his Cæsar in his outside jacket pocket most of the time, and one day early in June, having a half hour to spare before climbing into his uniform for practice he sat in the sun on the gym. steps and thumbed over his translations, committing a particularly hard passage to memory. He worked at it right up until the time the other members of the squad began to arrive in the gym., then, as he thought, he slipped the book into his pocket and went down stairs to the lockerroom to undress and put on his baseball uniform, leaving his school clothes in his locker, which unfortunately was not all that its name implied, for it did not always lock with safety.
He spent about three hours on the field with the rest of the squad, and then, returning late to the gym., he dressed and started for his room. Arriving there, he felt for his Cæsar and discovered that it was not in the pocket in which he felt certain he had slipped it. He started to trace back in his memory to see if he could recall just when he had used the book last and remembered that he had been sitting on the gym. steps studying for some time before he went to the locker room. He wondered whether he could have left the book lying on the steps, and to make certain he retraced his steps to the gym. and began to look around in the gathering twilight.
Mr. Clarkson came out of the gym. door while he was looking and, seeing him, asked if he were looking for a book.
“Why, yes. My Cæsar, sir. I must have left it here, though I could have sworn I put it in my pocket.”
“I saw a junior school boy pick up a book on thesteps here not an hour ago. I was going into the gym. as he was coming out, and I suggested that he take it over to the office. I guess you’ll find it there,” said the assistant coach as he passed on.
Jeff hurried over to the office only to discover that it was six o’clock and the door was locked. Dr. Livingston and his assistants had evidently left the building for the day.
“Oh, well, I’ll get it in the morning. I’ve got that bloomin’ translation almost pat now, anyhow, so I won’t worry. I’ll try and bone up on algebra to-night. I’ll pick up the book first thing in the morning,” he assured himself, as he hurried off to his room to dress for dinner.
But he had no time to go to the office before breakfast next morning, and he lingered so long in the dining room that he came very near being late for chapel, and consequently had no time to retrieve his lost book before the regular morning exercises.
However, he had the missing text book on his mind, and therefore he was not disturbed when Dr. Livingston, while making announcements from the platform, asked that he report in the office before the first period. Jeff concluded thatthe Headmaster wanted to give him his book, and, perhaps a bit of a scolding for carelessness.
After chapel Jeff walked over to the office and, after knocking, entered. Dr. Livingston was evidently plunged in deep thought. When he looked up, at Jeff’s entrance, Thatcher noticed that there was a pained and discouraged expression on his face. He looked at Jeff unsmilingly as the boy crossed the office and stood beside his desk, and Jeff was puzzled and a little worried by his expression.
On the Headmaster’s desk Jeff noticed his Cæsar. He smiled then and reached for it.
“I guess I was a little careless, Dr. Livingston, I must have left it on the gym. steps.”
“Is that where you left it, Thatcher?” asked the Headmaster, almost wearily, as he laid his hand on the book to prevent Jeff from picking it up.
“Why, I must have. That’s where it was found, wasn’t it, sir?” asked Jeff in a puzzled tone.
“Yes, that is where it was found. I—I—rather hoped—” The Headmaster stopped talking. It was evident to Jeff that there was something unpleasant on his mind,—something that discouragedhim,—made him feel that all his efforts to train his boys had gone for naught. Jeff thought that his carelessness at leaving the book around could not be responsible for all of the Master’s apparent emotion and he wondered what on earth could have happened. He was presently to know.
“Thatcher,” said Dr. Livingston, clearing his throat and looking at Jeff searchingly, “a really terrible thing has happened,—a terrible crime has been committed here in school and circumstances point to you as the criminal!”
The last was snapped out with such startling emphasis that Jeff grew weak and nervous. He felt as if his stomach had suddenly melted away, and that he was nothing but head and legs with no connection between.
For a moment he could not find voice to speak. When he did his voice was nervous and apprehensive.
“But—but—Dr. Livingston, I don’t understand. I—er—what is it?”
“Room 44 has evidently been entered, for an examination paper has disappeared,” snapped out the Headmaster, watching Jeff’s face carefully to see the effect of his words.
Jeff was stunned. Of all offenses at Pennington this was certainly the most serious. To enter Room 44 at any time and under any circumstances was the most dishonorable thing that a student could do. This was the room in which the examination papers were prepared and kept. All of the students were aware of this fact and honor bound to respect the restrictions that none was to enter that room under any conditions. Some one in school had violated this trust and suspicion pointed to him!
“How—why—this is terrible, Dr. Livingston. But—but why do you suspect me, sir?” asked Jeff.
For answer Dr. Livingston took his hand from the book before him and lifted the cover. Inside the fly leaf, neatly folded, Jeff saw a sheet of light green paper which he recognized only too well as the form in which the examinations in Latin were always printed at Pennington.
“Your book was found, Thatcher, with this in it,” said Dr. Livingston wearily.